The View from a Drawbridge

I am 58 years old, and only discovered that I was autistic about 7 months ago. I’m still learning the ins and outs of my neurological differences, but unlike some others on the spectrum who are nonverbal, I’m quite capable of writing about these experiences, so I think I can provide some perspective from the inside.

I’ve always felt different and weird, yes, but I didn’t know my own cohort, so I probably used the same microaggressions against autistic people that I am now experiencing for myself all too frequently. I’m not proud of this prejudice. I wasn’t even aware I was feeling it at the time. And now I see these microaggressions everywhere, quite often directed at me, but not always. Society abhors the outliers. (Isn’t karma a b**ch?)

The first thing to know about autism is that no two autistic people are alike. It’s called a spectrum for that reason. But that makes it hard for the rest of the world to understand the enormous pressure we live with on a daily basis, because it is experienced in so many different ways by so many different people.

I’m in a lot of Adult Autism Facebook groups, and they have been a huge comfort to me. I can relate to so much of what they talk about that I don’t feel as alone as I once did. I also hear them discuss some things that I can’t relate to at all. At those moments I feel rather relieved, albeit sympathetic.

I am a lot more tolerant of people’s differences than I used to be. But the world is not set up to accommodate those differences. We are expected to adapt to a neurotypical world. If we could easily do that, we wouldn’t be autistic in the first place, would we?

What follows is intended to give you an idea of what it’s like to be me in a social situation. I’m drawing from parties, events, backyard barbecues and holiday gatherings throughout my life. I’ll change enough details so that no one should be personally insulted (But my gauge in these instances is a bit off kilter). I’m also throwing in a few things that other people on the spectrum have experienced that resonate with me.

This is not intended to be a one size fits all description of socializing while autistic. But I’m hoping that by reading this you might have a bit more compassion for that person standing off to the side, radiating tension and looking miserable. Maybe it will provide you with a few conversation starters. At the very least, I hope it gives you food for thought.

Here’s what socializing feels like to me:

• I’m hearing multiple conversations at once, which is making it all but impossible to concentrate. And why do people insist on listening to music while talking?
• How do people know what to say so quickly? And how do they manage to know how to speak without interrupting?
• I don’t understand the joke. Should I still laugh?
• I’m appalled by someone’s attitude, and it’s taking every bit of my strength to not call them out on it. I don’t like mean people.
• Why is no one else distracted by the rattling of that ceiling fan?
• I actually take in a lot more information than people think I do. I just don’t always know what to do with that information.
• That man is being really hostile or aggressive or inappropriate toward that woman. I am not going to be able to think about anything else until there’s justice. I can’t believe no one is speaking up. If I speak up, I’ll be accused of making waves. It’s amazing to me how many things other people are able to overlook or ignore.
• There’s too much noise.
• How long do I have to stay here before I can go home without appearing impolite?
• There’s a thread hanging off that woman’s sleeve. There’s a thread… for heaven’s sake, stop staring!
• I have nothing in common with these people.
• I wish people would believe my words and ignore my body language, but neurotypicals seem to find that impossible to do.
• It’s not that I dislike people. I just prefer them in ones and twos.
• What is wrong with me? Why don’t I fit in?
• I have a hard time maintaining eye contact, and this makes people nervous.
• I fidget a lot. I use up a lot of energy trying not to do so, with mixed results. I’m not bored or impatient or rude. I’m just discharging sensory stress.
• When I walk into a room, people often go quiet. I don’t know what it means, but it’s unpleasant.
• When I try to contribute to the conversation with one of my anecdotes, they often go silent as well, and that throws me into a storm of self-analysis. Did I say something wrong? Did I offend or irritate someone? Did I say something weird? Am I being boring? Do they think I’m lying? Why would I lie?
• All my life I’ve been told that I need to be more outgoing, or I should open up more, or try just a little harder. To me that sounds as absurd as it would sound if someone told you to permanently change the color of your eyes. Autism is a trait, not a disease that can be cured or a bad habit that can be broken or a mental illness that needs fixing. It’s not a lifestyle choice. It’s the very topography and chemistry of the brain that I was born with.
• I wonder what it’s like to be accepted for who you are.
• When I’m overwhelmed, I often look like I’m in a trance because I struggle to process so many things at once.
• I tend to cling to the people I know at parties and avoid the strangers, but even my friends who know what I’m going through will still think nothing of walking off and leaving me to be the strange little island of one that I’ve always been. That leaves me feeling like a turd in a punch bowl, so I often go to the corner or at least the periphery of a gathering, in the hopes of being less visible.
• How long can I hide in this nice, quiet, empty bathroom before someone sends out a search party?
• I wonder what its like to not have to devote so much time and energy into simply being understood.
• My standard expression is a frown, but that doesn’t mean that I’m unhappy. I’m just concentrating. I get frustrated when people assume I’m constantly miserable or angry or bored or stoned.
• Just because you don’t see it, doesn’t mean there isn’t a lot going on beneath the surface.
• I’m sometimes accused of being a sad sack or a buzz kill or a drag. Much of that is due to people’s misinterpretation of my motivations or my attitude, because I don’t emote the way they do. Once they’ve pigeonholed me as that kind of person, it’s awfully difficult to convince them otherwise, and the older I get, my energy to do so is increasingly limited.
• I have never been accused of being approachable, but you can talk to me. Honest. In fact, I wish you would. Parties are the loneliest places in the world.
• I probably come off as insincere, because I have to constantly figure out what is the proper way to express my feelings/thoughts/opinions/ideas so that I’ll be understood in any given situation. It’s like trying to use slang in a foreign language. You’re never quite sure that the message you’re sending is the message everyone else is receiving.
• I never seem to be privy to inside jokes, and that makes me worry that the joke may be on me.
• I spot patterns, so if someone always looks over at someone else and rolls their eyes or chuckles whenever I say something, I notice. At first it confuses me. Then it hurts my feelings. And then I spend days trying to figure out how to handle it, and I usually just. . . don’t. There’s a lot festering within me. I lose a lot of sleep.
• Oh my God, what did I just try to eat, and how can I subtly spit it out?
• I wish people would stop pressuring me to drink alcohol. As if I don’t already have enough to contend with.
• Am I smiling enough? Or am I smiling so much that it’s creepy?
• If I ask a lot of questions, I irritate people, but I’m not judging or trying to pick a fight. I’m just trying to understand. So I get to choose between understanding and getting along. I can’t seem to have them both.
• I don’t comprehend shades of grey. I take people literally, and I am incapable of reading between the lines. If you behave illogically, it confuses me.

And now, imagine having every single one of those bullet points happening simultaneously as if they’re competing for your attention. Welcome to my world. No wonder it takes me a day to recover after every social event. No wonder I’m not looking forward to the next one.

That awkward person standing over there by the wall at your next party might inhabit that world, too. Please be patient. Please be kind.

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