I'm stuck on a question. The kind teenagers ask themselves intently, over and over, then less and less as they grow up, until they stop asking at all. It resurges in the 40s, gnawing at one's self-esteem and purpose in life. I hear some people buy new cars over it.
Who am I?
I never really stopped asking that.
People with autism, you know, tend to develop more slowly in some ways than neurotypical people. It's not our fault. The societies we're born into aren't effortless to us. It seems to me that neurotypical people run, or even glide effortlessly through life. And we on the spectrum, we crawl. We claw for every inch. Our own brains and bodies hinder us. Other people turn away from us. Our very families, hard as they try, misunderstand us.
So it comes to pass that I am 28, and still asking myself who I am.
I know who I think I am. I'm stubborn, childish, and foul-mouthed, a trial. I am angry, lazy, thoughtless, and disabled. I should be reading a book right now and organizing my thoughts to review it, but instead my train of thought has battened itself onto the question of my identity, tormented by the shattered mirror of identities I see. They have little in common with how I see myself.
To the parents at the support group I go to, I am patient, thoughtful, and kind. I value them, their input, and their problems. I've never met a single one of their children, and may never do so save at social events, but I've tried to provide insight, suggestions, and guidance to the staggering myriad of problems and frustrations that come with raising an autistic child. I am living proof that an autism diagnosis does not mean your child is broken and hopeless.
To one group of friends, I'm an oddball. Reliable but hard to understand. Always an arm's length away, emotionally, but willing to help and trying to make sure I don't do anything that might upset them. If there's a party, I'm not who comes to mind to invite. I'm not "fun." I don't automatically "get" them. I don't know all the injokes. I'm just a decent enough person on the periphery of the group.
To another group of friends, I'm a success. I have a successful relationship. I have a car, which I drive. I may not have a paying job, but I keep myself busy with volunteer work and helping others. I have insights, but I listen, too. I smile and nod, being supportive. Maybe my opinions even matter to them. God knows there's enough battering us all down without my adding to it.
There's a group of people who created and played an online text-based game. I lied to them. They knew me as a guy, the standard gender of the Internet, not a girl. Beyond that I acted as I thought I was, if happier: a somewhat childishly optimistic contributor, odd and troubled but dedicated. For them I created an entire website, dedicated to the game, and faithfully updated it for several years. In their company, I got through college, leaning on the community and the predictability of the game. I bought them all souvenirs when I went to a foreign country, and sent them as a sort of farewell. Shortly after that, I disappeared. It's been half a decade, and one of them emailed me asking after my welfare. Reminding me they exist. I can't decide how, or if, to face them.
With only that exception above, I have never tried to be anything different than I am. I've tried to stay true to myself and to what I believe, in all situations. Why, then, do I feel like I have separate identities, all pressing down on me at once? If I'm not living any lies, why does it feel like I'm never going to be as good as people think I am?
Who am I?
I never really stopped asking that.
People with autism, you know, tend to develop more slowly in some ways than neurotypical people. It's not our fault. The societies we're born into aren't effortless to us. It seems to me that neurotypical people run, or even glide effortlessly through life. And we on the spectrum, we crawl. We claw for every inch. Our own brains and bodies hinder us. Other people turn away from us. Our very families, hard as they try, misunderstand us.
So it comes to pass that I am 28, and still asking myself who I am.
I know who I think I am. I'm stubborn, childish, and foul-mouthed, a trial. I am angry, lazy, thoughtless, and disabled. I should be reading a book right now and organizing my thoughts to review it, but instead my train of thought has battened itself onto the question of my identity, tormented by the shattered mirror of identities I see. They have little in common with how I see myself.
To the parents at the support group I go to, I am patient, thoughtful, and kind. I value them, their input, and their problems. I've never met a single one of their children, and may never do so save at social events, but I've tried to provide insight, suggestions, and guidance to the staggering myriad of problems and frustrations that come with raising an autistic child. I am living proof that an autism diagnosis does not mean your child is broken and hopeless.
To one group of friends, I'm an oddball. Reliable but hard to understand. Always an arm's length away, emotionally, but willing to help and trying to make sure I don't do anything that might upset them. If there's a party, I'm not who comes to mind to invite. I'm not "fun." I don't automatically "get" them. I don't know all the injokes. I'm just a decent enough person on the periphery of the group.
To another group of friends, I'm a success. I have a successful relationship. I have a car, which I drive. I may not have a paying job, but I keep myself busy with volunteer work and helping others. I have insights, but I listen, too. I smile and nod, being supportive. Maybe my opinions even matter to them. God knows there's enough battering us all down without my adding to it.
There's a group of people who created and played an online text-based game. I lied to them. They knew me as a guy, the standard gender of the Internet, not a girl. Beyond that I acted as I thought I was, if happier: a somewhat childishly optimistic contributor, odd and troubled but dedicated. For them I created an entire website, dedicated to the game, and faithfully updated it for several years. In their company, I got through college, leaning on the community and the predictability of the game. I bought them all souvenirs when I went to a foreign country, and sent them as a sort of farewell. Shortly after that, I disappeared. It's been half a decade, and one of them emailed me asking after my welfare. Reminding me they exist. I can't decide how, or if, to face them.
With only that exception above, I have never tried to be anything different than I am. I've tried to stay true to myself and to what I believe, in all situations. Why, then, do I feel like I have separate identities, all pressing down on me at once? If I'm not living any lies, why does it feel like I'm never going to be as good as people think I am?
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