Only The Lonely...

... want to be alone, it seems, according to some people. They appear to have some difficulty in making the distinction between being alone and being lonely. The minute they find out that you live alone, or spend a great proportion of your time by yourself, there is a tendency to jump to the conclusion that you must, therefore, be lonely – probably because they imagine that they would be, in the same circumstances.

And it’s no good denying that this is the case, and launching yourself into a long explanation as to why you choose to live a solitary life, and how happy you are with your situation. This will simply be taken as evidence of just how unhappy you are: “The lady doth protest too much, methinks,” as Shakespeare put it.

Of course, just because he said it, or, rather, set it down irreversibly on paper, does not make it true. But try convincing my brain, which encases words in blocks of concrete the minute they are set adrift into the cosmos.

Nor should you ever utter the fatal words “I can’t, but I would if I could”, cos this automatically implies that you feel left out, sitting on the outside looking in, like an orphan child longingly watching families together, and wishing they could be part of one of their own.

It’s a totally inappropriate statement which suggests a feeling of deprivation, a state of being which doesn’t exist except in my mind when I drift away from my true nature and allow myself to entertain the ideas that other people have put in my head. How, in the name of arse, do I know that I would if I could when I never have been able to, nor shown any great desire to do so? The only time I feel deprived is when I’ve been told that that’s how I should feel.

Then, of course, there’s the inferiority complex theory. I’ve come across this frequently as a consequence of spending a lot of time in recovery circles, mostly going round in circles. And no, a recovery circle is not a round rubber thing that you throw over your head to save you from drowning.

This theory is usually applied to people who view themselves as loners - the ones who feel themselves to be on the outside of society, not worthy enough to join in. Alcoholics are often in that group because of the shame and guilt associated with their illness. And, as an alcoholic, I of course got clumped in, and wholeheartedly embraced the idea that this was the reason for my preference for my own company. What else could it be? Unbeknown to me I was just doing the autistic thing, and copying. Didn’t know it at the time, but I do now.

And what I know now is that, contrary to all the recovery talk on the subject that I learned, I actually do like being on my own. In fact, it’s the only way that I can live and be happy, and not end up gibbering like an idiot at the end of the day due to overexposure to the world outside and its over-stimulating influence. You only have to look at what happens to me when I let the world out there into my life via the web, to know that there’s gonna be a catastrophe when I have to meet it head-on, in the flesh. As the Boy Scouts say, “Be prepared.”! Unfortunately, I can’t ever be prepared enough to deal with what’s out there.

Why do people think that there’s something wrong with you when you prefer to spend most of your time in your own company, doing things that you enjoy, rather than doing something that we are told that we are supposed to enjoy? It’s as if people expect that, just because you happen to be human, you must have an innate desire to socialise. They also appear to expect that it’s an intrinsic skill that everyone has, and that the only reason I don’t do it is because I am being a bloody-minded, anti-social, miserable grump, and I could if I just tried hard enough.

Well, I’ve tried hard enough – for most of my life I’ve been trying, and it hasn’t got any easier. Nor has it turned into a joyous activity that I anticipate with a frisson of excitement every time I have to contemplate doing it. More on a par with having to go to the dentist to have all your teeth removed. Without anaesthetic.

The Weather Girl

Apparently it is a well-known fact around the world that here in England we have an inordinate preoccupation with the weather, and a conversation rarely goes by without it being referred to in some way, especially between strangers when you don’t know what else to say. It is, it appears, the ultimate ice-breaker, a safe way in which to connect with other people, even if only for a moment. It’s as if you’ve touched base with another human being and discovered that you’re still one with the rest of the world: you didn’t metamorphose into some hideous creature, devoid of human sensitivities, in the middle of the night. Nope, it’s okay: you weren’t transformed into an autistic.

Now, here’s the thing. This discussion about the weather that people engage in so frequently, and which seems often to lead onto more interesting topics (I mean, how many ways can you find to describe the fact that it’s been pissing it down with rain, yet again, especially during what we laughingly describe as our summer?!), is one which I have taken to its literal limit. When I talk about the weather, I talk about the weather. And when I stop talking about it, that’s it. The conversation, such as it was, is over. Unless I happen to have a back-up topic in mind with which to extend it. Otherwise we’re done.

As a method for engaging in that thing called “chatting” it is totally bloody useless to an autistic. I don’t know why I keep trying, really, because I’m hopeless at it. And the truth is I find it really quite boring, but I have this persistent misguided idea that it’s somehow what is expected of me, in order to be considered polite. God knows how the person feels on the receiving end of one of my weather forecasts!

The person whom I most frequently deluge with my climactic enlightenments is my veg lady. This is my nickname for her: she is not actually a vegetable (just in case you’re THAT literal!) I visit her farm stall once a week in order to buy vegetables, and every week I try to engage her in dialogue by discussing the weather. The thing that confuses me is that she is quite friendly towards me, but she isn’t actually very forthcoming in the conversational department. She responds to my clumsy attempts to chat, but if I don’t say anything then she just leaves me to get on with choosing what I want.

Now this is actually ideal, due to my inability to multi-task (especially if one of the tasks is talking). But instead of being relieved and grabbing the opportunity she has offered to not have to stress myself to be chatty, I find myself even more desperate to try to keep up the interaction. I can’t seem to get into my head that she won’t be offended if I do nothing more than buy what she’s selling, and bugger off so that she can get on with the rest of her day!

I do wish that I could either shut up around people or, if I’m going to speak, at least speak as I normally would to someone I know well, where I don’t feel I have to pretend to be anything other than what and who I am, and I can talk about the things that interest (or obsess) me. Like yoga, for example. Or pole dancing. Pole dancing?

Yes, my newest obsession is with pole dancing. I haven’t taken it up – yet. That would either require that I have to go for lessons somewhere (an absolute no-no), or that I buy myself a pole, which you then erect (pun definitely intended!) in your home, hopefully without bringing the ceiling down on your head the moment you launch your whole body weight onto the thing, swinging with wild abandon like a chimpanzee – only with less control. And less finesse.

And then you follow on-line video lessons. This, in a manner of speaking, is what I’ve been doing, minus the pole – and minus actually following them (which is rather difficult to do without the pole, as you can well imagine). Instead I’ve been doing the Lisa version, which involves watching a lot of different clips from a variety of teachers, and then imagining myself pole-dancing. You don’t get much physical benefit, or a feeling of empowerment, which is what it’s supposed to be about (and you thought it was about sexually titillating men in clubs!), but then you don’t end up collapsed on your back; dislocating your shoulder because you were over-keen to get on with being able to clamber round the thing like a monkey in heat; or suffering severe friction burns to your groin area.

I now find myself drawn to lamp posts when I’m out walking, with an overwhelming desire to fling myself at one and see if I can perform a fireman’s spin, back-hook spin, or a kick-up invert – vaguely a la Gene Kelly in ‘Singin’ In The Rain’: though I don’t ever recall seeing him hanging in mid-air upside-down, his legs astride the lamppost with his arse sticking out. Funny, that, how you don’t seem to get any men doing it. Do they not find it empowering too? Perhaps it’s the shoes ...

As a conversation initiator I don’t know that this would go down too well with the general public. I think it more likely to bring it to a clanging halt, unless you happened to be talking to a professional pole-dancer. Or a fellow amateur enthusiast. And I’m not quite sure how you would follow this topic, what flow of ideas would spring forth for a lively discussion – lap-dancing, perhaps? Or stripping for a living? Perhaps the benefits, or otherwise, of working in the adult entertainment business? Or maybe romantic/erotic literature – also on my list of newly-acquired obsessions. Do you see a pattern here?

But no, it’s not about sex. It’s just about exercise and empowerment. That’s why they wear those high-heeled shoes.

At least that’s what everyone says it’s about, if you read about it on the web. And it does sound quite reasonable – all that hanging on with your arms and legs, not to mention spinning wildly around, equates to a full-body work-out that’s more fun than pounding the gym. Not to mention working on your balance as you totter about on your four inch heels. Have they not heard of yoga? You get to work on your balance without the threat of falling off your mountainous heels and breaking your neck, or of spiking yourself, or someone else, in the eye.

But then I’m so gullible I’d buy sand from the Arabs if I lived in the desert, and they offered an even barely-rational reason as to why I should. Like the fact that imported sand is better than the home-grown stuff ‘cos it has anti-ageing properties that will make your skin look younger if you mix it to a paste with camel spit (no water in the desert), and slap it on your face every day. And once you’ve bartered with the Arabs for the sand you can practise your chatting skills, by talking about the weather. Not much to talk about there then. Unless you’re into camels. Or sand.

Speaking With Forked Tongue

This could get seriously tedious. I’ve already had to write an addendum to one of my posts, and now here’s another one, and for the same reason. I wrote something that I thought was the truth, but it isn’t.

I know a man with aspergers who describes neurotypicals as “speaking with forked tongue” because they never say what they mean. Basically, he says, they lie. I think it’s catching! I’ve spent so long around them, learning to be polite, having to answer such stupid questions as “How do you feel?” (with my hands!), or be accused of repressing them or, ironically, of lying if I say I don’t know, that I am now even more bewildered as to what my own truth is because of taking on board other peoples’ ideas – neurotypical peoples’ ideas.

I’m finding it hard to embrace all the things that make up my aspergers because they seem to clash so resoundingly with what I have learned makes up a well-balanced, healthy, mature, responsible, caring, selfless, human being. Basically my aspergers seems to make me the antithesis of all of those things which make a person more likely to be successful and accepted in society. And so I unconsciously lie to myself or sugar coat it (another neurotypical technique I’ve learned), because the truth sounds so unpalatable.

Who wants to say that, actually, they do see people as being interchangeable and replaceable like light bulbs or batteries; that people represent certain things, like security and safety; that the most that you can achieve is a feeling of attachment to them for what they can give you, rather than one of connection and mutual sharing? When I talk about it it sounds so cold and distant, but then I feel distanced and disconnected from my own self, so how on earth can I expect to be able to connect to any other self, in the form of another human being? For me it is a neurological impossibility, and not a choice that I am making, just like my inability to empathise. The highest compliment I have paid my best friend is to tell her that I love her as much as I love yoga and my yoga mat – and I REALLY love them! The amazing thing is that she isn’t offended by this – she understands that this is the way it is for me, and she accepts it without question. And in return she loves me the way that a neurotypical loves, which is completely baffling!

So in my last post where I wrote that I now realise that people are not interchangeable, and that you can’t just replace them, I’ve not told the truth. Yes they are, and yes I do. I don’t want it to be like this, but to say otherwise is a lie – and lying makes me uncomfortable. It’s why when someone asks me “How are you?” I feel the compulsion to tell them the literal truth, and often do, no matter that they might be a complete stranger to me. After all why bother asking me if they don’t really want to know?

This is an example of speaking with forked tongue, though I know that the answer in their world is that they are just being polite. But to me you can be polite just by simply saying hello. Anything else just seems to catapult me into a whole dimension of confusion and frustration as I attempt the impossible and try to focus on more than one thing at a time – trying to work out where the boundaries are and what is appropriate for me to share, at the same time as doing it! Plus I really don’t do chatting, I do information exchanging and then have to go away and process the data!

I have had to learn to lie (sorry, I mean be polite!), and exercise some discretion, so I now do sometimes just say I’m okay: but it goes against the grain.

And as to the people who ask “How are you?”, and then sometimes tell you how you should be if you happen to make the mistake of telling them, I often feel as if they are simply going around reassuring themselves that everyone is alright, and that they go away feeling a sense of satisfaction that they’ve done their duty in making sure the world is as it should be! And when I’m feeling really paranoid I think that they’re checking up on me, as if they are working for some covert government agency that’s keeping an eye on all of the oddballs of society, just in case we gather together and start a revolution!

DOWN WITH FEELINGS!
UP WITH FACTS!
LONG LIVE THE REVOLUTION!

Don't Mind Me Two

This is by way of an addendum to the last blog post, Sense and Sensibility.

I really find this business of not knowing my own mind a bit tedious at times, especially when I also have the annoying habit of making categorical statements, only to find that I have cemented myself in the wrong place yet again, and I’ve got to set about chiselling my way out!

In this instance I am referring to my statement about liking the change in the seasons. Now this is not strictly untrue: I do like things like seeing the flowers appear in spring and the arrival of the baby birds, not to mention all the wonderful fruit that makes its appearance during these warmer months (I have a ‘thing’ about food, especially fruit – I think it’s called an obsession!) However, my liking of the seasonal changes is mainly theoretical – I like the idea of it, but the reality appears to clash with my personality. I enjoy reading about them, and seeing pictures – the way they do it in magazines, directing your attention to whatever aspect of the change happens to be their particular interest (health magazines, food and lifestyle magazines, etc). I know it’s a bit of a bizarre thing to enjoy, but I have aspergers, don’t you know - bizarre is my middle name (er, not literally, you understand?!) And, anyway, I’ve given it up now because it was such an obsession and a distraction that I hardly got much else done but reading – anything!

I have a lot of these delusions about myself. Some of them are really quite funny. For instance I used to think that I was a gregarious social butterfly. I mistook not being able to stop talking once I started as a sign that I enjoyed social interaction, and was able to engage in light chit-chat! The fact that it would wear me out, that I would come away from such encounters with my mind racing and obsessing over what had been said (which could last up to a week until the next time!), and that I could only talk about one thing – namely me and my interests – failed to register. I had to have my neurotypical best friend tell me that this is what I did, and that this does not constitute small talk, and general polite conversation. I was aghast! Was my small talk not small enough, then? How small did it have to be? I mean, for heaven’s sake, I’m the woman who’s obsessed with the minutiae of life: you can’t get much smaller than that, surely?!! But no, apparently this doesn’t count. It’s not light enough, like a fairy cake – more in the way of a rock bun that’s been cooked too long!

So, to try to get back on track, this change business is not something I embrace wholeheartedly, or even half-heartedly at times – sometimes there’s no heart to be found in it whatsoever! I just have this idea that I do, even despite all the evidence to the contrary throughout my life. I keep thinking it’s just a matter of changing my attitude (ha ha ha, more change!) towards the idea of change, but as yet this has not worked, and I’ve been doing it a bloody long time now! Methinks it’s time I tried another method - accept that it’s intrinsically part of the aspergers and, for whatever inexplicable reason, change just isn’t something I’m ever going to find easy. Hell’s bells, I don’t even like changing my breakfast cereal, or the kind of knickers I buy! And I hate it when the Brussels sprout season comes to its end, and I have to figure out something else to buy in their place!

I hate the change in seasons, and not just because of the difficulties I have with deciding what to wear. I hate it when the clocks go forward here in the UK (which they have just done, and now I’ve lost an hour’s sleep, and I’d just got back into the rhythm of getting up earlier!), and the dreaded British summer time begins – in the middle of spring! It’s the time when all the people, who were safely locked up in their homes during the colder months while I was out taking my walks in blissful solitary peace, suddenly appear and the world feels overcrowded. Now I can hardly get from my door to where I walk without encountering someone, and even whilst indoors I can hear them going about their business outside.

What is it with people? Why does it seem they all have to come out at the same time? Couldn’t they do it in shifts? And why is it that they seem to have this propensity for gathering together in the same places, like sheep all following each other around? I mean, just look at what happens in the summer holidays when they all head for the traditional holiday spots and theme parks: can there be anything less conducive to a restful break from work or school? Is it any wonder half of them are glad when the holidays end and it’s time to go back?! (I do know that they are not all the same, and that they don’t all do these things: it just seems like it to me!) Me, I look forward to when the days grow shorter and the clocks go back, and I get my lost hour back (where does it go in the interim? On holiday, probably, away from all the people!). Not to mention, of course, all those surplus people suddenly disappear indoors.

And there, once again, I imply that I enjoy another change, but I am reminded of the fact that I apparently don’t respond well to the lack of light, the cold, and every other thing that goes with the autumn/winter season, and that it affects my mood and I become quite gloomy at times. I only ever seem able to see one piece of the jigsaw at a time, and never the whole picture, so I have to frequently be reminded of the truth about myself and my condition. It’s a bit of a bugger when you can’t quite remember who you really are!

So, having explored the issue, I have come to the conclusion that no, I don’t like change. In fact, I BLOODY WELL HATE IT!!! This will not come as a surprise to my friend, who is constantly telling me that it’s the case: but to me, I’m always amazed. It takes me a while for things to fully compute, and then I can never guarantee that it won’t go in and disappear into the black hole that appears to materialise in my mind to swallow up all the really useful information I could do with retaining, leaving me with a swirling mass of gaseous waste to ponder on obsessively – the minutiae of life!

A Salesman's Dream

I feel a new obsession coming on ... with blogging! No doubt it will last for a while and then, hopefully, it’ll settle down – or not, as the case may be!

I’m tired today. I’ve been for my once-weekly shopping trip, which lasts for a total of three hours, one of which is the travelling there and back. I have it down to a fine art now. I know exactly where I need to go, I take a list with me, and I follow the same routine each week, with the occasional variation for things that are not part of my usual weekly grocery shop. But still I get distracted. And still, despite the list, I find myself with the dilemma of trying to work out how many of something I might need, ‘cos even though I wrote the list I don’t quite trust it! And the memory of what I’ve got back at home has usually faded by the time I am faced with the enticement of all that wonderful fruit and veg. How many sprouts and apples does one person need for a week? Well, apparently, a whole truck-load (if you look in my fridge!) But seriously, how much is enough? I’ve been cooking for myself for over twenty years and I still haven’t worked it out!

I am a salesperson’s dream because of my gullibility, as well as being a nightmare, because I’ll take forever trying to decide. I once had a British Gas rep trying to sell me the idea that I should change my supplier, and he stood there talking for at least ten minutes, believing that he’d got a convertee, only for me to dither at the end and tell him that I’d think about it, and perhaps next year?! It never occurred to me that he was in a hurry to get round as many people as possible because that’s how he gets paid, and that I had essentially wasted his time by being so polite as to let him ramble on because I felt bad about the idea of being rude and telling him “no thanks” before he’d even had a chance to tell me what he was selling! My best friend, who is a neuro-typical and who basically interprets the world for me, had to explain it to me. And still he came back six months later, bringing a fellow employee with him (probably for moral support in case he got caught up in another pointless discussion with me!) This time, though, I was ready: and so was he, ‘cos he cut it very short, having remembered me from the last time! I guess it’s probably hard to forget an encounter with an asperger, isn’t it?!