Interaction does not come easily.
Every conversation takes place in a foreign language.
I make notes beforehand,
To remind me what to ask and how to do so.
I practice and rehearse
And remember past exchanges.
This is not because I do not care.
I make this effort precisely
Because I care indeed.
But I remain a foreigner in this human terrain
And find the ground often shifts in unpredictable perplexing ways.
I was told yesterday that I’m “prickly and difficult”. While I do not dispute this, I do have an explanation (not a defense) for my hedgehog self. I didn’t share this with the person who called me so, b/c I did not wish to do so much self-disclosure. She was having HER time, and I didn’t wish to intrude.
In interpersonal space, I often come across as abrupt, no-nonsense, and all-business. I make weird jokes or references. I might seem like someone who doesn’t quite get it, if by “it” you mean “normal social interaction.” There’s a reason for this: I DON’T. You see, I’m autistic. We suspect. I’ve never been formally diagnosed. (How my parents missed THAT, I don’t know. My guess is they were so busy dealing with the PHYSICAL stuff that accompanied me being so premature AND being thankful that I escaped gross neurological impairment , that this slipped past everyone. Everyone just lumped EVERYTHING that was weird, off, unusual about me in a category that was labelled “oh that’s just K”.) For years I thought it WAS just me, until an astute doctor said, “hold on a minute, I think you might be autistic!” I had had YEARS of therapy by then, including therapy designed to teach me “how to human,” so that I could at least function in society. But I don’t pass very well. I’ll always be an obvious interloper. But it’s okay now. I don’t NEED to be human (anymore). I like who and what I am just fine. Prickles and all.