Personal Reflection: Stone Cold Bitch

I remember a story my mom told me long ago, told as a joke about what a bitch I am. It goes that when I was a baby, people would smile at me and talk to me, but I would not respond (according to her telling, because I am so unpleasant). I would not smile back, I would not respond to their questions, I would just stare. My son struggles with this, but I don’t make fun of him for it. I know how incredibly painful it is to be told on a loop for your entire life that you are a piece of shit for not “picking up” what others are “putting down.” This, I later learned, was a sign of autism in childhood and is now a pretty common indicator. I think on my years in the club scene, and how it was akin to getting a root canal for me to approach people I knew. I felt so messed up for having that issue, like I have always been defective. Some took it as me being stuck up. I was never much one for smiling (great for wrinkles, bad for friends to not smile), and I was always pretty quiet. Pairing together a quiet stare, my eternal RBF from not smiling and a crippling anxiety over approaching others, I can see how I look like a total bitch.

Here’s what basically five people in the world know about me — none of those old club friends, neither of my parents, and only 3 of the 5 know the true extent — I am an absolute clown and I love to talk with others. I am funny and clever and incredibly gullible. I laugh very easily, and can hold my own in humor. I observe so much of the world and have an endless curiosity. But I am trapped within my own mind. It isn’t an anxiety thing exactly, it is still a nearly physical pain I experience when talking to others. Sure, I can warm up but it takes A LONG TIME, and no one really wants to put in that kind of work. People like easy friends, fun friends, ones that don’t want to investigate the mysteries of life together. I have tried so many times to pretend to be someone else. The ol’ fake-it-til-you-make-it ideology. But, I never make it. The thing I’ve heard more often than not is that I actually try too hard. This is doubly insulting because I can’t do it without putting on an act, but when I put on the act, it looks unnatural. Well — IT IS. Is it really crap to ask others to just give me many chances? Is it really crap to just allow me to be how I need to be?

The first time I met my partner, I had told them ahead of time “do not say hey are you D? because I hate that.” I suggested just walking up to me and saying hello as though you already knew me. It was the most relieving social interaction I’ve had to date. My partner has always just given me space to be how I am, and says that they are so confused about why people don’t take a liking to me. The expectation is always that I should approach others to show my pleasant intent. I have blanket recognition and appreciation for the individuality of most people I meet (with the exception of obvious fascists), so I always have pleasant intent. I don’t know how not to because I see every single person as valid, just as they are. But I am not valid because I can’t do what others need me to. So, I listen to them laughing beside me. I watch them gathering at a table sharing stories. I hear them talk about what a great community this or that group is and I just sob inside. I know they want me to meet them where they are, and my inability to do so makes me feel disabled and that fucking sucks. I want friends, I want to be part of the conversation, and I would bleed for a chance to be invited to anything ever at all. I have much to offer (I think). Or maybe my mom was right about me, and I’ve always just been a stuck-up bitch. I can’t ask anyone.