Like a Kaleidoscope
My parents do not approve of me talking about this so casually. They think I should be more discreet, that I am using my truth as an excuse.
My relatives would pretend the truth does not exist. Willfully blindfold themselves to avoid looking into my eyes. Frown a little, ask a small question, then avert their gaze. Look at the ground, look at the clock ticking on the wall, run their hands through their hair, break the silence by clearing their throat — yet it’s only strange when I do it.
But you must have noticed.
When my sister told me “you speak like a textbook”, I was too young to know what it meant.
When my friends named me “Stonejana”, I thought of it as one of the ways teenagers show affection.
When people laughed and said “why are you smiling so much what is wrong with you”, I did not realize that they were not laughing with me.
It all came crashing into me like a wave the moment I saw a video recording of myself and thought “wow, I look specially autistic today”.
…
“… Maybe my friend had an emergency appointment, some prior commitment that they could not avoid, and so they had to leave and-”
My voice trailed into nothing as I looked around the psychiatrist’s chamber — everyone’s eyes seemed sorry.
…
“But are you SURE???”
My friend, who has never spoken to me in more than 3 sentences, suddenly had a lot of opinions about my diagnosis.
I tell people “my brain is different” and they hit me with the most difficult question of all — how is it different?
I don’t know, but let me give you a mathematical reason why I don’t know. You want me to tell you the difference between X and Y. I can only do that if I know the values of both X and Y.
But I only know X and you only know Y, so neither of us can tell each other the difference between us. But somehow the responsibility of finding out the difference lies entirely on my shoulders, so I give them a generic answer I picked up from Wikipedia.
…
They called me a picky eater, but that was underselling it. Picky eaters don’t really worry about the shape of their food. They also called me stubborn and yes, I agree with that. I would rather eat plain bland rice and call it a day than put something that I do not agree with in my mouth. The taste is only a small part of the food I’m eating.
…
“Who are you?”
Well, that’s a funny question, what do you mean to ask? What do you expect to hear? What do you want me to say?
So, confused, I tell the teacher in the class I’m attending — “I’m a student”.
People thought I’m funny. They think I’m joking. They see me as someone cool, someone sarcastic.
Sometimes it’s a relief they don’t know what goes on behind the scenes. But I truly don’t know how to explain this to the teachers who probably think I’m being very difficult.
…
What do you want me to say?
I think of this question more often than I should. Because the consequences of when I don’t think of this question are dire. If there’s one thing I’ve learnt recently, people are rarely asking for what I want to say, and mostly asking for what they want me to say.
Yet, I cannot bring myself to lie. Oops.
…
I cannot bring myself to lie.
So I got into trouble for saying the truth — that I missed classes because I didn’t feel like going to school. It was… an interesting experience.
…
It was the last day of school, and my favourite English teacher was saying a few words about all of us, one by one.
She had known me for 5 years, taught me closely for 3 of them. She read every single one of my essays in which I poured my heart out.
The words she were saying were very personalized to the individual. Pointing out their little virtues that stay hidden behind the corner. She lifted up those corners to show those to everyone, celebrating each student’s individuality and uniqueness.
It was my turn now.
“Sanjana you are an enigma. I don’t really understand you, but you’re good at what you do.”
My turn has ended.
She became a little less favourite for me after that day.
…
I laugh nervously because I knocked over the glass. Again.
I cannot braid hair to save my life. The strands keep coming apart between my fingers.
It is perfectly alright to be bad at video games. But I know exactly why I’m poor at them.
I cried while trying to fold clothes the other day. They just never move the way I want them to.
I am NEVER going to drive again.
I hope I learn to cook someday. Or balance items on a tray without dropping them.
… It’s okay, at least you’re good at coding.
…
Eyes avoiding contact, distracted mind, squirrels running through my brain, a kaleidoscope of dreams — “You don’t seem interested in me” is what he had told me. I was confused. If I am interested, then why would you feel otherwise? Does this mean I don’t know that I’m not interested?
I doubt my own feelings and thoughts.
And it has been very easy for me to do so — I rarely have very strong opinions on relationships with other people, and I rarely know how to navigate them. I am a leaf that you can blow towards any direction you please. And so, if you blow me farther away, then away I shall go.
…
“You’re always smiling” — I always took this as a compliment. I thought that is how I get people to be fond of me. Then I found out that you’re supposed to smile to convey an emotion, and not just to present your face in society. And now I do not know why I smile. But I continue to do so, because it’s not a bad thing to do. So please, smile back at me.
…
Life feels underwater. The sounds I hear are muffled, the visions I see are blurred. The emotions I feel are cool and muted. None of the storms raging up above stir any waters in here. I only observe from a distance, detached.
…
Isn’t it funny? I would be a terrible actor because I cannot understand how people would react in certain situations.
Yet, I act everyday.
“Oh my god it’s so pretty thank you so much!” I say, with no sincerity. I add a half-hearted squeal into the mix, a failed attempt at covering up my pretense. Maybe if I clutch my hand — or no, that makes me look even more awkward. This silence is weird. The way you’re looking at me is weird. The way I’m looking at you is strange. I just realized I forgot to act while I was thinking all this. And now there’s no point continuing.
Do people really feel so thankful the moment they receive a gift? I don’t know, feels a little suspicious to me. Don’t you take 3 months to get used to the presence of this new thing, 3 more months to understand how to accommodate it in your life, then 6 more months before you decide whether you actually like it or not? …Is it just me? Heh.
…
My father is the only one who listens to me speak. I do not know why he does, because I mostly speak nonsense. I repeat the same words over and over again, and talk about the same things over and over again. I laugh without feeling anything, just to make the conversation sound entertaining enough to laugh along to. I think he listens to me, and not to what I say. Because no matter what words I say, it’s his precious daughter who is saying it — which automatically makes it worth listening to. Everyone thinks I am not aware of my conversational flaws, so I play along and pretend to be ignorant. Pretending to enjoy this one-sided conversation style because it’s the only kind I have practiced, the only kind I have taught myself.
…
“You’re the weirdest 19 year old I have ever seen.”
I cried in the bathroom that day, because I knew it was true. I just did not know how or why. So I agreed to being treated that way. I thought I deserved it.
But now I know better than to anticipate invitations from people I would rather avoid. I still don’t deserve it, though. Never did.
…
“… maybe if you wear loose pants, your hands will be engaged with pulling them up instead of flapping.”
My God, these people are crazy. What’s so wrong with flapping my hands? What’s so wrong with pacing the room? Why are you so obsessed with making me “normal” like you? Why would you subject any human being to this level of unnecessary stress just to make them conform to your expectations — and still be called a respected mental health specialist with an actual degree? I need to stay away from dangerous people like these.
…
I need to stay away from dangerous people like these, and so I casually drop my diagnosis in front of people. It’s a litmus test for me. How do you react? What do you think of people like me? Would you harm me?
“Is there a way to tell if a kid is going to be autistic before they are born?”
Yeah, nope. Mission abort. Avoid this person. I know what you’re trying to say, I know what you’re implying and I am not comfortable with it.
…
I am very happy that I was born.
I bring something special to the table that can only come from me. I see the world through this kaleidoscope that I created with my own fingers. I breathe, smile, dance clumsily and laugh loudly. And cry silently. And curse angrily under my breath.
And I feel. And I express. In my own way.
All this, I tell myself as a way to justify my existence. To protect myself. To believe that I deserve the chance.
…
I talk about it because I want you to see me. I talk about it because I want you to see the autism in me. It is as much a part of me.
I want you to see me and know what I can do — both because of my disability and despite my disability. I want you to see the roses and thorns under my feet.
So see us.
