That’ll be the title of my autobiography: I Mean It This Time: A lifetime of apologies from my strange self.
The diagnosis turned me into some kind of quantum special snowflake. ASD flags me as a Tumblr-grade special snowflake, but at the same the stress of my stress is boring and ordinary. I wrote the last post on a wave of excitement caused by the diagnosis, and all the answers for my past. Since then the present and future conspired to strew pieces of Lego across my barefoot path. It’s a scary idea, that this is me, now and forever.
I’ve struggled with cognitive dissonance about myself since the last post. I am asocial and my theory of mind is nonexistent. I don’t need social interactions to be a happy and productive person. Eadaoin does need it. Stress and heartbreak ensues. Conscious acknowledgement and plans go a long way to help both of us.
Separate but related to my weird alone-ness are the awful lies assholes put out about Aspergers. I love and I care, but you need to poke me and remind me of this. It hurts me when I just fucked up around you yet again, for the third time today. I apologise and I promise to try and try again, but the sting lingers. It makes me lonely to always be the nail that sticks out, but I am who I am. I need to find a way to live with myself if I ever want to be happy.
Alanna and I had a long chat about this on Thursday evening. Her experience was the same as mine, and it reassured me when Alanna reported her own experience as being overwhelming.