My brother was over yesterday helping me with my new compy. I ordered Thai to thank him for his help. We were eating yellow curry (chicken and potato–outstanding!) when he said, “I thought about what you said a few weeks ago.” I looked at him expectantly because I didn’t remember what we talked about a few weeks ago. I mean, in general, yes, I could remember, but I wasn’t sure what he meant specifically.
“When you said I was probably somewhere on the spectrum, it made so many things clear.” Oh, damn. Yes, I had said something about him being on the spectrum, but I thought that was obvious. Like, he’s the stereotype of someone on the spectrum and his son was also clearly on the spectrum when he (the son) was very young.
I apologized to him because I normally don’t tell people about themselves. It’s not a nice thing to do and it can really freak people out. I understand that. I don’t like it when people think they know me better than I know myself (but it’s usually because they don’t) and I don’t want to do the same thing to other people (even though I do know them better). But for some reason, I thought he knew. We’d talked about it before, but perhaps it didn’t sink in. Or maybe the other times I didn’t tell him explicitly that he was on the spectrum. I’m pretty sure I have, but it doesn’t really matter.
He cut short my apology and said that he was glad I had said that because it had explained so many things. We recounted the ways it made sense. He’s not aware of feelings. I mean, he can tell broadly if someone is happy or sad, but not the more nuanced things like distraught versus upset. Miffed versus irritated. Giddy versus exuberant, etc. Nor can he always tell why someone is in that mood. He joked that all his sensitivity for emotions was given to me instead, which isn’t really a joke. I have double the dose and he has less than half the dose.
Other ways he looks like he’s on the spectrum: when he was younger, he could not look people in the eyes. Being very interested in mechanical things (taking things apart at a young age), being hyper-focused on one thing for hours. Some others I didn’t mention: not great social skills (though we’ve talked about that ad nauseam), fidgety, and being rigid on how things ‘should’ be done. To me, it was a textbook case.
I’m glad it helped him and I feel a bit guilty that I never brought it up earlier. I did the same for him decades ago when I told him about the lesser known findings in the Dunning-Kruger study (and, yes, I will bang on this drum incessantly): that people who are smart or good at something vastly underestimate how much smarter/better they are than other people in that area. He had never looked at it that way and true to his nature, he didn’t say much when I said that to him. However, he went away and thought about it as was his wont. He probably Googled it as well because that’s what he would do (as would I). A few weeks later, we were talking and he mentioned something about joining Mensa. He said that what I had said about Dunning-Kruger really nudged something in his brain. He had known he was smart, but he just assumed he was a little bit smarter than other people. In addition to telling him about the lesser-known results of the Dunning-Kruger study, I also told him what my therapist had told me decades ago when I was agonizing over an argument I had had on eBay. She said, “Minna, you are arguing at a level of five with someone who was arguing at a level of two. They’re not being willful in ignoring or deliberately misunderstanding what you’re saying (or even not deliberately misunderstanding). They literally cannot comprehend your argument.”
That blew my mind. She also mentioned the lesser-known results of the Dunning Kruger study in this session to underline her point. It had never occurred to me that this was a possibility because I took for granted my level of thinking. I mean, sure, I knew I was smarter than most other people, but I didn’t realize that my basic way of thinking was that different. It radically changed how I thought about communications and the barriers to it. It didn’t stop me from being frustrated or trying to explain myself—often futilely—but it did sometimes make me able to realize that I was banging my head against a brick wall.
My brother said something similar the next time we talked about the subject in addition to telling me he joined Mensa. He said it was a relief to know it wasn’t that there was something wrong with him. I said that was one of the reasons I mentioned it to him—because it had brought me the same relief. He had always felt distant from others because he could not talk to them. That’s partly because of his weakness with social skills, but it’s also partly because he’s so smart. He is the smartest person I know.
Amusing side note: We were talking about smarts another time and he said with all seriousness that I was probably nearly as smart as he was. I laughed because while I knew it was a compliment, most people probably wouldn’t take it as one. Besides, I’m smarter than he is in some ways just as he’s smarter than I am in others. At any rate, I took it in the spirit in which it was meant.
Amusing side note II: Months or maybe years later, he mentioned to me that he had quit going to Mensa meetings because many of the people there were self-absorbed and pompous. He had nothing in common with them, which made me laugh. I told him that having a group that is based simply around how smart you are probably wasn’t the best for finding like-minded people because it was too broad a category.
Anyway, he felt better about himself once we had that discussion and the same with him coming to terms with being on the spectrum, apparently. I’m glad that he was able to glean something positive from what I said, but it reminded me that I have to be careful about what I say to others about themselves. I usually am, but I tend to be more relaxed with my brother. We talked about my being very perceptive about other people’s feelings and he said that he knew another realtor like that (in his office). She told him she had to learn how to put up a wall between her and other people to which I agreed. It took me until I was in my early thirties to realize that this was something I had to do. Taiji helped me in that endeavor, but it’s still rough for me to be around groups of people.
He laughed when I told him that I had to be careful not to tell people about themselves, but he could see why. I explained that it’s really threatening for people to hear something about themselves from me that I hadn’t told them. He could see why that would be a big deal. He said, “I could see them saying, “When did I tell you that?””
It’s funny that he is not sensitive to feelings, but he’s good at cutting to the heart of the matter sometimes. Probably in part because social conventions don’t trip him up. It’s difficult to manipulate him for the same reason. He’s going to take you at face value and hear what you said–not what you’re trying to imply. It’s refreshing, honestly. I can be blunt with him and know that he won’t take offense.
One thing that stuck from our discussion–he really thinks I’d be a good psychologist. Like, he called it a natural talent (my ability to read people). It’s not something I didn’t already know, but it was really nice to hear from him. And the fact that he was emphatic about it really underlined that I truly am talented in this arena.
Again, it’s something that I take for granted because I’ve been doing it all my life. There was never a time when I didn’t have it and I do not need to practice it. Like I said, I need to find ways to turn it down–really not easy. It’s one reason I like to spend most of my time alone.
I have thought of being a psychologist, on and off, all my life. I know I’d be a good one–quite possibly, a great one–but at what cost? Yes, I know there are ways to separate work from life, but it takes all I have to keep others at an arm’s length as it is. Doing it eight hours a day, five hours a week–well, I don’t know what it’ll do to me. But my brother has planted a seed with his comments. We’ll see if I allow it to take roots and grow.