Yeah, I’m back for part three of my musing on mindfulness. Here’s part two in which I talked about, well, I’m not really sure what. I think I had more side notes tahn I did actual post. That’s just the way I roll, though. I make no apologies for it. I will footnote you all. day. long. I have footnoted footnotes before, and I will do it again.
That’s a word I love, by the way. Footnote. Side note, too.
Back to mindfulness. When I started researching the negative sides of mediattion, I expected to find nothing. I thought it was just me because people seemed to be universally positive about it. “It calms my mind!” “It makes me see the world in such a different way!” “It eases my anxiety!” “It connects me with the world!”
I know that there are proselytizers for anything and everything. I know that. I have lived that. I am careful not to do that myself because I can tip into that way too easily. And, I’ll be honest. The more praise something gets, the more suspicious I am of it. Not because I think it’s going to be trash, but because I know it won’t live up to the hype.
There is only one movie that I ever ended up really liking after being skeptical about it before going to see it and that was The Royal Tenenbaums. I don’t like many of the actors in it, and I did not have hope. Much to my surprise, I really liked it. Other than that, though, I am pretty accurate as to what I’m going to (not) like.
I really wish I had known I was neuroatypical earlier in my life. It would have made things so much easier. Things fell into place once a friend gently suggested that I take online autism test. The irony is that I knew my brother was autistic several decades ago beacuse he exhibited classic autistic traits–no eye contact, did not like being touched, very into techie things (there’s a picture of him gumming an alarm clock when he was a baby, and my mom told me he took it apart around the same time), had to do things his way, and basically stimmed (before it was a known thing).
A few months before my medical crisis, I was talking to my brother, and I casually said something like, “Because of you being on the spectrum–” He stopped me and asked me what I meant by that. I scrambled and backed up, but in the end, I told him what I meant. We’re pretty open with each other, and I did not want to lie to him.
A few weeks later, he called me to tell me that he had looked up autism and it really helped him. i felt bad that I hadn’t told him before beacuse I thought it was obvious and because he knew his older son had it–and his son was a lot like him.
It’s funny to me that he had no idea that he was autistic and needed me to tell him whereas I also had no idea that I might be and needed a friend to suggest I check it out. I thought I might have ADHD, but I never in a million years dreamed I might be autistic as well. Why? Well, mostly beccause of how autism is portrayed in society. What is emphasized when autism is mentioned? Male, stimming, can’t look you in the eye, can’t empathize with other people, low-to-no emotions.
What I had to find out the hard way was that first of all, there is no such thing as typical autism. Secondly, the no empathy thing is probably the biggest lie of all. Or rather, that autistic people don’t sense other people’s emotions. I watched a video in which several autistic people explained that they did feel other people’s emotions–sometimes acutely so. They just don’t necessarily know how to interpret the emotions or what to do with them.
When a friend of mine suggested I take an online autistic test, I really struggled with it. She told me to take it without masking, and I told her I didn’t know if I could do that. I’ve been masking for my whole life, and it’s second nature by now. She told me to do my best, but that was still very hard. Questions like, “I am comfortable talking to strangers at a party” and then needing to rank it on a Likert scale. I’m not a big fan of Likert scales, but I gave it my best shot.
Except.
It’s really hard to take off that mask when I’ve worn it for so long. Am I comfortable talking to strangers at a party?
Yes. Because I’ve done it for so long. I know how to talk to strangers and make them feel comfortable. I can make them think I’m their newest bestest friend and that I care so much about them. I can get them to tell me their deepest and darkest secrets, even if I don’t want to hear them. I have cashiers at the grocery store telling me about their personal woes when I just want my receipt.
My brother said it’s beacuse I ask questions that invite people to open up, but it happens even when I don’t. It happens when I try to shut people done. It happens when I don’t ask questions. It happens when I give one-word answers. There’s just something about my face that says, “Tell me everything about your life, starting from when you were seven.”
Am I comfortable talking to strangers at a party?
No. I feel like my skin is crawling when I do it. It’s so alien to me, and I feel like it must be obvious that I’m putting on an act. It’s so awkward and uncomfortable inside my body. I hate doing it. I hate how artificial I feel.
Both are true at the same time. It’s comfortable for me, yes, but it’s also not comfortable for me.
See why it’s so difficult? There is no simple answer for anything for me. I really tried to strip it all back. I felt that I was fighting myself. I probably didn’t adjust enough for the fact that I was masking (though the test takes that into account) beacuse it’s seared to my skin–just as much as the four tattoos I have.
Let me be real with you. This is part of the reason I prefer to be alone .I can just breathe and just be when there’s no one else around. If there’s even one other person, I start performing. Unless it’s a few very specific people. It’s not their fault–it’s me. I have spent forty years being attuned to others around me, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t do it.
And I’m exhausted. Not just because of that, but it certainly doesn’t help.
Mindfulness,my not-so-flat yellow ass. I’ve spent my whole life being conscious about everything I do, say, and think. I got taught at a young age that my feelings don’t matter. That I need to tamp down everything about myself in order to be acceptable.
Depression and anxiety make it so that I’m always second-guessing what I say and do. I have so many checks and reins on my interior dialogue, er, monologue–I don’t need anything that makes me even more conscious of it.