I have spent a lifetime figuring out what is ok to say in polite society and what isn’t. That doesn’t mean I always say the safe and bland thing, though. Sometimes, I say the ruder/more honest thing on purpose, and sometimes, it’s because I did not draw the right line. And, sometimes, I’m so tense about saying/doing the right thing that I just blurt out the first thing that enters my mind. Or do whatever my brain tells me to do. Thankfully, it’s never inappropriate–it’s just sometimes very awkward. And embarrassing. But I’m used to that.
I have a running track in my head that tells me what I’m saying is wrong, stupid, and I should just shut the hell up. That’s on a bad day. On a good day, the voice is calmer and not saying the mean words, but it’s basically the same message. “Dear, is that really what you want to say?”, “Maybe you should say that in a different way.”, and the like.
The track was installed by my parents when I was very young, and while I’m getting better at dampening it, it’s still there. It doesn’t help that I’m hard to understand when I’m not styling myself for normies to listen to me.
There are several reasons for this. One is that I think very differently than others do. And I think in very complex and, yes, convoluted ways. That’s part and parcel in having a broken brain. I see connections that other people don’t, and I can’t explain them to my satisfaction. I’ve told this story over and over again.
I once was talking to my then-therapist about how frustrating it was when I could not explain something to someone to make them understand what I was trying to say. In my mind, it was my fault because I could not find the right words. She said, “It’s because you think at a level five while they think at a level one or two.” She told me that they literally could not understand what I was saying, and that it wasn’t because I could not find the right words.
It was a relief to be released from the burden of trying to find the right words. I still tend to err on the side of me thinking I’m not saying the right words, but I have found some relief in the idea that maybe it’s not me.
See, this is one of the issues with being neurodivergent–I always assume it’s my fault. Before I knew I was neurodivergent, I just assumed that my brain was broken, and I was a weirdo. I mean, the latter is true, but the former is…not true in the way I used to think it was. It doesn’t mean I monitor what I say any less, but at least I’m cognizant of why I’m doing it.
It felt treacherous when I was younger to say what I really thought. I’ve done a lot of work to figure out what the ‘right’ thing to say is and what the ‘wrong’ thing to say is. In addition, I have been programmed to always put others feelings first, which makes it difficult for me to voice my opinion.
Added to that is the fact that when I have spoken out about my opinions, I’ve been treated not-so-kindly about it by some people. Not anyone who is worthwhile, obviously, but it’s still a damper. And in one very notorious example, I got dumped because of my opinions (admittedly passionate and negative) about Pulp Fiction. My boyfriend at the time absolutely loved Pulp Fiction (this was several years after it was released), and it was going to be shown at the midnight theater near us.
I had seen the trailer, and I was fairly certain I wouldn’t like it. He insisted I would. We went, and, surprise, surprise, I hated it. HATED it. I thought it was pretentious, sexist, too hyper, a bit racist, ultra-violent, and too self-consciously cool. I gritted my teeth as I watched it, and I merely endured until the end. My then-BF asked me eagerly what I thought about it.
I, been a fool, told him what I thought, I wasn’t mean about it, but I did say that it wasn’t my cup of tea and gave him the reasons why. I toned down my opinions by about 50% (but, admittedly, talked about it for a good ten minutes plus). When I was done talking, he looked at me for several long seconds and then said, “I can’t be with someone who thinks like that.” And he dumped me on the spot.
That taught me a valuable lesson–don’t tell anyone what I really think. I’m joking–mostly. What it taught me in the long run was that I chose the wrong people to date because of my childhood dysfunction. In part because my undiagnosed neurodivergence and partly because of sexism in my family. A deeply-rooted sexism from both parents. In some way, my mother was more sexist thaat my father because she had internalized the sexism her mother had inflicted on her (my mother).
My mother told me when I was in my twenties that one of the reasons she wanted a daughter was so that she could have the realtionship with her daughter that she couldn’t with her mother. It’s ironic that instead, she replicated the same dynamics with me that she had with her mother. Well, it’s not ironic, really. If one does not examine one’s issues, then one will repeat them.
My mother was desperate for her mother to love her, which my grandmother did not. My grandmother was not a loving woman at all. She should not have had children, and neither should have my mother. This is one of the reasons I did not wanat children–I did not want to continue the cycle. I don’t think I would have been the same as my mother and grandmother, but that doesn’t mean I would have been better. Just that I would not have fucked up in that particular way.
I have joked that if I had children, I would be the type of parent to suddenly scream, “Get the fuck away from me! I hate you!”, and then avoid my childdren for the next three days. Then, thirty years later, I would have to pay for their therapy. I’ve had people try to convince me that I would have been a good mother. Not only is that patently not true, it doesn’t matter. Whether or not I would have been a good parent (I wouldn’t have), I most emphatically did not want to be one.
More tomorrow.