In yesterday’s post, I talked more about the family dysfunction that papered over my neurospiciness for far too long. I mentioned how my mother struggled with my brother because he has the classic male symptoms of autism.
By the way, when I said to him a few months before my medical crisis (in early September of 2021) that something was because he was on the spectrum, and he went quiet. I said it that way because I assumed he knew. He’s a textbook case; he really is.
A few weeks later, he mentioned it to me. He had not known he was on the spectrum so my comment hit him hard. He’s like me in that once he hears of something, he researches it. He hit up the Googles and was shooketh at how accurate it was. he told me that it really helped him make sense out of–well his life.
Side note: I regret I did not tell him earlier. I know it’s not my job to tell him about himself, but I’ve known for decades that he’s on the spectrum. I could have said him so much grief had I told him earlier. Truth to be told, I thought it was so obvious, I did not need to bring it up.
And, yes, I was (and am) his younger sibling. Still. I can’t help feeling gulity because it’s been drummed into my head that I am responsible for the feelings of everyone around me. For example, when my brother got divorced almost two years ago, my mother asked if I was going over to clean and cook for my brother.
She said these words out loud. As if they were normal words. You have to know that if the situation was reversed, she would not have asked my brother the same thing. It was because she perceived me as a woman and of course it’s a woman’s duty to cook and clean for the men around her!
Here’s the funny part. My brother is a much better cook than I am–and he enjoys it. He has two older teenage boys in his house who are perfectly capable of coking and cleaning, too. I finally told her, “I don’t do either of those for myself; why would I do it for him?”
My mother did not appreciate that. At all. She actually snapped at me in a snide voice with a nasty tone that he was so busy and could do with the help especially since the divorce. My ex-SIL did not do much of the cooking or cleaning, anyway, for much of the marriage. And, again, there were two late-teen boys who were bodily able to cook and clean.
But, see, in my mother’s brain, there is only One True Way to woman, and what I was doing ain’t it. What I was doing was NEVER it.
If she weren’t my mother, I would have much more compassion for her. Because it’s very sad to be stuck in her head. First of all, she is very anxious. I would say diagnosable anxious. Like, put her on some meds anxious. With a side helping of germaphobia. No, that’s not a real word, but it describes perfectly what I mean.
Here’s the really sad part. She has not grown much since I first knew her–so fifty years, basically. In fact, she has regressed in several ways. She has become more conservative (in a bad way), and I have had to take her to task for her frankly racist views. Plus, her anxieties have gotten worse, which isn’t surprising, but can be frustrating.
Back to the point of this post.
I was berated for being too loud, too flashy, too boylike, just utterly too much. I was supposed to not run around, not climb trees, not belly-laugh, not…be me. not just by my mother, though she was relentless in tyring to make me the perfect girl.
As I have said many times, I was deeply depressed by the time I was seven. I thought that life was meaningless, that my life in particular was worthless, and that I was toxic to humanity. In other words, I was thoroughly trodden upon by that point and had hidden my personality deep inside my brain. The very back of it.
I knew it wasn’t safe to show the real me–or rather, I should have. I knew that I had to sand off all the jagged bits of my personality to avoid getting flack from my mother, which was why I was deeply depressed.
Side note (Or maybe the main note?): This is what it’s like to be neurodivergent in general. Frantically trying to mask the weirdness and act like a normal person. Because I am a non-male person, I was well trained to be as smooth and bland as possible. To fit in and not attract attention for being weird. I didn’t realize this until I was in my twenties. I mean, I knew I was weird from a very early age. But I did not know how to mask it to the satisfaction of the normies.
I have since learned. My social skills are tight, and people are drawn to me like a moth to the light. To be fair, that’s always been a thing. I am charming, and my ability to make people feel seen/heard is legendary.
All of it is learned, but it’s second nature by now. When I was taking an autistic diagnosis test, the friend who suggested it to me (A) told me to answer without the mask. I couldn’t, though, because it feels innate by now. Do I actually care about people’s inner worlds? No. Am I going to stop acting like I care? Probably not any time soon.
I remember when I was in my late twenties/early thirties, I felt weird because everyone gushed about how empathetic I was. I was dead inside. I did not care about the people to whom I was talking. In some cases, I felt actual disdain and/or contempt. I wanted people to just shut the fuck up. I am able to keep that out of my voice and my face, but I feel it deep in my soul.
More later!