(This is the second part of An Aspergian’s Confession. If you haven’t, you should read the first part here https://marylandpoetblog.wordpress.com/2016/11/07/an-aspergians-confession-part-one/)
I am a puppet, moving only by the strings of my fragile mind. Thin, frail strings, and when they break, so do I. I fall, I crash. I die. But no blood is shed, no bones are broken. But I do grow further away from you. I grow to hate you the way I hate people. Why the questions, why so many? Why the looks, why the stares? Can’t you look at yourself? Why the feelings? So many feelings. Is it because I have none, or are we standing on opposite sides of a insurmountable wall? We hear each other, but we don’t see. We hear each other, but we can’t feel. There are only three ways I can tell you. I hate to talk about it, but when I talk, it’s impossible to miss. How funny. The three ways. One, with many words. Two, with one word. Three, with none. I could go on and on about the science, and what the scientists say. I could tell you the one word, the name it’s been given. The label. Or, I can say nothing. The words I’m afraid to say, the words I can’t even write.
You don’t know me, you can’t know me. You can’t know me. You say you do, and I love that you even tried, but you’ll never know. You’d run screaming if you did. No pretty, not a lovely sight. Dreadful, storming thoughts stirring in the boiling kettle of anger. I’m not ready to take the lid off, and please don’t make me. It’s not time, and it may never be. I’ve always been looking for someone who knew, someone who could actually say they understand. That’s what I want. That’s all I want. For someone to understand. What’s the point in being around people who claim to know how you feel, when they really don’t? Are they saying it to make you feel better, or are they just lying? Don’t lie to me, please. Just tell me what you actually believe, even if it finishes me. Just let me be. My strings will get repaired, eventually. I’ll keep getting pulled, dragged along. Until one day, one day. I’ll cut off my own strings. I’ll tear them apart myself and no one can fix them. But I already have. That day has already come. I’m already unfixable. You can’t take it away. You can wipe it away with a bleach-soaked rag. It’s here with me, forever. And I hate you for it. Making me like this, hindering me. Limiting me. Holding me back. All the doubt I have. Is she really my friend? She never texts me, but she said she did, so maybe she is. I can’t tell. I’d hate to question someone so sincere, but what does that mean? How does a sincere person act and how do they express? I’ll never know. I’ll just keep guessing, and I’ll keep missing. It’s like batting blind.
That’s why I don’t make friends. It’s too hard to guess who’s thinking what, who’s saying what, and really wants you. So you sit back and wait a week. Two weeks. Trying to figure everyone out. Guessing, getting burned. Turned away. Why do I even try? I keep looking, always thinking the next one will be the one, but I’m wrong. So wrong. I hate to be so wrong, so I stop. Forget them, they don’t like me anyway. They’d probably hate me even if I did talk to them, so why bother? But you can miss people that way too. The ones that fall into the cracks of your searching, the ones you overlooked. I was so scared, I closed my eyes to the true. And I almost missed a couple. She’s black. I’ve had some bad experiences with them before. What if she’s the same? Nope, she’ll never be my friend. Oh, she’s got a dark side. She’s probably got burning crosses all over her room. Not friend material. How stupid was I. I failed to realize, that like myself, not every friend screams friend. Some have to be dug out, others just have to be listened to. I dug you out. I listened to you.
I still don’t know how to feel, or appreciate your emotion, or even recognize it. I’m sorry. If you cry and I don’t run to give you a hug, just know it’s not because I don’t care. I don’t know. It’s one thing to give a hug, but it’s another to feel one. And I can’t. I’m sorry I waited almost to weeks to say a single word to you. I know you probably felt as if there was something wrong with you, but in reality it’s everything wrong with me. I’m sorry I missed that time with you, and looking back, I’d do everything differently. But I can’t. All I can hope is that you’re not mad that I missed you. I was watching you. I like to do that. Watch what people do, see how they respond. Try to mimic their expressions and gestures. I suck. I wonder if people are actually fearful of me, because I’m odd. Maybe that’s bad. Maybe I’ll never get that job. I’ll never get that book published. Maybe I won’t get married. But that’s okay. I can’t change who I am. I can’t get a new body, so all I can do is make the most of the body I was given. It’s not easy, it’s not fun, and sometimes you really just want to kill yourself.
But, if I were different. Say I was everything I wanted to be, and everything everyone else wanted me to be. Taller, thinner, stronger is every way imaginable. Playing NFL as a star quarterback for my Kansas City Chiefs. Breaking every record in the books, making millions, and everybody chants my name. Would I be here? Would I have learned skills a football field could never teach? Diction, tone, and voice? Would I have read the works of the masters? Dickinson, Lewis, Donnelly? If I were on the field, making it rain on every last girl that called my name, would I ever have met you? I realized that not every dream is the future. Sometimes, reality is the greatest storybook ever written. I took a long time to write this, mostly because I didn’t want to write this, but I felt like it had to be. The story must be told. The war must be waged, and the show must go on. I can’t tell you enough how much I enjoy writing to you, and how I’m always counting the days till we meet again. But for now, I’m going to stop reading, stop writing, as hard as that is for me….