I'm struggling to talk to friends in lockdown. Being alone has been a relief
Ihaven’t socialised with anyone in six months and it is entirely my fault. I live in London and have friends within walking distance. There are many more elsewhere who I owe a Zoom. Dozens of people have messaged and I’ve been too anxious to reply; I just hope they’re thinking that I’m doing my best. As a result of my own decisions, I have not said a word aloud to someone who is not my colleague, family member or flatmate since September. And I’ve thrown up on the latter, so he’s basically family, too.
Is this some bogus monastic sacrifice? Am I resistance-training for all possible levels of a future lockdown? No, I’m just autistic, and it does not take a lot to overwhelm me.
There are some autistic people who rarely or never speak. That’s not me. I can usually talk when I need to. But then the decisions start. The verbal ones: when a casual acquaintance asks how I am, there are several permissible answers and all of them are lies. Say their name around as often as they say mine. When they request advice, back up the thing they’re already planning on doing, or dispense a platitude that would not withstand the mildest scrutiny. When they say “Have a good day”, say “The same to you” if they’re Irish, or “You too” if they’re not. (Possibly both replies are interchangeable, but I’ve noticed a pattern and will stick to it pending further information.) I need to script and consciously deploy all of this because I have no filter and even less autopilot.
Then there are non-verbal decisions. If there’s a sudden noise, I have to hide that I’m now thinking about the source and nature of said noise. When I’m really, properly listening to people, my face is blank; this often makes them think I’m bored, so I redistribute some of my concentration to intermittently changing my expression. How should I tilt my jaw? When should I tilt my jaw? Don’t fidget, though it helps me puzzle things out, because they’ll think I’m nervous and try to “help” me and then I’ll lose my train of thought. Don’t laugh, because my laughter can just as easily mean I’m sad or shocked as that I’m amused, but they mightn’t see it that way if they’re describing their grandma’s funeral.
None of this is because I dislike people. Actually, it’s the opposite: I love everyone and I give every conversation my all, which is exhausting. And I don’t have to do all this because autistic people are objectively worse at communicating. I have to do all this because most non-autistic people cannot competently adapt to my way of talking, and so the burden falls on me to adapt to theirs. We’re just as good as anyone else, but we’re a widely misunderstood minority and we have to conduct ourselves accordingly. To me, the need for eye contact is bizarre. It feels way too intense when I don’t know someone well. I only look people in the eye to accommodate their needs. (You’re welcome, guys.)
There’s always a tradeoff. One of my autistic friends who has known me since university was puzzled to watch as I went from doing less than her to blend in, to doing more. Neither of us had made an easy decision: “masking” your autism is not good, but it is encouraged. Hiding our real selves leads to emotional repression, an inability to be genuine with anyone, and a cognitive tax that diminishes the million more interesting things we could be doing with our minds. But society punishes us if we don’t do it. Not all autistics can mask in the first place – it certainly took me a lot of work to get any good at it – so if you do “successfully” mask, there’s also an element of survivor’s guilt, a feeling that you’re distancing yourself from everyone else on the spectrum.
No one should want autistics to mask. It’s like making us do everything with the wrong hand. It hurts us, and robs everyone of the potential of us being ourselves. But they hate us so much that they don’t care what they’re losing, and I can’t think about that too long without getting sad.
In some ways, the pandemic has lessened the pressure on me to socialise. What no one tells you about writing a book is that you’ll have to talk about it a lot. Plus there are fewer logistical nightmares when everything’s happening remotely. If I have to catch a train in the afternoon, I can’t do anything that