A
Voice in a Fake World; Asperger’s on the Inside
A
simple invite to a coffee shop can be an overwhelming experience for an Aspie,
those of us with Asperger’s Syndrome. The coffee machine frothing, customers
placing orders, the door opening and shutting letting in the distracting sounds
from the outside are just a few of the background noises that my senses fail to
filter out. All the sounds come at me at the same time, all wanting my
immediate attention.
I
desperately want to stick my orange and green foam earplugs into my ears, but
that would be rude. Besides, they make me look the bride of Frankenstein. I
slip my hand into my pocket and squish them between my fingers instead. The
cushiony feel of them between my fingertips makes me feel better; a stress ball
and security blanket in one.
Several
women sit at the table sipping lattes and discussing their kids, the neighbor’s
new boyfriend, and the latest church gossip. It all sounds like noise, jumbled
words that all blend together, and I cannot hone in on any one voice, on any
one topic, or any one conversation. I fidget in my seat. I'm lost and I can't keep up, so I say nothing; I have no voice.
The
sun shines through the glass sending blinding rays directly at our table;
no-one else notices. I slip my sunglasses over my eyes. We are just a tad too
close to the restrooms, and when the door swings open the faint smell of urine
mixes with the smell of cappuccino in the air. My stomach churns, jumps, and I
try not to heave; no-one else smells it.
The
conversation fades into the background as I retreat into my own world. I have
nothing to contribute, no idle chitchat to add. My mind is wondering—contemplating
the next chapter of my book, my next blog post, the mound of books that I want
to get back home to read. Back home to
my computer screen. I love my computer—all my friends
live in there, the people who I can talk to, the ones
like me, the ones who understand me.
My
cellphone dings, and I smile on the inside. I steal a glance at the phone; do not be rude! A little square green
face pops onto the screen. I know I received a text message. Another ding, a
small envelope—an email is waiting. A tiny pastel blue bird chirps—a new tweet
mentioned me. The royal blue “F”
indicating a new Facebook message or comment has my fingers tapping the screen,
forgetting where I am. What
do my virtual friends have to say?
Their
words are in black and white, I can read them, process them, take a breath, and
think about what I would like to say. I respond in my time, without pressure,
without chitchat, with earplugs in, with quiet contemplation. They speak in
turn, one message to read at a time, and if I miss a word I can go back and
reread it again. No strange looks for wearing my sunglasses indoors, or odd
stares because I didn’t get the joke. If I am overwhelmed I don’t have to
respond immediately; I can breathe; I can be me.
In
my virtual world I have a voice. I can “talk” without worrying about how I
sound, if I spoke out of turn, or unwittingly offended someone. I can put my
words to the page in a logical order, say what I mean, and mean what I say. In my fake world, I am real, I am alive, and I have something worthwhile to say. In the real world, I am fake, voiceless, a mannequin, posing, pretending to fit in. I grasp for logic, meaning, and order--but there is none.
The
conversation died down, but I hadn’t noticed. Purses were gathered, and coffee
cups cleared. “We’ll have to do this again soon,” followed by a polite smile. Was
she talking to me? Soon? How soon, when?
“Um,
Ok,” I say. I sling the strap to my purple purse across my shoulder, unclip my
car keys from the belt loop on my jeans, grab my phone from the table, stick it
into my back pocket, and head for the door—glad that my coffee with strangers
is over. Exhausted.
The
next time I am invited to attend, I say I will, but won't show up.
