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Gorram neurotypical people.
17 years ago
I'm really feeling like I'm on Mars today.
The problem with me and my father isn't emotional or physical abuse, distance, lack of love, any of those millions of issues that get brought up in the sympathetic backgrounds of TV and movie characters.
It's that our brains work differently. I can't ask a direct question of him about some vague instructions he's just given me without receiving a sarcastic response, because he can't comprehend that i am genuinely confused by his instructions and perceives my response as laziness or my own sarcasm. We get into arguments because i won't understand one word he says, and he feels that i'm focusing on minutiae and not paying attention to the whole: meanwhile, i can't comprehend the whole without understanding the parts. I didn't like something he cooked today, and when he spoke aloud saying that <i>he</i> liked it, i responded with the perfectly reasonable statement that he and i have different tastes, by way of agreement. He took offense to this, and he and my brother began questioning why i said that; it became apparent that he only intended to speak to my brother, and for some reason i wasn't allowed to be involved in the conversation. There was more nonsense to it, but i can't even make proper sense of it.
Or, you know... what passes for proper sense with my brain function.
It's not that he's a bad father, no matter what some folks who are probably reading this might think.
It's just that he's neurotypical, and refuses to believe that i have AS, because he thinks he knows what all autistic spectrum disorders look like.
and here i wondered why i was so fond of Data as a character, growing up.
In other not-so-news, people on the bus are jackasses. I'm the only person under fifty i've ever seen give up a seat for another passenger-- especially elderly or disabled passengers, about whom there are posted signs requesting you do specifically that --on the #5 or #6 bus in FIVE YEARS.
...and despite it all, there's the part of me that wants what's best for these people. I don't want to see them hurt, and would take a knife for them, even the bratty Catholic schoolgirls texting and whining from the foremost seats.
The problem with me and my father isn't emotional or physical abuse, distance, lack of love, any of those millions of issues that get brought up in the sympathetic backgrounds of TV and movie characters.
It's that our brains work differently. I can't ask a direct question of him about some vague instructions he's just given me without receiving a sarcastic response, because he can't comprehend that i am genuinely confused by his instructions and perceives my response as laziness or my own sarcasm. We get into arguments because i won't understand one word he says, and he feels that i'm focusing on minutiae and not paying attention to the whole: meanwhile, i can't comprehend the whole without understanding the parts. I didn't like something he cooked today, and when he spoke aloud saying that <i>he</i> liked it, i responded with the perfectly reasonable statement that he and i have different tastes, by way of agreement. He took offense to this, and he and my brother began questioning why i said that; it became apparent that he only intended to speak to my brother, and for some reason i wasn't allowed to be involved in the conversation. There was more nonsense to it, but i can't even make proper sense of it.
Or, you know... what passes for proper sense with my brain function.
It's not that he's a bad father, no matter what some folks who are probably reading this might think.
It's just that he's neurotypical, and refuses to believe that i have AS, because he thinks he knows what all autistic spectrum disorders look like.
and here i wondered why i was so fond of Data as a character, growing up.
In other not-so-news, people on the bus are jackasses. I'm the only person under fifty i've ever seen give up a seat for another passenger-- especially elderly or disabled passengers, about whom there are posted signs requesting you do specifically that --on the #5 or #6 bus in FIVE YEARS.
...and despite it all, there's the part of me that wants what's best for these people. I don't want to see them hurt, and would take a knife for them, even the bratty Catholic schoolgirls texting and whining from the foremost seats.
*offers hug*
hugs are good. I've often told people i need hugs to live, i don't think most of them understand how honest i'm being about that.
*kiss*?
just knowing you're out there helps a ton, sweetie :*