After an 18 month experiment in unmasking I found myself on the outside of the place that gave me the confidence to begin being myself – a curious, earnest, optimistic fellow – more often. It was, and I do not use this term lightly, a traumatic experience. My questions and boundaries were met with hostility and the impacts of the differences in communication between neurotypes were unacknowledged. People’s biases against autistic communication norms were taken as being of equal value (as “their experience” or “their truth”) to facts and of greater value than my right to communication, my ability to access a safe work environment and my well-being.
Almost 30 years ago, I endured a brutal middle school experience. To try to survive I agreed to a social pact, to which the following terms applied, “If I stop being such a freak, become funny, charming and most of all useful, I could be, at least on a surface level, a part of the pack…” And so I did. All in. I kept my end of the deal. I had even developed a strong reputation, and deep authentic relationships that, based on observations, I believed would be protective factors.
It took me an embarrassingly long time to understand that somewhere in this deal there was a clause: “…unless including you has a negative impact (whether deserved or not) on literally any other human being.”
Long story short, after months of asking for less and less and less and less, I ran out of reasons to stay and excuses not to leave. On day one post employment, I felt a weight lift. And then I received one more “fuck you” in a, “oh yeah, I forgot to tell you” sort of way that was careless but also unintended, which actually made it worse.
Both slowly and very very quickly, I started to unravel and panic because, if the result of 30 years of compliance with this social pact is that it takes only one person being upset by an earnest question to eliminate all of my value, then there is no situation in which I am remotely safe. And, in case you are thinking, “Well, that’s dramatic, couldn’t be all his value. They clearly value him.” If my value is so minimal that it does not afford me the ability to participate on a team to the best of my ability without being targeted – it is an inadequate amount of value to even be mentioned.
At some point, maybe Wednesday before last, I started frantically rebuilding the ice fortress that had once very helpfully protected me from all but a few people until it was destroyed by a very insistent friend. But clearly, that friend made a mistake in saying this fortress was unnecessary, so, lesson learned, I began rebuilding.
It was taking an awful long time on account of climate change’s impact on the prevalence of ice these days.
While I was working away, a friend (and notably, the destroyer of the original ice fortress) stopped by to inquire as to what I was doing, though she already knew. She could tell by all the ruckus I was making.
And I declared, “I’m rebuilding. But this time, no gaps for windows and – most important improvement of all – the ice will be so thick that not even light will penetrate it!” Which I thought was a brilliant improvement, and I told myself so.
“I see. That’s a very understandable response to all that has occured.” She came a bit closer and placed her hand on the block I was lifting up to place along my newly formed foundation. Suddenly, the weight of the block was much more evident but not for any downward force she was providing but simply how her hand redirected my attention.
“If this is what you think you want, what you think you need, that is ok. But if it is not, this is not your only option.”
“I am unsafe here. I need this fortress.”
“That is true, but only if you stay here.”
I stepped slightly closer to the block and to my friend. The change in proximity came with the thinnest hint, the most gentle reminder, of warmth. Of belonging.
Dropping my head I said, “I have nowhere else to go.”
“You can go anywhere you like. The possibilities are infinite.”
“I don’t believe you and anyway, I don’t know how to leave.”
“That much is evident,” she laughed, but it was oddly without the slightest hint of ridicule. “Let’s go for a walk.”
“I hate walking,” I sulked.
She laughed again, “You absolutely do not hate walking. Let’s go.”
Annoyingly she was right. And besides, I lacked the energy to counter argue. She wins most debates so starting my argument with something I know to be false was folly.
Hesitantly, I stepped over the very newly and not yet fully formed foundation while allowing my hands to retreat to my pockets, feeling apprehensive but trying to accept that I don’t know everything. That maybe things could be better elsewhere, if there really is an elsewhere, of which I am not certain.
I notice her smile grow ever so slightly as my apprehension presents exactly as she knew it would. She is undeterred as her faith in all that is good assures her that my hands will not stay in my pockets indefinitely.
“Right. Let’s be on our way.” She takes a step as if she is about to lead, for which I am momentarily grateful, until she reaches back, grabbing my arm and pulling me up beside her eliminating my hope that I could take refuge in following. But, I think, “At least we are doing this together.” Until I realize that she is no longer pulling me up to walk in step with her, but instead pushing me on ahead.
Frantic, and stumbling up this steep hill, the loose pebbles offering very little traction, I glance back to tell her I cannot. But she smiles and says, “Eyes up friend.”
I return my gaze to the front and stop in my tracks as we crest the hill. The horizon is the farthest out I have ever seen. The sun across this valley is so bright and warm that it clearly has never been home to an ice fortress of any kind. It is populated but not overly dense and while there are fences between neighbors they are low and result in little obstruction.
Astonished I asked, “How long has this been here?”
“Always. Lovely, isn’t it?”
“What must I do?”
“I’m not totally certain but I think there is a strong possibility that you need only decide to stay, to not return, to let go.”
“But what about the things there that I love?”
“If they love you too, bring them along. But if they do not, you must leave them behind or you will find yourself again in need of a fortress.”
“I don’t think I can do this.”
“I know. But you are wrong. Besides, all that you love, and all that love you, cannot last inside that fortress. So, if you really want those things, you must get over your fear.”
“Will you help me pack?”
The most hearty laugh of all is her retort. “No. But when you return, I will raise a glass with you. I’ll even buy the first drink.” She assertively places an empty box in my hands that she seems to have manifested from nowhere.
I hesitate.
“Well, if this is the rate you are planning on going I can’t guarantee there will still be a beer here for you by the time you get back so do hurry up.”
In spite of myself I smile, making eye contact for the briefest of moments, but it is enough to confirm that this information is trustworthy. That this hope is real. That this opportunity is a gift.
“Deep breath. Now off you go.” And she waves me away to remind me I am supposed to be moving.
I take a couple steps backward, hesitant to lose sight of the valley.
She gestures for me to turn around, “Tick tock Jesse. The beer supply is not unlimited and I won’t hold one for you indefinitely.”
When we find ourselves explaining to people that we deserve what everyone else is afforded by simply existing we are in the wrong place. Do not waste your energy explaining your humanity to other people. It is in their best interests to not see it. To believe this is about something else. Something minor, interpersonal, temporary. Something that time alone will resolve. Something to be ignored. They are relying on you giving up. Do so, but not by choosing them and abandoning yourself. Quite the opposite.
That's Mr. Gender to You 