They talk about me as if I cannot hear or see them. I may be quiet, reticent and inwardly-focused, but I am normal – at least, to myself I feel normal.

The doctors say I am an autistic child suffering from Asperger’s Syndrome, and I am helpless to ask them not to label me.

However, they label me to make it easier for them to make sense of what I am, who I am, why I am. If they cannot define me, they cannot control me. Diagnosing me is a way for them to exert their authority over what is beyond their true ken, for not being able to comprehend my actions, my “eccentricities”, frightens them. It makes them feel powerless.

I am trapped in a mind unlike those of others. I experience life differently; I respond to things in unusual behaviours. I have a unique perspective of everyone, of everything. Everybody thinks I suffer from a “disability”, some mental disorder. And they are right, to some degree. 

Although I do not interact with others like any “normal” person would, I still have the same emotions everyone else has. I feel fear; I feel frustration in extreme degrees; I feel loneliness profoundly; I feel anger so intense it compounds my fear. I … feel.

Sometimes, in the darkest moments of the blackness in that lonely corner of my mind – the confusing murk that is an unwelcome but nearly constant companion –  I think I am an aberration. I do not deserve to exist, for I am some shapeless monster.

I don’t believe in any god.

Making direct eye contact with anyone is nigh impossible for me. If I do look at someone, even if it is my mother, it will be for a second or two only. Anything longer than that brief connection is anathema to me. I lose myself; I feel invaded on various levels, and it is all I can do not to let out a slicing shriek of angst and terror.

I detest being touched by other humans. When I react in revulsion at that intimate invasion, they are offended. How do I convey the sense of physical and emotional violation I experience at such an assault? To them, it is a harmless touch. To me, it is tantamount to a defilement. Consequently, I appear to be uncaring, aloof, rude and even cold-hearted. This is so far from the truth that I despair at ever changing their opinion of me. 

The reality is simply this: I am unable to form any attachments because I am so  completely ensnared in my own, inner, entrancing, hypnotic world.

I can stare for hours at a wall and not see it. I can engage in an unceasing repetitive action with no true knowledge of what I am doing. I can focus so thoroughly on one task that nothing exists for me; no one matters to me. Instead, I see the birth of galaxies; the design of an abstract idea; the destruction of a star; the explosions of gases. 

I choose to immerse myself in the world of my laptop; I marvel at its workings and its simple complexities. I strive to deconstruct it to its barest elements in an attempt to exercise absolute control over it.

Or I become obsessed with a mathematical challenge, an enigmatic puzzle, a challenging brain teaser. I travel through these labyrinths with their various twists, turns and cul-de-sacs until I eventually emerge victorious from their convoluted meanderings.

The world beyond is a chaotic maelstrom of incredible unpredictability, and my mind recoils from its noisome intrusions. I silence the cacophony with a retreat to my sanctum sanctorum. 

Music has such a strange allure for me, and it is a lifeline in a tumultuous sea of agony. I drown in the sounds of winged instruments and harmonious melodies… 

Any electronic device is my haven, my sanctuary, when others unflinchingly and clumsily endeavour to engage me. My fascination with the intricacies and scientific achievements behind the creation of such modern day miracles mystifies others, who fail to understand it.

Are they blind to my desperate need at times to be left to my own introspection, to my solitude and seclusion? 

If I could express myself without aggression or hostility – which I am prone to and which is beyond my control – perhaps then they would see that I am comfortable with who I am, that I do not consider myself an imbecilic invalid who requires constant supervision or attention. Yet, it is a futile hope. They will never hear, perceive or appreciate who I truly am.

My mind is turned inward … and I live in my own creation of bliss and serenity.

Image: Joel Filipe (www.unsplash.com)