Navigating My Alien Loneliness: Life on Planet Autism

by Eric E. Cane

How to position my body to look normal?
When do I speak during a conversation?
What do I do with my hands?
How long should I hold my smile?
Did I hold eye contact long enough?
Did I forget to hold eye contact?
I don’t understand what they said, should I ask for clarity yet again or pass it off as if I understood?

They said something funny, I know this because other people are laughing. I don’t get why what they said was actually a joke. I laugh, but what if they ask me about it? Did I laugh too loudly or long? Some of them are laughing with a hint of nervousness. What am I missing?

When should I stop smiling? My face is starting to fatigue, and I feel the muscles are going to twitch if I keep it up. Am I holding my smile too long? There, I just let it go, but now am I looking bored? I don’t want them to think I’m believing they are boring — they aren’t — I’m just out of smiling muscle power now. They are really interesting, and I appreciate their ease and attempts at humor, even if I didn’t understand it.

I move to folding my arms, but is that too closed off? Will they think I’m shutting myself away from them? Wanting to be somewhere else? I do, but I don’t want them to think that. I know it’s good social bonding, but all the noise and motion of their movements is fatiguing to try and ignore. So much noise. And the lights reflecting off even their smiles is challenging.

Shifting weight to my other leg now. That felt so awkward. At least I didn’t stumble. They move so naturally, like they aren’t thinking about how not to trip over their own feet.

Are they all faking it? Did they each understand that? Have to run it a few times in my head, maybe my dyslexia got in the way. Repeat, repeat, repeat. Nope, that wasn’t very sensical. So many holes in their statement. Logic all wrong. Should I say anything? Don’t want to appear the know it all, but damn, that was just wrong in so many places. Maybe just a word or two. Oh, dang. They’re on to something else. That freakin bugs me though. How can they let it stand? Doesn’t having the right information mean anything to them?

Ah, I can relate to the new subject! When to add my words? And now…oops, she cut me off. And now he. Okay, here I go. Rats! That came out wrong. Now they’re looking at me. I really can speak. Really. Just tripped over my words a bit. Okay, a lot. Great, now they think I’ve a first grade speech capacity. Crap. No, you don’t have to step away from me. Another one turns their body away slightly. Sigh. Come on, I’m not contagious.

Don’t let it show. Smile. Wait, don’t smile that much. Oh, she’s trying to be so nice to me. No, you don’t have to talk slower. Oh, I give up. Smile and nod. Sigh.

Some of you on the spectrum (and others) may find this familiar territory. I know I do.

My personal accomplishments in life can sometimes be overshadowed by an inability to speak or by awkwardness that truly makes me feel like a visitor from another planet.

From about 6 years old and onward, I’ve felt out of place with those around me — and yes, even in my large family. I actually thought I was an alien (and my personal jury is still out on that — even to this day). I knew something was off. I wasn’t getting things others seemed to ease into and flourish. Especially with interactions with these other humans. Truly. Felt. Alien. I can’t stress that enough.

There’s an inherent loneliness in that. I never thought about it as a loneliness, though, until later in life. It’s not like the feeling when you don’t have someone you enjoy with you any longer. This is a “I’m on this planet and can’t connect with people like me, because there aren’t people like me here.” — an entire planet like this!

And then I saw Spock from the original Star Trek series. I found someone I could directly understand and to whom I felt a distinct kinship. Silly as it may sound. A fictional character — from another planet no less! — and I found endearing, familiar qualities in him that spoke to me like no other character in life had.

So, I was alien. Clearly.

This is part of the importance of fiction in our lives. I know I felt a lot less alone on this planet because I could watch him on television. I could understand him (and was sure he would understand me), and I would look forward to someone going through the same difficulties with interpersonal relationships as I. The same person using logic vs emotion — and also having that same logic hampered by emotion from myself and others around me. I would rush home to catch the episodes as if nothing else mattered.

It wasn’t until I was in my 50’s a concerned friend said I should look into this thing called autism. Being who we are, I immersed myself in deep study. I was floored that such a thing — such a wonderful people — existed! I cried the first time I read about all the things that defined what I had been going through since my early childhood.

And then I knew how alone I had been. I think I cried because of that. It was a deep, long cry that reached all the way back to my earliest recollections.

Well, that’s why I’m writing this. It’s to help you readers know that you are not alone. Sure, we might still be alien, but we are alien together. Not alone.

My love to you.

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