— if I like something, that means it’s boring

— if I like something, that means it’s silly and juvenile

— if I like something, that means no one else will like it

— if I like something, that means it’s gross and wrong

— if I get excited about something, it means I’m a boring nerd who cares too much about pointless things

— if I get excited about something, it means I’m showing what an uncool newb I am and ruining things for the cool people who are real fans of that thing

— if I get excited about something, it means that I’m too much, too intense, making people uncomfortable

— if I get excited about something, that makes me gross and wrong

— I don’t deserve to have things that are exciting

— I don’t deserve to have things that are cool

— nothing I can do is exciting

— nothing I can do is interesting or cool

— nothing I can do would be appreciated by anyone else


I’ve been thinking lately about stimming and ways that I suppress it, and it occurred to me that it isn’t really the whole story to say that the avoidant way I sometimes react to positive, exciting things is just about “suppressing stimming”. It’s partly that, but that’s not all.

It’s partly about resisting the urge to happy-stim in public.

It’s partly about resisting the urge to show happiness in any way in public, even just to smile or laugh, because it might not be an appropriate situation to be happy in, and/or people might want to know what I’m smiling about, and that’s a fraught question. That’s where some of the above jerkbrain-assumptions come in.

But what it’s all added up to, over the years, is a really deep assumption that cool things are not for me, and things I like are not cool.

The second part of that– the stress and anxiety I feel about telling people about my interests– is something I’ve thought a lot about, and I feel like I understand it pretty clearly. And I’ve thought a lot about how secretive I often was when I was younger, about pursuing things that interested me.

But I hadn’t really realized until now the extent to which I’ve pushed myself away from ever learning about things I liked, things I thought were exciting and cool, out of this knee-jerk assumption that there’s no way I could ever actually have them and enjoy them. Instead of taking feelings of excitement and interest as a reason to find out more about a thing, I often did my very best to crush those feelings, avoid the thing in question, and never admit to anyone that I was interested in it.


What brought this into focus was an exercise routine I tried out a few weeks ago. It included some punches and kicks. I was working my way through the routine, and I thought to myself, “I feel like I’m getting the hang of this and doing it correctly. It feels good. I feel kind of cool and tough, punching things.”

And part of my brain immediately went “No no no, nothing you can do is cool, if you think so you’re wrong, and if you show anyone else they’ll hate you. Go ahead and do the exercises, but don’t enjoy it. Don’t feel strong. Don’t feel like you could ever be cool.”

Like, I was completely alone in my own house, and part of my brain didn’t even want me to feel happy in total privacy because that was too close to showing off for people who might disapprove. Come on, brain.



Why didn’t I think being “gifted and talented” was a fun and cool thing?

Because my first teacher for “gifted and talented” classes was… not a good kind of teacher.

The activities we did in her class were interesting, most of the time, but “excitement about learning,” “creativity,” “inquisitiveness” were not really ideas she was interested in. We had a very regimented set of activities we did, and… we never really talked, I guess, is what I feel was missing? We never discussed things. We just got activities and did them according to the rules.

One of the things I remember is the periodic math tests that were put out by some organization, I don’t remember what. They tended to have the same categories of questions, if not the exact same questions, every month (or week or whatever the timeframe was). One of them was made-up mathematical operators, like, “If [triangle symbol] means multiply and then add two, what’s three triangle five?” Another was questions about clocks or schedules that would be easy to answer with algebra if we had known algebra but really hard without it– like, “if this clock runs ten minutes slow, and that clock runs five minutes fast, and right now they show the same time, how long will it take for them to work around to showing the same time again?”

Young-me thought the made-up new operator questions were ridiculously easy and was totally bewildered that any of my classmates got them wrong. I never got to ask my classmates why they had trouble with those questions or explain how I solved them.

Young-me occasionally managed to solve the clock questions by making very long tables. I never got any feedback on my solutions or any explanation of how else I could have solved them. Even though we did them every few weeks for the whole year. It was just, “do these math problems,” no context, no discussion, no learning except whatever we came up with ourselves.

This was also the class in which I was assigned a really bad research topic, then was lectured until I cried because (a) printing out articles from the internet and highlighting parts of them didn’t count as taking notes, only handwritten notes counted, (b) none of our books and in-class activities had mentioned my topic, so I hadn’t made any handwritten notes. Did she tell me in advance not to print stuff off the internet? Of course not. I was just supposed to know somehow.

That incident is one of the things that comes to mind whenever I talk about teachers assuming above-grade-level “giftedness” comes with above-grade-level informational knowledge and skills, but for some reason I hadn’t connected in my head that all these things happened in the same class.

The other big assuming-skills issue with that class was re: organization and communication skills. So this “gifted and talented” class was something I was taken out of my regular class to go to. I was expected to know when it was and take myself out of my regular class to go to it. Since I was in the school band, I also had to keep track of my own music lesson schedule once the band teacher told me when my lesson would be, which changed each semester. That’s kind of a lot for an elementary schooler to keep track of already, I think, but the real problem was that one semester, my band lesson time was suddenly changed to a time that overlapped part of the “gifted and talented” class time.

The “gifted and talented” teacher did not like this, understandably. What’s not so understandable is that she expected me to handle it, on my own, instead of her talking to the band teacher herself. “I only get one hour a week with you kids anyway, you can’t take this time to go to band. You need to reschedule your band lesson.”

When was I going to do this? Since I wasn’t going to my band lesson?

How was I, as a nine or ten-year-old (autistic) child, supposed to take the initiative to (a) go see a teacher outside class hours (b) or interrupt them during a (already very busy) music class, to (c) tell them what to do with their own schedule?

It was like a perfect storm of things I could not cognitively deal with (some of which I still have trouble with):

— interrupting people
— bringing up new conversation topics even if it’s not a direct interruption
— remembering/fully understanding things without seeing them written down
— remembering and bringing up things from one context in another context without some kind of reminder
— understanding that bureaucracy isn’t actually infallible unchangeable laws from on high, but rather a system set up by people who can change their minds and make exceptions to the rules
— having to weigh two conflicting but equally authoritative orders and decide which to follow

Anyway, this post was brought to you by Tumblr posts about gifted students. Why didn’t I feel like being a Gifted Student made me superior? The fact that in practice it was just another setting for me to get in trouble with rules I didn’t understand and expectations I couldn’t meet, is probably part of it.


Instead of the post I half-finished, a quick thought

I’ve gone from feeling lonely and weird because I couldn’t find anyone who shared my experiences, to failing to find anyone who shares a specific experience and thinking, “That means this is my thing to tell other people about, so they won’t feel alone.”

(Let’s assume for the moment that I’m something approximating correct when I think that.)

That’s a really cool thing and I owe my ability to conceive of that idea to everyone whose blogs I read.

I hate to admit it but…

I don’t really get the appeal of the whole “autistic headcanon” thing. (Meaning, discussing how a fictional character is or could be autistic when it’s not explicitly stated in the work.)
I think there are two reasons why.

1. I’m not all that aware of how I act and how I seem to other people, so I’m not likely to notice if a character outwardly acts or seems like me. I’m particularly lacking any sense of what my body looks like. I’m intellectually aware of some specific weird things I do, and I assume my body language is weird in general, but I don’t actually know what my facial expressions etc. look like. So I don’t really notice autistic-ish body language in others either.

2. Comparing myself to a character that way is uncomfortable for me on some level. Like seeing a picture of myself that’s taken from an angle I can’t normally see. Even if it isn’t unflattering, it’s unexpected, and it takes an uncomfortable mental adjustment to fit it into my self-image. When I do happen to notice that a character acts like I do, a lot of the time it feels like something private about me is being revealed in public. On the whole it’s probably good that I know what I look like, but it’s difficult to swallow at first.

I’m a lot more likely to relate to a character based on how they think, if the story is told from their point of view. But it seems like stories like that– that portray autism or literally any brainweirdness in the main character from their point of view– are a lot less common than non-POV characters that could be interpreted as autistic. Fanfic is pretty much the only place where I have characters I relate to because of brainweirdness.

And the truth is I don’t tend to compare myself to characters much at all. I guess I just tend to be too outside myself while reading, too focused on the characters’ thoughts and feelings rather than my own. The topic/trait/whatever has to be very personal and very emotional for me before the comparison has more importance to me than the character’s perspective in the story.