Behind the Mask

This post deals with some heavy emotional shit, including the thought of suicide. You need not concern yourself with the possibility that I might harm myself any time soon. If you aren't comfortable with the topic, use the back button.

If you're offended after reading this despite my warning, please dial 1-800-B-DAMNED. We're ready to dismiss you!

I wasn't diagnosed with ASD until I was in my early forties. Nonetheless, I've always been autistic. I just wasn't autistic enough to get diagnosed as a kid in the 1980s. This was mostly a good thing for me; if you were autistic enough to get diagnosed in the 1980s you were probably autistic enough to get institutionalized.

My kind of autism is relatively mild. It is still occasionally called "high-functioning" autism, which is why I used to respond to how I managed to stay sane as a programmer who also write fiction that, "I'm not sane. I'm just high-functioning." The technical term nowadays is "level 1 ASD", and this is one situation where it's better not to "level up".

My autism mainly presents as a reluctance to engage socially because social engagement is a pain in the ass. Also, certain high-pitched, piercing sounds like a toddler at a supermarket with a case of the screeching mommylookits are actually painful to me - though I can listen to Rob Halford nail those high notes in 1980s Judas Priest anthems all day. I had to learn not to take things literally, but to read between the lines for subtext, allusion, metaphor. I had to learn not to geek out in public, or around people who aren't interested in what I'm into. And I had to learn to force myself to do a lot of stuff that I would prefer not to do, just to be employable.

I've been told that I don't seem autistic. I can fake a neurotypical person's idea of normalcy for a time. Hell, I can do it all day as long as nobody inspects my public persona too closely; that's how I used to get through a workday before I was able to work from home. It's how I used to get through school, too. Of course, the effort would leave me too drained to consider social interaction outside of work; it was one reason why I never had friends as a boy, and still don't have friends as a man.

It is also the reason I avoid attending parties. I have often joked that I am not fun at parties, but the designated driver, but it is a joke made in ire and the joke's on you. I have always known that other people tolerated me because they could rely on me to be useful.

You can imagine the trouble I had dating when I was constantly skirting the edge of burnout. You can also imagine why I found the Persona series of JRPGs appealing; I was a real life Persona user, creating an alternate self as armor against adversity in life. I just can't call down lightning or crucify in flames people who annoy me.

Even after my diagnosis my parents refused to accept it, but my wife knows better. Her observations helped get me diagnosed, as a matter of fact. The downside to having escaped diagnosis until early middle age is that I have no idea what my support needs actually are. Even people with level 1 autistic spectrum order have some support needs, so I can't truthfully say I have none.

Nevertheless, if somebody asked me about my support needs I would insist that I have none. I had to get along without meaningful support my entire life because I hadn't even been diagnosed, and had learned to mask in order to not seem egregiously abnormal. I am used to not having support.

Nor am I used to having friends or being accepted. I have never felt like I was truly part of a community and do not want to be. Nor do I want friends or acceptance. These things can be withdrawn, leaving me worse off than I had been before I had them. Their price is beyond my willingness to pay, even if they are within my means.

Ultimately, I don't want to be dependent on anybody for anything. If I am dependent on you, then I have given you power over me. You can use that power to control or hurt me. Why should I trust you with that kind of power?

Furthermore, I don't want support. I don't even know what support would even look like for me, or what the price of coming to depend on such support would be. Suppose I was given suitable support, come to depend on it, and then lost access to that support? If that happened, I'd be in dire trouble.

This world wasn't made for people like me. I have come to accept this, and to refrain from expecting accommodation where none is forthcoming. I prefer, therefore, to stand alone, and to armor my heart in ice and shadows. If I stumble, I will either get back up on my own or I won't. But I will never ask for help, because I can't count on anybody being willing to help me. Nor will I accept help if offered, lest I come to rely too much on it and find it unavailable when I need it.

It is better that society and the community only take notice of me when it wants something of me or seeks to harm me. I know where I stand with society then, and with the community. By remaining neutral toward such a society and community, accepting no help from either but doing them no harm and granting them a low place in my esteem, I keep them in debt to me instead of owing them gratitude.

My wife Catherine is the sole exception, and perhaps I unfairly burden her thereby. I try not to lean on her too much. But I had not been looking to fall in love or get married when we met. Neither had she. Yet she sauntered into my life like she owned the place, as if she were a cat adopting their person.

Given my general cynicism and negativity, one might reasonably ask what keeps me going. My answer may seem flippant at first: the power of Satan compels me. I draw strength defiance, spite, determination, rage, and hatred in addition to more more traditional sources like hope and love. There were people in my past who thought I'd never amount to anything. My own mother thought I wouldn't live to see my eighteenth birthday.

And yet here I am, working as a self-taught programmer, DBA, and sysadmin, married, a homeowner, and a published (though out of print) novelist. I've been around the world. I might be one of the few Americans to get through ten days in Paris without eating at McDonalds, though I damn well hope not. Most importantly, I have withstood what has felt like a lifetime of rejection without going Nazi.

I have defied everyone who ever doubted me by making a life for myself, and will continue to do so. Though I do not share in the warmth of community, the intransigent Promethean flame within keeps me warm. I found the power underneath despair, you see, for I am man and I am evil.

So, this is where I am now and who I've chosen to be. But there's the future to consider. Should I find my capacity diminishing to the point where I will soon prove unable to stand on my own any longer, that will most likely prove a good day to die. And since we remain reluctant to grant euthanasia to people who are suffering with no meaningful hope of relief, then I shall walk alone into the undiscovered country wearing my independence like a crown.

And if it's Neil Gaiman's vision of Death who comes for me, I might steal a kiss on my way out. What could the lady possibly do to punish my effrontery in the hour of my demise?

But not yet. Not for another few decades, I hope. I am not yet done leaving scars on the world, and events might yet prove me wrong, for it is often hard to distinguish between existentialism and a bad mood. I should probably eat something, drink some water, hug my wife, and maybe curl up with my cats for a nap.