On Language

"Aren't you just a social butterfly?" said a friend who was visiting me at college one day. Over the course of the day that she was visiting, I had said hello to a lot of people, and they usually said hello back. This was, I suppose, my way of proving how "social" I'd become. There is, however, a lot more to social interactions than saying hello to someone. It's only the outside that a visitor gets to see.

I called a DJ on a Baltimore radio station once to request a song. As it was right before Thanksgiving, he asked me what I was doing for the holiday. "I'm going home to have dinner with my family," I said. After touching on the fact that most Thanksgiving family dinners could be awkward, he said to me, "But I'll bet you don't have any of those problems, you're so conversational!"

Conversational? Social butterfly? As someone who struggles in most situations and has Asperger's, those are not words I expect to have applied to me. Yet, it's true.

What it seems to come down to do is the difference between functional and social, or pragmatic, language.

When I'm stressed or am groping for words, fancy, formal language comes to mind much faster than anything else. In fact, I really don't know how to put a lot of things plainly. The harder it is to talk about, I think, the more I rely on dictionary sounding ways to say things. This often turns people off, and I hate it - but I really don't know how else to say it.

It's like when someone's learning a foreign language,a lot of what they say will sound formal and pedantic.

It's something that has vexed, perplexed and upset me for as long as I can remember - in some ways, most I think, it is at the very crux of my problems in interacting with the world and with people. As a child, teenager and college student, especially being around other people my age, what frustrated me beyond belief and to the point of tears, especially in college when I wanted so badly to fit in and make friends, was that I could not for the life of me figure out how to sound "casual."

It's something I've always envied about other people. They sound casual. They speak what to me sounds like a kind of social slang that for the life of me I can't even start to envision or imitate. It was especially evident when I would listen to groups of people my age talk.

It was very painful to do actually because like I said I would just be jealous beyond belief of the way their conversation flowed so easily. There is a real difference, I have found, in the ability to communicate - to functionally use words to get across a set of
ideas - and the ability to communicate in a social way - to have a control of nuances of words, tones of voice, and other parts of language used to communicate effectively in a social way. This is the difference between functional and social/pragmatic language.

There is no doubt whatsoever that I can do the first one. If I were to take a test of communication skills that were based solely on the ability to use words to communicate ideas, I'd probably come up extremely high. But if I took a test measuring my ability to use communication appropriately in a variety of social settings....I'd come up very low. And that is very frustrating.

It reminds me of hyperlexia in a way - that's a term often used to describe something that is common in many young kids with AS, and it means this: these kids can read very, very fast, and they read everything. They are obsessed with language and everything verbal. But they have very little *comprehension* of what they are reading, and often need a lot of extra help in reading comprehension and learning how to use their verbal skills appropriately.

I am great verbally but can't read the hidden messages. So that's why I so often feel shut out from a conversation, or ask too many questions about what someone meant, or to clarify, or misinterpret, because I'm missing a lot of the messages that go behind it. Sometimes I'll have a conversation with someone and from an analysis of what was said, I feel, this should have been a good conversation, we covered a lot of interesting things.

But I feel no sense of connection with them, and there wasn't the flow I would have liked. I find that just about the most frustrating thing in life - that I have all these skills to be able to communicate with people, but very few to no skills to actually feel close to someone or get the emotional satisfaction out of conversations that I would like.

I think that explains though why in college I could have really deep long conversations with someone once..... but then never be able to develop them into friendships. It used to frustrate me to no end and I spent hours in college crying over trying to figure out why I couldn't do it. Why could I talk to someone for 2 hrs once by chance, but never develop a friendship with them or anyone else? I just couldn't figure out how a friendship worked. It killed me. But I realize now, the skills needed to talk to someone about a specific subject in a specific setting in one time limited circumstance, are different from the very nuanced skills needed to develop and maintain a friendship.

This is why Aspies often sound as like they are "human textbooks" when they talk. They are most comfortable in the world of facts and concrete words. They may have learned most of their language from books, instead of from practicing it in social situations with other young kids like most non-autistic people do. So instead, the language will often come out quite stilted, formal, and, well, like it's from a textbook. Because it very well may be.

Someone once told me that I communicated fine, when I said that I needed to work on my communication skills. "There is nothing wrong with your communication," they said. Why, then, I thought, did I have so much trouble making friends? Why did I seem to turn people off so quickly? Overwhelm them so fast? Why was it so hard for me to keep a conversation going? Why was it like pulling teeth to know what to say? Why did everything come out so *wrong*? I didn't know how it came out wrong, but I knew it came out wrong. I could see it in people's faces. This is a feeling I dealt with all my life before I got diagnosed with Asperger's - not knowing why the hell I felt so DIFFERENT. Not having words for it is the hardest thing of all.

Functional versus social communication. Why is it important? Because one just helps you get by, and the other helps you connect to the world. How can you develop social communication i n someone who doesn't have it? Practice, therapy, or simply being resigned to socialize with other Aspies who understand and employ a more literal form of communication (or non-Aspies who are patient enough to see past your differences and try to understand you.) Trying to have what you can't conceive of will drive you crazy faster than anything you can even imagine, so in the end you have to be happy with what you have and make the best of the skills you do have. But it never stops being frustrating.

On "Being Normal," and Temple Grandin

One of the more difficult things about having Asperger's is the struggle to "look normal."

It can be hard when you try to do everything you can to "be normal," to act normal, to look normal, and you know that you can't. That you're going to come across as different no matter how much attention you try to pay to slowing down the way you speak, speaking more clearly, keeping your body more still and not fidgeting as much. You'll still have "that look" to you.

I wasn't really clear on how I must look from the outside until I watched the Temple Grandin HBO movie from February 2010. It is the story of an autistic woman who grew up to revolutionalize the way cattle are handled and slaughtered, finding more humane ways to do so. The movie perfectly captured her wide-eyed expression, her anxiety and over-reaction to sounds and sensory stimulus around her; the way she carried her body, the way she couldn't modulate her voice, the rapid pace at which she spoke, the enthusiasm that she had at topics that interested her, far more than it was socially "normal" to express.

She knew what she wanted in life, and she was frustrated at the barriers to access; both as a woman in a male dominated field and as an autistic person. But she could think outside the box; she kept trying until she got what she wanted. Temple Grandin is an inspiration to everyone, autistic or not.

The part that is relevant here, though, is that there is a definite way that an autistic or Asperger's person comes across. The body language and facial expressions, of course, are completely off. The body is usually stiffer and not relaxed. The eyes show anxiety or terror no matter how much the person tries to smile. The timing of the sentences comes out wrong if the person tries to make conversation. It seems that you can fake normal all you want but it never quite works. In the end, you have to find people who accept you for who you are, quirks and all, not people who will simply tolerate you or hang around you as long as you keep trying to be "normal."

No quality of life can be had by pretending. In the Temple Grandin movie, Temple was lucky enough to have mentors and other people who accepted who as she was and worked to expand her mind and mental abilities, even if she was a little socially off. Every autistic person needs support like that.

Temple's character says something like, "I know that I have problems understanding some things, but I still want my life to have some kind of meaning." To me, that was the crux of the film, and of Temple's life. She had the drive to work around her struggles, to learn how to overcome her issues enough to be able to do the work she was good at. She changed the way the cattle industry handles cows. She gave hope to millions of autistic people and their parents. I think she succeeded in her goals.

I have always said the same thing. Problems or no problems, my life has to have some kind of meaning. I can't live an empty life. I'm not the kind who can slack off watching TV all day and be content to live on a government allowance. Everything I do has to have meaning and purpose, and if it doesn't, it has to be geared towards something that will have meaning in the future. One of my biggest frustrations in life is not being able to do more, not being able to participate in the world in the ways that I would like. Not being able to make a difference in the lives of others. The only tool I have is my writing, and I try with everything I have in me to make that count for something. I will, like Temple, work to find the day when I will be able to give more to the world.

Until then, though, I find interacting with people my own age very difficult. Older people, in their 40s, 50s and beyond, seem to have a way of interacting with those who are different that makes you feel, well, less different - puts you on the same level as them, almost. Not all, certainly, but a large percentage of them.

They have a way of putting a person at ease, and making the conversation about whatever topic is at hand - current events, skiing, the dinner menu, the weather, a book you just read - rather than a judgement on the way you express who you are. They are, in a word, often more mature, more accepting and have seen more of the world; they have come to terms about certain things about themselves; and they have a different view of an awkward young person trying to get along in the world. I hate to make generalizations, but it is entirely possible that most young people have so many insecurities about themselves and their place in the world, which they are trying to hide, that they cannot bear to be with someone who expresses these fears and insecurities so openly.

Not all young people are like this, of course, and occasionally, I have had people express their vulnerable side to me. Their emotional, "I've had experiences like that, too" side. They talked about difficulties they had had with people or getting along with the status quo, trying to figure out who they were; they talked about what they wanted to do with their lives. I could relate to these people then, and felt more of a sense of connection. But in everyday life, it seems, most people put up a shield to hide their vulnerabilities. They hide a part of themselves, and almost create a persona that they present to the outside world.

This is something that is very foreign to someone with Asperger's. With AS, what you see is what you get. We have a hard time hiding any part of ourselves. Deception is a concept we can't grasp. We can't be anybody but ourselves. We say what we think, we say what we feel, and we do things we are interested in or enjoy even if it goes against social norms. We are honest and literal and see the world in black and white, and we have a hell of a time trying to understand why everyone else is not that way, too.

Others see us as intense. For many of us, it is not that we don't want social interaction or that we're not social; instead, the problem is that we want to connect on such deep levels that others are scared off. This isn't to say that people without AS don't desire deep connections, too, but they know how to "play the game" to get it. They know how to go through the small talk, the "sussing out" that comes when two people are starting to get to know each other. They have a feel for the general behavior expected, and how to "play the game" to eventually build the kind of relationship or friendship they want.

People with AS, on the other hand, often throw themselves on someone like a bull in a china shop. They are not aware of all the social nuances that exist when one person interacts with another; and if they are aware, they have no idea whatsoever how to mimic them.

It's like an unwritten language; to decipher it feels about as likely as going to the moon. So people with AS use what they have instead; sometimes, they are hurt by the outcome, and other times, they get lucky and find another kindred soul. I have found that social interaction is all about trying, though, and realizing your boundaries; what you will and won't be able to do; what you are and aren't willing to do. Not expecting yourself to be able to create miracles at a party or feel included right off the bat anywhere.

As far as I can tell, it is about being patient, taking what you can get, and keep trying in different venues until you find someone you can connect with, without too much effort; because life is too short to feel like you are scraping your fingernails against a figurative chalkboard every time you want to have a conversation with someone. Of course, it's also about having enough social intelligence to realize what the other person's boundaries are, too, but that takes time and experience, and is something that most people with AS find quite difficult. You learn; I'm not saying having AS is an excuse not to; but it just takes time.

Feeling Understood

This was written after reflecting on the problems I had upon moving in with my Bend, Oregon roommate last July.

Despite having exchanged probably hundreds of emails over the last few months, and several phone calls, Mary and I did not exactly hit it off right away. She meant well, I knew that; and she cared about me; but I felt she treated me more like a child than a roommate. That is always a danger, of course, when a 24 year old lives with someone her parents' age, but it had never been much of a problem before.

Some people just don't mix; they're like fire and gasoline. It may be nothing in particular, or it may be a bunch of small stuff, but put them together for any length of time, and they're at each other's throats. And the harder they try to get along, the angrier they usually get at each other.

Part of the problem was mine. I was, and am, still in the midst of growing up and trying to find my identity. Part of this was trying to figure out how much of the world I could handle on my own (which I very much wanted to do), and how much I would need assistance with.

"My stomach hurts! Why does it hurt so much? What can I do? I have to do something about it. There's got to be something I can do. Maybe I can change my diet somehow," I'd say, worrying endlessly about my stomach, needing to vent those worries somehow and doing so on the nearest target, which happened to be Mary. I worried endlessly, about my back, my stomach, my diet, what vitamins I should be taking, and how I could improve my health in general. I felt so powerless over the problems I was having; I wanted to be able to do something.

But here's the key thing. What I really wanted was someone to understand the worries I was having, my anguish about life in general. I have always suffered from a feeling of being misunderstood, and because of this, I tend to assume people do not understand what I am saying or where I am coming from unless they explicitly say otherwise. Call this Asperger's or call this just the results of years of bad experiences; either way, it was something I frequently struggled with.

So, if, for example, someone replied to a statement of "I'm scared to go to the doctor's office," with, "You need to go, you'll feel a lot worse otherwise," I might flip out because I felt the person was not understanding the depth of my emotions: my fear and anxiety at the prospect. If, however, they had said, "I understand how scared you are, but it's something you need to consider, or else it will get worse," I would be calm and be able to actually hear what they were saying and consider their advice, because I felt understood. The beast inside me - the one that continuously convinced me I was to be forever emotionally isolated even in the face of overwhelming evidence to the contrary - would not be tamed otherwise.

Just one little sentence, but it made all the difference in the world. It was more important to me than anything. With some people, like with Kim, I could see the "I understand" part in their faces, and so words weren't necessary; it is my understanding that this is how most of the population works. They take certain things for granted; they don't need reassurance that the other person understands before they can change the subject or accept a person's advice, because they take it for granted that they are understood. This is a big problem with not reading
non-verbal messages. No matter how much I try not to, I fall into this trap every time.

When I was a kid, I had a speech impediment, and people usually couldn't understand what I said. With speech therapy, my speech got better, but it took me years to get it into my brain that people could actually physically understand the speech I was producing. It used to be that people would pretend to understand while not having a clue what I was saying, or else just look at me funny. I got used to being ignored or misunderstood. People still occasionally have trouble understanding me, but not very often.

That combined with the social isolation I felt of not having many people to talk to when I was growing up, and the social cognition impairment in Asperger's where I can't read their faces to know if they understood me or not, leaves me in the dark every single time. When I talk, I feel like I am throwing words out into a void, hoping they get to their intended destination. I feel like it is a production to say anything at all, and when I finally do, I stand there anxiously, trying to figure out how the hell they've been received. Did the other person understand the words physically? Did they comprehend their meaning? Did the words anger the person? Did they make him or her laugh? Do they agree? Do they disagree? Do they want to keep talking to me? Can they relate? Do they think I'm stupid? WHAT ARE THEY THINKING??

It's almost like I am the producer of my own theatre company in my head; to talk feels like acting, even if I am being myself. I am putting on a production when I try to communicate with others, and if the audience doesn't applaud, I don't know if the show was any good or not. Since I am driven to connect with others, this doesn't stop me from trying to interact with others, but it definitely makes it more difficult.

So you can see, then, how that one little sentence, those three words, "I understand, but..." make all the difference in the world to me. They calm my heart, my anxiety, restore my faith in both myself and the world. They restore equilibrium, let me know everything is all right, let me know that my words indeed have reached their intended destination. Then I can relax and be open enough to hear the message the other person is giving.

Without this, I am on attack mode; if I say something, not knowing how it will be received, and the other person tries to give me advice: "You should do this...." or "Well, obviously you have to do...." I explode, because to me it's obvious they didn't understand what I was saying, and they obviously disagree with what I said, and they think it's my fault, and they think I'm a terrible person! They think I'm doing X (whatever X is) wrong!
I get very defensive and angry when this happens. Not violently angry, but visibly annoyed.

Writing this, of course, I can see the logical fallacies to this line of thinking. Since I have tried to teach myself how to think like the dominant population does, I have begun to realize that this is how most people talk; that guilt and blame is not an automatic part of the deal, and offering advice is standard procedure. But understanding something logically, and understanding it emotionally, as I have found out over and over again, are two very different things.

In college, people used to tell me that I was funny, because I always tried to make them laugh. I developed a dry sense of humor that people didn't expect from me. Partly, because I feel like life is much more fun when you can laugh at it, and partly because I wanted to make others laugh. When others laugh - with me, not at me - it is the only way I know for sure that they like me without them explicitly telling me so. And that works great some of the time, but in the end, a person desires a relationship that goes deeper than just a few jokes. That takes trust, and social know-how, and unfortunately, that's not something you can really fake.

Storytellers

This entry was written after a particularly enjoyable dinner conversation with a friend of a friend when I was living in Newport, Oregon.

My roommate, Kim, had a friend, Stan, that sometimes came to visit. Stan lived off the coast of Washington, but traveled a fair amount. He came for dinner one night, and I liked him immediately.

The more I meet people, the more I learn about what kind of people I am drawn to, what kind of people push my “on” buttons and make me feel alive and revitalized. It turns out, it’s people who know how to tell a good story. Who take relish in telling a good story. People who appreciate life’s finer details, who take interest in the details. It’s the people who can become fascinated by an odd shaped piece of lint on a chair just as easily as they can about a strawberry cheesecake, a good Beatles song or a squirrel in a tree.

People who speak with enthusiasm, joy, and spirit. With zest. These people have a zest for life and I am drawn to them like no other. Part of it might be because of my dad; my dad is a passionate person who has always valued discussion. Part of it is because that’s who I am; I love nothing more than to tell a good story; the only thing better is meeting someone who actually wants to hear it. Stan was all of these things.

“Hey, Kate, what did you say?” asked Stan in the middle of an animated discussion he was having with Kim over the fate of the local fishermen. I was startled, and my heart jumped a little. He cared what I had to say? He was making an effort to include me? No one did that. This was great.

“Well, I think they should save more fish for the public instead of giving so much of it to the tourists,” I said, referring to a local debate on how much of the limited local fish supply should go to which people.
“You have a point,” he said.

Kim brought up another topic, and we were off again. I loved watching them talk, and I loved that Stan made such an effort to include me! It stunned me. I have a very hard time with three person conversations, usually. My timing is absolutely awful. I can never think of something appropriate to say, and manage to interject it before they’ve moved on to the next subject. I just can’t break in to most conversations. Instead, I sit there getting more and more frustrated, feeling like smoke is going to come out of my ears, because I want so badly to be a part of something that I feel shut out of it.

I am hopelessly out of sync with other people when it comes to conversational nuances. This is one part of Asperger’s that makes me very frustrated, being out of sync like this. In this case, though, for some reason, I was able to break in most of the time; Kim would say something, I’d formulate a response, Stan would reply, and sometimes Stan and I would get into a back and forth repartee over some topic before it was changed again. I only wished all conversations could go this way.

Stan had a zest for food. When he talked about a dish he particularly liked, or a food he had had in a restaurant, his eyes got big; he used a lot of hand gestures; his voice was enthusiastic, and you could hear pure reverence, pure joy - complete awe and delight in the food he was talking about. It was remarkable, and fun to watch. His emotions were so familiar, it was like snuggling into a warm blanket. I was seeing my father’s face in his; hearing my dad’s words in his. I was seeing myself in him. My father is also very passionate about his food.

He mentioned flans, so I mentioned that the best creme caramel (which is similar to a flan) that I ever had was at the Fore Street restaurant in Portland, Maine: a lavender flavored creme caramel! A long conversation ensued on the use of lavender in cooking, such as in chocolate bars, like Dagoba makes, or in cookies, such as the lavender ginger cookies I used to buy at a local bakery. We talked about fish, of course, and the merits of flounder versus sole and tilapia.

I was raised to think critically about my food, and those skills have served me well. Somehow we got talking about fish of course - he mentioned sole, I think, so I mentioned Dad's flounder and crabmeat dish and how I tried to duplicate it once. We debated the merits of flounder versus sole versus tilapia, halibut so on. We discussed the merits of different kind of bottled smoothies: Odwalla, Boltwood Farms, Fresh Samantha.

Some people learn critical thinking skills as a child by doing endless reading comprehension exercised designed to "teach you to think critically." I learned how to think critically by observing my dad describing and discerning between the relative merits of different kinds of fish, meat and other foods, both at restaurants and at home. I think I like that way better. I learned how to think critically about food from an early age, and I have never regretted it since. It is an easy conversation topic whenever I find a fellow foodie.

In the end, conversation is healing. A good conversation wraps you in a protective glow. It makes you feel invincible; your problems disappear for a while. It is almost like a force field, feeling you up emotionally and protecting you from negative feelings that may lurk. I have had too little of that kind of conversation in my life. Little did I know when I sat out to find a place to live that fulfilled my physical needs, I’d also learn how to fill my emotional ones as well.

Theory of Mind: Personal Experiences

I am not positive that theory of mind is the right term to describe what I am going to describe, but I will use it anyway. You get the picture.

They call it theory of mind, to use the technical term - many people posit that people with autism have a "theory of mind" deficit, which means the inability to understand what the other person is thinking or feeling; or that other people have different perspectives from you at all.

Young kids with autism often are not aware that other people have feelings that are different from theirs, that anyone could possibly see the world in a manner different from them. When you grow up and get older, you (usually) begin to realize that yes, people think in very different ways. And that you need to be aware that people think in different ways, and try to figure out what those ways are, in order to communicate with them. And like I said, you can use logical deduction to figure out what these ways are, but it's an awfully crude method.

I read a lot of books when I was a kid. I mean, I read probably five books a week. First kids' books like the "Babysitter Club" books, but I graduated to adult books pretty quickly. I read mostly mysteries, since that's what my mom read, but I read really anything I could get my hands on. I was addicted to the Chicken Soup for the Soul books. Sometimes, I think the only way I learned about human relationships and how to interact with others was from all that reading I did.

An example of a theory of mind deficit that I remember from my own childhood occurred when I was in elementary school. We were going around in a circle, and everyone was supposed to tell a secret about themselves. When it was my turn, I said very shyly, thinking I was revealing a big secret, "I like cats." The whole class burst out laughing. "We already knew that," they gently chided. Of course they knew that. I was obsessed with cats. I talked about them all the time. I talked about nothing but cats. I had calendars, cat themed books, cat magazines, and cat figurines. It was probably the most obvious thing about me. But I had so little self-awareness, or rather, so little awareness of how other people saw me, of how they perceived me, that I literally, at that time in my life, had no idea they knew I liked cats. I really thought it was a secret! I was so embarrassed.

That little slip-up, as minor as it seems, was emblematic of communications problems I've had all my life. I simply can't understand when other people understand me. I have very little sense of how people perceive me. On the one hand, you could say it's kind of freeing; I don't feel bound by social norms that others often find so constricting. On the other hand, not having this understanding means there's a persistent space between me and everyone I interact with. I feel like I am missing half of the available information. It makes me feel lonely, frustrated, and occasionally, filled with despair, because I feel as if I will never be able to connect with people.

One time in college, I walked into a college dorm room; some people I knew were having a get-together and watching a movie. I walked in without saying anything. "Kate, relax," said a girl I knew, "You don't have to be so nervous." I was astounded. How did she know I was nervous? I hadn't said anything! "You could tell I was nervous?" I asked. "Sure," she said. If I couldn't tell someone else was nervous just by looking at them, how could they figure that out about me, I thought. I didn't know you were supposed to be able to do that. Think about it: if your only knowledge of how the outside world works comes from the way you experience it, how are you supposed to know anything different? How are you supposed to tell someone you can't do something that you didn't even really know existed?

Another example is also a childhood memory; I was at the eye doctor's. I was trying to explain the itchy feeling in my eye to the doctor. "It feels like a foggy, itchy feeling in the right hand bottom corner of my eye," I said, and went on to use several metaphors and add more details. When I was finished, my mom was staring at me.
"What?", I said, scared I'd done something wrong, and slightly frustrated. After all I had said, they still didn't understand what I was saying?
"Nothing," said my mom, "it's just that you described that so well."

I got an inkling then that most people did not use so many words to describe what was on their mind. I would learn that I was great at describing things in words, but horrible at using words in a "social" way that meshed with what other people were used to and could understand. I couldn't use or understand the body language other people used to communicate things more subtly, so I only get about, what, 20% of communication? It is frustrating beyond belief. It feels like you have every word in the English at your disposal, but you still can't get your point across. You can have a functional conversation with someone without having any idea what they're really talking about, without feeling their emotions, without being aware of the subtext involved. You can get through life that way, but I wouldn't advise it. It's not very much fun.

Does anyone have any examples of this phenomenon in their own lives or in their child's?

Thoughts on Aspie Communication

In college, my rule for when I wanted to try to "Play the NT game" and try to (as as this is to remember) fake my way through a conversation with someone I didn't know well, at least when I was lonely and desperate enough to actually want to try to do so and put myself into such a compromising position, (compromising because even if they talked to me to for 10-20 minutes it would never turn into anything more, and that hurt always) was "Think of something general that might be of interest to a college population or this particular person. Strip it of all enthusiasm, passion and details. Try to say something without really saying something. Try to say it as if you don't care whether you say it or not."

Sounds pitiful and pointless to me too. But it almost always worked. The few times I could actually modulate my voice and body posture and so on to seem "casual" and seem like I literally did not care about what I was talking about, the person would usually talk to me for a good while. Or at least several minutes, I don't know. As long as I could keep the demeanor up. The SECOND I STARTED CARING, and couldn't keep it up and got to be more of myself, and got to sound the least bit excited about something, the conversation would end. Come to an abrupt halt. See ya later hasta la vista baby. And I would be standing there thinking 'What the hell did I do wrong? Why again? Why always?'

I was as I said able to deduct a pattern as I laid out above. But what I couldn't figure out and still can't, although luckily now I get to stay away from most college students, is: Why the hell are people scared of people who show emotion? Who are knowledegable or passionate about what they talk about?

Why do you have to pretend to be a know nothing to get anyone to listen to you? I just hate it.

I was raised to believe knowledge and intelligence were good things. Passion and excitement were good things. Enthusiasm was good.

I seek out people like that now. I seek out over the top people who have enthusiasm and passion in their voice. Who talk with excitement and overt enjoyment about every mundane subject in the universe. I almost never find them, but when I do I enjoy it more than you could possibly imagine. I savor it.

A disporportionate number of these people seem to have ADD or some other neurological difference - I wonder why? Is it really a matter of differently wired brains? Can being enthusiastic and passionate really be considered a mental illness? I certainly hope not.

I seek out people who disregard social norms, who say it like it is, who are not put off by my enthusiasm and manner of expressing myself.

I talk in a dramatic manner a lot of the time, my friend said today. I agree. It just seems to be who I am. I don't do it purposely; but it is how I see and feel the world; in a somewhat dramatic fashion. If things are good, I express that fully; if things are bad I also express that fully as well. I see nothing wrong with it, except, well, most people don't expect it or understand it and are frankly often put off by it.

Why don't you change, then, you ask? Well, it's not like changing a pair of socks. You can change a lot of things about yourself, learn to follow social rules you might not have been aware of, learn to be more polite, more considerate of others' feelings, and so on, but changing the basic way your nervous system and emotional cognition center reacts to the world: not so easy. Even, it seems, with drugs. (Prescribed, not illegal!)

Suppress it? Very difficult. Very difficult if not impossible to supress the need to be very verbal about things, to express my feelings, to seek out people to reinforce and identify with my feelings, to seek an emotional connection with people in the only way I know how. And would I want to do it? No. I lose a part of myself, a BIG part of myself, if I do that. If I am going to interact with other people at all, I want it to be genuine. I want it to be meaningful. I want it to count. I want to enter the interaction coming as MYSELF - because otherwise, they're not liking me; they're liking a fabricated version of myself that I can't even reliably replicate. Why bother? My self is all I have; I'm not going to sell out a part of it to make others happy. THAT, I know for sure. Bending to meet others' needs? Fine. Meeting them half way? Fine. But changing the basic way I communicate? Not fine.

Communication is a topic almost too complex for words. Functional versus semantic communication: that is what it all boils down to. I am great at functional language. But I suck at semantic language: using nonverbal body language to communicate and understand nuances in communication. And my literalness can get me in trouble more often than I would like. People see my intelligence and assume I couldn't have any communication problems; that I am just being a smart aleck, or acting superior, or much, much worse.

Has anyone had similar experiences or thoughts on this matter?