Hi Stacey

Hi Stacey–

I started to suspect I was autistic about two years ago, mainly from the internet algorithm (you?). It was a surprise. A therapist had asked me, years before, if I’d ever looked into getting an assessment, and I balked. Made no sense to me. I knew plenty of autistic people. Used to work at a disability center, for starters. And I seemed nothing like any of the people we served. For one, I don’t have hyper specific focuses like trains. I’m too busy, reading every single Taylor Swift interview that exists.

My friend Tyler (therapist) coyly hinted around me being possibly autistic last year. He didn’t know I’d already figured it out. He sent me a quiz about masking specifically. The data showed, I am a highly masking autistic person. Like, very high. I took the test again this week, out of curiosity. I scored 52 out of a possible 56.

Was chatting with EDS about it recently. He asked what “masking” even is. I explained it’s kinda like a set of rules an autistic person self-follows to acclimate to neurotypical spaces. I said for most it’s like an itchy sweater. But for me, a very high masking person, I don’t just “mask” like a verb. I have a mask. And, at least until a few years ago, I wear it more than not.

I started cobbling the mask when I was very young. So young that I didn’t create the mask consciously. I was just trying to get by in a complicated home environment/upbringing, then in a complicated world. I found, quickly, if I acted certain ways, I had a better time, generally.

Then, because I was so small that I didn’t even yet know who I was, I truly thought “I” was the mask. I went through most of my life deeply controlled, by myself. I was a sunny, entertaining good girl. That said, I also grew up a little wild, without many, if any, boundaries. So I missed some social norms, which is both, in hindsight, kind of embarrassing–and lucky. Like, I could have been much more sanded down if it weren’t for my semi-absent parents.

Anyway, I like my character, my “persona” (Jung’s word). She’s not not me, she just represents me more than is authentic. Like I was really sad one day last winter. I was crying my eyes out in therapy explaining the double burden of feeling so wretched and then having to hide away, so no one would see me wretch.

I was supposed to go to a meet-up with my writers’ group right after the session, and I expressed my resentment for having to attend, even though I had been excited the day before. I didn’t have resentment for my friends. I had resentment for my persona, because when I’m around people she takes over. My therapist suggested I try to show up more authentically, lead with saying, “Hey guys I’m a little sad today.” I nodded and said I’d try.

I showed up to the party really really meaning to be neutral. But the moment I saw everyone at the table with beers and onion rings, this huge smile stuck itself to my face. A joking demeanor leaked from me. I had endless energy and optimistic advice for everyone there, except for myself.

Have we talked about this before? The part in the Paris Hilton doc where she explains she can’t help but play a dumb blonde character when the camera is on her? She even speaks in a squeaky little girl voice when the director starts rolling, then catches herself. I relate I relate I relate.

I’m going to jump around a little here, but Dern and I talked about it too. Last year. How I have this pattern of having good working relationships and then eventually I have to stand up for myself, and whoever I’m working with takes it so deeply personally? Even when I’m advocating for something so insanely reasonable like a living wage or health care? I said it’s like…it’s like they feel tricked. And that’s so bizarre to me, because how could I trick someone into thinking I don’t need money or health care? Like, why is that a surprise all the time?

I had the idea, which didn’t make a ton of sense, but for some reason bubbled up. Is it because I, like, dress in pink? Is it because I don’t swear? Because I like Hello Kitty?! I asked Dern, that’s all so stupid, but is that it?

He pondered and inferred, “You’re describing a little girl.” I was like, yeah, I guess so. But so what? Don’t little girls deserve to live? And he shrugged, winced, said something along the lines of, “Think about the Epstein files.” Huh, we kinda don’t believe little girls deserve to live. In late-stage capitalism. And I am an adult little girl. LIKE ALL WOMEN IF YOU THINK ABOUT IT!

Sorry if this isn’t making much sense, Stacey. I can already tell I’m going to need a part two for these ramblings.

So blah blah blah, you know I feel torn as my persona and her undercurrent, madwoman. But this little girl angle is an added insight. Grr, and as I examine my mask, my persona, “Alice :)” (vs. Alice >:()…I can’t help but question why I chose this mask in particular.

A terrifying shiver ran up my spine yesterday, while I was in the theatre during the final dress rehearsal for my play’s US premiere. As the play is about teen girls in their bedrooms, I often watch the piece and simultaneously think about me as a teen, in my bedroom. I have the thing memorized, so I can sort of watch and drift off at the same time.

I remembered a poem I read from the Chicken Soup for the Soul books (lol). It was about teenagers. It may have even been called “Teenagers.” It was dorky and rhymed and was from the perspective of a preteen, observing what slightly older kiddos did. I remember one line in particular, something like, “They wear clothes that let it all hang out.”

I shared the poem with my parents, not really sure why, and they both raised their eyebrows at that line. Is that why I didn’t wear a crop top until I was 30?

I hated not being an innocent little girl. Growing up didn’t fit my mask. Still doesn’t, probably. My dad didn’t want me to be a woman. He stopped rubbing my back the first time he felt a bra back there. He looks away if I engage him in realistic politics. He gets fussy if I question his distaste of a woman’s opinion. And my dad is, arguably, much more respecting of women than most men. But I still notice. When he celebrates the demise of a particularly opinionated one. I sense the tension in him, when he is both proud of my fire and fearful of it.

I’ve wondered if that’s the Whole Dang Cycle. Men like women because they get to feel like protectors. Then around middle age they realize they’re (usually) little bitches. I don’t even use that word, but that’s the only word for it. Maybe I mean it as an almost scientific term. The weak little dog who needs to be told what to do by its master. And women, in their middle age prime, are often happy, ready, to be masters. But for some reason most men don’t want that either.

Again, Stacey, I’m sorry this post isn’t the most organized. And I recognize, it’s also FULL of generalizations. But sometimes one must generalize on her own blog in order to calcify a clear point later.

TLDR; the entire world, from my parents to my church to my teachers to my bosses (even “powerful” women) always tried to mold me into a little girl. And maybe girls who aren’t autistic masterminds of their own personas couldn’t do it or realized they didn’t want to, earlier. But for me it’s only been in the past few years that I have really moved beyond girlishness.* If Pinocchio rules, becoming “a real boy,” as it were.

And I like myself much more. Even if the world doesn’t like me back.

xoxo

Alice

*But I’m also still a girl. Just not all the time. If that makes sense. I’ll never not be a girl. It’s too fun.