Socializing is a Survival Skill

I struggle to connect with people. I can go through the motions of socializing, but it's all preplanned.

People are always surprised when I say that. They tell me “but you are so good with people,” “you are so authentic!”

They mistake my transparency online or in one on one conversations for vulnerability.

It isn't. I simply share what I am comfortable sharing and keep the rest to myself. Transparency doesn't require vulnerability because vulnerability is subjective.

​My brain is a collection of layers and compartments. Everything is mapped onto a priority grid. I am autistic with a cognitive delay and ADHD; factor in CPTSD and previous head trauma, and that is the architecture I live in.

My brain doesn't process social interactions like a neurotypical person. I am practical, efficient and see most relationships as transactional.

I remember a few years back, I got a new therapist. It wasn't working out, so I let the counselor know. It shocked the therapist because he wasn't used to people being so direct and grounded. I said ‘therapy is a transaction. I talk and you get paid. But that only works if the sessions are helping me.

I compartmentalize relationships not out of coldness, but out of necessity. My brain has to work three million times harder to process information.

I miss the nuances, the sarcasm, and the secret meanings. I can't navigate what is considered socially appropriate based on rules no one can explain to me.

Talking to people requires spontaneous processing. That isn't fun for me. It's a burden.

​When I take a ride on a Lyft, I have three scripted lines: “How long have you been driving? Do you like it? How are you enjoying the weather?”

These are conversation starters designed to make the other person comfortable. Left to my own devices, I would sit in silence, but I’ve learned that most people can’t handle the quiet. If I don't direct the conversation into a topic I have planned, I am left with pressure to communicate.

I can't do that. The stress of being in a car with a stranger is already cutting my executive functioning in half.

I have these scripts planned for every event, every interaction. The repetition is easy on my brain. If people are around me enough, they notice it. But rarely ask me questions because they don't want to be intrusive. Intrusiveness is another social norm that complicates communication because it's subjective.

At the end of the day, my socializing isn't for connection; it’s a survival skill. I do it because I have to, not because I want to.

​I don’t have "friends" in the way the world defines them. I have people I know. While many might label me as a friend, the feeling isn't reciprocal.

In my invisible grid of prioritizing, the "Friend" category is a small, sacred space.

Two of the people I considered a friend have passed away. Those friend slots don't just open up. They stay filled with their memories. They still take up space for me.

To a super social person a friendship can be replaceable. To me, a friend is an architectural pillar in my brain. Even if the person is gone, the remnant stays in place.

​Then there are the professional acquaintances. They know nothing of my personal life. But they usually think they do.

I have a simple rule: if I post it online, it isn’t "personal."

​Learning new people is complicated and stressful.
It’s equally hard for people to learn me because I am guarded.

I am constantly told to "open up" and "give people a chance," but what people fail to realize is that every time I do, I lose mental energy. And I don’t always get it back.

​I don’t mind being alone. In fact, I am more comfortable in an empty room than a crowded one. I don’t need an audience to feel seen or content. I am not afraid of loneliness.

​I have no desire to change how I socialize because this is who I am. People spend too much of their lives fighting against their own authenticity until they drown in the chaos.

Over the years, I’ve created a system that protects my mental health. No one that actually cares and wants to know me should want me to change that.

​People infantilize me because I am autistic. They try to "teach" me how to socialize. That ableism and refusal to accept me for who I am takes space in my head. Every 'lesson' in social politics is just another way of saying: who you are is an inconvenience to me.

Living my truth is more important to me than navigating the exhausting politics of social expectations. My way can be isolating, yes, but the alternative is to be miserable and depleted.

​I will choose silence or an empty room every time I’d rather be alone than walk through the neurotypical world like a robot without any power cells left.

[Orginally published on Medium in The Unexpected Autistic Life]