Naval gazing

“Have you ever considered that you might be on the spectrum?”said the doctor, after taking my history and agreeing that I should keep up with the SSRIs for at least a couple more months.

Truth be told, I hadn’t, despite an awkward as buggery father who invents high end audio and a son who can compute complex number sequences using just his fingers, and let’s face it, a highly strung left handed mother who is often more enthusiastic about the latest IT gadgetry purchase than getting a card from her grandchildren (no offence Ma).

But lefthandedness – and bloody mindlessness- runs in the family from all angles, as well as neurosis, sensitivity and tempers. But so does academia, style and exceptionally tidy houses, although that bit may have skipped a generation where ma us concerned.

I’ll admit I like things clean, and will often pigeon toe to avoid the sensation of barely visible crumbs on my feet. I am weak wristed, but can pulverise sentences into shape and spot a stray apostrophe at 40 paces.

Given the wrong relationship, I can alternately be obsessive, rigid, or perhaps not get the joke. But most of the time, I think I’m an intuitive fence sitter who can see things from  most angles, and often with a better view than many. But maybe my perspective is skewed?

But then my tendency to think I’m right, and refusal to engage in false flattery, particularly with regard to female apparel, or hair or nails; or take any shit from dominant males does rather set me apart from the majority of my peers.

I’ve always felt like an outsider, whether this is true or simply my internal meandering. I’ve always been diligent, conscientious, inward looking, intense. I’ve never been great at group dynamics, although I’m non judgemental, and fair, and honest, but brutally so. I’ve never been exclusive, or petty or particularly nasty though, although I will complain to the nth degree when I don’t agree with something.

I’m pretty fearless, but I don’t tolerate criticism, mulling it over and over until it stews and boils out, so maybe that’s why other people can sometimes think I’m a bit weird. I can snap, but it disappears into the ether the same second and then it’s gone.

“You probably can’t help it”, the doctor said, as if a diagnosis had been agreed upon. “It’s in your genes. But we can help you manage the symptoms, with therapy, and social coaching.”

But just like any aspie I’ve ever met, I’m kinda okay with who I am. It’s the rest of the world that seems to have  a problem with me. I just wish they wouldn’t articulate it so readily after a couple of drinks.

“We’ll discuss whether or not you’re bi-polar two next time you come in”, the doctor said, as a parting comfort. Well at the very least, I can abdicate responsibility to these fascinating new labels, and stop blaming myself for who I am.