furthermore

"Raised lettering. Pale Nimbus. White."

I was making fun of guys who obsess over status symbols in the last post. The film 'American Psycho' has a lot of fun satirizing this mindset. It's difficult to recommend, due to the extreme violence, but a few of the scenes are classic.

The tiny You Tube pop-up ad can be closed, but in this scene a flock of alpha-males compare status symbols, i.e. business cards. It gets right to the core absurdity. And the sound effects and dialogue: hysterical, completely perfect.

My personal favorite: "Look at that subtle off-white coloring. The tasteful thickness of it. Oh my god...it even has a water mark."

clarification

In reference to the last post:

I mentioned Young Professionals. Really, I only have a problem with particular ones, it's not a blanket loathing.

We have a certain row of bars in town that cater to the executive set. They're basically aiming for young, status-wielding fellows with obscene amounts of expendable cash. Being trend-based, these bars change with the seasons.

For awhile, there were Cigar Bars. These hit their high-water mark when Sopranos was the big show. It cracked me up that Tony Soprano smoked cigars on the teevee...therefore young executives had to stampede out and smoke as many cigars as possible. "I'm...powerful? Everyone is seeing this? Right?" Sopranos ended, the Cigar bars closed. Morons.

Then it was Whiskey Bars. I have no idea what inspired this, but it was the thing for awhile. Guys in suits...ties loosened...sipping whiskey. Hellz yeah. We're living it up now, fellas. (Mad Men? Is that the show that inspired this? It's coming from somewhere.)

And currently, for reasons that are even more obscure to me: hookah bars are in. Maybe someone can explain this to me. It's the same locations, filled with the same flock-think jackasses. Smoking hookahs. I'm completely in the dark on this one.

Anyway. What was I...? Oh. I'm making the point that I hate these people. Guys, almost always, chasing status symbols. I say we just open a Cod Piece Bar and get it over with.

the locative disquisition

Every now and then I go out for drinks with my former roommate. He's a shy, reserved sort, so our migratory patterns are somewhat comparable. He tends to be more into music type places, where live bands play...I'm not, so that's about your only area of departure.

Since we're very particular about this sort of thing, we're always searching around for The Most Comfortable Place. I'm not a mingler, neither is he, so we put a lot of effort into finding places that are disconnected, socially speaking...where the groups keep to themselves.

We have a few default bars. Places we like. But sometimes we roam around, try places, drifting back to the defaults eventually, but occasionally adding new ones to the repertoire.

This is a college town, so there's an interesting variety of bars. There are Frat Bars: to be avoided mostly. There are White Trash Bars: to be avoided always. Pubs: nice because they're dark, but overly-crowded with students and professors. There are Redneck bars: these run fifty-fifty. And then there are Neighborhood bars: also fifty-fifty. The Neighborhood bars contain elements from each of the other four bars, usually in equal number.

So that's the question we're up against: which place is most comfortable?

White Trash bars are right off the list. In these establishments, the hard core alcoholics are there first thing in the morning. They stay all day. They are suspicious of unfamiliar faces and tend to be verbally aggressive. You go in...you sense the vibe pretty quickly...you leave. One bar down the street doesn't even have a sign on the front. It's just a blocky building with boarded up windows. Inside, there's a bar with two taps: your choices are bud light or bud light. I small-talked with an area cop one time. He was familiar with this bar. He said, "If the radio mentions a fight in progress, I don't even ask where. I just start driving towards the bar. I was there a few weeks ago breaking up a fight at nine in the morning. It was these two old guys just pounding on each other."

Some people use the terms Redneck and White Trash interchangeably, but this really isn't accurate. For better or worse, Rednecks connect into specific value systems. White Trash are too disorganized for that. Maybe they'll wear an American flag shirt, but that's about as far as they'll take it. Rednecks, White Trash: completely different species. Rednecks are a little easier to share space with because: they don't give a shit. They're basically libertarian about the whole bar scene. Leave them alone...they'll leave you alone. It's not a bad deal. The downside: you have to listen to their genuinely terrible music. I'm down with some of the honky tonk sound: old Hank, Lefty, up to the 70's outlaw stuff. But a lot of Redneck Bars play the newer stuff...the cartoonish, anti-intellectual robo-country crapped out by posturing, flag-waving morons. It's a downside.

Neighborhood bars are too damned chatty. A lot of the people recognize one another. The bartenders, seeing familiar faces, are in a good mood, not as vigilant as they sometimes have to be. Booze is happening, that enhances the mood. So everyone's talking, mingling, mixing it up. A great place for social butterflies, but it's not for me. After about five minutes of these places, I'm mentally exhausted. There are medical bracelets for people who have heart problems or diabetes. I want one for social preferences, one that reads "Introvert". I'm convinced I can ignore people more easily that way. I'll just walk across a room, holding my bracelet up, tilting it towards each person I walk by. "See? I'm just heading to the bar. See? Please don't ask if I've seen the game. Coming through."

I'm conflicted about Frat Bars, because you absolutely cannot have a good time in one. At least, you can't relax and ignore your surroundings in one. Too many people in too small a space too preoccupied by appearances; by how they're being perceived. This does, however, make for great people watching. I have to coerce my former roommate into these places...repeat, "It'll be fun"...or, "I'll buy your drinks"...or something like that. Usually he goes along with it. I'll eavesdrop and do a running commentary for the roommate. "Oy. They're talking about a party they went to this weekend. The guy in the striped shirt apparently drank his weight in tequila. He's still hungover after three days. I want to go over and tell them that he's not hungover after three days. That's alcohol poisoning."

One day we were at a Frat Bar, just drinking, people-watching. This guy comes in and stares around the room. He screams, "Vodka! Woo!" He proceeds to sit right between me and my roommate. Plop. He's wobbly, already drunk. He throws an arm around me, says, "Man. What fucking state is this? Oklahoma?" No. 'Fraid not. I tell him which state, which town. He blinks so loud you can hear it. Thunk. With his arm still around my shoulder, he begins to shake me from side to side. It's annoying, but his intention is affectionate. He says, "Woo! Let's do some shots, bro! I'm buying!" My roommate is cracking up, and to be honest, I'm too thrown to know what to say, so I go along with it. Shots begin to line up in front of us. The guy takes his, then shakes his head vigorously like a dog stepping out of water. Roommate and I do our shots. Experimentally, I say "Woo", but it doesn't come out very forcefully. I consider it a failed experiment. I ask him, "How can you not know what state your in?" He laughs and says "Vodka is how". He mentions that he travels around with a band, putting up their stage equipment. "I was in Ohio last night." He pauses, wobbles, seems disoriented for a bit. "Whuh. Anyway. I'm never really sure where Next is. Just...I don't know." He slowly gets up and staggers to the cash register. Pays. Staggers out.

Oh. One other thing about Neighborhood bars: during the day, they're filled with lawyers on lunch break. You would think that lawyers, of all people, would want to get away from work and not talk, but no. They talk more than any other group. They talk non-stop at work...then they hit the bars and trade endless war stories. Which are too status-based and peacockfeathery to be interesting. Frat Guy small talk is at least disturbing...there's a certain pathos at work there that ups the whole people-watching factor. But lawyers just recount their work day in tedious detail and center every statement around themselves. It's one long, endless martyr-complex with lawyers. Another mark against the Neighborhood joints.

Anyway, our default bar: a Redneck/Pub hybrid. A dive. A rectangular, smoke-filled cave-like black hole with tall-backed booths (perfect for compartmentalizing yourself amongst others), dim recessed lighting and sullen, withdrawn bartenders (great for the small-talk disinclined). The smoke is awful, but useful. It keeps the young professionals out...with their trendy clothes and stylish eye glasses. These people sometimes like the dives, so the smoke is enormously helpful in that regard. Whenever I see this group, I want to break out one of those bee-keeper deals and spray smoke at them. "Shoo. Go."

We roam, like I said, but the rectangle, that's the automatic when we're restless.

The end.

in the shadows where we summer (2 of 5)

One of the barriers to therapy was the fact that I found a lot of my social difficulties to be embarrassing. Just the way I think regarding social interactions, it felt like the sort of thing I should never tell anyone.

When I was a kid, bad counselors made it easier to say nothing.

Then, at age 30, I went through six lame sessions with a bad psychologist. During the fourth of those sessions, I related a particularly difficult anecdote (about hugging) and he couldn't hide his response. In my mind, it confirmed that talking about any of this was mostly likely pointless.

Consequently, when I started sessions with The Doctor a few months later, I was more cautious than ever about what I said, what anecdotes I provided. We started talking in December 2005. Instead of four sessions, I refused to go into any detail regarding social interactions for a period of 8 months.

She waited it out.

August 2006

I shuffle my feet on the floor. Pause for a bit.

M: I haven't been...

I drink coffee. Close my eyes and chase words around.

M: I've been wanting to clarify some of the tangles I've made, with our conversation. To the question of whether or not I am capable of feeling comfortable around a person I have, at various times, answered yes and no. I've been contradicting myself. So, this past week I've been trying to think about this in a more constructive way. A lot of the time in here I am basing observations about myself on pessimism and/or self-loathing and I'm trying to move past that a little bit. And it's occurred to me that much of what I've been saying is at least partially inaccurate. It's not that I do or do not want to connect with people. The problem is that I have been incapacitated by the mechanics of it all, the complexities of it. So, rather than simply acknowledging this difficulty...which would be more helpful...I have been pretending that I have a desire to isolate or that I'm too socially clueless, or whatever. I'm all over the map about that. I've been reacting to a variety of imagined causes instead of examining them.

Doctor: You're verbal today! And your affect is much improved. Maybe this new line of thought is getting you away from some of that negativity.

M: It's probably just the enormous cookie I had before I came in here. It was a gigantic sugar cookie. Freakish. If I crash out in 30 minutes, you'll know.

Doctor: Okay. Continue.

M: Right. So, I was thinking about all of this after a few conversations at work. We had a lot of meetings and trainings this week, so I was interacting with New People more than usual.

I describe several social interactions from the week. I won't repeat them here, they're just long anecdotes about co-worker conversations. But they are basically similar to this interaction with New Friends, where I'm getting overwhelmed by words, gestures and all of the surrounding sensory data.

M: It was frustrating because I couldn't screen anything out. Once I started to feel a little overwhelmed, I couldn't organize anything. I had no idea what people were referring to, and I had to constantly think back to the general context. I had to really focus on how people were acting, talking...piece together the small things that are always relevant, like glances and vocal inflection.

I lose track of what I'm saying.

M: Er, this is a long explanation. I promise this is going somewhere. As I worked through the conversations later on I realized that this is one of the big reasons I rely on social mimicry: there is simply too much going on in a conversation. Too much is streaming in. By pretending to share a persons interests, by scripting my statements, I am minimizing all of the layers of data that are exchanged in a conversation. Does that make any sense?

D: Umm...I'm not there yet.

M: The less information I volunteer, the less likely I am to alter the course of a conversation. When I mimic someone, the conversation tends to stay on a very structured, easy-to-predict path and as a result there is less social data to consider. It's difficult enough just trying to react to one person's social output, their body language and such. If I contribute my own output, things just get even more convoluted and unpredictable. I go off the map, basically. Especially since I can, on occasion, say weird, random shit that doesn't seem to relate to what's going on. I mean, everyone worries about this kind of thing, I just end up being overwhelmed by it. The chin movements, eye movements. The words, the meanings. The lights and noises in a room. All of it.

Just talking about the way I think about the way I think is exhausting, so I tug at the corners of my hair and slowly exhale.

M: I just don't understand how most people make it. It's like, the social data...my mind seems to receive all forms of social data equally. A gesture is as loud as a verbalized sentence; an eye movement is a discussion in itself. When I'm talking to a person, I am hearing multiple conversations at the same time and it's all tangled up and it's hard to keep it all prioritized.

D: I've never heard you describe it this way before. This is really helpful. Are you familiar with the phrase 'cognitive miser'?

M: No.

D: It's a term for the way people process information. It theorizes that the mind will generally choose the path of least resistance with regards to incoming perceptual data. Our full range of vision, for example, would overwhelm us if we lacked the ability to screen out stimuli not directly related to the task at hand. You don't seem to have this, at least not to the extent that others do.

M: I'm, what...a cognitive philanthropist. Terrific.

D: You are. And it really makes sense that you would want to minimize self-expression, I can see what you're getting at. If you're in this vigilance mode, scripting yourself, it's easier to hold back, keep up with what's going on around you. What concerns me is the way that, if an interaction does not go well, or even if it's just stressful, you can be so hard on yourself.

M: I don't know. I think I'm accurate on myself.

D: You seem to have little trouble objectively explaining the behavior of others. You mentioned once that you didn't take bullying personally as a child because you understood the psychology behind picking on others. Why not apply that same objectivity to yourself? Why are you always so hard on yourself yet willing to offer mechanistic explanations for the people around you?

M: I don't know. That does seem like a double standard. Still, I can't escape it. To me, when I point out my failings, I am being objective. Again, it feels accurate to me.

D: What you are saying right now is something very common amongst people suffering from depression. They attribute external causes to the behavior of other people and internal causes to their own behavior. Someone is walking down a sidewalk, for example, strolling along, when suddenly they trip and fall. A depressed person looking on might say, "They tripped on that bump in the sidewalk". But if the depressed person then trips and falls they will say, "I tripped because I'm clumsy." See the difference?

M: Umm...yes.

D: But you're not buying it in relation to your situation.

M: I can't tell. The sugar cookie just wore off. I can't even begin to tell you how tired I am.

D: You should...

M: I don't even know where I am right now.

D: That's okay. We can step back. You really...woo. You described a large quantity of information today. The anecdotes were helpful. I don't know if I can encourage the eating of giant sugar cookies before a session, but if that's the result...

M: Maybe you should get a cookie jar in here, for all of the clients. Someone closes up, just...bloop. Pelt them with sugar.

D: Maybe.

my new shell

I rented a house for awhile. Now I'm back in a small apartment.

It's nice. No yard work...I'm enjoying that. Some people are down with that sort of thing. I see them: the Yard Watchers...the people who stroll around hunched over, visually inspecting each blade of grass for imperfection...trimming, clipping, tending; spraying things...perpetuating the greenery, the photo-realistic yard-perfection. I'm not one of those people. I'll do everything I can not to mow. I'll go out and vaguely tap at the grass with my foot, hope that will do for awhile. "There. Take that, yard". Whew...exhausting, my method.

The oven broke at the apartment and I was able to call the landlord. Guy showed up, fixed it. That's nice. I have zero handyman skills. If the oven had broken at the house, I would have been out of luck. I couldn't have afforded a repairman. I would have been forced to rationalize doing nothing. "Well...raw foods can be very healthy."

Or, "Umm...uncooked noodles are...you know, crunchy."

The downside to apartment living is that there are more people around. There's less privacy than at the house. This sucks because I tend to wear ironic t-shirts...t-shirts I can only get away with on the premise that no one will ever see them. Ever. I have a white shirt...with neon pink lettering on the front. It reads: "yarn". Below that is an image, appropriately, of yarn. I could wear this at the house without a problem. But now...when I'm checking the mail at the apartment...I'll pass people. I keep thinking, "Well, if I hurry, no one will see me. I can time this out, make it happen." But so far, every single time I've worn the yarn shirt, I pass people on the side-walk. I get all self-conscious about it. I walked passed a redneck the other day. Guy in a sleeveless t-shirt, camouflage shorts. The pink yarn image got a double take. I wanted to run out and buy a shirt with a tank on the front...time it so I could pass the redneck again. "See? Tank shirt! My arbitrary man-credentials are intact. Completely intact." On the other hand, fuck it. I love my yarn shirt.

(The only people-related downside at the house: this neighbor. Who would chainsaw things. Many things.)

My new place is the size of a thimble and for months I had no living room furniture. I could have procured things sooner, but I hate shopping. Out of necessity, I bought a cheap little bean bag chair recently. My only living room accoutrement. Which was awkward when my parents visited last week. Fortunately, they arrived with a recliner. This helped, but it meant we had to take turns being able to sit. One lucky contestant got the recliner...I would usually sit in a corner. Mom and dad alternated in and out of the bean bag chair. Something...from the way they reacted...that's never happened before. Watching them...Ozzie and Harriet...try to sit straight, while the chair shifted beneath them...it was kind of funny. Awkward, but funny. Dad would hold himself straight, try to pretend that there were no problems. But gradually..slowly...he would tilt, lose his bearings, wind up at a forty five degree angle. I'd try not to laugh. He'd catch himself, jolt back into a straight position. It was like watching a tree fall in slow motion, over and over.

There. You're caught up on apartment living. The end.

(Wait, I forgot to add that I bought a brown couch. It was fun because I randomly chose one. I just went to the store and pointed and said, "This one." The salesman asked, "The color is okay?" I answered, "Brown is fine". And being completely serious, he said, "Oh no, it's not brown. It's peat." I looked closely. It's brown. I said, "Okay. Peat is fine." I thought about it and asked "Do they even have brown couches anymore? In terms of the label?" He said, "No, no. This style comes in peat. Mocha. Burnt umber. Smoked vanilla. We have what some people might call a pink couch, but it's not pink. It's salmon." So that was entertaining. Now you're caught up.)

Why M Drinks

Last Week

I avoid my parents for the most part. They're the likewise. I'm the otherwise. We're ill-convivial that way.

They called last week and said, "We're coming up!" And I think, "Well...shit." I want to say no, but I've avoided them all year. I thought it might be time to finally visit, get it over with.

Still. I had some sense that this would not go well. My parents have never been to my new apartment. I had a pretty good idea about how that would go. The question was: before they arrive, should I change anything in order to make them more comfortable?

I don't. I just leave everything be and brace for the inevitable.

Mom and Dad (Ozzie and Harriet)...arrive. They look around the apartment...and their faces just collapse. They are clearly uncomfortable with what they are seeing.

The room is dark. There are no lamps. No television. And instead of curtains...blankets have been tacked over the windows. I've done this at every place I've lived, but it's still shocking to them. Strange! Scandalous! (I've told them about the diagnosis...they refuse to discuss it; anytime I bring it up, they change the topic. Doesn't fit their mental cookie-cutter. From what I can tell, their mental cookie-cutter for me is shaped just like normal, which I find to be funny.)

Anyway. This blanket-over-the-window thing is really too much for them. They sit and begin to question me about it. "Well son, why don't you let us buy you a nice set of curtains? It'll really liven up the room."

I say no.

"But with curtains you can keep it dark...they just allow the option of changing the light, whenever you need to."

In fact, curtains do that by definition. But no. No thank you.

They go on and on about the curtains. They're clearly not happy, seeing that my place is sealed up the way it is. Dad will hardly look at me, speak to me. He just mutters, "You're living like some kind of hermit." I think he's making progress. Last year he called me "mentally fragile", so "hermit" is definitely a step up. We're bonding. Can you feel it?

I can't help but laugh. I wait out the tension. They sit and look around the room. At their place, they're used to perpetual lights and sounds...loud televisions, rambling radio sounds...not the sensory deprivation they're being subjected to here. I tell them, "Ho! Guess what! I have fish sticks in the freezer. I could brown those puppies up. Mmm. Fish sticks." They don't respond. I run over to the freezer...I take the bag out and wiggle it around. "Come on! You know you want it. Fish. Sticks. Stick-shaped-fish."

This really isn't helping my cause. I return to my seat, pull my hair.

Later, mom makes a final effort regarding the lighting situation: "If I can't buy you curtains, can I at least buy you a floor lamp?"

Fine, fine. I need a lamp. And if mom buying it takes the pressure off of the curtain thing, then fine.

We go to a big store, look at a row of floor lamps. Mom says, "I found it! This is the one you need!". Inevitably, it's the brightest lamp in the store. It's large, maybe six feet tall...the top half of it branches off into maybe half a dozen bendable arms, each with a large, sun-like bulb on the end of it. I tell her, "No. This is the lamp that I don't want. In the entire world. This is the one. You found it."

And that's basically the way the rest of the interaction goes. She chooses a "gift"...and I'm left with no choice but to shoot it down. "No, that's just not going to work for me." (To them, it came off as rude, so the tone surrounding the whole thing was awkward. It was kind of a no win situation: they were trying to be nice...I was going to have final say on lighting for the apartment...those two facts couldn't comfortably mesh).

We default upon the simplest lamp there...a straight rod with a light at the top...done. We buy it. We go back to my place. I put the lamp together...make a new spot of glow in the apartment. Bloop. Mom says, "Much better...and you know, you can pin those blankets back, let a little more light in here, really change the feel of the place."

I rub my eyes...start mentally organizing my liquor store options. Rum? Whiskey? Rum and Whiskey?

(I forgot to add: they drive a truck, so I made use of that, purchased a brown couch this weekend. It was fun because I randomly chose one. I just went to the store and pointed and said, "This one." The salesman asked, "The color is okay?" I answered, "Brown is fine". And being completely serious, he said, "Oh no, it's not brown. It's peat." I looked closely. It's brown. I said, "Okay. Peat is fine." I thought about it and asked "Do they even have brown couches anymore? In terms of the label?" He said, "No, no. This style comes in peat. Mocha. Burnt umber. Smoked vanilla. We have what some people might call a pink couch, but it's not pink. It's salmon." So that was entertaining. Now you're caught up.)

the rachmaninov variation

Trying to do something because you know you're supposed to. Because...this is the way people do it.

Normalcy, in other words.

Normalcy is a guideline, an expectation. It takes little effort for a lot of people (the likewise). It just happens, has it's own quietly tempting rhythm. It sort of pulls you in, brings order to those angles and edges.

For the otherwise...this process never quite takes. The rhythms feel off, the guidelines wrong. Trying to stay within the lines, meet the expectations when it's simply not who you are...that can hurt, create anger. It can make you want to lash out at those expectations, tear them down...create new, weird shapes out of the debris.

The obvious point I'm trying to make...clearly...is that I like Harpo Marx. Just generally speaking, but a particular scene in one film has always struck me as...familiar.

In it, he is forced to play a piano song. Harpo? Playing piano? No, no. That's not his thing. Proper, classical piano music just doesn't sit right with him. And it's beautiful watching him work through his reactions. As a character, Harpo is silent. He never speaks on film. So...in a frustrating situation...he's just left to alternate between the two states that are most natural for him: 1. playful innocence, and 2. unchecked aggression.

So, there's poor Harpo...trying to play a pretty song on an instrument he loathes...trying to follow along with the rhythm...and getting angry. He's just not down with the music. His mood swings kick in. He smiles, hits, smiles again. He loses it, smashes the piano. Only there, in the midst of the debris...after all that anger...is he able to find his name, who he is.

This is a good visual metaphor for therapy.

in the shadows where we summer (1 of 5)

Before we even begin to discuss Asperger's, Doctor and I, a long period of time is spent just digging out of the depression. Going from 8 years of social isolation to therapy...it's a lot of chiseling. Just slowly, slowly digging away at the mindset that's accrued, settled in.

August 2006

Doctor: We've established two modes of behavior. You either isolate or, when not isolating, utilize the marionette (i.e. mimic the body language and statements of others). This latter is also a form of isolating, a continuation of the hiding.

She writes the word "isolation" and "marionette" at the top of a piece of paper.

D: You've expressed disinterest in a life of pure isolation. You have also expressed disinterest in the marionette. So...

She draws a line between the two categories.

D: We discussed this briefly, months ago, but we are aiming somewhere in between. Our goal is to begin defining a middle path. What are you thoughts on this?

M: I definitely agree that the other two options are out. I'm comfortable when I'm by myself but I have zero interest in that life. It's gotten to where I just can't take that anymore. So, I don't know. A combination of the two...I'm just not sure what that looks like.

D: It's undefined at this point. It will, however, involve being more honest with people about who you are. I think the marionette just fuels the sense of detachment and alienation.

M: Practically, though, what does being more honest look like? Just saying crap about myself?

D: Yes. Speaking plainly about what you think and feel, not altering it for the purpose of mimicry. Not scripting your conversation.

M: I'm not sure if I can do that. I hate talking about myself. I don't know how to do it. Like, there doesn't seem to be room in a conversation for personal stuff. Everything has a pre-existing structure and I'm not sure where to fit internal stuff.

D: That's because you weigh yourself down with self-defeating thoughts. You don't think there is anything about yourself worth mentioning. A lot of what we're dealing with here, M, is depression; not just AS.

M: I don't know. I'm not sure that it's a question of worth. It's just...every conversation has it's own contextual imperative. A person will mention something...work issues or sports or television...I will respond to their statement, they will respond to mine...it goes back and forth like this and the things we say are related to the social context, i.e. where we are (work, restaurant) and what we are discussing (work, sports). Where does personal information fit in with that? The premise here is that I will feel less detached if I'm more open about myself...but the reality is that no one really wants to know what I have to say outside of the conversational boundaries. That being the case, why not just tell people what they want to hear? Agree with them. Or disagree, but purely for the purpose of furthering the conversation, giving it an arc and direction.

D: But you've always done that and it hasn't gotten you anywhere. What we are discussing here is change.

M: Mimicry hasn't gotten me anywhere personally, but it's been extremely effective socially. People respond well to it. People never respond well to my own personal reactions. Again, it's just a matter of structure. I don't know how to be open without disrupting the flow and rhythm of a conversation. Like, if I mention something personal, suddenly the other person is listening. Then what?

D: Then...you talk.

M: Yeah. That sounds awful.

D: Why?

M: Because...it just feels wrong. And if someone listens...if they're like attentive...

I pause for a bit. I'm trying to remember something...

M: There's that Groucho Marx quote. He was invited to join this elite country club or something and he rejected the offer, saying "I would never belong to a club that would have someone like me as a member." So I like that quote. And...I don't know. In terms of my social interactions, it's been very strange to find out that all of my best personal qualities...the listening skills, the mimicry...are defense mechanisms. If I take those away...it just seems like that would feel very uncomfortable.

D: But you don't feel that way when you're alone, right?

M: I guess not. I'm just lost in my head then, but when...

D: Really listen to what you are saying here. This is self-fulfilling prophecy. Textbook. You feel embarrassment around people because you assume they will react negatively to things you say. Therefore you never say anything and this false assumption is perpetuated. It's never challenged.

M: This true assumption is perpetuated by reality. I agree with what you are saying to an extent, but people really do prefer sameness. I mean, come on. Would you like to say, with a straight face, that people like difference?

I look at her. She looks back.

M: Difference makes people uncomfortable, Doctor. So yes, I take my self-defeating thoughts too far. But to suggest that being more open is the answer...

I lift my chin, gesture at my face.

M: These little scars...

She nods.

M: We talk here...I'm open about everything...and you see good qualities. Not everyone reacts the way you do.

D: Understood. And you're right. This is not a kind world towards difference. What I'm really wanting to focus on here is finding that balance. Just being open, being completely open...I'm not suggesting that extreme. But the extreme you're currently at...all of these walls and isolation...it's too much. It'll take time to define this, but a balance...a realistic one...is possible for you.

I swat at my shoelaces. The Doctor waits and waits.

D: By the way, I wanted wanted to tell you: the front desk staff have commented on how relaxed you have seemed lately.

M: The receptionists?

D: They think you're funny.

M: Huh.

D: Is it an act?

M: I don't know. I guess they're becoming familiar faces. Also, they could never remember how much I pay each week, so I taught them a mnemonic device. I wrote out this weird little sentence that rhymes with the price and now they repeat it whenever I see them. So the weekly recitation of gibberish probably has a sedative effect on me. It's a happy thing. I purr.

session from June 2006: Proust and Pinocchio

Doctor: Good morning. You have a book with you today.

M: Proust! I had mentioned him last week- I find a lot of his material to be relevant to Asperger's- and I wanted to read a few things if that's okay.

Doctor: Of course.

It's the second volume of Proust's novel, In Search of Lost Time. I open it up and start reading, I'll re-print a few of the passages here. In the first one, he's describing his loathing of changes in routine...the way they heighten both his perceptions and his discomfort. The narrator is beginning a vacation and has just, for the first time, entered the hotel room where he will be staying (p-245):

"As our attentiveness furnishes a room, so habit unfurnishes it, making space in it for us. In that room of mine at Balbec, 'mine' in name only, there was no space for me: it was crammed with things which did not know me, which glared my distrust of them back at me, noting my existence only to the extent of letting me know they resented me for disturbing theirs. Without letup, in some unfamiliar tongue, the clock, which at home I would never have heard...went on making comments about me, which must have sounded offensive to the curtains, for they stood there without a word in a listening posture, looking like the sort of people who will shrug their shoulders to show they are irked by the mere sight of someone...And in the part of me that is more private than those used for seeing and hearing, the part where one is aware of shades of smell, almost inside the self, an assault by perfume threw me back on my deepest defenses as I tried to repel it, in my tiredness, with a pointless, repeated and apprehensive sniffing. Deprived of my universe, evicted from my room, with my very tenancy of my body jeopardized by the enemies about me, infiltrated to the bone by fever, I was alone and wished I could die."

I'm laughing as I read this, at how self-deprecating it is, but the second quote is more difficult because it touches upon the subject of detachment, introversion. In it, the narrator has met a fellow vacationer named Robert (p-316):

"It was very soon agreed between us that we had become firm friends forever, and each time he said 'our friendship' it was as though he spoke of some important and delightful entity existing outside of ourselves...Such talk saddened me in a way, and I never knew how to respond to it: for, in spending my time chatting with him, I felt none of the happiness I was capable of deriving from being without company...It was only when I was alone that I would be swept on occasion by one of those impressions that brought with them such deeply satisfying feelings. But I only had to be in the presence of someone else- talking with a friend, for example- for my mind to face the wrong way; and thoughts going in that other direction never afforded me any enjoyment. No sooner had I left the company of Robert than I sought words with which to tidy up the disordered minutes I had just spent with him: I assured myself that I had a close friend and that a close friend is a rarity; yet what I felt was the exact opposite of the mode of enjoyment natural to me, the opposite of the pleasure that could come from finding something lying deep within myself, from bringing it out of its inner darkness and into the light of day."

The last two sentences from this passage kill me: "I had no difficulty in convincing myself that I should really be happy about all this, and my hope that such happiness would never leave me was as strong as my knowledge that I had never in fact felt it. The joys we most dread losing are those that have remained outside us, beyond the reach of our heart."

I won't quote them here, but I read from two more sections before finishing.

Doctor: One of those in particular sounds pertinent.

M: Right. The friend.

Doctor: What was it you used to say? "I like the idea of being around people, never the reality."

M: Also I thought the bit at the hotel room was nice, especially in reference to AS: the fear of change, the need for sameness. He was supposed to be on vacation, relaxing, yet felt tormented by all of the new objects. "The clock is talking about me." It's a funny section, but it's...I don't know.

Doctor: Familiar. Thanks for sharing that. Is there anything in particular you were wanting to discuss in reference to it? You've never brought in a book before...I'm just wondering if there's a specific goal you had in mind.

M: There's no goal. I just thought you might enjoy some of the sections that relate to our discussion. It's always nice to find inner experiences articulated in a good description. Speaking of that...

I hand the Doctor a few typed pages.

M: I'm sick of how resistant and repetitive I've been and I wanted to try a thought experiment. I re-wrote our last session. It's our words, but the conversation is between Pinocchio and the Blue Fairy. I thought that might be funny.

(It's this session)

Doctor: You know, that story never even occurred to me.

M: Me neither...and it's strange we haven't referenced that. A marionette who hates his condition, wants to become a "real" boy? I couldn't help but wonder what would happen if the Blue Fairy were to push Cognitive-Behavioral psychology instead of magic.

Doctor: Did you want to read this today?

M: No. I just wanted to give you a copy. I'm trying to think of it as an exorcism, a way of getting the toxins out; lighten some of the suicidal stuff by having a fictional character say it.

I laugh a little bit. I'm talking about "getting the toxins out"- I'm trying to be more positive- but I'm also thinking of the history behind the writing of Pinocchio.

M: Do you know anything about the story? How it was originally supposed to end?

Doctor: I don't.

M: Pinocchio was not supposed be a children's book. It was very grim, very bleak, and the first version of the story ends with Pinocchio's murder.

Doctor: Er. Was he transformed at that point? Was he killed as a marionette or a child?

M: He was a marionette. Which sort of seems less dark, since he wasn't a kid, but on the other hand he dies having never achieved his one goal. All he wants is to be a real boy and he's killed before that can happen. I'm trying to remember what happens at the end. He has these gold coins or something and these thieves beat him, steal his gold and execute him. They hang him from a tree. Actually, this scene is still in the book. It's Chapter 15. It was supposed to end there, but apparently the author was talked into continuing the story and ending it in a happier, more saccharine way. Like an editor or somebody talked him into making it an upbeat children's book. Ugh.

Doctor: A story with two endings. I wonder which one M prefers?

I stare at the back of my hand.