by Mary Hrovat
When I was a child, my parents saw that I was shy and didn’t make friends easily. It didn’t help that we moved several times when I was very young; I went to four different schools for kindergarten through eighth grade. (I got my high school diploma by home study.) And back then, no one would have guessed that an odd, quiet, anxious little girl might be autistic.
My mother tried to engage me in activities of the type that might draw a shy child out of her shell. For example, she signed me up for Brownies when I was in second grade. Unfortunately, this well-meaning attempt felt almost like a punishment to me. I’d been learning how to get by in the classroom without attracting much attention (luckily, school work came easily to me), but I didn’t know how to behave in what was essentially a social club. I was miserable.
I knew well before second grade that I was different from other people. Because I was so young when I learned this, and I was the only one like me that I knew, I thought there was something wrong with me. I disliked things that children were supposed to love: the circus (too crowded, too loud and confusing), cartoons (they moved too fast and were too silly). I preferred familiar settings and warmed up to new people or places very slowly. I didn’t roll with the punches; I became anxious when I wasn’t sure what was going to happen next or what was expected of me. I liked to be quiet and observe the world rather than participating. I would have loved to share my observations with someone—little things I noticed about the snails in the back yard or the patterns of clouds in the sky. But no one else, not even other children, seemed all that interested. I could sense, in many contexts, that I was expected to adapt, or at least appear to adapt, to the things that made me uncomfortable. I was often lonely and confused.
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As an adult, I continued to try to model myself on other people, even though I knew I was different. In particular, I followed advice about finding groups or activities at which I might meet people. I wanted to find a partner; I thought I should have the kind of social life other people had. For a long time I hoped that I’d finally find other people who are like me. When it didn’t happen in college, and I didn’t find meaningful work among like-minded people, I attempted to find companionship by other means: book groups, nature hikes, activities on campus. When I didn’t find the type of connection I was seeking, I thought that I hadn’t looked in the right place yet.
Adulthood was a slow process of realizing that ultimately it was better to be by myself than to engage in any of the conventional social activities in hopes of finding friends. I started avoiding parties in my teens, because the stress of meeting people and not knowing what to say to them was rarely balanced by the pleasure of finding someone congenial to talk with. Even on occasions when I felt it was important to be with other people—Christmas, for example—I learned that it was better to be alone, if I couldn’t be with family or with a close friend. In my 50s, I became self-employed and worked from home. I realized over time that I didn’t really want to find organizations to join or regular activities with other people. I’ve often been lonely for lack of kindred spirits in my life, but they were so hard to find that it seemed better to be lonely by myself.
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Last year I realized that I’m autistic. I’m still figuring out what that means for me. When you learn that you’re autistic as an adult, you look back at your life through a new lens. I see now that I’ve been trying to fit into a neurotypical world; no wonder life has been so challenging. I’m learning that there’s nothing wrong with me. I’m not a failed normal person; I process my experience of the world differently, in ways that generally make the neurotypical world a poor fit.
Through this lens, I can also see that my frequent experiences of depression—which I’d framed in terms of neurochemistry or childhood trauma or a genetic predisposition, or some unhappy combination of these things—are largely a consequence of trying to fit into a world that wasn’t made for people like me. It’s such a relief to see that I’m not broken.
I’ve learned about masking, where neurodivergent people try to appear neurotypical and meet the social expectations of others. Sometimes masking takes the form of trying to hide things about yourself that other people find uncomfortable or inconvenient, such as stimming (repetitive behaviors), or sensory sensitivities, or needing more time to transition between activities. My parents told me not to be so sensitive, long before I knew exactly what the word sensitive meant. I learned not to do the things that triggered this criticism—crying, for example. Many others have told me that I’m too sensitive, and I’ve long been ashamed of being that way. But it’s a difference, not a flaw, and it’s nothing to be ashamed of.
Masking can also involve behaving in a way you wouldn’t have chosen. I learned to speak when I’d rather be silent and to hide my outbursts of enthusiasm over books I was reading or projects I was engrossed in. I’d now identify my various odd projects over the years as autistic special interests (I like the abbreviation spin). Many autistic people focus on relatively few things at a time, but with great passion and in great depth. We like to enter a state of intense concentration on something important to us.
Perhaps the worst type of masking for me was learning to essentially give up on that type of immersion. Life has been governed by arbitrarily timed class periods, working hours, meeting times, deadlines. I think it’s difficult for many people to live by schedules imposed by others; for autistic people, being pulled from a focused state is disruptive and painful.
Over years of being an undiagnosed autistic person with inadequate financial means, I became accustomed to having relatively short periods of freedom from the schedules and social pressures of work or school. Moreover, I almost always found it difficult to use these periods well to work on my own projects. I struggled for decades to try to understand why this was so. I assumed I was lazy or undisciplined, or maybe self-sabotaging. It’s so easy to blame oneself.
Knowing that I’m autistic, I see this struggle very differently. When I finally had time off from work or school, I was burned out; I wonder now if I ever really recovered from these repeated burnouts. Certainly on any given vacation, I never recovered to the point where I had the energy to do much with my time. I’d also learned that it’s usually pointless to dive into a project if I had only short periods to work; I’ve tried too many times to write for half an hour every morning or evening, for example, but for me, writing requires long stretches of time. I typically alternate between writing and letting the work lie fallow while I eat, go for a walk, fold the laundry, or stare into space. Invariably, when I hit a dead end and take a small break, new ideas well up, and I go back to the page with renewed energy. Trying to squeeze writing in around a job or after-work commitments frustrated this process to the point where I often stopped writing altogether.
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I can also see my attempts to build a typical social life more clearly. I think my self-isolation has been protective. It usually takes a lot of energy to socialize (work, relax…) the way everyone else does. I’ve been eliminating activities that drain me and replacing them with time alone that nourishes me. Solitude feels like a blank sheet of paper on which I can write whatever I like without guessing what someone else would like to hear. It’s a vast space in which I can move freely and even dance. Solitude fills the well that is drained by being social.
I’ve often craved time alone, even when I thought I should probably be doing things with other people. (My parents were not the only ones who’ve thought I needed more friends. It can be hard to trust your instincts.) When I was in grade school, I wanted (and sometimes was allowed) to spend recess in the library with a book instead of on the playground. When I had to be on the playground, I’d bring a book with me if I could, a portable space into which I could retreat. And so on through adult life. I was uncomfortable to one degree or another in office jobs and would have welcomed a chance to work at home (which finally came when I was 58).
Solitude also makes it easier to keep my physical environment comfortable (dimmer, more quiet) and to avoid the pressure of external time commitments. There are fewer sharp transitions between activities when I spend a lot of time alone. Perhaps most importantly, solitude makes it easy to focus without interruption, to become absorbed in observing, creating, learning.
Because it’s been so difficult to find occasions for this type of absorption, I’m having to learn how to give myself time to follow an interest or a creative project as it unfolds, while keeping myself fed, watered, and rested. This balancing act is much easier when I can live at least part of the time at my own pace. I think probably everyone could use more of this kind of freedom, but for some of us, it’s absolutely essential.
I don’t dislike people or want to be entirely alone. In fact, I’m enjoying the work of other autistic writers and YouTubers, and I feel like I’m finding a small scattered community online. It’s such a relief to read or listen to people like me! But in terms of an in-person social circle, two or three deep friendships with kindred spirits and contact with family are probably always going to be pretty much sufficient, and all I can manage. (Although I also enjoy the anonymous and silent companionship of other people at a coffee shop or in the quiet room at the library.)
Still, life can be lonely. Although solitude feels safe and comfortable, sometimes, paradoxically, I’d like to share it with someone. I feel the loneliness of missing people who have died or otherwise left my life. I often wish there were someone to talk with about what I’m reading or thinking. I’ve realized I can address that wish by writing. An urge toward oversharing or being too intense in one-on-one conversation is a sign that I have a large well of material under great pressure, which is actually a great place for a writer to be.
I also love to have one or two people with whom to share everyday beauties and curiosities. Sometimes I wish I lived with a partner who appreciates similar things. But I’m channeling that type of sharing to a broader and less immediate audience, too. In fact, most of my posts on social media are photos of things that struck me as interesting or beautiful.
I watched the solar eclipse of April 8 alone. It was probably the most spectacular astronomical event I’ll ever see, and it felt odd not to share the experience. But, as I wrote in March, Bloomington was expected to be inundated with visitors, so I decided to avoid crowds and stay home. I was excited to wake to blue skies on the day of the eclipse and elated to see the eclipse from my own yard, where I frequently photograph the sky. However, I didn’t try to photograph totality. I didn’t want to be distracted in any way from what was going on in the sky. I wanted to immerse myself in the process, from beginning to end.
I sat on my front porch with a notebook, frequently putting on eclipse glasses to watch the moon move across the face of the sun. When totality began, I cheered with my neighbors, so there was an element of that company-in-solitude that I like, but I was alone, following my own thoughts and memories, enjoying the visual spectacle. I wished that I had a friend or lover who lived close enough to share the experience with me and who would be content to simply watch quietly rather than join any of the many activities planned for that day, but I don’t. In the end, I was glad that I slowed down to sky time for those few hours rather than trying to coordinate plans, deal with crowds, or feel rushed. I let myself be absorbed in this natural spectacle, and I emerged refreshed.
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You can see more of my work at MaryHrovat.com.