I've never been afraid of school work.
Well, that's a lie. The truth is that I'm rarely afraid of school work, and I'm not any more afraid of it now then I was before our entire world was turned on its head. People talk of regression in learning, people talk of falling behind, and my peers keep saying they haven't done any of the work they've been assigned while I'm usually left with my entire weekend free because I've already completed all of my work.
Perhaps this sounds conceited. It might sound vain. I assure you I'm not either of those things. All I'm trying to say is that I'm good (very good) at school — regardless of whether it's online or in real life.
But being good at school, being confident that I'll ace my SATs this coming August, doesn't mean I'm not terrified of falling behind. It's a fear that I'm constantly drowning in; a fear that hits me each time my phone rings but I refuse to answer.
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I was diagnosed with nonverbal learning disabilities when I was around 5, and I was diagnosed with autism spectrum disorder and ADHD when I was 14. My disabilities have never hindered my ability to learn. In fact, my unique qualities have made me the perfect student for many teachers. However, my ASD certainly hasn't helped me when it comes to socializing.
Being with people — especially with my peers — is often a lot like playing pretend. It's a big game of pretend, and I'm often left feeling like the kid who said they knew how to play but who is actually frantically learning the rules as they're pulled along. I'm on my toes all the time. If everyone else is driving an automatic car, then I'm driving a manual and panicking all the while. I'm laughing, I'm smiling, I'm the center of the party but a little voice inside me is always screaming "run away!" I'm left sick and tired of trying to figure out what's going on all the time.
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However, as with many things, practice makes perfect. Practice quiets the little voice as long as I practice every single day. It's easier to detect sarcasm and read facial expressions if you are forced to do it every day. Constantly practicing left me a little less tired at the end of each day — a little more willing to believe that everything was going to be OK.
My practice ground has been shut down.
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For the past few months, I have been allowed to live my life with the bare minimum amount of social interaction necessary to survive. And the people I do interact with are the family members who — after years of living with me — have adapted in order to make my life easier. I can go for hours without talking to anyone. I can go for hours without thinking about anyone (unless you count fictional characters). This is not good.
You see, I actually do have friends. Friends who want to text me, call me, video chat with me and make plans about meeting up after quarantine is over. This is a big no-no for me. The little voice is louder than ever — it has become an angry roar that makes me run and hide in my closet each time I receive a text message. I'm afraid of my best friend texting me, how sad is that?
Deep down, I know I need to talk to people and that eventually the world will go back to normal and I won't be able to hide each time someone tries to start a conversation with me. A soon-to-be college student can't hide in their room forever. But none of that logic is strong enough to cause me to pick up my phone and call my friends. Sometimes it's strong enough that I am able to respond to texts, but sometimes it isn't because it's always just so much easier to talk to stuffed animals. Stuffed animals don't make weird faces.
So as I'm left sitting here — with my academics all finished — I'm forced to stew in my worries. I feel like I should say something insightful — give some advice to people who might be in the same/similar boat as me, but I can't really think of anything to say. Logic dictates that I tell you about how I will overcome my fears and call up my friends and that you should do the same.
My therapist has always supported exposure therapy when it comes to battling my fears. But sometimes exposing yourself is hard. It's like you're an itty-bitty sheep who needs to jump over a fence, but there's a 40 percent chance that because of your stubby legs, you'll faceplant. Logically, you know you'll probably be all right, but the little voice in your head keeps reminding you about your stubby legs and how much it would hurt if you faceplanted.
So I'm not going to ask you to jump the fence because I know a lot of us — especially during such a scary time — have much bigger fish to fry when it comes to dealing with aspects of our shared diagnosis. A part of me wants to ask that our loved ones help make sure that we continue to get as much regular socialization as possible, but if I say that I might come across as being needy or that I don't think people on the spectrum should be responsible for themselves (which I do).
So I guess all I can say is to be careful. Whether you are on the spectrum or love someone on the spectrum, be careful about ensuring that you/they have enough socialization so that your/their social training doesn't dissolve into a pile of mush. In this time of crisis, we have to look out for each other and we have to look out for ourselves. And this is especially true for sheep with stubby social legs.
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