Smiling like it's no big deal stabbing wounds that never heal

I need to go to my own funeral.  

Build a new me again, like i did when i was 15.

Then again, when i was 23

and again, when i was 30. 

Another improvement around 38.

Seems like it's time. 

I achieved my goals and sitting idle simmering is not working for me.  

I wanted zen. I wanted no mind, but my mind is just too ferocious to accept it, this lovely transcendent calm, for long. I can bask in it's healing light for a while, appreciating all the mountains i've climbed, all the obstacles i've conquered but the air up here... Is thin and cold. 

 Rest feels alien to me. Rather then a reward it feel like a sentence.   My limbs locked to my sides,  drinking in my own achievements.  It feels so self indulgent. Prideful. Arrogant. To sit here and think, "yeah, i've done all i need to do. I achieved more then most people have achieved.  I can rest now."

It should be enjoyment, but to me it just feels like waiting. Like wasted time.  Like staring into heaven suddenly turns into a swirling abyss.

My fingertips should be dug into the side of a new mountain somewhere, 

determined even if fruitless to overcome it, even for it's own sake. 

How am i so restless that i want to burn down my life just to build it up again?

Honestly,

that is the very embodiment of zen.

Dig a hole, fill it up,

then do it again.

Find peace in the movement.  Find joy in the ritual. The goal is there is no goal.

The point is

There is no point. 

Zen and the art of self sabotage

One new years eve, instead of a party or a bar, i went to a monastery on a mountaintop.  

Yes really.

Lets give this a little context.

I am an autistic adult.  Formally diagnosed at 30 years old as having Asperger's syndrome.  Yes, i followed all the clichés about gifted kids on the spectrum.   I had very advanced iq scores, a savantism for language and spoke like a professor at a young age. I was speaking sentences at 18 months old. 

One might think that this sort of intense skill for communication would be a boon going forward in life, the ability to be a great communicator is often a very desirable and oft applauded thing.  Turns out the mouth the message is coming out of matters a whole lot.  When it's coming out of a young child, adults chaff at the idea of taking advice or gaining insight from "just a kid" and other kids... wellllll, they look at you like a cow looks at an oncoming train.  You end up looking like this to your peers,

Re: a young child with autism talking to kids his age

and like a mutant all adults observing you.   You may be wondering when this is going to tie back into the start of this story.  Trust me i'm getting there.

So it will come as no surprise to anyone that i was bullied a ton as a kid.  One of my uncles described me as a "Bully Magnet." Not that i could do much about that.  I didn't understand what i was doing wrong because EVERYTHING i was doing was wrong. How i FELT was wrong, how i problem solved was wrong, how i appraised social situations was wrong. Wrong, Wrong, Wrong. 

After a period of getting my ass kicked, running home from school, being let out early just so i COULD get home from school without getting beat up, i had a sea change, somewhere around jr high.  I got angry. REAL angry.  Sick of getting beat up by kids, ignored and given no assistance from teacher or my own parents, an orphan, a man on an island, i started to fight back.  I would just punch people down if they locker checked, throw them down and kick them, greet malice with even greater malice. I had nothing to lose. I would fight 3 against one, i would remain standing even with a broken nose and blood pouring out of me until kids knew to just leave me the fuck alone.  Upon the transition to a new school, high school, a place where no one knew me yet, i tried to lay low.  I was too strange for that to work.  My first day in high school, i went outside after lunch to smoke, there were a hundred or more kids out there already.  I walked to the other side of the street, and smoked alone.  Of course not understanding what i had done just drew an incredible amount of attention to myself without meaning to. I was adopted by some NT people who found my oddness charming, but the violent anger was still there.  When someone locker checked me my first week in i just punched him as hard as i could.  This sort of thing went on for a while, until once again this new school was made to learn, if you fight me, your gonna have to kill me. 

All of this anger made it hard to maintain friendships.  On top of the radioactive mess that was my autism i was now volcanic, on a hair trigger, and it wasn't going to end well for me. 

I took it upon myself to start studying stoic philosophy, and then zen, and bushido. The idea of detaching myself to better control my overflowing emotions made sense and appealed to me on a foundational level.  I can't solve all my problems by punching them, so i better figure out an alternative way to manage my overly responsive brain. 

I even wrote a book loosely about it, how apathy and detachment helped me survive myself.  

https://www.amazon.com/Life-Meaningless-Handbook-Erik-McCarthy/dp/1544264976

I was 15 when i started this practice and direction. 

I am 43 now.

So here i am, in a Buddhist monastery in the freezing cold, listening to the master speak.  I am at my utmost attention and excited for a chance to ask a question that has been bothering me for some time.

"what is the line between nihilism and Zen? How does one separate the two?" 

The monk smiled, a few folks gasped (and actually thanked me afterwards for asking the question, as they wondered as well)  Turns out there is no answer.  It's up to the individual to draw his or her own line.  I was dejected.  Defeated.

But no less committed to the practice and idea.  

A decade or more later, i can say i have largely conquered my anger. Like an alcoholic i don't know that i will ever be truly cured, but it's incredibly rare that i feel that instinct rising in me and if it does i am able to recognize and deflect it. 

Life has mellowed and much of the substantial challenges have been surmounted.  I am in good shape and work out routinely.  I seem to be well liked by most people who know me and interact with me on a regular basis. I have been with the same partner for over 20 years and things seem to be going well.  I own a home and my bills are low enough that it's virtually impossible for me to lose my home. I have a meager amount of spending money but enough to allow myself to indulge in multiple hobbies regularly. I have achieved most of my goals set for myself including getting to the Magic the Gathering Pro tour on my own, without a team, publishing my own book, an achieving my strength goals. 

I have slain the beast. Roll credits. I am done. 

I am 43.

My day to day presents no concerns or challenges at all. My cool detachment leaves me feeling both insulated and isolated from others.  

My partner joked i "did zen wrong." but did i?

I'm so detached, the very point of zen (to achieve no mind, or Mushin) that i don't really feel anything.

I've reached such a profound inertia that every day i feel like a robot executing scripting code that i have meticulously crafted for myself.  I feel completely removed from the timeline, alien to others as they are alien to me, devoid of any internal motivation and unable to feel any sense of external motivation.  I have enough food. I have enough shelter. I have enough money. I have enough love. 

I'm standing still detached and vacant unable to enjoy it all because the journey seems to be over.  A long endless winter of sitting atop the mountain awaits and i am struggling to know the answer to the only question that matters now.

What's next?

Have i done such a thorough job detaching myself that i removed myself too completely? What is a man absence direction, motivation, desires, purpose? 

I feel like a rocket with no thrust. Having achieved escape velocity and reaching my destination, a thing i would have not though possible, i am now drifting, dream-like in space, perhaps for all time, wondering if perhaps i have made some kind of terrible mistake.

Maybe i DID do zen wrong. 

So i'm doing all the by the numbers things humans do to try to fabricate a purpose, to simulate a living thing propelled by something, the simulacra of movement, the simulacra of a real live boy. 

As i listen to my partner list off ideas for a new "thing to do, goal to set" i am cold and gaunt as nothing appeals to me, nothing stirs me, no special interest is peaked at a suggestion and i wonder if i'm simply missing the circuitry required to "human". 

I say "i think we are attempting to address the symptom, not the cause. How do i FEEL? What, if anything, MAKES ME FEEL?"

So here i am, on the precipice of another abstraction.  A feelings inventory.

Good or bad, writing down what makes me FEEL at all, and if i can understand what makes me feel, perhaps i can make some kind of informed choice as to what a man of 43 should be doing beyond meditating on a mountaintop with the remainder of his days.

Perhaps i will come to the conclusion that like my question to the zen master, there is no answer, and that anything i do, is what i was meant to do, and anything i do not do, i was simply not meant to do.

I am a flawed gnostic, an autistic zen disciple, a man sitting in the cold vacuum of space staring at the stars wondering, 

Is this it? 

"enjoy it."

But what's next? 

Reflections

I was an angry, reactive, dangerous kid as a teenager.

I was of course a product of my environment.  Having by that point survived a lifetime of hell.  The kind that came via beatings, both physical and mental.    These experiences warped me from a young sapling into a twisted piece of petrified wood.  I was on edge all the time.  Years of surprise attacks in the school halls, or walking home alone.  I was coiled like a cobra after that, after so many people revealed themselves to me to be cowards, idiots, and bullies.  Kids and adults alike both proved to be more enemy then friend.  Adults were only interested in covering their own asses, kids would just brazenly lie when marched into the principle's office with me, the wounded punching bag sitting across from them.  That was as much help as your average adult was for me back then, and all throughout my educational process.

By the time i'd gotten to my teenage years, i had an aura swirling around me.  I had nothing left to lose, it had all been taken away from me already, so bullies sniffed around cautiously.  I still had a few, but i was fearless at that point, dead inside.  They learned quickly engaging with me was a losing prospect.  Either my years of abuse and hardness led me to beat them, and cost them their status, which would be passed up to me by other kids like a trophy.  Or they would outnumber me, beat me down, and i wouldn't cry.  I wouldn't complain.  I would stand back up and look them right in the eye, blood trickling down my face.  They would see there was nothing left to take inside of me.  I was hallowed out by other blood thirsty alpha's looking to make a name for themselves on an easy target.  Wasn't so easy anymore.

This mutation came from how i was treated, like creatures in the wild, it had evolved as a defense mechanism.  No one, and nothing, was out there to protect me from this.  My body had to come up with a way.  My mind ended up stitching it all together.   There were, and still are, side effects.

The rage of those experiences is permanently embedded in my psyche.  The angry and fierceness born of that nihilism hammered into me defended me so perfectly, but only from that one, specific, narrow type of enemy.  Covering your body in spikes and acid defended me from predators, but invariably repelled potential friends and allies eventually.   There was novelty in knowing me as i was, and many people latched onto that.   That's all it was though.  Novelty.  There were no real allies to be found when the days and weeks wore on and that got to see that it wasn't a costume i could take off at the end of the day.  That this is what i REALLY looked like. This i what i really was.  Angry. Acid tongue. Nihilistic. Hardened.

I was autistic too, of course, and had some simple tricks for faking other emotions, but as all weathered travelers know, the mask requires amazing effort to maintain.  And it slips. And it consumes the bones and sinew as part of it's price.  Drinks the blood to smile and joke. To look you in the eye.

That total defense that i had virtually no hand in building, ruined all the years afterwards.  I was too angry, so much so that it consumed me utterly.  I shook with rage at times no good reason.  I wanted to hurt, i wanted to harm, i wanted to punch everyone in the fucking face over and over and over.  I knew, rationally, that this was normal.  It was that wounded child inside of me that wanted revenge at the cost of everything else.  I would gladly, light the room i was in on fire, if i knew i could take some of them down with me.  Knowing wasn't enough. I didn't have any real support system, then, or in the years preceding either.  So while i knew what was happening, and wrote about it often, i could not conquer this thing with ease.   It took me years. and years. and years. Several of which i spent completely isolated. Not dating. Not talking to friends. Not doing anything.  and even saying this now i know, it's still a part of me.  I am standing above it now, but our positions change as the seasons do.  I want you to know i've done all i could on my own.

These memories are so visceral, that when i read about other kids getting bullied, or adults getting bullied, or autistic people getting bullied, i am completely overcome with emotion.  I feel great surges of fear, rage, sadness, and deep anxiety. I want to snap the world in half. I want to sob uncontrollable like a child.  Sometimes i do. When i hear the music of my youth, i remember each emotion connected to each song i sang. To each person i shared that song with, and i am filled until the pressure makes me wince.

The things we endure as we grow up, as so incredibly powerful and life altering, and we don't have any idea until it's too late.

If you ever have the chance to protect someone, all i ask is that you think about this story.  Really try to feel what i feel.   And you do whatever you possibly can to prevent that person from having to endure this pain.  It is not growing pain.  It is the pain that keeps on growing until it is the epicenter of who you are. Everyone deserves the chance to be happy, don't take that away. I am ruined by my trials. By body is a wreck as a result of what i went through, and as it turns out all the science is there to support it. Bad childhoods result in extremely poor health outcomes. It's call the ACE score. Mine was 8 out of 10.

These are not growing pains.

These are the pains that keep on growing.

If you let them.

-e-

Mission statement.

My name is Erik. I am 34 and on the autistic spectrum.  I am for all intents and purposes what you might consider smart.

I've been pinned down to paper like an insect and studied since i was old enough to go to pre kindergarten classes by psychologists and psychiatrists and teachers alike. I have a GIANT ream of paperwork with some of my records i managed to recover as a 30 year old man from my various schools that was so completely gut wrenching to read i was in a walking coma for 3 months afterwards, recovering from the whiplash of all that information and what it meant finally sinking in.   It was the key component to my finalized diagnosis after several months of dual evaluation (differential diagnosis) that led to me being official labeled as having Asperger's Syndrome. Though that definition may have changed slightly due to the DSM manual changing, so now i am simply an adult with autism, just maybe not the kind that you would immediately recognize.

I have spent a great deal of my life in the back of the class, literally and metaphorically BEHIND everyone.  I had to study in class to learn, and keep up with the standards of each state's requirements but i couldn't.  I couldn't find a way to meet that requirement AND to meet the requirements of my autism.   You see, I had to study PEOPLE when i was in school, and it was a full time job with much higher stakes.    Much of the class work was manageable, if i was allowed to do it my own way.  If i knew the answer in math class, i would write it down, but even if it was right, i was yelled at to show my work by the teacher, and i couldn't understand what he had meant by that. My writing started in the 3rd grade, and i was only encouraged because as it turns out, they were just using my writing to study me and perhaps publish a paper on my behavior. I wrote about trying to understand other kids, and why they were mean to me.  I wrote about how scary my asthma was and how sad i felt at home and at school.  I wrote about whatever autistic interest i had at the time. Dinosaurs for a long time. Then learning every breed of dog and how to draw them.  Learning to fix computers and write in MS Dos when i was in the 3rd grade. My homeroom was in a chicken coop outside of the school in a small town in upstate NY.  Not a great place for a kid like me to be, but i'm not sure there was any place in the world for a kid like me to be.

So i struggled. Of course.  The depth of that struggle is a million stories that would make your heart hurt to hear.  They make my heart hurt to recall sometimes.  I have achieved a herculean task in simply making it to this stage of my life.   In managed to exist right now.   I was never prepared to make it this far though.  I made it on instinct and relentless study and mimicry of my surrounding. I took social risks and after years of being beat on became hard and fearless in the face of threats and violence. I stood against my would be tormentors until they broke under the effort required to beat me into submission. I just had nothing left to lose anymore.

So here i am.  Smash cut to the here and now.

I'm functional, in some rudimentary ways.  But i'm also ruined for life, like a war veteran.  Warped by the things i've seen and had done to me.   My rational mind cannot filter out all the hurt, all the negativity, all the cynicism, even being this far removed from it's frequency.  I can't work a conventional job because for all my efforts, i'm still a mutant, and the fact that i require "Effort" at all to affect a normal personality to work with others saps my strength quickly and completely, running me into the same problem i suffered as a young man.    Either i can do the job well. Better then well.   Or i can manage all the social contracts in the workplace that must be maintained, and flounder in performing the actual duties with all level of acumen.

So i live lean. Incredibly lean. I have learned to make the meager stipend i receive for being ruined into a manageable mess, at least somewhat.  I have insurance. I have food. I have a tv, a computer, an internet connection and various other bits and pieces of a life strewn together from thrift stores and sales and trades and the like. I built my own computer. I fixed my own electronics. I don't have a cell phone or a car. I have enough.  Just enough. To survive, but not to thrive.

I have no family connections, nor do i have any connections to my social history.  All the faces and people i have met over my life have fled, many before they were aware of my condition, but i am certain they would not return upon learning of it.  Every living person i know and interact with by and large is brand new, and our relationships are kept shallow and distant. Engaging only under strict conditions of a shared interest on occasion and with great restraint on my part.  I yearn for a deeper connection, the strings i grasped at when i was young and tireless, but anytime i have attempted to obtain them, i find i am overreaching and run the risk of driving new people away.  I want to ask you who you really are, and why. I want to know your stories and how you got this age, to be sitting across from me here now.  My desire is to understand people, so that maybe someday i can fully understand myself. So that i might know warmth and affection born from a deeper place then the utility i offer. The odd collection of humor and skills that i present to you.

I don't have a dream. An overarching goal or purpose. Even when i was young, i just said i wanted to be happy. Maybe when i was a teenager, i thought i could be a singer if i kept practicing, but bands are VERY social and hard to manage.  And a job in the music industry when the pie was shrinking was not to be.  I wanted to be a DJ once. An on air personality, only to share my love of strange music with other people.  This is of course before i understood that being a dj required much more then just being good at it and having a great background in music. It required interviews and uniforms and protocols and gatekeepers. I tried, for a while, but it was not to be.   Since then i don't think i've had a single thing i've really wanted to be. I thought i might be a writer.

That my pain, my experiences, my unique brain and it's story might be worth something in the world. Maybe my life could help ease the pain of others, help people like me who could not relate in the normal world have a comforting and funny voice to support them. Something i wished i had in so many dark moments.  But i only knew the writing part of the puzzle. I wrote and wrote and wrote.  But i never knew what to do with it.  I'm not a guy with a terribly high self opinion. I could never figure out how to "market" myself. What i would send. What i would say.  What to do with a writing style that is like an unbroken ream of paper darting gleefully from gallows humor to sorrow.

I want the same things as you mostly.  A sense of purpose about my life and what i put my effort into. Some tangible result of that spent life to gradually emerge and form the beams that might support a fully realized person and life.  To feel friendship and feel no anxiety about losing it.  To make enough money to support myself, stand up from this wheelchair and walk off into the sunset alone, emerging when  i feel like it, not because i have too. To make a difference.  To mend my shattered wings.

So here i am, and here i have been for the last 2 years. In pursuit of nothing. Digging a hole and filling it back up each day. Strangling myself with my own noose of failure.  My own shattered sense of who i am, versus who i believe i am supposed to be.

And i still don't know. Maybe you can tell me.

Patterns

There are some patterns that most autistic people share. 

Extreme focus on a subject of interest (my playing a certain game for an entire day, or reading a book in one long session, fixing an object that is broken until complete, ignoring sleep and food.) 

A level of detachment from emotional matters, though the degree varies. I still possess empathy and emotions, they are just very VERY subdued by comparison to normal folks. Many people have remarked that i seem "Robotic." and at times that is probably true. I Seek to solve problems in a pragmatic, rational, and unemotional way so, yes it is, clinical or perhaps robotic. 

Traits like this, when you lay them out line by line, don't seem on paper as if they would be so crippling, so alienating and limiting, but in the real world even little differences matter. Even the little variations get you noticed. The guy with the mole on his lip will always be that to some people, forever and ever. That will color their interactions, perhaps it's subtle affect will radically alter his ability to progress upward in his chosen career path. 

It could be that simple, and my condition is quite a bit more pervasive then one little physical deformity.

It would be if not perfect, at least ideal, if difference was praised more in common encounters, less in tiny off shoot artist communes. If my brain could be recognized as a different operating system, a program designed for different tasks, and not uniformly compared to the existing archetypes and found lacking. 

“Everybody is a genius. But if you judge a fish by its ability to climb a tree, it will live its whole life believing that it is stupid.”

It is attributed to to Albert Einstein but a disputed quote. The message should still resonate loud and clear. 

Were so many PEOPLE not standing in front of so many doors, i could open them all with my mind. 

But there is no ruthlessness in me. No desire to hurt or reduce for malice. I can only make a cold logical presentation of why you should, 

But you are not obligated to ever, 

Move.

Day in the life, uh.

Living with me, or knowing me closely, is not unlike living with any other disabled person. 

I may not require the direct sort of care some on the spectrum do, but what i require takes resources just the same, and can foster frustration in those that would attempt to give it, no matter how well intentioned. 



Every single day requires a concerted effort on my part to feel normal, to feel, if not happy, something approaching it. 

It requires hours of concentration just to achieve something akin to not feeling entirely destroyed and hollowed out, each and every day.

If that sounds exhausting to endure, that's because it is. I assure you.  

It's no picnic to be around either. People take their normal friends and relationships for granted often, and it's not until that normality is juxtaposed against some disparity struggle that the value is crystallized. So who in there right mind has the metaphorical "Time" for that?  We are all so deeply individualistic, that i can't begin to imagine this idealized person because it's absurdity in the concept phase alone of consideration stops me abruptly, as if walking face first into a wall. 

Sure. Sympathetic right?  That happens. It's close to pity, often crosses over, but it's not your burden to bear and i respect that. I never wanted pity, and i'm past needing sympathy. Parity is all i strive for. And an "X" in the win column once in a while, to go beside my collection of check marks on spent calendar pages, gathering dust in yellowing boxes in my mind. 

I used to aim higher, but one to many trips down this flight of stairs from extending my hand enough to skew my balance has made me coarse and cynical, even if i'm still not especially cautious.  There was never a body capable enough nor willing enough to help drag me out of myself past my limitations,  it's just too much hard labor, too much work, and no one can be bothered.  

I do what i can with my skillset, but i and not the sort of brain, the sort of man, that can do everything myself.  I wish i was. I wanted to be. I can write the words and stack them up together, but i can't turn them into a book, into a working relationship, into a job.  I can sing the songs well, practice of years has lead to mastery, but i can't market myself for shit, so only the neighbors and my apartment know.  I can pack my own bags damnit, but the gatekeepers out there are all normal, all powerful, all excluding, and my own personal rat race for years has been trying to sneak in the back way. 

Nothing's changing beyond my age, and the depth of entropy, the intensity of my gravity. At the end of the day the world still operates in a way that i cannot penetrate. I am the powder, i am the lead, I am the hammer and the tensed spring, but absence the casing i am,

wasted. 

So i tell my story walking, late at night to people who keep on talking, while i'm out there being awkward, wishing that just this once i would fall forward. 
 

You can't fault a dog for being a dog.

Hi there.  I don't write often enough. Mostly because my depression grinds me into the dirt until i am unable to function, and if i survive each bout with it, i inexorably return to the page. Even though, it seems to do me no good. I want to believe my words mean something, that i can help someone, or even better, that i can help myself.  Years of writing to no one in particular have left me spent, isolated, and lacking the confidence one usually requires to succeed at such endeavors.

I digress.

This is an autism blog, and i am a formally diagnosed autistic.

There are too many studies out there for me to go through single-handedly, even with my perseverance operating at peak "forgetting to feed myself and sleep" levels of efficiency.   What i can bring you however, paints a picture.

Several studies using MRI brain imaging scans and autopsy of the brain have shown a connection between autism and brain size, as well as white tissue volume.  The variances are significant person to person, from some studies suggesting as low as a 17% greater volume of white matter and 9-13% increase in overall brain size, all the way up to 71.3% more white matter, and 66% greater brain size. These variances only serve to illustrate to those already in the know in the autistic community something we have always been aware of.

Autistic people are DIFFERENT.

Not just different from the population at large, different from one another, sometime in orders of magnitude greater then the average person would consider.  Lets not forget this is the brain we are talking about here. The seat of human consciousness. The thing that makes you, YOU.  The least understood of all the organs in the human body, and arguably the most important.  The complexity of the brain, as has been said by scientists, makes decoding the human genome look easy.

What i'm saying is, we really don't have the tools or techniques yet to understand just what these sorts of radical changes in our brains are doing to us completely, or what it means. This is an evolutionary grey area and no one was, or is prepared for what it could mean in the history of mankind. Autistic's could possibly be a new mutation, an evolutionary branch off of homosapien, just as we evolved from neanderthal man.

Yet, we have some out there, who have been trying to co-op our community, speak for us, suggest we are diseased, we need cures for our "illness."  A fundamental change in the biologic operating system of our brains from BIRTH, as it's re-branded as an illness. A sickness compared to cancer, suggested by some as a cancer of the mind.  There are organizations out that pity us, make money from others on the pity they cultivate, the guilt they inflict on confused, desperate parents.  All the while we set up our own communities, our own networks, and we wonder aloud together, "Why can't autistic people speak out for autistic people?"

Lets start over.

You may be wondering what the title of these piece means,

"You can't fault a dog for being a dog."

It's something i came up with many years ago.

I was frustrated, like a lot of people, with my failures in social situations. I endured early years of torture, bullying, abuse, and detention instead of proper care and consideration in school. They didn't have a diagnosis back then.  Still, no one seemed to be able to change this course for me.  In high school, i adapted a new, more vicious strategy. Having had my share of beatings, i choose not to back down to threats and attacks my first few weeks, and it allowed me to scare my bullies off, and even be invited into a few social groups.  Long story short? It worked for a while.  Teenagers love weird offbeat thinkers, and i had that in spades.  I was infamous, well known, and enjoyed a modest amount of popularity.  It was strictly off of my novelty, but i wouldn't figure that out until much later.  It didn't change the fact that i was still completely and thoroughly misunderstood. While i had some renown and with it a few benefits i never had before, i still felt like i could not make proper relationships. I felt like people were, incredibly stupid most of the time, and i could not relate to their limitations when i radically exceeded them.

It was hard to me to understand, because i was born this way, born with some extra ability that made my brain a bit bigger, a bit faster, and i just assumed that this is what everyone could do.  That when they seemed stupid, it was because they were just not applying themselves, not trying to think about things like i did.   I never felt that special, so how could so much of the world seem so obvious and simple to me and seem so vexing and irritating to others?  

It wasn't until i was in college that i understood what i had missed before. I was doing that same thing to them they did to me.  Judging them based on their inherent limitations, on what they were born able to do. On how they were created, not who they were.  Calling people stupid is just as unfair coming out of my mouth as it is anyone elses.  It wasn't any better then me getting beat up for being extremely poor at sports, wracked with cripplingly severe asthma, or being "weird."  I was born that way, and they in turn were born their own way.

Intelligence is just ONE evolutionary adaptation to try to succeed as a species in this world. Physical attractiveness is another. Raw strength is another. Incredible dexterity is another. Hell, one scientist when asked about his intelligence joked that it was the worst of the adaptive advantages to be born with.
He said something to the effect of, "Sure, intelligence might save me from predators, but so would running really fast. Personally i find running really fast to be the superior adaptation."

I learned something. I might be smarter. In one narrow little metric or maybe two. But that doesn't make me BETTER.  It just makes us different.  A big brain is very biologically expensive. That is to say, there was/is a finite pool of resources to draw from when i was created, so many of those resources when into my brain that my body was frail and extremely vulnerable. My allergies were life threatening from the moment i was born. I have been near death from asthma attacks in my lifetime, before the age of 10, and multiple times.

As an adult, my enlarged brain is severely demanding and poses many significant difficulties to my life that a regular brain does not. I am prone to heat stroke due to my head quite literally overheating from over activity (referred to by some as "racing mind.") I have Irritable bowl syndrome that seems to plague many on the spectrum.  I have constant pain from muscle spasms and a profound inability to sleep regular hours or restfully with any reliability.  My senses of hearing, smell and sight are elevated resulting in severe sensitivity and acute awareness to these stimuli often causing severe pain.  This results in me often wearing sunglasses indoors to cut the light, alienating me further. I have to wear earplugs in environments that normal people would never have to, and if i do not i can damage my body so severely that i have triggered benign paroxysmal positional vertigo. Multiple times. This took weeks, and weeks to heal, there is no means to make it heal faster.  Unpleasant smells are extremely unpleasant when you have a heightened sense of smell. I also have migraine headaches frequently due to changes in atmospheric pressure that can stay with me for days, rendering me wracked with pain with no real way to stop it until the storm passes, so to speak.

And that, is just the tip of the proverbial iceberg.  All of that for the evolutionary boon of a big brain. It's a horrible trade off. On occasion is has proven helpful, most of the time it just results in me being penalized socially.  No one likes someone who is right all the time, it makes them self conscious. Most of the time my nature effortless language and cadence make people around me feel bad about themselves, even when i am trying my hardest not to offend or insult anyone.  Being smarter is bad for ME too, not just others. It makes me hyper aware of my problems, my limitations,  and the statistical likelihood of overcoming them. It makes me a jaded overly studious cynic par excellence. It's nothing to be jealous of for certain. It leaves me exhausted, depressed, lonely and unable to connect to others due to the heaviness of my demeanor.

But i am, what i am. And i can't be mad at you, for being what you are.

The average brain is being inundated with 11 million bits of information a second, and yet we are only able to process 50 bits per second.  Maybe i can process 100. Maybe more. But that is a fundamental difference in our biology, and should not be asserted to make other inferences about one another's character. I can't be angry anymore when someone doesn't understand me, i have to respect their limitations and hope they can make an effort to respect mine.  If that happens, at least we can tolerate each other.

We still have a problem though. A problem greater then any other manner of communication barrier one could possibly fathom.  This is no mere language barrier. There is no computer program or off the shelf linguist out there that can translate "autistic" to "neurotypical."  We still cannot understand each other, and while that is a lost to both parties, it is invariably a greater blow for the autistic in this exchange. Nt's rule the world. You are plentiful, powerful, and completely ubiquitous. When one thinks of a person, they think of you.  Autistic's are rare and vastly different even from one another, and losing the ability to communicate with the most bountiful human life form on the planet lea leaves us severely disadvantaged, and honestly, pretty alienated and alone.

How can we bridge this impossible gap? How can we accurately relay what those extra bits per second are doing to us, how they shape our lives and decisions, how they make us feel. Neanderthal man simply died out, but who knows how long that took or exactly how it transpired.

You are different from us. We are different from you.  Does that mean we are doomed to live entirely separate lives, operating in parallel from one another, forever?

I don't have many neurotypical friends.  You might not have any autistic friends. It starts with me, but as the dominate species out there in the world..... neurotypicals, it ends with you.