Over-analysing communication

'How do neurodivergent people survive the modern world?' A diary entry for the girl who refuses to buy a journal.

Many times I’ve been faced with the same situation. I reach for my phone, eager to send an email, a text, or make a call, and am faced with the impossibility of reaching out. The thought of making that first move, of making myself vulnerable and risking whatever response I may get, is too overwhelming. In most of these scenarios, I’m defeated, as the evil boss of anxiety stands above my lifeless body, my message goes unsent — another opportunity lost.

In other cases I decide to be brave, reach for my gigantic ass sword hidden in my back pocket (anxiety meds and procrastination) and force myself to hit send.

This is where it all comes crashing down.

I’m not new to the modern world of technology; in fact, I grew up with it. Like a close childhood friend, I should be familiar with the ins and outs of communicating with people via a device. Yet, I’m not.

As soon as I’ve hit send, I rush to turn on Do Not Disturb, throwing my phone as far away as I can, or shutting down the page on my laptop. If I can’t see it, if they can’t get to me, I don’t have to interact with their inevitable response — and it can’t hurt me.

I’ve racked my brain for the obvious reasons for this major shortfall in my brain. Trauma? Anxiety? Weird phobia of seeing text notifications?

Ultimately, I’ve narrowed it down to being autistic. ‘Why?’ you may groan, annoyed with what seems to be the new reason for all the world’s problems. You hear politicians defacing disabilities, you hear white, Christian mothers screaming out against vaccines turning their kids into soup, you see grown men on “X” using slurs against people. So, why now, why this, why, why, why?!

I could show you a mountain of studies, reliable sources and data that suggest a link, a comorbidity, anything to tie autism to anxiety, social anxiety, and difficulties in socialising and communicating. But, I have two essays due next week, and I don’t know about you, but if I can procrastinate doing any actual research, I will.

So, my reasoning is from my own deranged brain, the one causing the problems and acknowledging them, the one that knows all the solutions, but the same one that refuses to change. If Sisyphus were stuck not rolling a huge boulder up a hill forever, but rather sitting in his bedroom anxiously trying to face each notification he received, we’d be twins. I think it’s because of my autism, in particular, my ability to socialise.

We’ve been taught to believe we’re social animals, supposed to enjoy being in groups, and be good at things like picking up on signals and making dreaded eye contact. But for me, those things aren’t there. Unless you’re a brown eyed, doe-eyed beauty like Pedro Pascal or Jeon Jungkook, I’m not looking anywhere near your eyes, maybe your nose, maybe your eyelashes, maybe even the one hair sticking out on your forehead, but your eyes? Forget it. And picking up on signals? Please! I once thought a guy hated my guts, turned out he was flirting with me the whole time. (or is that my problem or his…)

Anyway, the point is, autistic people, in particular me, are awful at socialising. I hate to go out, I hate to start up small talk, I hate to message first or be the one to continue a conversation. It’s all like a game of Wordle where each guess keeps showing up yellow boxes — right letters but wroooong place. So why would communicating online be any easier?

I think it’s the fear, mostly. The idea that there’s someone out there reading my message and judging it, and writing a response. So that when I get that ungodly ding and a lit-up screen, I freeze like a deer in headlights. Maybe it’s more abstract than this, maybe it’s a me problem more so than an autism problem. Maybe I was right all those years ago before I got diagnosed, that I couldn’t possibly just be neurodivergent, there’s just something deeply wrong with me as a person, and me only. The fear that shoots through me when I see an email or a text is unearthly. It’s something even God wouldn’t have created, I mean, why would they spend their time in those seven days coming up with some niche parasocial horror to be experienced by some random girl billions of years into the future? Ha, ha. Right.

So maybe I don’t have an answer. Maybe I’m not meant to survive the modern world. Maybe there is no “neurodivergent’s guide to the galaxy phone call.” But would I have fared better in any other time? Maybe I’d have been fine as a Roman matron, maybe find a special interest in my wool-work and compete with all the other women in the village. But I’m too chatty, too curious to read, so a man wouldn’t have married me. What about Medieval England? Maybe I’d write a few funny lines, try to decipher some riddles. But I’m autistic. A man trying to write about his penis? I did not get that. So… Victorian England? Maybe try my hand at writing letters? But is that not the same as modern-day texting? What if my lover tried to send me a letter and thought I’d died or something because I got nervous and procrastinated sending it for a few weeks? Yikes.

If you couldn’t tell by now, I seem to have a knack for over-analysing, and not just communication. I think, therefore, we’ve come to a natural conclusion. Maybe this is me catastrophising, maybe this is the me procrastinating the current message I’m dreading, but either way, she’s persevering over logic. I couldn’t possibly do the obvious thing, which is to maybe go to therapy, try to stop over-analysing the world and force myself to comply with society like everyone else, maybe even just have some exposure therapy and message a bunch of people at random and click the responses like a half-loaded gun. No, I can’t do that. So, instead, I’m going to resign my fate. There’s no survival for neurodivergents, but if you’re an autistic person, maybe even ADHD, maybe just someone with anxiety, and YOU’RE surviving? Congrats, don’t show me or I might spiral. I must resign myself to constant over-analysing, constant mini panic attacks, and the continuous cycle of feeling confident as I click send and avoiding a message for the next few weeks, until — oh— aw.. It’s too late now.

Oh! But if you do want to see if I make it out alive.. If I do answer the message and open myself up to other people’s views of me.. maybe you could, I don’t know.. subscribe? My ego would feel reaaaally good if you did.