Pretending to be Normal

by Liane Holliday Willey

if my outsides get too frayed.

  I do not suppose the teenage years are smooth for anyone, but for me they were enlightening and intriguing times, if not always easy and carefree. It was a simple, yet rich experience; a big box of riddles wrapped up in innocence. Cognitively, I know that I was aware of the unique attributes I apparently shared with no one, but somehow this reality never hurt my heart nor bothered my mind. I did not care that I lived within a different set of assumptions and neither did my friends. The art of friendly acceptance gave us each a warm canvas to explore.

  I recall my high school classmates had at least three general groups we could identify with. I imagine there were others. As I think of them now, it occurs to me each was defined according to shared interests, a dream come true for AS people. I can easily bring to mind the group I was in. My crowd was filled with athletes, cheerleaders and student government leaders. I had fallen into this particular group while I was still in elementary school, years before we had any inclination of who we would be or what we would do in high school. Our friendship was a known quantity. It was something safe and dependable, qualities that can be in short supply for teenagers. We were the outspoken group, the one that asserted itself on everything both tangible and intellectual. Nothing went by us without first having to circumvent an opinion or ideology that we had planted squarely in its path.

  It was easy for me to give my opinions on things, virtually all the time. I was by far the most blunt and outspoken of our group, even when my friends suggested I had gone too far. I never knew how far was too far. Even now, I cannot find one reliable reason for keeping my thoughts to myself. The world seems fickle on this point. Sometimes people want an opinion, sometimes they do not. Sometimes they say something so incredible an opinion has to be given. Other times they sit in silence seemingly unaware of the situation that lies before them. The entire dichotomy is too confusing. I do not see how anyone can ever know with any degree of certainty when they should voice their thoughts and when they should keep them silent. Sure, I often find myself wondering if I have said too much or worrying that I may have been misunderstood. Sometimes I even wish I had not said what I did. But I realized long ago that it would be easier for me to stop a dog from going after a bone, than it would be for me to stop my thoughts from escaping my mouth.

  If giving an opinion had been all I felt I needed to do in high school, I imagine I would have gone to bed every night happy with every one of my days. I usually wanted more for myself, not because I intended to prove anything to anyone and not because I had set a series of goals I needed to achieve. I simply enjoyed certain activities and sought ways to explore them. Three particular activities caught my fancy when I was in high school. The first was competitive swimming. Water continued to enchant and calm me. Too bad it could not make a good swimmer out of me. I naively assumed that because I liked to swim, I would be a good team swimmer. I was wrong. In some ways I was a natural swimmer. I could hold my breath for very long periods of time, I had strong legs for kicking, and I was aerobically fit. But I failed in all the ways that really counted. I could swim for hours, so long as I was moving both arms together and both legs together. But I suffered miserably when a stroke required me to use bilateral coordination and balance. For instance, if I had to pull with my left arm, I could not coordinate a kick from my right leg. My swim coach gave up on me about as soon as she first saw me try to swim. She did let me stay on the team, however, and she even gave me the same workouts the other members had. My coach was never cruel or rude to me. How could she be? I was invisible to her.

  I tried as hard as I could to keep up with the other swimmers. I arrived to practice earlier and left later, but I was not capable of teaching myself what I needed to learn. I went to a few meets with the team, but I never understood the social aspects of the group’s dynamics. I sat alone at the meets, watching the clock until it was time to leave. I do not think anyone missed me when I quit the team. I cannot say I missed them either. What I missed was the water.

  I dream sometimes that I had been coached by someone who was more sensitive to individual needs, someone who would have recognized my coordination problems as more than an example of a child who simply was not an athlete. At the very least, I wish someone had helped me more. But high school was in some ways a survival of the fittest. Only those students with extreme special needs were typically identified and assisted. Everyone else was left to find their own way. After I faced the fact that I would not be a winning swimmer, I found my way to the marching band’s drill team, but not as a musician. I was a pep squad dancer. What a ridiculous choice for me to have made. How could I not have known that the same bilateral problems which kept me from being a good swimmer would also keep me from becoming a good cheerleader?

  When we practiced for dance performances, it was common for one of the captains of our squad to face the rest of us while she showed us our routine. I do not know how they managed, but it seemed like everyone but me could tell their body to move in the opposite direction of what they were seeing, so that if the captain moved her left arm, they did too. I did not. When someone facing me moved their left arm, I moved my right arm. When they moved their right arm, I moved my left arm and so on and so forth. I knew all along that I was making a mistake, but no matter what I did and no matter how many times I told myself things like «her right arm equals my left arm», I could not transfer the knowledge to the movement. After a few weeks of bilateral torture, I figured out I might find some success if I practiced our dance steps from the back row; a vantage point that allowed me to carbon copy the people who were facing the same direction I was. Eventually, after hours and hours of practice, I could make myself perform the dance steps with some degree of proficiency, if there was someone in front of me to give me cues. Of course, this was not the only talent a dancer needed. Part one was memorizing the steps to the routine, part two was synchronizing them to music. Part one was a breeze compared to part two. I was always offbeat, always the girl begging to stay in the last row even though I was not the tallest, and I was always the girl who tripped.

  I never mastered the aptitude of dance in high school, for precisely the same reasons I never mastered the step and dance aerobic classes that came into popularity after I was out of high school. The difference was, by the time I reached adulthood, I knew the odds were against me being able to do anything that took coordination. I did not recognize how deeply rooted my simple dexterity problems were when I was still a teen. But maybe that was for the better. I would not have tried half the things I did, if someone or something had told me I was bound for failure. I think it was a good thing I was too egocentric to think along those terms. As it happened, I eventually found success in an activity that charmed, interested and fulfilled me. I found the speech and dramatic arts club.

  I think cultural and performing arts types must be Aspies. If not, they are surely the next best thing. They are at least amenable friends of Aspies. I found great acceptance among my drama peers, most of whom were extremely tolerant and appreciative of diversities and personal visions. I was able to flourish in such a warm and supportive environment, finding it to be the best place for me to turn many of my AS traits into real and viable assets. In those classes I was inspired by other eccentric thinkers who taught me to think of language as more than a means for expressing simple needs. Finally, I had found a natural place for me to be.

  Linguistics and the act of speaking itself, have always been amongst my keenest interests, but I did not become immersed in the treasures they awarded until I studied them in high school. Words, and everything about them, hold my concentration like nothing else. On my over-stuffed bookshelf sit several thesauruses, a half dozen dictionaries, famous quotations books, and a handful of personal reflection journals. Language appeals to me because it lends itself to rules and precision even more often than it does to subjectivity. Put together in the right sequence, taking into account things like tone, perspective, implications and intent, a writer can twea
k and bend words until they say precisely what they should. I am fascinated with the opportunities words provide. I love everything about them, especially the power they yield. Some words can please my eyes, given they have the symmetry of line and shape I favor. Other words can fascinate me by the melodies they sing when they are spoken. Properly handled — with care most of the time — words can work miracles on my sensibilities and on my understanding of the world, because each one has its own personality and nuance and its own lesson to teach.

  Sometimes, the care I give to words can throw me into an obsessive compulsive ritual. I typically end up spending far too much time selecting which word to use and too much time reworking a sentence so that it looks and feels and sounds right. This all translates into a fixation that can grind my thought process to a halt. When I get like this, I cannot concentrate on anything else, not a thing, until I have found the perfect term or phrase I need. This tendency can make my experiences with the written word tedious, at least in terms of time and other missed opportunities, but never meaningless or futile.

  Fine things happened when I mixed my voice with the monologues and original oratories I wrote. I would play with my voice, working it, pushing it to reach new tones and pitch, different volumes and a myriad of rhythms. I enjoyed the feeling my voice left on my ear, the way it resonated in my throat and the sensation it created as it slipped past my lips. My voice did as much as my thoughts to choose the words I would put in my work. I would search long and hard to find words that tickled, words that had smooth textures, and words that warmed when I spoke them. I knew I had written something great when I found words that looked, sounded and felt good. And when I knew I had something great, I performed well enough to routinely finish in the top five per cent of the competition.

  Even though my public speaking competition days are behind me, I still work my voice, albeit in a different fashion. I have developed a habit of mimicking other peoples speech, especially if their voice has heavy nasal or high shrill qualities, or extreme eastern or southern accents. I find I have to mimic these voices, otherwise they sting my ears like a wet towel slapped against my eardrum would. When I mimic agitating voices, I can play and replay them until I manage to edit them into a medley I can appreciate and value.

  Most of my public speaking fell under a category called radio and television. Basically, I would sit behind a microphone and read news copy I had written, to a panel of judges. When I competed in this context, I usually won or finished in second place. There is no question that this was my favorite thing to do, but I also liked performances that challenged my nonverbal expressions and my body posture. It was great fun to think of myself as a doll I could bring to life. I enjoyed methodically planning how I could make a script or poem more meaningful with facial expressions and eye contact and the wave of a hand or the shift of my weight. It was like a puzzle I could piece together. Little did I realize it was also a wonderful way for me inadvertently to learn how to use my nonverbal communication skills when I was not presenting a piece of literature. I was coming to understand that words on paper sometimes had to scream to be heard, but that words spoken with a distinct voice and compelling expressions could whisper, for the combination was that powerful.

  I never experienced apprehension or fear when I spoke in public. I do not understand why so many people do. I wonder if I am missing something, if I am overlooking some obvious problem with public speaking that falls beyond my grasp. Maybe I enjoy speaking in front of a group because it is a one-way communication experience and, as such, something that is not affected by the complications of other people’s body language and non-verbal styles. Given a chance, I would much rather speak to a large group than I would to an individual or two. Small group conversations make my nerves feel like they are wearing stilts on an icy pavement. When I talk to other people, I have trouble following conversation transitions. I step on other people’s words, stumbling ahead with my own thoughts, in almost every conversation I have. It was not like this when I performed monologues and oratories. It was easier. I never stumbled a bit. Standing on stage was a release for me, even though I was always a solo performer and so, on my own each and every time. It was as if all the thoughts I kept trapped throughout the day, all my weird observations on life and my strange obsessive wonderings, could leave my conscious and find a new home within someone else’s mind. Once my thoughts were spoken aloud, I could finally move on to another thought or concern.

  Speech competitions taught me a great deal about myself, especially when I was off the stage. On stage, I could try on the entire range of human emotions, even the emotions I typically had nothing to do with, and then as easily as I slipped them on, I could take them off and re-shelf them until the next time. But offstage, I did not have the luxury of pretending. I remember the first time I knew there was a vast difference between what I was able to make myself do in front of an audience, and what I could coax from myself when I was left without the stage lights. When I had to be me around peers I had not known for a long time, especially peers I was meeting for the first time, I froze.

  Hindsight tells me this was AS nagging my reality, bubbling up and over until it became a cold, wet hand that held my calm to an ice tray white with frost. Try as I might, I could not sneak back and forth between the world of the normal and the world of the irregular. I seemed to shout my arrival the moment I made it to one place or the other. When I visited normal, I was relatively sure of myself and largely able to maintain my sense of composure, despite the fact I worried all along that eventually someone would discover I was an outsider. But when I side-stepped my way to the irregular, the glue that held me together softened and I melted a bit. Suddenly, without any kind of warning, my nerves would jump to center stage and demand my attention, making it impossible for me to remember any of the interpersonal speaking techniques and body language expressions I could show on stage. Something odd would happen to me and I would retreat into the places I used to visit when I was a little girl. I would turn my mind from everything that was going on around me, even the laughter and the jokes, the friendly discussions about everyone’s upcoming events and the well wishes that were coming my way. I would concentrate instead on blanking out my thoughts, counting over and over and wishing I was in a still spot away from the noise. Maybe I was experiencing sensory overload. Maybe I was frazzled because I did not have any way of predicting what would come next. Or, maybe I simply felt uncomfortable sharing close space with people so foreign to me. All I know for certain is that these moments were terrible. Faces began to merge together, voices sounded out of sync and my perception fooled me. Things ran on slow speed then, letting an eternity slip by until I could find a quiet corner or an empty room to gather myself up again. It was hard to make me right at that point, but given time, I always did.

  It is tempting for me to reexamine that period according to the knowledge I now have, and each time I do, I find myself wondering if I might not have learned more if I had not isolated myself from my peers. Would I have learned more useful information about personal interactions if I had been a part of a drama team instead of a solo act? Would I have come to realize that emotions and expressions and words are empty if they are not shared and received? Would I have been able to see, years before I finally did, that communication does not rest against a flat surface, but that it has a vivid, virtually three-dimensional element to it? I can only wonder…

  The study of all things linguistic was clearly one of my favorite obsessions, but it paled in comparison to the fixation I kept on the wild western frontier and Hollywood’s romantic comedies. When I was not watching the movies on television, looking through my vast collection of movie magazines or one of the dozens of books I had on the history of film, I was usually turning the pages of every fiction and nonfiction book I could find on cowboys and train robbers and American Indians and pioneers and western settlers. I loved anything to do with the way America lived in the late 1800s. I rode my horse bareback because that wa
s how native Americans rode. I bought a cowboy hat with my first babysitting money. I even inquired into my genealogy to see if I was related to the infamous gambler and gun fighter, Doc Holliday. Other girls in their teens did not seem to share my interest in the old west, but then, neither did the boys. Not that any of them seemed particularly put off when I went on and on about how fascinating those times were. They were politely tolerant, but not inclined to add much to the conversation. After a while, I stopped trying to talk to my friends about my favorite topics, but I never stopped thinking about them or enjoying them on my own. I went to see western movies and old films by myself, not giving one moment’s thought to the notion that this was an uncool thing to do. I made audiotapes of western television series and played them over and over instead of listening to the radio. I wandered the archives of the library all alone, never dreaming of asking someone else to join me in searching the stacks for books about Annie Oakley or Wild Bill Hickock or Sitting Bull. And I argued with my teachers when they tried to convince me to read something other than western lore, telling them it was my goal to read every book in the library on every western character I could find. I think I did.

  I mark my growing obsessions in my own interests as the point when I should have begun to lose my footing in the friendship circles I called my own. I am amazed my peers put up with me and my peculiarities. Truth be known, they may not have, had it not been for a very good friend of mine named Craig. This friend was very bright and very funny and very well-liked. With him by my side, I was given an instant elevated status among our group and even beyond. He had been my friend almost forever and over the years he had become almost like a guardian to me. I do not know if he knew the struggles I faced when I tried to accomplish social skills without the benefit of some kind of direct instruction, and I do not know if he understood there were knots in my belly when I was around new people or faced with new situations, but I do know that he was somehow always there for me whenever I found myself swimming upstream or feeling penned in. In subtle and overt ways, he would show his support for me by saving me a seat at lunch, walking me to class, or picking me up to take me to a party. He fixed me up on dates, made me laugh when my nerves started to twitch, and kept me company if I was all alone in a crowd. He even came with me on a family vacation once when the person I had invited to come along had to cancel. Craig jumped in to my rescue even before I knew I needed to be rescued.