Disconnect

I woke up this morning, and my first thought, as it has been for every morning for the past couple of months, is did someone try to connect with me while I slept, but when I open the mail app, there’s nothing but subscriptions and bills. I miss my friend. I miss my dad. I miss my mom.

What got me crying was thinking about the letter we found when we were moving Mom’s desk. Years before the disease reared its head, I thought it would be smart to talk about planning for what would happen when she passed, but she didn’t want to talk about it. It was all taken care of, she assured me. There was a letter that would tell me what to do. And that’s all she would say.

We were salvaging the pieces of her life that we wanted to save before her husband sold the house to move them both to Kentucky when we found the letter in the desk drawer. And I wished we could have talked in person, because the instructions inside were vague and unclear.

But what got me crying was her voice, so clear and pure in her letter, and how she actually managed to say good-bye even though her mind was gone by the time she finally passed. Thinking about it this morning made me miss her, and the tears started again.

A friend says just stop and let the feeling pass, just stop and feel it, let it run its course. It’ll only be for a couple of minutes, and then you’ll feel better. Seems like I do everything I can to not feel the feeling, down to writing a long blog post. But then I do stop, and just try to just feel it. Let myself cry.

But I don’t feel better after, just spent. The sorrow flares like a match, then gutters and dies, and I’m left a burnt splinter. But at least the sorrow is gone. No, shit, it’s still there. Now I’m a sad burnt splinter.

This wasn’t even the point, just a hurdle I had to overcome to get to it. I miss feeling connected to those around me, but then I’m sifting through my past, trying to discern if I ever really did. The divorce didn’t cost me any friendships, because all of our friends were her friends.

I’ve been shy and anti-social for most of my adult life. In high school and early college, I had different groups of friends with whom I felt a kinship, a connection. I remember at the time marveling at that feeling, and got in conflict with my folks because I started prioritizing my friends, with whom I felt a connection, over my folks, who suddenly seemed distant and remote in comparison. But all of those groups are long past, and I don’t really have any connection to those people anymore.

So then we’re in childhood. All of my friends are either the neighbors or children of my parents friends. Essentially co-workers in the job of childhood. My dad checked out after he decided that being a father wasn’t for him. My mom was difficult. And I was difficult. I know now that I’m Autistic, and I can see clear signs of it in both of them.

Did I learn how to not connect with people from watching them? Is it something inherent in the three of us, some part of the disability that cannot be overcome but rather needs to be accommodated? I originally thought it was related to the crib trauma, but now I’m wondering if it was before that. Was I always, from birth, disconnected?

It’s interesting that my younger much more neurotypical brother is easily the most social of us. He has long-term friends. His job requires him to travel and interact with strangers. I can’t see Mom, Dad, or myself ever choosing to do that for a career.

I guess what’s making me cry today is the deep sense of connection I felt to that letter. I knew that she loved me, but I never felt it. That’s an absolute lie, a generalization. Of course I felt it at different moments in my life, that’s how I know it exists. She saved my bacon more times than I can count.

Let’s try again: I know that she loved me, that I loved her, but I rarely felt a connection. My dad said something similar before we broke up, but he placed all the blame on her. “She said that she loved me, but I never felt loved.” Maybe what he meant is that he rarely felt connected to her, and maybe this is something related to our shared disability.

But when I wake up each morning, I still check my phone, and each morning I’m disappointed again. I miss the connection, the sharing. If I had known the friendship would be rescinded when the benefits ran out, I might not have entered into the deal. And honestly, it never occurred to me that somehow we were jeopardizing the friendship. But that might just be the Autism.