...But NOT, in actuality, to work. (Not that there would've been much work for me to do if I had. Apparently, the pool had absolutely zero chlorine. Which obviously means nobody's allowed in there.) Instead, it was to have a going-away party for my boss (well, one of my bosses, anyway; we have a long, complicated chain of command).
I arrived early, so I helped fold towels in my spare time. When Putting on the Ritz came on the lobby radio, I danced to it, and a front desk worker said that, after two and a half years, it was nice to see me coming out of my shell. Come 3, I was one of only two people at the event (everyone was late...including who the event was for...except us two), and one of my coworkers pointed out that in spite of knowing me for the entire time, she doesn't know much about me.
What they probably don't know is that, as someone with autism, it's extremely hard for me to do that. I'm not actually afraid of it. It's just I don't know when it's appropriate, very awkward in how I go about things, have been the entire time. I'm the kind of person who if asked a question, will directly answer it. I may try to tie a related subject to it, often with great difficulty and failing fairly badly, but it's always awkward, especially when they begin talking again.
I don't know when I'm supposed to stop talking and let them stop, and I don't know when I'm supposed to interrupt and begin talking myself. Yet I know interruption is necessary for me to be conversing, since when I just let them go on, something always causes me to never get a chance to talk at all.
I mean...with the written word, on this blog, I disclose stuff easily. It just flows out. One thing after another. If I was asked about something (I never am, because, well, nobody cares about the irrelevant trivial details of my day-to-day life; they may read the blog but don't actively seek to learn more than what I give them), I would elaborate in as much detail as I could possibly give.
But...speaking? I just...can't do it, and sometimes, it's frustrating. The comments meant to be conversation starters, to get to know me better, the compliments meant to make me feel better and encourage me to continue, they are good things, but every time they happen, my shortcomings in the field become all the more apparent and it can be easy to get those thoughts looping through my head about how much...more...I could be if I just...didn't have these stupid limitations.
But oh, well. The limits are there. They're never going away. Even if I disclosed big facts about myself to them. Being autistic. Being bipolar. Being trans. Those would help them understand my reserved nature better, about why they haven't gotten to see more of me, but it'd never fully go away.
I arrived early, so I helped fold towels in my spare time. When Putting on the Ritz came on the lobby radio, I danced to it, and a front desk worker said that, after two and a half years, it was nice to see me coming out of my shell. Come 3, I was one of only two people at the event (everyone was late...including who the event was for...except us two), and one of my coworkers pointed out that in spite of knowing me for the entire time, she doesn't know much about me.
What they probably don't know is that, as someone with autism, it's extremely hard for me to do that. I'm not actually afraid of it. It's just I don't know when it's appropriate, very awkward in how I go about things, have been the entire time. I'm the kind of person who if asked a question, will directly answer it. I may try to tie a related subject to it, often with great difficulty and failing fairly badly, but it's always awkward, especially when they begin talking again.
I don't know when I'm supposed to stop talking and let them stop, and I don't know when I'm supposed to interrupt and begin talking myself. Yet I know interruption is necessary for me to be conversing, since when I just let them go on, something always causes me to never get a chance to talk at all.
I mean...with the written word, on this blog, I disclose stuff easily. It just flows out. One thing after another. If I was asked about something (I never am, because, well, nobody cares about the irrelevant trivial details of my day-to-day life; they may read the blog but don't actively seek to learn more than what I give them), I would elaborate in as much detail as I could possibly give.
But...speaking? I just...can't do it, and sometimes, it's frustrating. The comments meant to be conversation starters, to get to know me better, the compliments meant to make me feel better and encourage me to continue, they are good things, but every time they happen, my shortcomings in the field become all the more apparent and it can be easy to get those thoughts looping through my head about how much...more...I could be if I just...didn't have these stupid limitations.
But oh, well. The limits are there. They're never going away. Even if I disclosed big facts about myself to them. Being autistic. Being bipolar. Being trans. Those would help them understand my reserved nature better, about why they haven't gotten to see more of me, but it'd never fully go away.
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