A few years ago, I had the privilege of going on about a dozen dates with an autistic woman (I’ll call her C). I had been following her on and off for 3 years and was so excited that she started giving back.
Since I am autistic myself, I thought we would get along easily. Instead, it’s like looking at myself from the outside, which, for the first time in my life, I can’t do without help.
“What a fascinating, beautiful and strange person!” But how long can I remain fascinated by a world I can’t enter?
Many mysteries in my interpersonal life were solved all at once. Previously, I understood that I had some qualities that people generally find a little unpleasant (coldness of appearance, insensitivity, difficulty in being comforted). It’s a small thing that in itself isn’t worth commenting on, but it’s fine until the constant low-level irritation reaches a breaking point.
From my perspective, it always seems to come out of nowhere.
My time with C taught me what it’s like to be on the receiving end of these acts, and that it’s worth tolerating them, at least in the short term.
C is a lovely young woman who shines like a star in the night sky. Her autism made her a very closed-minded person. By inoculating her against outside influences, it also made her creative and brilliant in a totally unique way.
Her inner world, insofar as it gave me a glimpse, was intoxicating. Her mind was a vast empire with its own language, currency, and history. To me, C seemed to be walking through a “world of bottles,” a living, breathing society of wainscoting.
I quickly realized that no matter how fascinating I found observing this world, I was always on the outside of it. This didn’t work.
I didn’t quit C of my own free will. She liked a lot of what I had to offer, but she didn’t care at all about the fact that she wasn’t interested in my romantic partnership and she was the one who moved on. .
Still, the strange experience of dating someone like me reminded me of an earlier breakup. Unlike C, who is refreshingly straightforward and down-to-earth, the neurotypical women in my past couldn’t really explain why they were leaving.
The regular cycle roughly follows the trajectory of one of the most troublesome romances in film: that of Enid and Seymour in the 2001 film “Ghost World.” When Enid (Thora Birch), an alienated, typical hipster high school senior, meets Steve Buscemi’s grumpy, highly wordy record collector, she becomes infatuated with her .
“What a charming, beautiful, strange person!” She begins to notice some unpleasant idiosyncrasies, but the thrill of being with this rare specimen allows her to ignore them. However, over time, she becomes disillusioned and becomes increasingly distant.
For me, the beginning of the end usually comes when she broaches the topic of meeting other people. I promise to change.she argues that don’t want me to do that. Until recently, the reaction was very confusing.
What’s especially frustrating about this seemingly inevitable moment is that I’ve worked hard to overcome my natural social deficiencies. I have taken pains to transform myself into a man of social grace and savoir-faire, a man who might be molded into so-called boyfriend material.
And I certainly managed, inexplicably, to deliver some genuine shockers. Silly me, I thought passing this first test would be the difficult part. In fact, this is where the real work begins.
What did it take to make them stay? Whatever it was, I was clearly missing it. What I often heard was their insistence that I would not change. They wanted me to continue to be my amazing, unique self…as long as I did so apart from them.
My experience at C gave me a new perspective. So I’d liken myself to a slightly more glamorous movie avatar: Willy Wonka.
Wonka’s mysterious chocolate factory may operate on an obscure and unconventional system, but it’s highly effective. This weird little guy makes some of the most devastatingly delicious candy on the market. No small part of its appeal is the kind of magic its inscrutability confers.
Who wouldn’t take the opportunity to see for themselves how these tempting treats are made?
The first is magic. It feels privileged to be able to share such a secret. And it’s such a rich, endless place to explore. There seems to be no end to the wonders to discover.
Fast forward one year. You live in the factory full time. After all, it is very finite. I looked at every room from top to bottom. You drank water from the chocolate river even though the fat German kid drowned in the river. I tasted all the fruits on the wallpaper. You’re back as a blueberry. We sampled mushrooms, flowers, ferns, rocks, and more in an indoor park made entirely of candy.
One year later it’s still all candy, and it’ll continue next year. You’re pretty tired of candy by now, but you put on a show for Willy, who never gets tired of it. He’s always so happy to find you in that room. “It’s all sweets!” He says this with genuine surprise every time, as if he has realized this all over again.
“Heh, yeah. Oh, it’s really candy,” you reply lukewarmly.
Wonka is all candy too. He has little interest or ability in discussing anything else. You’re also tired of his performative, wobbly old man routine, complete with nimble, acrobatic somersaults, that he pulls off every time you or anyone else sees him. Not that it’s an act.he really can’t do that do not have Please be so.
What are some of his more alarming crimes?can he help Them, do you care? He drowns a child in chocolate to make a point about greed, then has his orange employees sing a hilarious song about it. About Oompa Loompas: Do they get a fair daily wage? Are they free to go?
You can even ask Wonka to change you. He will do anything to convince you to stay at this point. Safety inspection of a large glass elevator? His DEI panel for dealing with Oompa Loompa complaints? Did he overhaul his management system based on Six Sigma methodology? Got it, baby.
But who would want to visit that factory? In order to make the “improvements” you need to grow, you will be destroying what made it special in the first place. Even worse, it would create a hostile environment for Wonka’s own survival.
The only course of action is to leave as gracefully as possible, leaving the place unsullied for the sake of the comrades who will soon arrive.
Or maybe each of my ex-girlfriends understood our breakup. Perhaps I’m fooling myself and overthinking what was just a classic series of evasions: “It’s not you, it’s me.” But I’d like to think they’re experiencing at least a little of the melancholy, stoic acceptance that I felt when I lost C.
Either way, it’s not something I can afford to dwell on. I cater to a specific market and obviously it’s not for everyone. Even true connoisseurs may not be able to match my enthusiasm in the long run.
fair enough. All I can do is continue to maintain guaranteed quality standards in a fun and uncompromising manner. When the right collaborator comes along, you wouldn’t expect anything less.
