I do not feel my rigid thinking would be a big impairment to my ability to communicate if I did, in fact, move on completely. However, I rarely do. I keep breaks like this — changes in routine, misused words, alterations in sequence, times when I have been utterly confused and then angered — in a file that I access and reexamine in total each time I face a new bout with my rigid thinking. Unfortunately, each time I begin perseverations on one particular issue, I am very likely to recant a litany of similar instances and sets of circumstances, even from as far back as a decade or more ago. Thankfully, Tom has a strong threshold for my perseverations and my rigid thinking patterns. I suppose he has finally come to accept that this chink in my character is as much a part of me as are my blue eyes.
As odd as it might sound, one of the kindest things my husband ever said to me was, «You are so weird». Not a typical endearment, but nonetheless, it brought me joy because in those few words I found a sky filled with freedom. From that comment alone, I knew that even though Tom recognized my differences, he was still interested in being with me. This gave me the go ahead to confess, if you will, every single sensory issue that exasperated, overran and confused me. It felt so liberating to tell Tom my fingers felt like they were being torn apart when he interlocked his fingers with mine — that I felt bugs under my skin when he touched me lightly — that my mouth watered and my nose burned and my stomach turned when he wore certain kinds of cologne — or that when he came too near me, it took everything in me to keep from shoving him aside.
He took each admission in stride, simply nodding as I explained what I was feeling when assaulted by certain sensations. Never once did he complain when I exclaimed I had to leave a ball game because the crowd’s constant commotion and moving about made me feel lightheaded and disoriented. Not ever did he tell me he was angry or hurt because I refused to sit too closely to him or hug him often enough or display outward affection like other couples do. At no time did he appear embarrassed or chagrined in response to my social blunders. Still, I worry that I am in some way leading him to feel he is missing something in me, a certain tenderness or smoothness, a softness or a kindness… a special something that only he can define, but that I cannot discern for myself or exhibit on my own. As a sort of insurance policy, as protection from the fact that I might not be as affectionate or pliable as he might like, I work at asking him to tell me when and if he needs more from me than he is getting from me. But because I suspect he will never burden me with the notion that I am disappointing him, I have taken it upon myself to try something that so far has managed to help me make small changes in my behavior. Like other people make lists to remind themselves to pick up milk or get the mail, I make lists that tell me how to act. On my list are things like — hold Tom’s hand for five minutes every day; squint eyes when in an overwhelming crowd; say «Excuse me» instead of «I have to get out of here now!»; count to five before replying; hug Tom three times today. When I review my list, I remember how I need to act.
I am convinced I benefit from this strategy, despite its simplicity. It seems to stick things in my memory — rules and skills and planned behaviors that I would never contemplate or remember to do without prodding, but I am routinely surprised that I need to rely on something so contrived. I have an excellent memory for most things and I am tempted to think I should remember to do something the moment I tell myself to do it. I suppose this discrepancy occurs because there is a subtle difference of content at play here. The memories I easily recall are all based on facts I am interested in or situational events that happened in my past. For some reason, I cannot seem to recall how to act as easily as I can recall how I did act. It is as if when I look backwards I see a photo album filled with vivid images and shapes, but when I try to look forward I cannot call to mind one reliable picture to guide me along. Instead, I spend a great deal of time imagining how things should happen, rehearsing possible scenarios over and over, contriving lines I might say, and directing how others should act and how I would react to their reactions. I will play this game until I feel I have exhausted every possible scenario, and then I will typically obsess over which scene is most likely to happen in real life. But, of course, things rarely turn out exactly as I had rehearsed and so I suppose it will never be possible for me to always know how to act. The human saga is just not reliable enough for me to predict.
Social situations are not the only things I find unreliable, and hence, untrustworthy and uncomfortable. My sense of visual perception often plays tricks on me, making it difficult for me to do ordinary tasks like picking an object from a background, seeing discrete differences among similar objects, or judging if things are close or far in proximity to where I am. Generally speaking, I know I should not rely on my own visual perception, but practically speaking, it is sometimes impossible to rely on anyone else. It is embarrassing to admit to people, strangers especially, that I am disoriented, that I cannot pick my car out from others in a crowded parking lot, that I cannot find my way out of a mall or down a series of hallways in an office building, or that I cannot even easily find my way home in my hometown.
When I know I am going to be in a situation that might render me helpless, I try as best I can to prepare solutions to every problem I might face. For example, I might ask my husband to draw me a very elaborated map pointing me where I need to go with both written and visual cues to assist me. Then we go over the directions verbally until he feels certain I will not lose my way. Finally he hands me the portable cell phone with firm instructions to call him the moment I get lost, kind of an inevitable conclusion for me. I prepare, too, for what will happen once I do find my way to my destination. I try to park my car next to a big visual landmark, something I can lock in my memory for safekeeping until I need it to direct me to my car. I try also to avoid big malls, opting instead for small, self-contained stores that sell everything I need under one roof. I will also talk to myself as I am navigating my way through buildings or down streets, reminding myself to calm down, make mental notes of what I am seeing, have confidence and keep in mind I can always stop and call home for help.