Last night my wife suggested that, since I am on the autistic spectrum, I might want to think about the possibility that I am socially impaired.
To this day, social interactions (at least with strangers) are fraught with a constant worry of giving an inappropriate response and being exposed in some way, of it all turning out horribly wrong. It is a continuous challenge to find a place of relaxation and ease and to communicate from there.
This gives a new slant to the struggle for artistic recognition. If it’s sourced in a very early imprint of trying to find a way to connect to others and be accepted, to feel—and be—safe in my environment, then the self-promotional urge comes from a much deeper place than the ego.
The ego/persona is only the means.
A paralyzing feeling of social awkwardness is normally associated with adolescence. The fear of being rejected, of being cast out by one’s tribe, is part of finding oneself and growing up.
I am still working on that. I never created a social identity I could trade on. I am an illegitimate child of the matrix. An autist. And highly reactive from whatever form of sexual trauma to boot.
I am still learning the language of neurotypical society. Testing, testing, testing, waiting for some irrefutable sign that I have got it right at last.
That I am accepted into the fold.
And now of course I am worried about posting this.
If you would like to help this groundhog to see past his shadow and be ready for the Spring—not to continue repeating the same day over and over—you can help me promote the book/myself by liking it on Facebook, following me on Twitter and retweeting my tweets, commenting at this blog, telling your friends via whatever social media you use (and even old flesh and blood-style), and of course, pre-ordering the book (in the UK; in the US).