One trait that most people with Autism do have in common is that we have no idea how to go about building normal relationships. Or even maintaining existing relationships. It’s a constant struggle, and one that I’ve learned somewhat to manage, if poorly at times.

As a child, I was utterly clueless. I knew that I wanted people to like me, but I really could not figure out how to make it happen. I grew up in a neighborhood with a lot of other children around my age, and we often played outside together. If other kids were already playing, it was easy enough for me to join in. But if no one else was outside, I took a route that, believe it or not, made perfect sense to me at the time; I stood in our front yard and sang songs. Occasionally, I’d dress up in a costume when I did so. My thought process was something like this: If I’m dressed as a pirate, I’m really looking cool. And if I sing, people will love me.

Obviously, this worked approximately 0% of the time. Sometimes, other kids would come over to see what weird thing I was doing, but I’m pretty sure that their parents made them because they felt sorry for me. My mom tried to gently suggest that I might have better luck finding playmates if I simply went up to a house, knocked, and asked another child to come play with me. I remember thinking, “Mom doesn’t know anything. What I’m doing works just fine.” It didn’t, but I didn’t realize that for a long time. Knocking on a door and asking was unspeakably terrifying; I preferred to just make myself so fabulous that other people would be naturally drawn to me. At the time, that honestly made perfect sense. I had also not yet realized that my singing voice could legitimately be compared to the noise a cat makes when he’s really, really angry with another cat.

I developed other techniques as I got older, and my therapist played a big role in that development. He taught me that the best thing you can do to make someone like you is to ask them questions about themselves. And ask follow-up questions in response to their answers. This approach almost always works, but finding the courage to make an initial contact with a new person is still very daunting.

When I was in graduate school, I dated a guy for several years who would take me to parties or out to dinner with his friends, then criticize everything I’d done during the drive home. I talked too much, I didn’t talk enough, I talked about stuff no one else cared about, or I laughed at an inappropriate time. Hey… At least I didn’t dress up in a costume and sing, right? That relationship led to the development of one of my most annoying habits. After any gathering at which I’m interacting with people, I always have to ask, “Did I do okay?” It drives my husband up the wall, because normal people don’t worry that they messed up somehow. It’s a constant fear of mine. I’m not afraid of new people per se; I’m afraid of doing something weird that will expose to everyone present that I am not like everyone else.

So any social situation is stressful for me because I have a list of rules in my head that I have to follow in order to fit in. Faking normal is sometimes a lot of work, but I still haven’t given up hope that someday it will become second nature. I used to have to think constantly about how to properly maintain eye contact during conversations without staring. Look directly at the person’s cheekbones, just under the eyes, for about five seconds, then look away briefly, and look back for another five seconds. I don’t need to count to five any more, and that part of social interaction has become natural. Hopefully, some day it all will be! If not… Well, I still have a pirate costume.

This is the third installment of Faking Normal, a series by  J, an adult with Autism who hopes to demystify Autism and help readers understand themselves or their children better.  If you have questions or topic requests for J, please email her at jblog@washingtonautismadvocacy.org.