Right, let’s talk about something that’s been on my mind a lot lately – something a bit tender, if I’m honest, and a path I’m still very much figuring out. Friendships. For many, they seem to blossom with a natural, almost effortless grace. But for me, and perhaps for other late-diagnosed autistic adults, the landscape of friendship has often felt like a map written in a language I’m only just beginning to understand.
An Outsider Looking In
All my life, there’s been this quiet, persistent hum beneath the surface, a feeling of being… well, a bit “broken” when it came to connecting with people. It wasn’t for lack of wanting. I’ve watched others weave these intricate, beautiful tapestries of camaraderie, wondering why my own threads always seemed to tangle or fall short. It’s a lonely feeling, that sense of being on the outside looking in, and somewhere along the winding road, a little voice started whispering that maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t quite worthy of those deep connections.
Don’t get me wrong, I’ve been incredibly fortunate to find a few truly precious souls along the way – friendships that are all the more cherished because they feel like rare, beautiful gems. And, of course, there’s my husband, my rock for 25 years (he has the patience of a Saint). So, the capacity is there, somewhere. I can make those initial connections, often through work, where shared tasks and a common purpose provide a bit of a scaffold. But then comes the tricky bit – nurturing those acquaintances into something more.
The Invisible Barrier
It’s like there’s this invisible barrier. I really, truly want to build those bridges, but so many things seem to get in the way. I know I can be incredibly quiet when I first meet people, and I often wonder if that comes across as disinterest, a sort of aloofness, when it’s just me needing time to feel safe and comfortable. Then, there’s the flip side. Sometimes, when I do feel that comfort, I worry that I overshare- scaring people off. And underpinning it all? That low self-worth, chiming in with its unhelpful chorus: “Why would anyone want to spend their precious time with me?”.
The Gatekeeper in the Mirror
Lately, I’ve had a bit of a lightbulb moment – or perhaps, more accurately, the dimmer switch has just been turned up a notch. I’ve realised that for so long, I’ve poured my energy into looking after the needs of others, mainly my family and my work. Which sounds lovely, doesn’t it? Like I’d be the ideal friend! But the truth is, I’ve rarely given myself the permission, or made the actual, practical space, to foster friendships. I haven’t made myself available. It’s a tough pill to swallow, realising you’ve inadvertently been your own gatekeeper. This is something I’m actively trying to shift, this conscious effort to show up.
The Weight of Silence
And then there’s the maintenance, or lack thereof… and oh, the guilt that comes with it! This is true for friendships and, if I’m being brutally honest, sometimes family relationships too. I forget to keep in touch. It sounds utterly daft, I know, because these people are important to me, deeply so. But vast swathes of time can just… vanish. And then the realisation hits, and with it, a wave of guilt. I think of all the people I could have messaged, the connections I’ve let drift.
Glimpsing the Shoreline
So, yes, this whole area of my life is a challenge. Close, reciprocal friendships don’t seem to come easily to me, and I’m learning that’s okay. It’s part of my autistic experience, part of my late discovery. What I can do is keep trying, keep learning about myself, and keep making those tentative steps towards being more available, more present. It’s very much a work in progress, this journey of navigating the uncharted waters of friendship, but for the first time, I feel like I’m starting to glimpse the shoreline.
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