About loneliness that wasn't a choice, about friendship that came late, and about people on the spectrum looking for closeness – but often looking for it deeper.
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Always a little next door
For most of my life, I felt like I was standing somewhere next to other people. Not because I didn't want to be part of a group. Not because I didn't need relationships. Quite the opposite. I wanted to be understood the same as any other person. I wanted to have my place. I wanted to belong.
The problem was that I very rarely felt that I really belonged.
Ever since I was a child, I had observed how easy it was for others to build acquaintances. Conversations seemed to flow by themselves. People met, called each other, kept in touch without much effort. To me, everything seemed more complicated. It was as if there was a thin, transparent glass between me and the rest of the world.
I saw other people. I heard them. I was next to them.
But very often I couldn't find my way inside.
For a long time, I thought it was my fault. That I was too weird, too withdrawn, too focused on my interests. That I just couldn't be like others.
It wasn't until many years later that I understood that it wasn't about a lack of willingness. It was about a completely different way of building bonds.
Loneliness doesn't look like others think
People often assumed that since I spend a lot of time alone, that's what I need.
The truth was more complicated.
I liked solitude. I still like it. I need silence, space and the opportunity to be alone with myself. I need hours spent writing, reading, analyzing, creating and organizing my own world.
But liking solitude does not mean that there is no need for closeness.
These are two completely different things.
I wasn't the loneliest when I was sitting alone in my apartment.
I was the loneliest when I was sitting among people and I felt that no one understood me.
When I put a lot of effort into the conversation, and yet I felt invisible.
When I tried to fit in with the group and returned home with a feeling of even greater alienation.
I think a lot of people on the spectrum are familiar with this kind of loneliness.
It's not a lack of people around.
It is the lack of feeling that you can take off your armor with them.
Friendship my way
It was only after the diagnosis that I began to understand that my needs in relationships are not worse or less than those of other people.
They are simply different.
I never needed a large group of friends.
I never dreamed that the phone would not stop ringing.
I didn't need daily conversations about everything and nothing.
I needed a few people I could trust.
A few people with whom I didn't have to watch every word.
A few people who understood that sometimes I disappear not because they are no longer important, but because my nervous system needs rest.
For me, friendship has always been something deeper than the frequency of contact.
Friendship meant a sense of security.
The feeling that I can be myself.
The feeling that I don't have to explain my every reaction.
Ewa and proof that you can be yourself
One of such people is Ewa.
We've known each other since high school.
But true friendship came much later.
Over the years, our paths have intertwined and diverged. It was only in adulthood that it turned out that we can meet in a place where neither of us has to pretend anything.
She never tried to change me.
She never suggested that it would be easier for me if I was more sociable, more spontaneous, or less sensitive.
With her, I don't have to explain my silence.
I don't have to apologize for being tired.
I don't have to put on another mask.
It sounds simple, but for a person who has spent most of their life trying to fit in with other people's expectations, it is something priceless.
When friendship becomes more
For many years, I was convinced that love was something I would probably never experience like others.
I didn't look for it.
I didn't chase her.
I didn't wait for romantic stories.
And then something happened that I didn't expect.
First came friendship.
Long, calm, built without haste.
First, we got to know each other's thoughts.
Then my fears.
Then your limits.
First, we learned to think and understand the world together.
Only later did the feeling appear.
It didn't explode.
It didn't fall from the sky.
It didn't come like a storm.
It came slowly.
It was settled between subsequent conversations.
Between words that over time ceased to be just words.
And I guess that's why it was so important to me.
Because for the first time I felt that closeness does not require giving up on myself.
I didn't need many people
Today, when I look at my life, I already know that it was never about the number of relationships.
I didn't need a crowd.
I didn't need dozens of friends.
I needed people with whom I could be authentic.
People who don't try to fix me.
People who understand that silence does not mean rejection.
People who don't expect me to become someone else to deserve their presence.
I think that for many years I was looking for a place where I could belong.
Today I know that I don't have to belong to everyone.
It is enough that I am one of the few people who really see me.
And maybe that's what friendship is all about.
Not on the number of matches.
Not on the number of messages.
But on the feeling that somewhere in the world there are people with whom you don't have to hide.
And for a person on the spectrum, it sometimes means more than anything else.
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