Ugh. I need more sleep or something. I’m having trouble focusing. I have about three posts I want to write, plus I’ve been responding to comments all afternoon and my brain feels like it’s about to blow a gasket. Oh, and there’s also work that has to be done at some point.
Random memory: I mentioned this in the comments a little while ago. Right after the revelation, I was a little crazier than usual and told my wife about the hundreds of emails in the private email account I used to contact Scarlet. I thought I was doing the right thing by being open and honest with her. I told her what was in them and it made her suicidal. Well, I had emailed this info to my wife and CCed a friend who was kind of an accountability partner. This friend saw what I wrote and quipped to his wife “What’s wrong with him? Is he on the [autism] spectrum?”
Well this guy also happened to be the one I was supposed to contact if things took a dark turn, shall we say. So imagine how I felt when his wife relayed his comment to my wife. Yeah. He still doesn’t know I know and for the most part I’ve excused the comment. I mean, I did do something pretty stupid. And it was a minor comment. Still, it felt an awful lot like I couldn’t do anything right even when I was trying.
I’ve come to the conclusion that in general I don’t think and feel the same way other people do. I empathize with them, but not generally in the right way. It’s almost as if when I get it right it’s because I had a lucky guess as to what the appropriate emotional response should be. I’ve often felt that way – that my emotions, as least as they are expressed to others, are merely a reasonable facsimile of the appropriate reaction based on a thorough analysis of the situation.
I’m not sure I believe this anymore, but there are still times when the phrase “emotionally autistic” gets tossed around as a joke that’s maybe not quite a joke. For example, I still have trouble empathizing with my wife regarding the affair. I’m deeply sorry for what I did to her, but where the empathy would be if it was my sister who had been betrayed, instead there’s just nothing. Not hate, not sorry, not sympathy, not happiness. Just nothing. I can’t cry for her the way I would if I was watching a movie of our lives. I just feel dead inside sometimes.