By Piper Hughes
Whatever is your special interest, if it makes you feel safe, if it brings you joy and comfort, and if it is not harming you or others, please wear it with pride.
I was once best friends with Madonna.
Well, no, not really. Please don’t call her to verify my claim. That would be a tad embarrassing, since the above declarative statement is wholly false if we’re speaking in terms of an actual friendship as opposed to a parasocial one. Here, I speak of the latter. According to my ten-year-old self, Madonna was the only one who listened to me, the only one who didn’t judge me, the only one who understood me. And I was obsessed with that feeling of acceptance. So, naturally, I was obsessed with her.
There have been others. Other besties of this sort. I have one now, but I’ll get to that later.
Thus far, I’ve used the words “obsessive” and “obsessed” because that’s what others call me when I’m in their company. “You’re so obsessed.” I’m going to alter the language now, because “obsession” as officially defined isn’t an accurate way to describe any one of my extreme passions. None of them have been “disturbing,” “unwanted,” or “unreasonable.”
Upon learning that I am autistic, I found that these passions are considered my special interests, and those interests are usually people. A few inanimate subjects (e.g., psychology) have lassoed my fervent attention over the years, but they never elicited the intense emotions that I felt for those I idolized.
Privately and quietly, I enjoy round after round after round (after round) of the same songs and videos. I collect photographs and posters. I research. When I do socialize, the Person ends up the cynosure of nearly every conversation, and because of my extensive knowledge and excitement, I often find my reticent self surprisingly loquacious. Did my husband really want to know the height, birthdate, and eye color of Cy Curnin of The Fixx? He didn’t, but now he does.
Back when I started to feel amorous in my teens, I cycled through a series of celebrity crushes, but “crush” never adequately described the impact. Although family and friends (and the occasional confused boyfriend) did wonder why I chose an “old” man such as George Clooney over a younger actor such as Leonardo DiCaprio, they never questioned the habit of falling in and out of love with icons. After all, didn’t most girls have pictures of the objects of their
affections on the backs of their bedroom doors or the insides of their lockers? They did in my day.
But most girls could think of other things. Most girls couldn’t quote verbatim every line from a film, using precise inflections, memorized from repetition. Most girls would rather have spent time with each other than with magazine pictures or movie scenes.
Most girls didn’t understand me.
Now, no one outside my home knows how I spend my spare time. Those young girls from school had led me to feel ashamed about my special interests, so as I aged, I started to hide the consuming nature of them. So if someone asks me what I do for pleasure, I won’t share that I’m in the midst of transcribing a three-hour interview; that I’ve been watching the same set of movies over and over for years; that I’m spending months drawing one portrait, just so I can
keep staring at the face that calms me.
Two-dimensional eyes cannot roll after an awkward comment, cannot glaze over during a cathartic rant or an info dump, cannot widen as if to say, “Are you for real?” In my early days, I was for real. I was genuine, trusting, open—how most children are. I don’t remember the exact age when I began to wonder about my differences, but I suspect it was around the time I turned to those humans whom I could know but who could not know me.
That was even before Madonna came along and told me that it was okay to be myself. Jane Wiedlin had already given me that encouragement first, circa 1988. Many years later, after Madonna and I had drifted apart, Tori Amos filled the void and spent my young adulthood with me. In my thirties, I turned to Cy, who I previously mentioned. And now I’ve moved on again. I suppose I’m a fickle friend with a flavor of the decade.
My husband describes me as “lost” when I’m without this kind of singular focus. He’s seen that happen twice in our twenty years together. Those hiatuses I’ve endured between losing connections and finding them again have been periods of grief. When you think that the love or interest you have in someone or something will last forever, the loss of that idea can be a significant blow.
A few years ago, just after I found my latest fascination after being lost for quite a while, I stepped back to analyze what trait all of my special interests (discounting the teenage love interests) had in common. The answer was quite obvious: each of them was a human representation of the definition of “different,” and each seemed completely unafraid to share that uniqueness with the world. Thinking about them that day as a collective, as a team of
inspiration, I felt proud to know them as friends.
You may be wondering if I sustained any real friendships over the course of my life thus far. I’m not sure of the answer. Can a real friendship be based upon a lie of self? In all of the one-sided relationships, I didn’t feel the need to pretend. But not one of the people I considered a bona fide companion in the world beyond my bedroom walls knew the scope of what I was hiding. Like so many others who mask, I changed my personality and preferences to mirror those of the person I was with at the time.
This was not intentional deception for wicked means. It was the only way I could feel normal outside my home. I wanted so badly to feel normal and respected, but even after what I considered to be brilliant “performances” (“they really seemed to like me!”), I would trudge away from gatherings with a loneliness that wasn’t supposed to arise from being social. So, as far as my real relationships were concerned, I was either liked for being a fake or disliked for being authentic. This remains true to this day.
Sharing all of this has been an act of bravery, and I’ve known very little of bravery. But I’m learning. I read stories from other autistic people and beam with recognition quite often. My common refrain is, “I feel that way, too.” I hope my words can bring forth that same reaction from others. Even if you know you wouldn’t get along with my besties, you may relate to the delight they give me.
The subjects of special interests can vary in style. Sometimes they’re muted in color and can blend into the background. Sometimes they’re so bold or offbeat that they’re impossible to ignore. Or they could be anywhere in between. Whatever is your special interest, if it makes you feel safe, if it brings you joy and comfort, and if it is not harming you or others, please wear it with pride. And I promise to try to do the same.
Starting now.
These days, and all days for the foreseeable future, you can find me with Ron Moody.
Well, no, not really. The actor best known for his portrayal of Fagin in “Oliver!” passed away on June 11, 2015. Even if he were still alive, he would never admit to our intimate acquaintance. You know what else? He was five foot ten. He was born on January 8, 1924. He had blue eyes.
He also makes me feel normal.
Piper Hughes is a late-diagnosed autistic female who lives in rural America with her husband. When not writing, creating music and art, or immersing herself in her special interest, she sleeps. She is also a collector of skeleton keys.
Thank you Piper, I don’t have the words to explain, but maybe I might draw about it sometime.
Beautiful I relate to what you said and in particular, that feeling of feeling lonely after social interactions, no matter how great it may have been or appeared to have been.