can i be real with you?

on dropping the mask, performativity in friendship, and the desire to be honest.

Can we stop pretending?

I often have the desire to say this mid conversation, like when I was seven and wanted to stop the game for some side talk—to address something outside the world we had created.

I saw a friend yesterday who is partially closeted. I include this detail because I believe it provides important context. However, it’s possible that their sexuality has little to do with their behaviour.

I have known this friend for some years now. They have been a great friend to me, frequently checking in, and showing care towards me consistently. They have seen fluctuating versions of me over the years. Yet, they still feel far away, distant. This is not for a lack of trying, we have had late night conversations fuelled by wine that have led us down more vulnerable paths, but just as I think we may be getting somewhere, moving closer, I lose them again.

I brace myself for the initial awkwardness of our greetings. The perfunctory small talk. The stiltedness. Sometimes I want to shake them by the shoulders and ask them, how are you? no, really? Tell me about your desires, your fears, all that is fucked up in this world. It’s not that we have never had those conversations, it’s that they are rare and when we see each other again, it’s as if they never happened. I think they want it to be that way.

My friend speaks as though playing a character, eyes darting around to check for cameras, as if we are characters on The Truman Show. Slightly too enthusiastic about the subject matter of our conversation in a way that feels disingenuous and off.

It is a misconception that autistic people don’t get social cues and understand people’s body language. As an autistic woman, though I can’t speak for the whole, we do. Oh, we do. Painfully so. We notice every micro-expression you make. I know within seconds what someone thinks of me, and I of them. I know whether or not I can trust them. I quickly understand their intentions. It’s survival.

But maintaining the mask is exhausting. Saying the polite thing rather than the honest thing. Not wanting to push people outside of their comfort zone. Wanting to keep things light and breezy to avoid misunderstandings and awkwardness. At my core I am inquisitive and intense. The performativity is stifling. Let’s shake it off, please.

I learned young that there were ‘right’ and ‘wrong’ things to say in conversations, I observed patterns and designed scripts, then learned how to go off script and freestyle. I owned my unconventionality and wore it as a token of freedom and confidence. I tried no longer apologising to myself nor others for my straightforwardness, my tendency to veer towards vulnerable topics.

I know when a woman, especially, finds me strange (men are a bit slower). I see it smeared across her expression; eyes darting for an explanation beyond her field of vision. I tow her back in, reassure her that I, too, can be normal. We can play the game.

But those friends who I can wade in deep with, who are bold enough to laugh and throw their hands up at my quirks are the ones for whom I have respect. For them, I would drop most obligations. They have begun the process of shedding their own cloak of shame, of stepping closer to freedom.

I remember confessing—like a dirty secret—that I was autistic to a very personable and extroverted friend of mine. I was nervous, fearing it would alienate me from her. However, I felt emboldened after she told me she had been diagnosed bipolar, suddenly a door had opened. Instead of the confusion I had expected, her reply was understated, expressing a sentiment of yeah, that tracks. I asked her why and all she could offer was, you’re particular about things. She said this matter-of-factly as if this was something she had always recognised and it had no negative bearing on our friendship. I let out the breath I was holding. I felt liberated.

When I am my most audacious I also recognise another reaction: envy. I recognise that desperate desire to be honest: to say and do all the things we long to.

Yesterday I made a small act of defiance. When my friend invited me to hang out with their friends, I told them how I truly felt—that those people were not my people—they did not make me feel welcome, and I only go where I am welcome. I don’t feel good when I hang out with them. They might be your friends, but they are not mine. I felt a thrill. They reacted with acceptance, understanding. I’m not sure what I feared in peeking through the veil like that; breaking the illusion we’d upheld. I started to be more honest, opening a door for both of us to walk through. It felt good.