Why don't you want to meet new people, Ma?...

"...Because I don't like people. I told you that a million times before."

That was the answer I kept giving my daughter every time she asked me why I didn't want to attend her job's free museum night.

My daughter, Sarah, who is the complete opposite of me is a lively twenty-year-old college student who is living her best life as an artist and curator-in-training at the Detroit Museum of Art. I didn't finish college, due to dropping out to have her my freshman year. I suck at drawing, despite having taken a few art courses myself. And I'm not living my best life, doing what I like.

I'm a warehouse worker for a well-known company with a squeaky-clean public image and an ugly, grimy way of treating its employees privately behind closed factory doors. Why do I stay? For the money. Besides, where else could I go to make the kind of money I do and get the benefits I have without a college degree? Nowhere. But I digress.

The biggest difference between my daughter and me is our personalities. Where she is sweet, naive, empathetic, and loving; I am bitter, intolerant, and cynical. The world has done me wrong, and I don't want to have anything to do with it. She, on the other hand, still sees a world with potential, possibilities, and wonderful people to meet and know.

I don't like people. I've told her many times, but she keeps trying to convince me otherwise. 'Give them a chance, ma', 'That was then, this is now', 'Maybe you just need to change your expectations'. This is the kind of advice that she gives me all the time. She doesn't like to see me spend so much time at home. She says it's unhealthy.

I do get out now, don't get me wrong. I mow the lawn every ten days; I walk the long, gravel driveway out to our mailbox every day but Sunday; I make trips to the Aldi grocery store three to four times a week to shop for our supper. I get out. I see people. I do stuff. And when it's all done, I come home. My favorite place to be.

There are two things that my daughter doesn't realize: our difference in age, and our difference in life experiences. Whereas she is young and spry, with a healthy metabolism and balanced hormones; I am nearing middle age and tired. My body has been giving me signs that things are out of balance in one way or another. Also, two decades of working in the factory have tired me out. I work six days a week and with the one free day, there are not many places I want to go or people I want to see.

Heck, I don't even want to see the people I see on a regular basis. That's a third element that my daughter is unaware of; just how mentally I am from dealing with my coworkers from hell. There are dozens of stories I could tell, but I won't. But I did tell a few of them to my daughter, and her response was not what I was expecting.

She asked me for the umpteenth time why I don't want to make new friends and why I don't like people.

"You like me, mom, and I'm people", she answered, like she had before.

God bless her.

"I like you, because I love you. You're my daughter. We're family", I told her.

"Well haven't you loved other people? I mean, besides Daddy"

I hated when she asked me this. One, because I don't like going down the mental list of people I've loved and lost, or loved and been betrayed by. Since losing my husband, I've felt loneliner than I ever knew possible. I wasn't that much of a people person back in highschool either. If her father hadn't asked me out back then, I'm not sure how my dating life would've gone. But he did, and we dated. We married, and we had our beautiful child.

Those were the best fifteen years of my life. And then he got a toothache. Ten months later when the autopsy came back, the cause of death was sepsis. The infection in his tooth had spread to his body. Months of headaches, body pains and other malaise all went untreated because of his dislike of doctors and dentists.

I knew that I wouldn't remarry after he died. I don't have it in me to make new friends, let alone date new people. And so, I spend most of my free time at home, alone and happy. Maybe not happy, but at least content.

I do a lot of artsy fartsy crafting that keeps me occupied. I paint by number. I crochet. I make needle-felted animals and figurines. And on occasion, I make found-material collage art. See? I'm artistic too. Where do you think my daughter got it from?

For all my at-home crafting, my daughter keeps trying to convince me to join some local arts and crafts clubs and meetups. I like the idea of the crafting part, I told her. I just don't like the other part.

"What's that? The money? Most of these are free mom, and the one's that do charge--"

"The people. I don't want to be around people."

"Oh, Ma...! You need to stop spending so much time alone. It's not healthy. Mom, I've got six semesters left at college. You know that I want to move away after that. I've got a lot of internships and job opportunities already lined up."

"That's great. I'm happy for you. Go. Live your life. You don't have to worry about me."

"But I do, ma. Once I'm gone, you won't have anybody to talk to. Nobody to check on you. You'll be in this house alone. I don't like that."

"You're forgetting one thing."

"What?"

"I still have to go to work. I'll still have to get up every day and go out to work. I'll see people. Trust me, I'll see people."

"People you don't like, mom."

"True, but they are people, nevertheless."

My daughter stared at me for a good long while, as we sat on the couch together watching reruns on the retro channel. I could see her in my peripheral but was trying to ignore her.

"You know what I think?"

"A lot of things dear. You're very intelligent. I tell you that all the time."

I kept my focus on the tv screen.

"I don't think you dislike people like you say you do."

"Oh?"

"Mm-hmm".

"And what makes you say that?"

"Because I am as observant as I am intelligent."

I'm still watching the television but can see her checking me out in my peripheral. I can tell she's going to say something that she thinks is going to be profound. And when she says it, she'll be looking for my reaction. I'm determined not to give one.

"Yes, dear. You are. Go on..."

"I don't know how you are at work, because I don't see you there. But see you in other situations. I see how you are when you talk to the neighbors. I see how you are when you talk to the mailman."

"I wouldn't call that a conversation. He never says anything back."

"I didn't say you have a conversation. I said you talk."

"Hmph."

"There's also the cashiers at the grocery store. The solicitors that knock on the door from time to time. The people in the post office, doctor's office, and pharmacy."

"Is that all?"

"No, there are other instances, I just named the major ones."

"Ok, just checking."

"You know what I noticed?"

"I'm sure you'll tell me."

"I notice how eager you are to talk to people."

"See? I told you, you'd tell me."

"You have two different personalities, Ma."

"Oh really? Do tell."

"When you first start talking to people, it's like, I don't know, a different you. It's almost like you're me for a moment."

"Uh-huh?..."

"Yes. You're quite a friendly mother. You're a little shy, but you're friendly."

The sound of the tv playing fills in what would otherwise be silence. My daughter isn't talking. Just watches me again. The unquiet silence gets on my nerves, so I muted the tv and turned to look at her.

"What is it? You were on a roll. Why'd you stop talking?"

"I was thinking. I wanted to make sure that I want I wanted to say what I'm going to say. I wanted to make sure it was accurate. So I was thinking."

"The suspense is killing me, kid. Spit it out."

"I don't think it's so much that you don't like people.. You're afraid of them."

I turned my attention toward the television once more and pushed the 'mute' button on the remote control to return the sound.

"I remember when I was eight, you used to be friends with Martika's mom.'

Deborah, I thought to myself. That was more than twelve years ago. I didn't think she remembered.

"I don't remember exactly what they said, but I remember she was saying something that was really embarrassing for you."

It was my outfit. She said I looked homely in front of all her friends. Deborah was always teasing me in private; wanting to give me a makeover. She and I had vastly different tastes, and I just wasn't ready to 'glow up' back then.

I didn't mind her private critiques of me. I felt like she did it to help me. I have always had issues with fashion and socializing, making me look and feel awkward. When we became friends, it was because of how nice she was to me in spite of my looks and social anxiety.

She would tell me I was a cool person, whether I thought so or not, but that no one else would ever get to know it unless I 'put myself out there'. There were several failed attempts at taking me out to places to mingle; shopping for a new wardrobe for me; and a makeup demo at Sephora. I didn't like any of it.

She didn't push it, but she didn't let a week go by without suggesting some kind of 'look-book' outfit or hairstyle for me. I'd look at the ideas and say 'maybe.' Then we'd go on about something else. She had never criticized me openly before, but that day at the party it was like she had unleashed every ugly thought she had about, all at once. All under the guise of playful teasing.

What little self-esteem I had, through the validation of her being my friend left that day. In all my adult life, she had been my first, only, and last friend.

My daughter is still talking, but I've stopped listening. My mind is starting to recall my lifelong loneliness, filled with people like Deborah who have for one reason or another, didn't like me or something about me, and wanted to make sure I knew about it.

In the span of sixty seconds, my mind conjured up eighty-two people from my earliest childhood memory to the present day who have shunned or rejected me in some way. I had grown up in a poverty-stricken neighborhood with a lot of tough characters around. I remember people always telling me that I was too nice, too gullible, too sweet, too pretty, and too polite. Everywhere I looked, I saw hardened faces of adults and children alike. They all said that it was bad, how good I was.

Years of being conditioned like this, I had gone through elementary and middle school without much incident, because I had learned to toughen up and 'act' differently. Externally, I was the strong, silent type. Internally, I was a repressed little girl.

As a very young girl, I so loved watching my children's television shows with the friendly puppet-people and the kindly old neighborhood man singing songs about being nice and doing good things for others. I ate up the lessons on 'how to be a friend' and 'how to express your feelings' and 'how important it was to treat others with respect'. My own naivety caused me to believe the socializing lessons I saw on my screen would be acceptable codes of conduct on my neighborhood streets.

But each time I'd give a friendly smile, I would receive a frown. Whenever I raised my hand to wave hello, the other kid would raise their head to hit me or yank my hair. I must have been a slow learner because I'd repeat this behavior in school and instead of it earning me friends, it earned me titles like 'weird'.

And so, even though I liked the people from my tv programs of make-believe, I didn't know how to interact with the ones in real life. I became disenchanted, disillusioned, disappointed, and... yes, scared. People did scare me because they didn't react the way I thought they were supposed to act. No one was the way thought they should be until I met my husband.

He was highly skilled in social expectations. Although he was like a television friend come to life with me, he had normalized behavior with the rest of the world. He was my go-between, my shield, and my interpreter.

Years later, when I received my formal diagnosis of being a high-functioning person on the autism spectrum, I was relieved. For so long I thought something was wrong with the world, but now with my diagnosis, I saw that it was just the way I was interpreting it. My neuro-divergent mind still avoided socializing when possible.

There were too many trends to keep up with, too much slang to learn, and too many fashion and beauty standards to adhere to. And they changed too often for me to familiarize myself with well enough to pull off and be relevant.

My immediate family and my daughter have been the constants in my life. These are the people who have known me, grown to love me and accept me with all my quirks and idiosyncrasies. They were my safe spaces. Everyone else was, unknown, unpredictable, unsafe, ...scary.

"Mom, are you listening to me? I said I want you to go to the community center with me on Wednesdays. They have group therapy for people with social anxiety and it's mostly people your age. It's mostly lecture stuff, so you don't have to interact with anyone unless you want to. And if you don't it's not a big deal because, like I said, the other people are kind of shy too. "

I looked at my daughter on the sofa across from me. I was so proud of how she'd turned out. Not like me; disappointed with life and afraid of the world. She was kind, and people treated her kindly. She was friendly, and she had friends.

"So what are you thinking? Will you try?"

"First..", I tried to say. I got choked up a bit, not realizing how much emotion I had been repressing. I swallowed hard and blinked back tears.

"...First, I just wanted to say...you were right."

"About what? Which part? I've been talking for a while now, and you haven't said anything Ma."

"You were right. I don't hate people. I'm afraid of them."

My daughter got off the couch and sat next to me. She leaned her head on my shoulder and we sat, embracing each other.

"I'll go. I'll go to the community center."

"You will?"

"Yeah. I'm tired of being alone. I'm tired of being afraid. I think a little community will do me some good."