Living in the Gray

You aren’t the first person to tell me that I am an arrogant bastard. I assure you that I really am not; I am just horribly, indescribably, frustratingly misunderstood. But I think you know that about me, by now.

I was different then, back when I first met you.

I was full of big ideas, riding high on the approval of my second patent. I was young and still had the illusion of being in control of my life.

And then, there was you. The day we met, forever etched in my mind as one of those perfect days. That bright cloudless March morning with the slightest breeze, the suggestion of spring in the air.

When I first saw you on that fateful morning, you had your nose buried in a jasmine vine. I couldn’t help but stare as I watched you drawing deep breaths of its intoxicating scent, your eyes closed in pure bliss. I had never seen someone so into a jasmine vine, and it was at that moment that jasmine became my favorite plant. I wanted to BE that jasmine vine.

I had to find a way to get you to notice me. I stood on that downtown sidewalk and weighed my options, desperately afraid that you would slip away from me. Somehow I summoned my nonexistent flirting skills, and moved slightly closer to you as you I cleared my throat, stalling until the words came to me.

 “They always say jasmine is the first sign of spring. Me though, I think spring doesn’t officially start until the vernal equinox.” Really, Mike? Could you sound like any more of a douchebag?

To my utter shock, you turned and smiled at me. Your eyes were warm, your face kind and symmetrically perfect. Your body was equally proportional in all the right ways. Which is a big deal to me, as balance and order rule my life.

You paused before responding, “There is something about the smell of jasmine, isn’t there?”

You said some more words, probably something witty--you are really funny and people like you. But in that moment, the sound of your voice floated straight through me. I was so nervous trying to figure out what I would say to you next that I had missed pretty much everything you said.

There was no way I was going to screw this up. I had just met the person I wanted to wake up next to, every day, for the rest of my life. 

***

I didn’t screw it up, and from then on, you and I were inseparable. And we were happy, early 90’s rom com happy. Finally, someone understood me and appreciated what my mother liked to call my “quirks”. You would tell me how brilliant I was and humored me with long discussions on my favorite topics. There was no way these were also your favorite topics, but you knew it made me happy, so you listened. And listened.

I was in awe of your ability to feel things, to be able to understand other people’s pain. You could soothe complete strangers in ways that were magical. I tried to learn from you but emotions are like a foreign language to me. They don’t make sense in the same way that maps or algorithms do. I like things that are logical, tangible, and knowable.

You thrive in the gray world of emotions; my world operates in black and white.

I knew we were different. But still, you got me and made me better. We were a team, and you felt like home.

***

And so we got married. Things were good, and as far as I could tell, we grew contentedly together as the years passed.

Gradually I noticed that we started to disagree on more things. The problem, as I saw it, was that you didn’t seem to need me as much as you did before. And you didn’t ask for my help when it was so obvious that you needed it.

So my strategy was offer my help anyway. That did not go so well.

During one of our more spirited discussions, I noticed your voice rising in a way I hadn’t heard before. “I have my own mind, and I don’t always have to do things the way you think they should be done, Mike! People can disagree and it’s not the end of the world.”

“But we used to think the same way. And you always tell me how smart I am, so why are you disagreeing with me?” I wasn’t trying to be difficult, I really wanted to know.

“Because we are two separate people, with different experiences, and that is okay,” you explained as you rubbed your forehead, the way you do when you have a headache.

I felt like I was letting you down. I pushed further, “It’s hard for me to watch you making the wrong decisions, when I know what the right thing is. I love you, isn’t it my job to tell you what’s right?”

“God, Mike, you can be such an arrogant bastard!” you blurted out, tears of frustration streaming down your cheeks.

“I’m not an arrogant bastard! I just want what’s best for you.” How could you not see this?

***

In those days, I still had a job. People respected me at work because I was the problem-solver. I thrived on efficiency and logic, getting things done twice as fast as everyone else. This made me happy in ways that even I didn’t understand.

I was getting increasingly annoyed with my co-workers, and even my boss, over the slightest mistakes. Why couldn’t they see that their way was wrong? Couldn’t they see that I had the answers, if only they would listen to me?

It wasn’t necessarily that I thought I was always right. It was more like I was never wrong.

Jim, my one co-worker who wasn’t a total idiot, got pissed at me one day when I told him he had saved the Excel file we were working on in the wrong folder. I couldn’t stop myself from also telling him that most of his formulas were wrong.

I’m not always so good at recognizing emotions but there was no mistaking Jim’s frustration with me. “Fuck, Mike. Who cares where I save the file? You knew how to find it. Why do you have to be so goddamn condescending?”

“I’m not being condescending. I’m just telling you a way that makes more sense. I guess I get tired of having to tell people the right way to do things, over and over!” I noticed when I said this, Jim backed up a few inches and had a startled expression on his face.

“Dude, calm down! You don’t have to yell—it’s just fucking formulas.”

I was genuinely perplexed. I guess my voice was loud enough for a few of my co-workers to look over, but I definitely wasn’t yelling. I was simply telling Jim the correct way to do things. And he was too stubborn to admit I was right.

***

For someone who didn’t notice a lot of things, I couldn’t miss the fact that you were crying more than you had before. I had no idea why you were sad but wondered if was related to the reason we hadn’t had sex in over a month. Not getting to have sex with you was a problem that I definitely needed to solve.

Then you sat me down and told me we needed to go to therapy. Or actually, that you had already found us a therapist, and our first meeting was the next day. Our therapist’s name was Lilian Archer, and she wore glasses that I thought made her look smart--I liked that. I hoped she was smart enough to know how to fix us, because I had no idea.

After two excruciatingly long sessions, Lilian diagnosed me as being “on the spectrum”. When she said this, I looked over and saw you nodding slightly, a knowing expression on your face. Lilian explained theory of mind, which I learned is being able to guess what other people might be thinking or feeling. I was supposed to understand that other people have different backgrounds and experiences (than mine) that impact their feelings.

This blew my mind, because I assumed that people thought like I did. And if they didn’t think like me, maybe they should.

The therapist had us do some exercises. My job was to listen to you tell me how you were feeling, and then I was supposed to explain what you had just said. I started to think that maybe Lilian wasn’t so smart, because why would we pay her all of this money to do something so obvious?

I heard you telling me, “It hurts me when you don’t ask me how I’m feeling. It’s like you don’t even seem to care anymore what I think, and that makes me feel awful inside.”

I waited for you to say more, but you had stopped talking and were staring at me.

I had no idea what I was supposed to say next, having been lost in my own thoughts. I laughed nervously and waited for more instruction. You were still looking at me expectantly.

Lilian finally intervened, gently prodding, “Mike, tell Alyssa what you just heard her say, and paraphrase how she just told you she is feeling”.

 “You’re mad at me so now I’m in trouble.” I mean, duh.

You let out a long sigh. I could tell it was going to be a long drive home.

***

Five years later, I am still trying. I really am. I make sure I listen to you and remember to ask you how you are feeling. I am getting better at figuring out what you need, but am willing to admit that I am accurate probably only 49% of the time.

I want to make you happy, because you mean everything to me. You make me happy.

I will never have all the words you need to hear, but my heart is full of love for you. Everything I do is to make our lives better. Even when you think I’m being an arrogant bastard.

I struggle to live in your gray world, but I try, because that is where you live.

I know it is the right thing to do, because, well, I am almost never wrong.