Love On The Spectrum: A journey to finding love as a neurodivergent

I always knew I was different. Growing up, I transferred from school to school. Teachers thought I was too hyperactive and disruptive. I loathed wearing school uniforms as I preferred to go to class in PJs. Although I was diagnosed at two by a doctor, psychologist and social worker, I felt out of place among my peers.

Making friends didn’t come naturally to me as I was pulled out of class for an hour for speech and behavioural therapies. Socialisation was hell as I was either too formal or changed the topic every 30 seconds. Classmates either avoided me like the plague or included me out of sympathy. Getting out of class might be a relief, but going back home on the bus was hell on wheels as being a socially awkward kid made me a target among bullies.

From grades two to three, I was called “Michelle Looster” because of the fact that I didn’t socialise and was extremely shy to talk to peers. Thankfully, the bullies who taunted me moved away and I didn’t have to deal with any of the name-calling after that.  But still, I dissociated my reality from school and home that I didn’t tell my parents what was happening on the bus rides home. It was already an embarrassment at school and having to pile on more embarrassment on the way home was traumatising. Had I not had my condition, I wouldn’t know what it was like to be bullied. But at the same time, I wish I never had to deal with being bullied growing up.

At school, having crushes was a rite of passage. Physically, looks were 25 per cent of a priority whereas personality made up the remaining 75 per cent for me. I was told to not focus on the physical, but maybe it didn’t hurt to have a bit of both personality and looks.

In 8th grade, I fell in love with Johan* (not real name), whom I sat next to in math class. A half Malaysian and half American kid, Johan was fresh from the ‘burbs. Tan and gangly, Johan had a chocolate brown combover and thin gold wire round glasses. White cotton ribbed tube socks hugged his ankles while his feet were encased in black leather velcro sneakers. He dressed like a second grader, but he was a theatre kid who was charismatic and highly energetic. Although he had a baby face and a charming personality, he made girls smile, laugh and fawn for him. The theatre kids had a degree of respect, yet they were one rank lower than the jocks. I thought that Johan was a safe bet because at least I hoped that he would not humiliate me.

At that time, I had little understanding about how to express my feelings nor did I have awareness of how my actions would translate in front of other people. Because I constantly talked to Johan and sat really close to him, classmates grilled me about him. We were targets of merciless teasing, which reduced him to tears in the middle of math class. I tried to comfort him, but he exploded. We were both socially awkward teens, yet we couldn’t find healthy ways to communicate our feelings properly as he had poor emotional regulation. A female classmate offered unsolicited advice to play hard to get, which countered my style of making the first move. He was my first trial relationship, but nothing of substance could keep us together as we only bonded through being outcasts.

After 8th grade, he moved to the States. The last time we got in touch was 12 years ago, where he poked me three times on Facebook. I asked why he poked me and he said: “You poked me” despite him actually starting it. I wished that he could have an honest conversation with me, but it made me realise that he would rather victimise himself instead of taking full responsibility for his actions.

Starting university was supposed to be a fresh start, but I carried my issues in a suitcase. Being around new classmates made me feel self-conscious as I still felt insecure about myself. While no one cared about popularity contests, the trauma from having to care so much about what and how others perceived me from elementary to high school carried over. To make up for the years of hiding myself in school, I dyed my hair in various shades of the rainbow and dressed like a Tumblr girl. Having a sense of individuality without having to be judged for it felt freeing, but I still felt judged.

Daniel* (not real name), a Jordan Belfort lookalike, was three years older and two grades above me. We shared the same East Asian Pop Culture Studies and Asia Media class, where we sat a footlong apart from each other. A son of a FBI agent and Pacific Palisades native, Daniel had that rich California boy steeze of gelled hair, intense brown eyes and fitted tees. He was Aaron Samuels and I, Cady Heron.

“I like your hair,” Daniel said.

“Thanks,” I said sheepishly.

I would have never guessed that he would like my blue/green/purple pixie cut, which was not intended to make myself appeal to him. The one thing that made me stand out to him was that my face was considered “exotic” to men like him. Since he made the first move on me, it was a new sensation for me as I usually had to do the chasing to get their attention.

Because I never had a boyfriend in high school, I wanted to return the interest. I texted him asking for lunch plans, but he ghosted. Then, Daniel asked me to meet up with him for dinner. I accepted, but he didn’t follow through when I asked if we were still going out for dinner. One day, I decided to confront him after our East Asian Pop Culture Studies class ended. Before I could get a single word in, Daniel’s friend bumped into us. While I made small talk with his friend, Daniel walked away from me the moment I attempted to talk to him. Little did I know that it was a set up for his sneaky and humiliating escape plan.

Though I had outed my Asperger’s in my uni’s newspaper, I thought that Daniel would be able to acknowledge it as it was distributed across campus and perhaps read it. But, he didn’t care that I had it. From there, being mistreated by Daniel prompted me to hide my condition again in real life and on dating apps.

tDating apps were a blessing and a curse. I could deal with being swiped left without any issue as I did the same motion to all the guys I wasn’t interested in. Like an Instagram feed, dating apps allowed me to curate myself and craft a personality that hid my insecurity.

The dates I had from Hinge, Bumble and Tinder were either hits or misses. Some treated me well whereas others pressured me to hook up. There were a few I ended up befriending. How I looked was an easy cover, but who I really am was a struggle to articulate myself properly through a screen. I felt that my condition made me ugly on the inside. I felt like I could never be good enough even if I openly disclosed it.

Failing to find a steady relationship from the apps, I felt mentally and emotionally exhausted. I realised that hiding my Asperger’s was the root of my issues. The fear, anxiety, dread and trauma from being judged hindered me from forming healthy connections. However, I felt that I shouldn’t have to hide it until Aditya* (not real name), asked me about it.

The week before Chinese New Year, Aditya and I matched on Hinge. An India born NUS graduate who grew up in Singapore, I felt that I could relate to him as my childhood mirrored his as a third culture kid. We swapped stories about our pets, Emo Night outings, music recs, and vented about opposite sex friends who broke our hearts.

As much as I wanted to hide my condition, I confessed about my Asperger’s out of the blue. Surprised that I have this condition, he asked if I could share more details about it. I was scared that he would judge me, but he listened with patience while I confessed that I had been seeking treatment for it during my childhood. I could continue to act like I had no preexisting flaw with potential suitors. Nonetheless, certain symptoms of Asperger’s like difficulty adjusting to new routines, fixated interests and being overly anxious were things I still struggled with. If I could be open about my Asperger’s to my friends and family, then I should apply the same standard to my prospective dates, too. I could never be perfect, yet who was I to try to make myself pretend to be a “normal” person?

Though Aditya and I didn’t make it out of our talking stage, I learned that it was never too late for me to start being open about myself. Anyone could have the option to understand me, but it’s not the healthiest form of seeking validation as I couldn’t beg them to understand me without judgment. Now that I deleted my dating apps, I am focused on building a healthier relationship with myself where I can peacefully coexist with my condition. While it’s a work in progress, the only person I’m in love with is my future self: a person who can love herself without conditions.