In the previous installment of this series, I talked about how by the age of nine I realized just how different my internal experiences were from the people around me. This was crystalized in my mind when Back to the Future became a focused interest and I felt a strong sense of shame and "wrongness" from the intensity of it. As my childhood continued, I developed focused interests in other movies and television shows, such as The Simpsons and The Addams Family. The shame gradually became less intense as I became more familiar with this pattern, but it was still there. Whenever a new focused interest grabbed my attention, I felt an impending sense of dread-- dread that I was becoming obsessed with something.
I was aware of the term "obsession" by the time I was eleven, and I even recall how I learned it. My mother had made a passing comment about someone being "obsessed" with something. When I asked her what it meant, she said, "It means it's all the person thinks about or talks about." The negative subtext inherent in her explanation was clear: what could possibly be acceptable about someone thinking about and talking about only one thing? Growing up, I questioned a lot of the common wisdom inherent in society-- such as that it's somehow worse when a girl tells a dirty joke than when a boy does-- but for some reason I did not question the idea that "obsession" was a bad thing. Perhaps if I hadn't already felt a sense of shame before others began commenting on my propensity to hyperfocus on certain movies and television shows, I would have questioned it.
In an assignment for my English class during my Freshman year of college, I wrote about the overwhelm of emotions I felt the day after my introduction to the Back to the Future films at age nine, the urgent feeling of wanting to watch them again so badly. It was my first time writing about this moment in my past, which I looked back on with a lot of self-criticism: liberally using the word "obsession," which I described as "ludicrous." I wrote about my brother growing tired of my watching the films so often, and the undertone in my piece clearly implied that I had been responsible for his irritated reaction. Not once did it occur to me that if he was so put off by my viewing habits he could have just left the room instead of making it about me. I accepted that I was the Problem, and my obsession was the root. When I wrote this essay in 1999, I believed that I had overcome this "Problem". After all, if I hadn't, it meant I was immature, out of control, and perhaps even, somehow, unethical. Only recently has it occurred to me that it was fair to describe my brother's reaction as "immature"-- after all, he was a child, too.
The real Problem is that inherent in everything I describe is a lot of question begging: that is, I began with the conclusion that what other people called "obsession" was wrong and that it was something I needed to learn not to do, that it somehow violated them in an egregious manner. If someone told me I was "obsessed" with something, it meant I had failed in some way and I had to figure out how to fix the Problem. It honestly occurred to me only a few years ago that I was looking at this through the wrong end of the telescope. Ironically, it was because of a conversation I had with my mother, who has evolved in her thinking over the years, especially in light of how autism and its quirks are understood in the more-enlightened 21st century. She admitted that it simply took her a long time to understand my internal experience as a fan geek, and that there is nothing wrong with enjoying something with such an intense focus. While it is, of course, important to be mindful about whether the other person you are talking to is interested in the topic, that is a completely different issue than whether it is "wrong" for someone to be hyperfocused on something. More recently, I have realized that the only thing I was guilty of was the social "sin" of thoughtcrime. It is now clear to me just how pervasive societal shaming of "thoughtcrime" is.
Take being LGBTQIA+, for example. Up until very recently LGBTQIA+ people were expected by an overwhelming majority of society to hide their thoughts about same-sex attraction, feeling like they were a different gender than what the world perceived them as, and even a lack of interest in dating and sex. Yes, thoughts that people didn't have, or at least had less frequently than most of the world, were something to be hidden. This type of "thoughtcrime" can at least easily be explained by the fundamentalist Christian-based attitude that has shaped many parts of the world, including the United States, for centuries: any sex act other than the missionary position between one cis man and one cis woman is a sin against God.
But what, then, of other "thoughtcrime," such as a focused interest on a movie? I think what it comes down to is people being unable to acknowledge their own discomfort around something they don't understand, even if it is not rooted in a social taboo such as non-hetero-cis-normative sexuality or gender identity. A lot of autistic fan geeks know this and, like me, have expressed frustration about people angrily telling them, "You're obsessed with that!" Additionally, I have observed a lot of quirks in other fan geeks (many of which I suspect are on the spectrum) that I don't understand, and I realize I need to be okay with not understanding.
For example, a lot of fan fiction writers create stories where the main focus is graphic sex acts between their favorite characters. One popular "shipping"-- as such relationship-creating for these characters is called-- is Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter. I don't have an issue with someone writing about one or both of these characters coming out as gay, but why would they want to pair characters that hate each other? Why on earth is scene after scene of graphic sex the focus of these stories? A friend of mine, a fellow Back to the Future fan-- who is, incidentally, a phenomenal writer-- wrote a graphic story about Marty and Doc going at it (thankfully, Marty was written to be eighteen, the age of consent). I told this person, "I just read it. That was HILARIOUS!" and they said, "It wasn't meant to be funny." Well, I don't get it, and that's okay.
I don't know why so many fan fiction writers focus on stuff like this, and out of curiosity, I asked my friend about it. My friend said that they aren't "getting off" on it, but rather it's some type of "curiosity" for them, like they're watching to see where the scene will go. I suspect that other people actually are "getting off" on it, but I guess everyone is different. With the exception of a few sporadic and unremarkable attempts to write "how-Marty-met-Doc" origin stories, I don't write fan fiction. But even if I did, I can't imagine a time or a place where I would have written something like this. I've also come to realize that if I'm uncomfortable with others writing it, that's my problem. To make it about them is akin to policing thoughtcrime. Why do so many fan fiction writers create stuff like this? Does it matter? As long as they're not, say, stalking the actors who portrayed the characters, they're not hurting anybody.
I guess what I've learned over the years is that people are just weirder and more complicated than we've historically acknowledged. More people are opening up about their quirks, essentially declaring that the emperor is naked.
And the emperor IS naked.
