Closure Part 3: What Could Have Been Done

*As always, names and certain details are changed to protect the privacy of those involved.

My impromptu series of posts about middle school continues. Most recently, in "Closure Part 1: Reconnection," I talked about events in my recent life that made me think of my middle school years, ultimately leading to a decision to contact Ivy and Torey, two former friends who turned on me in 9th grade (I remind you again, middle school in my district). Both were receptive to reconnecting with me, and both expressed remorse. Torey in particular said that for the past twenty-nine years she has lived with strong regret for how she treated me in 9th grade. In "Closure Part 2: How School Failed all of Us," I talked about how reconnecting with Ivy and Torey made me realize that, although I struggled the most in middle school, they also had their share of problems with bullies. I also concluded that Mr. Frank, the teacher of the history class that Ivy and I were in, likely played a role in ending our friendship, which had already been strained. The end of the post recounted an incident at lunch that prompted my mother to call the school and arrange a meeting between Principal Hayden, some of my former friends, their parents, my parents, and me.

On an evening in April 1996, Ivy, Torey, Aviva, their parents, Principal Hayden, my parents, and I sat around a long table in the principal's office. The tension was palpable, my once-friends and I exchanging awkward glances. I honestly don't remember most of the details of the meeting, but I seem to recall that Torey was very quiet throughout, and that Ivy was crying. Most importantly, I don't recall that much was accomplished that evening: it was mostly an airing of grievances, with Ivy and Aviva leveling accusations at me while I responded the best I could. I recall distinctly at the end that I felt that everything that had gone wrong was my fault. That was how I had been conditioned to feel whenever there was any social conflict, and I said something like, "I take full responsibility for what happened." At that point, Aviva softened a little, telling me not to be so hard on myself. But by then it was a moot point. My friendship with her as well as both other girls was damaged beyond repair.

In hindsight, I don't think our friendships were destined to fall apart. As I've mentioned in previous posts, we were kids in a broken system in the ignorant '90s, kids whose brains were still very much in development, and not yet mature enough to handle protracted conflict without adult assistance. With appropriate support from the teachers, principal, and guidance counselors, perhaps these friendships could have been saved, or at least they might have ended more peacefully. So what could have been done? 

For one thing, I think the meeting should have happened close to the beginning of the year: one good thing that came out it, as I only learned recently, was that it was a crystalizing moment for Torey. She recalls having to look me in the eye and admit to herself the gravity of what she had done. She also remembers looking at my parents and thinking, "They welcomed me into their home, and then I turned around and hurt their daughter." The fact that this meeting made her realize how serious and hurtful her actions were demonstrates that kids who engage in this behavior aren't beyond redemption. Furthermore, the fact that she needed this meeting to appreciate how hurtful her behavior was, once again, illustrates how immature and ill-equipped teenage brains are for managing conflict; to an adult, on the other hand, such consequences would be immediately obvious. I want to note that it does make sense that the meeting was a turning point for Torey; I recall afterwards that she made a serious effort to be nice to me, telling me, "Don't listen to them-- they're assholes," when other kids picked on me. Although I thought it was too late, I also remember thinking that she was genuinely sorry and trying to do better.

So had the meeting happened in the beginning of the year, when circumstances started to go into free fall, how might such a meeting-- or a similar one-- have looked?

First of all, Mr. Frank, my and Ivy's history teacher who belittled me in class, should have been there, and he should have already been briefed about his unacceptable behavior. As I illustrated in my last post, I believe he set the stage in the beginning of the year for making me more of a target and making Ivy feel like she needed to abandon our friendship. In terms of the conflict with the other kids, particularly Torey, Aviva, Ivy, and me, guidance counselors and the principal should have met with us-- first one-on-one, then as a group. Importantly, all of these adults would have had to listen to all perspectives without bias. Even if one side was completely wrong and the other completely right, the only way to have a chance in solving these problems would have been to approach this diplomatically. Here's a perfect example:

In my previous post, I mentioned that Ivy related a situation in which she and Aviva went into a far corner of the library to work on our group project, and I told Mrs. Hayden, who was in the room at the time, that they were hiding from me. My recollection of this is vague, but I can definitely imagine it. Ivy said that she recalls that Mrs. Hayden-- or Sergeant Hayden, as she was widely known-- did not question my side of the story and yelled at Ivy and Aviva, furthering the rift between us. Here's a better way this could have panned out:

Sergeant Hayden: Hey, girls, what's going on? Julie says you're hiding from her.

Ivy: What? No! This is the only free table we could find in the library.

Aviva: Julie's paranoid-- as usual.

Me: I'm not stupid! I know that's what you were doing!

Sergeant Hayden: Okay, I can see that there's a lot going on. Why don't we go to the office to talk about it. None of you are in trouble. I think all of us should just have a little chat.

In the office, Ivy, Aviva, and I could all restate our perspectives, and then Sergeant Hayden should validate Ivy and Aviva's frustration and then help them to understand why I thought they were hiding from me.

Sergeant Hayden: That definitely sounds frustrating. But I want you to think about this: Torey kicks her out of the lunch table, and nobody objects. You don't intervene when other kids harass her. Some days you're nice to her, and other days you make fun of her. She has nobody left to turn to and never knows what to expect. What is she supposed to think? Do you think you would assume the best if you were her?

Maybe it seems idealistic of me to think that Ivy and Aviva would automatically come around, but they were good kids at their core. And had there been intervention like this early on by teachers, Mrs. Hayden, guidance counselors, etc., the conflict might not have even reached this point. But if it had, I think the intervention I proposed could be very effective.

And let's talk about Mr. Frank. He never once made an attempt to constructively address any situation, such as in the incident that I discussed in my last post, in which he and I got into a ridiculous debate about the length of the school year, which I thought was longer because we started before Labor Day for the first time. This culminated in him yelling at me in front of the class. I thought he was joking, and then I turned to high-five Ivy. A boy shouted, "Handshake of the nerds!" and Ivy was body slammed into a locker after class. It was a turning point for her, and our friendship was never the same. Mr. Frank could have prevented all of this by actually being the adult in the room instead of stooping to the level of a teenager. He could have said, "Hey, you know what? This really isn't a big deal, and we've got to get back on task. But if it really matters to you, I can show you the calendar after class and we can talk about it." And if the "handshake of the nerds" thing still somehow managed to happen, he could have told the kid, "Hey knock it off," or drawn attention away from Ivy and me by saying, "Since when is being a nerd a bad thing? Look at me. I went to college and majored in history. I'm a huge nerd!"

Do I have much hope that Mr. Frank would have taken this approach? Not really. I think he was just a run-of-the-mill asshole. But my whole point is to point out what approaches would have been constructive and helpful. They come from the starting point that recognizes that teenagers are ill-equipped to manage certain types of conflict without adult intervention, especially ones related to social status and pecking order. Had they been implemented, otherwise good kids like Ivy wouldn't have felt forced to make a Sophie's choice-type decision between sticking by their friend and getting beaten up, or abandoning their friend and not getting beaten up.

Furthermore, teachers need to model respect, not just make vague statements like, "Your behavior is unacceptable." This was honestly the best that I got out of teachers who talked to kids who were harassing me. Actions speak louder than words, and kids pick up on it when a teacher says one thing and models behavior that contradicts it. They see right through that hypocrisy. 

Well, after all the hell that I've related in these impromptu series of blog posts about my middle school years, particularly 9th grade, did anything positive happen that year?

As a matter of fact... yes.

Stay tuned.

Closure Part 2: How School Failed all of Us

*As always, names and details are changed to protect people's privacy

In my last blog post, the latest in a series about my middle school nightmare of loss of friends and incessant bullying, I talked about my decision to contact Ivy and Torey, two friends from those years who turned on me in 9th grade (again, I remind you, middle school in my district). One of the reasons I reconnected with them-- despite the fact that they were the ones who had shunned me, not vice-versa-- was because of my long-held philosophy that you cannot hold adults accountable for bad things they did as kids, unless it's something as extreme as rape or murder. This philosophy is a large part of why I have completely forgiven them. Teenagers' brains are still very much in development, particularly in the prefrontal cortex, the region responsible for executive function, risk and consequence assessment, impulse control, and moderation of social behavior. In most people, this part of the brain does not finish developing until around age twenty-five; during the teenage years, it's a hot mess. Is it really any surprise that when adults look back on parts of their life with regret, they often talk about stupid things they did when they were teenagers? 

This is not to excuse the behavior of Torey, Ivy, my other former friends, and the kids who were bullying me from day one. Rather, it is to illustrate that because of their very much in-progress brain development, teenagers are notoriously bad at conflict resolution and handling discomfort. They always form their own societies in school-- biological human evolution practically mandates it-- but they are ill-equipped to run them successfully without adult guidance. The problem is, is that there was almost no adult mentorship at our school. In the '90s, the teacher's job was only to teach, and whatever kids did when interacting with each other, so long as they didn't openly disrespect teachers or damage school property, was their business. In the best case scenario, teachers looked the other way when kids bullied each other. But in the worst case, sometimes the teachers actively perpetuated it. As for the guidance counselors, my experience was that they offered vague advice that didn't even approach the heart of the issue.

In the process of clearing the air with Ivy and Torey, I came to realize that I wasn't the only one whom the system had failed. It failed them too. Both Torey and Ivy revealed that they were also bullied-- which I somehow wasn't aware of-- because of their weight. They hated middle school and eventually threw away their yearbooks (I didn't throw mine away because I save damn near everything). Ivy, in particular, described the school as a "toxic combination of students and teachers." She also noted how amazing it was that decades later we could both clearly remember mean teachers and kids who tormented us. The most toxic teacher, no doubt, was our 9th grade history teacher, Mr. Frank, who was popular among the "cool" kids.

I said at the end of my last post that I believe Mr. Frank played a role in ending my friendship with Ivy, and I strongly believe he set the tone in the beginning of the year. One particular incident, I would eventually learn, was a huge turning point for Ivy. That year, for the first time, our school district started before Labor Day, while not moving the last day of school to an earlier date. Somehow, the topic came up in Mr. Frank's class one day. I had already assumed, possibly incorrectly, that we had a longer school year than before, so I said something about it. Mr. Frank said no, it was still the standard 180 days. I kept insisting that it was a few days longer. I don't recall exactly what was said, but at some point I began to find the interaction funny and started to make light of it. It went back and forth like this until Mr. Frank left the room to get the calendar. According to Ivy's recollection, Mr. Frank was pissed: he slammed the calendar on my desk. I remember that he said, "Here you go, Bucket Mouth!" But, story of my fucking life, I thought he was playing along and being silly, not that he was upset. I turned to offer a high-five to Ivy, who accepted. As her hand slowly connected to mine, I remember thinking, "Oh shit," because I could sense some reluctance. A boy in class called out, "Handshake of the nerds!"

When I came to school the next morning, Ivy ignored me and walked away when I tried to say hello. Perplexed, I asked what was wrong, but as typical with middle school girls, I had to get the answer secondhand, in this case from our friend Aviva. I, of course, learned that Ivy was upset about what had happened in Mr. Frank's class the day before. A few days later, Ivy started talking to me again, but our friendship, which had already been somewhat strained since the middle of eighth grade, would never be the same. It was only when I recently reconnected with her that I learned that after class the day before, she was body slammed into a locker for having the temerity to high-five the school loser in front of everybody. Needless to say, she did not report this assault. Why would she? Every bullied kid knows that reporting incidents like this only makes things worse. The kid is labeled a snitch, and the bullies torment them more aggressively. And it doesn't help that Mr. Frank played a direct role in creating the situation. He made it clear to the entire class that he did not like me, further validating my position as a perpetual target, and communicating with his students that there would be no consequences for harassing me-- or anybody who associated with me. 

Toward the end of the school year, Ivy, Aviva, and I worked together on a ten-week-long group project in Mr. Frank's class. At this point, my friendship with both girls was hanging by a thread. The three of us fought constantly-- more specifically, I fought against Ivy and Aviva, and they fought against me. Unfortunately, I don't remember many details of what we argued about, but I do recall feeling like there was a constant severe breakdown in communication among us. I also remember that Mr. Frank's idea of intervening was, at best, to tell all three of us to grow up or, at worst, to automatically blame me for whatever was wrong. Between Mr. Frank failing to de-escalate and redirect the situation during the calendar incident in the beginning of the year, berating me in front of the class throughout the year, and not constructively intervening during fights in our group project, he played a huge role in hammering the final nail in the coffin of my already-tenuous friendship with both Ivy and Aviva.

I wasn't the only student that Mr. Frank was a jerk to. I have no recollection of this, but Ivy told me that Mr. Frank started calling her "Poison Ivy" in class, thinking it was funny. The other kids started calling her that, and despite her obvious discomfort, Mr. Frank never told them to stop. The nickname apparently stuck with her even when she moved on to high school. As Ivy and I talked about this and the other aforementioned incidents, she said, "Mr. Frank was a bully. He never should have been teaching."

And then there was the principal, Mrs. Hayden-- also known as Sergeant Hayden, because of the no-nonsense, authoritative way that she carried herself, and the fact that she put the fear of God in the student body. She had no trouble calling out students for bullying which, on the surface, would seem to be a refreshing change from what I was used to. But a critical detail is that she never seemed to hold teachers accountable for looking the other way and/or encouraging the behavior, as was the case with Mr. Frank. Therefore, problems with bullying were never addressed constructively, let alone truly solved. A teacher sets the tone for the class by how they respond-- or don't respond-- to bullying. They can either enable it or disable it. I can't recall any teachers taking steps to disable it. Did Mrs. Hayden ever implore them to do so? I doubt it.

The ongoing conflict with my former friends reached a crescendo one day at lunch when Aviva and Khalia intermittently walked past me, pulling out loose strands of my hair. Because I knew teachers would tell me to "just ignore it," I did just that for several rounds-- and of course it didn't work. As I was sipping a can of Coke, Aviva pulled yet another strand of hair-- and I reached my limit. As if on autopilot, I whipped around and hurled the can of soda at her, but I missed. During class after lunch, Aviva told everybody who would listen that I could have killed her had I not missed, making me sound like I was unhinged and dangerous, when the reality was that I was desperate for the constant bullying to end.

It was because of this incident that my mother called Mrs. Hayden and demanded a meeting with Ivy and Aviva (because of the project conflict), Torey (because of her role in exiling me from the group), me, all of the parents and, of course, Mrs. Hayden. The next day, Ivy came up to me in tears and said, "You got me suspended. Thank you very, very much!" I remember very clearly being at a loss for words. I didn't know what to say. I wanted all these problems to stop, but I didn't want to get anybody in more trouble than necessary, and I was desperate to salvage the friendships, even though I knew deep down that there was no hope. I even recall going to Mrs. Hayden and telling her not to suspend Ivy.

After reconnecting with Ivy, I learned that for some reason Mrs. Hayden had assumed that Ivy and Torey had done the hair pulling at lunch. She approached them during an ice cream social after school to tell them that a meeting was coming soon, and threatened them both with suspension (ultimately, they weren't suspended). In any case, it frightened both of them so much that to this day they still remember the incident very clearly. Mrs. Hayden's approach of addressing the issue during an after-school activity was completely inappropriate and counterproductive, making things worse for everyone involved and not solving anything. As for when I told her not to suspend Ivy, as she wasn't one of the girls pulling my hair, her response was a dismissive, "I am so sick of this crap."

Ivy recalls another time, during our group project, she and Aviva went to a far corner of the library to work. I apparently thought they were hiding from me, and I told Mrs. Hayden, who was in the room at the time. She yelled at them without trying to get their side of the story. When Ivy told me about this, it didn't ring a bell, but upon further reflection it sounds vaguely familiar. Again, as with the incident of threatening Ivy and Torey with suspension, it only made both girls angrier with me and furthered the rift between us. Rather than get clarification from the girls about their intentions while helping them see why I might have thought they had been hiding from me, she acted accusatory and aggressive. In hindsight, it seems as if Sergeant Hayden's main concern in these situations was that her side of the story-- whether it worked in my favor or someone else's-- was seen as the correct one. This approach is completely ineffective when working with teenagers, whose brains are not yet mature enough to handle such protracted conflict unassisted.

And finally, as you have seen from previous posts, I dealt with a lot of victim blaming when I was bullied. But Ivy also got her share of it. At the very end of the year, one of the boys in our grade got ahold of Ivy's yearbook and wrote some vicious messages in permanent marker all over the inside. When Ivy's mother went to the school to complain, Mrs. Hayden told Ivy that it was her fault for not keeping an eye on the yearbook. Only when her mother screamed at Sergeant Hayden did the principal relent and give Ivy a replacement.

As you can see, the situation at school was dire-- not just for me, but also for Ivy, Torey, and Aviva. So what ultimately happened at that meeting that I alluded to? Did it solve anything? What could have been done instead?

Stay tuned.

Closure Part 1: Reconnection

*As always, names have been changed to protect people's privacy

I've spilled a lot of digital ink about my horrific experiences in middle school of losing friends and being bullied. If you read my post from November 2024, "Autism and Boundaries Part 1: Losing Friends," you saw that the recent fallout with my (admittedly newly-acquired and EXTREMELY literal autistic) friend Lisa over a joke that fell the wrong way was the inciting incident that made me revisit middle school in that entry and ultimately write a few follow-up posts over the past two months. However, a few other important things also happened during that time.

When I was visiting my parents this spring, I was flipping through my yearbook from 7th grade, the year I had first met my middle school friend group and was still a welcome part of it. There were some warm messages from the girls who signed my yearbook, such as, "You're a good friend," and "We've become such good friends this year." Ivy, who was my best friend at school, ended her message with, "B.F.F. 1994." 

That year, Ivy and I truly had a genuine friendship. We hung out at each other's houses, played games, wrote funny stories, and drew pictures while an Animaniacs song tape played in the background. One time, we ran into each other at a toy store, and I ended up going to her house for the rest of the day. In the summer of 1994, between 7th and 8th grade, we even had a double sleepover: I spent the night at Ivy's house, and the next day she spent the night at mine. Our friendship had such a genuine undercurrent, which made the memory of how it ultimately fell apart in 9th grade (middle school in my district) all the more painful.

Then I thought about Torey. While I wasn't ever as close to her as I was to Ivy, we did have some fun together. We went to each other's birthday parties, spent summer afternoons at the swim club, and one time I even slept over at her house. We watched Mrs. Doubtfire, and that night as we were going to sleep, we confided in each other our frustrations over some of the mean girls at school. Although I knew that whatever she was dealing with was probably not as intense as the bullying that I was enduring, I do recall in that moment feeling good about being able to talk about it and knowing that I wasn't completely alone.

Whenever I looked at my yearbooks over the years, I had brief, fleeting thoughts about how I had started 7th grade with a group of friends, and by 9th grade these kids had turned on me. But this time, looking at the yearbook and writing my most recent blog posts about middle school made me think about it more deeply. For the first time, I asked myself, "How the hell could this have happened?" While early on I realized that the ensuing bullying was not my fault, for years I internalized the fallout itself as something that I had caused with my sense of humor, jokes landing the wrong way, and just in general being "annoying," "inappropriate," "immature," and "WRONG." I didn't question the idea that it was normal and expected for friendships to end over things like this. It was just the way things were, and I didn't appreciate how utterly absurd and shallow it was. 

My friends began to slip away from me in 8th grade, and then in the beginning of 9th grade, I was kicked out of the lunch table and, by extension, the group. Torey orchestrated the entire thing, backed up by Kat-- who was still angry at me from our fallout the previous year-- and not challenged by anybody else, including Ivy. Torey's explanation? "You're the most annoying person I've ever met, and nobody wants you here." One by one, my remaining friends distanced themselves further, and by the end of 9th grade, even Ivy had completely abandoned our friendship.

As I looked at my yearbook this spring, I truly began to see what a pile of nonsense the whole situation had been. People don't start out liking you enough to spend thirty-six straight hours with you only to abandon the friendship two years later because they're tired of your sense of humor. People don't confide in you about painful experiences with mean girls and then decide to become one just because they find some of the things you do annoying. I had always thought "Either all of these kids changed and became mean, or they had all become tired of me when they saw how insufferable I was. The latter seems more likely."

Only a couple years ago did it dawn on me that neither of these explanations was accurate, and that something else would better explain the actions of my former friends. The bullying had gotten worse each year in middle school, and eventually got so bad that the kids in my friend group had to have known that if they didn't want to be subjected to the same hourly abuse as me, they would not only have to distance themselves, they would have to actively demonstrate that they weren't anything like me by joining in on the bullying. I honestly don't think it was even a completely conscious decision but the result of instinct shaped by eons of evolution: eat or be eaten. And this spring, as I looked at my yearbook with that in mind, I began to think about that explanation more deeply. And the idea of contacting Ivy and Torey began to stir in my head.

Many times over the years, I considered contacting Ivy and Torey to find out how they remembered the events. But I also felt that I should wait for them to make the first move-- they were the ones who had shunned me, not vice-versa. However, something else happened that made me reconsider: For the first time since its 2003 release, I read Please Stop Laughing at Me, a memoir by anti-bullying activist Jodee Blanco about her own chronic and incessant bullying that was eerily similar to mine. The book ended with her attending her high school reunion to confront her past-- and to be greeted by her former bullies and friends-turned-bullies with profuse apologies. She is now friends with many of these people, and they have supported her in her anti-bullying activism. Would there be a way to encounter Ivy and Torey again in a similar way Jodee Blanco did with her old classmates?

Unfortunately, a high school reunion was out of the question. My school district had two high schools, and Ivy and Torey had been zoned for a different high school than me. And who's even heard of a middle school reunion? The only option, then, was to look them up on social media. But then what? I wanted closure, but I couldn't just ask for an apology or just start talking about everything as if twenty-nine years hadn't passed since I last saw them. For all I knew, they didn't even remember our fallout-- or even me. As unlikely as I thought either scenario, people continue to surprise me with the kinds of things they let slip down the memory hole. In another scenario that I thought unlikely, but still possible, perhaps these girls still blamed me for everything that happened. Maybe they would see my friend request, send me a nasty message, and block me. I didn't know. I was flying blind. Once again, I concluded that I should just wait for them to contact me.

However, I finally said to myself, "What am I doing? It's been almost thirty years since all this happened. We were middle school kids in a broken system in the ignorant '90s. If I really want closure, why don't I just contact them?"

In mid-June, I friend requested Ivy on Facebook, and Torey a few days later. To my surprise, both Ivy and Torey accepted my friend requests. I had successfully conveyed the message that my door was open, but now what? I decided to wait. Hopefully they would message me; I also left breadcrumbs that I hoped they would examine. I posted several autism memes and a number of links to autism articles-- something I normally do anyway. Perhaps they would see these and realize that I was autistic and start to rethink certain things about the past. Additionally, I posted a link to my then-latest post about the fallout in 9th grade, Sober Reflection About Sober Reflection. However, if a certain amount of time passed-- I was thinking about two months-- and neither of them commented or contacted me, I would contact them. But I would have to sit on it for a while and think of the right way to approach this. 

If I ended up having to message them, then what? Did they even owe me an apology? I wasn't sure. We were kids when all of this happened, and I have long held the philosophy that you cannot hold adults accountable for bad things they did as kids, unless it is something as extreme as rape or murder. And since I was reaching out and not vice-versa, it didn't make sense for me to expect an apology.

Fortunately, Ivy ended up reading my blog post and leaving the following comment, answering the post's question as to whether neurotypical people engage in sober reflection to the same extent as autistic people are forced to:

The answer to your question is yes, we do, and probably just as much or more. I'm guessing I'm Ivy in this story, and that's fair. I didn't stick up for you, and I wish I had. We were friends, and when it all went to hell I chose wrong. I wish I had been brave enough to stick up for you, but I wasn't... Instead of choosing my friend, I chose what I thought was self-preservation, and it was an asshole thing to do. I know 30 years is probably too late for an apology, but I am sorry, and I wish I had been a better person and a better friend to you.

Ivy's comment confirmed what I had already suspected: she knew that she would endure the kind of chronic, incessant, minute-by-minute bullying that I did if she continued to associate with me, including at the lunch table. I messaged her to thank her for her comment. We spent the next few days talking about what had happened in middle school. It turns out that Ivy remembers a lot of some of the same things that I do, such as our constant bickering during a 9th-grade class project that we both thought of as the final nail in the coffin of our friendship, and the ways my former friend group started to gang up on me. However, she also didn't remember some of the nasty things that she had said to me, such as that everybody wanted to beat me up. Ivy said that when she read about this in the blog post, she was horrified and ashamed.

As for Torey, I messaged her about a week after Ivy and I had begun talking. We engaged in small talk for a few minutes, asking one another how she had been all these years. I brought up a couple funny memories from when we were kids, such as when a friend from her church gave her a mouse for her thirteenth birthday. After about five minutes of this, I finally asked, "For my peace of mind, I need to know: do you remember what went down in 9th grade?" Just as I hit "send," I got the following message from Torey:

Julie - not to change the subject exactly - but you’ve been on my mind many times over the years. I was too cowardly to reach out and say this, but I need to.

Then, she saw my message and wrote this: 

I’m so sorry for that. I really am. What I did to you back then is the one thing I look back on and regret often. You were my friend. I didn’t mean to hurt you and I have no explanation for why I did. I’m truly sorry.

Torey and I ended up continuing the conversation on Zoom the next day. She told me that whenever there's an icebreaker activity in which participants have to talk about their biggest regret, Torey talks about the way she treated me in 9th grade. I find it puzzling, however, that she does not remember why she turned on me, let alone so viciously. Or maybe she never even knew why. That would offer credence to the idea that she, Ivy, and the others were acting on unconscious instinct in a hostile environment, shaped by millions of years of evolution.

However, there is one thing that became abundantly clear from talking to both Torey and Ivy. To back up a bit, in responding to Ivy's comment on my post, I told her that I wasn't angry at her. If anything, I was angry at the teachers, principal, and administrators who made it safe for this type of hostile environment to form. But after talking to both of them, I realized I wasn't the only one whom the system had failed. It failed all of us. It failed me the most, of course, because I was the undiagnosed autistic kid. But it absolutely failed them too. In addition, I am certain that our 9th grade history teacher, Mr. Frank, played a role in ending my friendship with Ivy. But I'm getting ahead of myself. 

Stay tuned.

Sober Reflection About Sober Reflection

*As always, names are changed to protect people's privacy

People tell me all the time that I am very self aware, that I am very introspective, and that I am capable of deep reflection. They tell me it's a rare and positive thing. Rare, maybe. But positive? Sure, it's good to engage in sober reflection once in a while. The problem is, is that I am capable of doing so not so much because it's a natural inclination. Rather, it's mostly because I've been repeatedly forced to do so since adolescence, due to being repeatedly socially punished for things that were honest mistakes. Meanwhile my neurotypical peers did not seem to have to do this, even when their actions were also extreme and, in some cases, malicious.

I think about during COVID when I reconnected with Chuck, a counselor from my 1997 summer trip to Israel, via video conferencing. He was a guy I'd I chased around all summer like I was Pepe LePew, rarely giving him any space. When I first reconnected with him, we talked about this. I sheepishly admitted the obvious, that yes, back then I'd had a huge crush on him. He shrugged and said, "You were a teenage girl." I told him that not long after the trip ended, I realized what a pain in the ass I had been, and I engaged in sober reflection over the following year. Confused, he asked why I had thought I needed to do that. I explained that it was because of the backlash from the counselors from Camp Negev, which was affiliated with this trip. When I returned to camp for the CIT program in 1998, they didn't allow me to work with kids. In fact, they almost didn't even let me return to camp. They cited a lot of reasons for this, and the one that came up the most was that I had been "too dependent" on Chuck, and getting "dependent" on people could interfere with my ability to work with kids. It was also largely for this reason that I wasn't allowed to go on the post-high school gap-year program in Israel.

Did I act stupid in the summer of 1997? Sure. In my case, I was an undiagnosed neurodivergent 16-year-old kid, trying to figure out how to handle new, confusing, and overwhelming feelings. And let's be real: teenagers are stupid. Maybe autistic teenagers are a different kind of stupid, but not in a worse way, and certainly not a malicious way.

But what about other kids on the trip who were difficult, but just in ways more familiar to neurotypical people? What about the girls who were struggling with eating disorders and making themselves throw up? Did they spend a year in sober reflection about how their difficult behavior could have led to something life threatening, and the counselors in charge of them would have been held liable?  What about the kids who managed to get their hands on alcohol and drugs that summer? Did they also have to engage in sober reflection about their dangerous-- not to mention illegal-- behavior?

I think about the bullshit that happened in my friend group in middle school, as I discussed in recent posts. When my joke about "old people smell" fell the wrong way and my friend Kat was convinced I'd insulted her grandmother, I had to engage in sober reflection about my behavior; my parents and psychologist all told me that my behavior was extremely inappropriate and immature. My parents even said that they didn't blame Kat for ending the friendship.

But was Kat expected to engage in sober reflection about thinking that an appropriate response to my joke was to spend days on a revenge tour, saying humiliating things about me to anyone who would listen? Did her parents tell her it was immature and inappropriate to tell a group of kids that my lack of interest in dating must have meant that I was gay, hormone deficient, and hadn't yet gotten my period? 

What about in 9th grade, when my former friend, Torey, kicked me out of the lunch table, saying that I was "the most annoying person" she had "ever met?" My parents seemed to expect me to engage in sober reflection about how annoying I was. But did Torey's parents make her reflect on shunning a friend in the most humiliating way possible, including shouting taunts at me in gym class on that same day?

What about Ivy, who just 18 months before had declared me her best friend? Did she engage in sober reflection about not standing up for me that day? What about later that year when she came up to me at lunch at the table I'd been exiled to and said, "Everyone wants to beat you up-- because you're you?" Did Ivy reflect on how cruel it was to tell someone everyone wanted to physically abuse them?

What about the nightmare I endured in ceramics class, where girls threw chunks of clay at me every day? I engaged in sober reflection, believing I deserved to be treated that way because I was odd and annoying. Did the ringleader, Kay, ever reflect about how horrific her actions were after I left the room-- and school-- in tears one day? What about Miss Mitch, the teacher in that class who had told me to ignore clay being thrown at me? Did she engage in sober reflection about how she had failed to protect a vulnerable student from abuse? I doubt it, because even when another student reported the behavior, she asked what my role in the "conflict" was.

What about the teacher I had in a Saturday morning art class during my senior year of high school, who saw me have a meltdown, threw me out of the class, and screamed at me, "You are going to fuck yourself over if you think you can go through life acting like this?" Did she engage in sober reflection about how cruel it is to talk to a kid that way? I, on the other hand, had to reflect on how my behavior must have led to such an extreme response from her. 

Did any of my aforementioned peers and teachers engage in sober reflection about any of the incidents I mentioned? The answer is, Probably not. You see, people are more influenced by social status in judging someone's behavior than their actual actions. A joke from me that fell the wrong way is egregiously inappropriate and immature, but the deliberate humiliation of a classmate at the bottom of the food chain is seen as just a "normal part of growing up." Even behaviors that are concerning-- like binging and purging or doing drugs-- are seen as less harmful than a confused kid chasing her counselor around like Pepe LePew. These other kids were given credit for being kids, for their prefrontal cortices still being in development. I wasn't. Anything short of social perfection was deemed a failure on my part. With this constant feedback, I was in a constant state of sober reflection. People to this day even ask me, "Why are you so hard on yourself?" Well, now you know how I learned it.

There is a lot of bias that autistic people, whether or not they are diagnosed, regularly face. We are disproportionately punished socially for honest missteps while neurotypical people get away with all kinds of deliberate and egregious shit. As for me, even today I have to ask myself, "Is that person being a jerk to me because of their own issues, or did I push them to it? Do I need to reflect deeply on this?" I shouldn't have to ask this question. 

No one should. 

When School is a Systemic Failure

*Names changed, as always...

Well, I thought I had finished blog posts about my school days for the foreseeable future, but then I learned something else that happened during my nightmare in ceramics class that I never knew about. 

A little backstory: in 2014, an old classmate, Annette, looked me up on Facebook. We had never been friends in school, and I don't really recall many interactions with her. However, she remembered the way I was bullied, and apologized for not stepping in. She said it had bothered her the way people treated me, but she also knew that if she stood up for me, she would be targeted next. I said something along the lines of, "The '90s were a more ignorant time, and we were kids. Water under the bridge." We are friends now, and when I visit my parents in Pennsylvania, we often get together.

This week, I sent Annette my last blog post, in which I related being at the mercy of a group of girls who constantly threw large chunks of clay at me in ceramics class. One day, unable to take it any more, I retaliated by hurling a container of water at their ringleader, Kay. She acted surprised and yelled, "Julie, why'd you do that?" loudly enough to get the attention of our teacher, Miss Mitch, who asked me the same question. Kay and her cronies innocently maintained that they hadn't done anything to me and that I had just thrown water for no reason. Humiliated and defeated, I left the room amid victorious cheering. 

Annette told me that she was in my class-- something I only vaguely remember-- and that she recalls that horrific incident. She also told me that sometime before then, she reported the bullying to Miss Mitch. Touched to learn about this, I asked Annette how the teacher responded. Annette told me that she said something like, "Well, what was Julie doing?" as if I must have provoked the girls in some way. Figures. Miss Mitch had told me to "just ignore them," and she essentially asked Annette what my role in my abuse was. 

I am sure you can guess the nickname I used for Miss Mitch for the rest of the conversation with Annette.

I never knew that Miss Mitch had seen me as a problem, but now it's absolutely clear. She probably thought I was too sensitive, that I was provoking the girls, that I was "asking for it" for not trying hard enough to fit in, all of the above, and more. I know there were at least a few teachers who perceived me through a similarly distorted lens-- one that comes to mind is my ninth-grade history teacher, Mr. Frank-- but I began to wonder: if there were two, there had to have been more. Annette told me that she recalls a number of teachers seeming to think I was a problem to manage, just by the way they said my name when they talked to me. Kids are very perceptive. If they picked up on how authority figures felt about me, then of course they felt emboldened to treat me the way they did. 

As Annette said to me in our conversation, "Looking back it is fucking insane that the kid who was perpetually bullied was the problem."

At any rate, it is now clearer than ever that the my issues at the school were systemic. It was not just a couple incompetent teachers and a few asshole kids. It was a total systemic failure that didn't just passively allow the bullying to continue, but actively encouraged it. It is the kind that has historically ensured that autistic kids don't stand a chance. There was an inherent bias against whomever didn't fit the mold: these kids were dismissed as weird, immature, sensitive, a behavior problem... take your pick. Additionally, it's easier to blame one kid than to blame an entire group of kids. If one kid is being disproportionately targeted by dozens of classmates, then it has to be that kid's fault. No way could that many kids be that mean. That one kid must be bringing it on themselves!

1 in 31 kids today are diagnosed with autism, due to broadening criteria that wasn't available in the '90s. There had to have been other kids who were going through similar hell. Or if they weren't, it was because they learned to mask: that is, "fit in"-- pretend to be someone they aren't in order to avoid psychological and physical abuse. My refusal to do this was not seen as a strength and self-understanding, but as a sign of immaturity and stubbornness. 

Many autistic people-- women especially-- from my generation and earlier have come forward about the masking they were forced to do as teenagers. A significant number of them have PTSD. While I don't have enough symptoms to fit the diagnostic criteria for PTSD, my therapist has said that I do exhibit some. My bullies probably don't even remember what they did, but 30 years later, I still remember very clearly. That speaks to the kind of trauma I endured.

While society has come a long way in the past 30 years in awareness of autism, bullying, and the intersection of the two, it is still a problem. Moreover, I fear it will be getting worse in the near future. After all, our current government-- with the worst kind of bully as the most powerful man on earth-- will only serve as affirmation to bullies that their behavior is acceptable. Additionally, I can only imagine how RFK Jr.'s recent disgusting comments about autistic people will give them more fuel for their fire.

How Did They Not Know?

 *As always, names are changed to protect the privacy of those involved...

Well, what can I say? My blog post from a few days ago, like many others about my childhood, was a double-edged sword: it was cathartic, but it also opened more wounds that I felt the need to address in another blog post. This morning I was talking to Mom about the post, as well as its predecessor, in which I wrote about losing my friend, Kat, in eighth grade over a joke I made about "old people smell." Convinced that I had been making fun of her grandmother, Kat spent the next few days on a revenge tour, telling everyone who would listen about what I did. And of course she made sure to humiliate me in front of a group of girls by suggesting the reason I wasn't drooling over boys was because I "needed hormones" and "hadn't yet gotten my period."

Mom admitted that she didn't know just how bad things were in school on a daily, hourly basis. She realizes now that, as she put it, all I had to do was show up at school, and it was "a critical mass of shit" directed at me. But I have to admit, while I am glad to hear this, part of me feels angry. I feel like a total asshole for thinking this way about my aging parents, but I sometimes feel angry at them for not believing me when I told them how bad and unfair things were at school. They often thought that I was exaggerating and overreacting when describing my experiences. In fact, the word "bullying" didn't even enter into the conversation. But I don't know how much clearer I could have been. The thing I repeatedly ask myself is, How did they not know? 

How did they not know that this was not mere conflict, but an imbalance of power that resulted in me being abused? How did they not know how serious the bullying was and how deep the wounds inflicted by other kids cut? How did they not know how that it was death by a million cuts to hear bitingly personal comments by large groups of kids on an hourly basis with no one to stick up for me, and teachers dismissively telling me to "just ignore it?" How did my parents not know that the way they often reacted when I came home in tears only made me feel like a worthless piece of shit with no redeeming qualities? How could they not have known that the way they were reacting to me not only was not helping, but was throwing gas on an already out-of-control fire?

In addition to the bullying, how did they not see how ridiculous it was that friends who had once invited me to birthday parties, sleepovers, and movie outings were now shunning me, further cementing the idea in my mind that my friendships were tenuous and that it was reasonable for them to end over jokes that fell the wrong way and, if my parents were to be believed in their suspicions, how I dressed?

And why is it that, 30 years later, they conveniently don't remember most of the hurtful things that they said?

The incident with Kat in eighth grade was a turning point with my group of "friends." By the end of that year, things with Torey were tenuous at best, and Khalia had said in exasperation, "We've given you so many chances." In the beginning of ninth grade (part of middle school in the district I grew up in), we were picking lunch tables-- and after the first few days of trying different lunch tables, we had to pick one to sit at for the rest of the year. Even though things were awkward with Kat, Torey and Khalia, I thought at least Gerri, Aviva, and Ivy-- who, in seventh grade, referred to me as her best friend and even stood up for me against other kids-- would let me sit there, just as I had in seventh and eighth grade. They were still my friends, I thought.

But Torey said to me, "I don't want you sitting here. You're the most annoying person I've ever met. Nobody wants you here." Kat agreed. And my remaining "friends"-- not even Ivy-- said anything. Gerri later told me that Torey said to her, "I don't care if Julie sits with a bag over her head. I don't even want to look at her." Gerri elaborated in a cold bluntness that was typical of her, "Nobody thinks you're funny, and you just don't get it." Later, during gym class, Torey shouted taunts at me, saying that I was a loser and had no friends.

In any case, the battle lines were drawn. What's clear to me now is that in the middle of eighth grade, Kat started to get the other girls riled up over my "old people smell" joke. And with more and more kids bullying me each day-- both verbally and physically-- it was clear that if they didn't want to be next, they couldn't be seen with me.

My mother was a teacher-- she had to have known that girls that age are nasty to each other. How did she not know? Did she not see anything similar in any of her students?

That night, my parents knew that something was wrong and forced the story out of me. The thing is, I was reluctant to tell them anything. I had just spent my first summer at Camp Negev, where I had had the best summer of my life. I made some new friends who liked me for who I was, and my counselor, Jonas, even became my closest friend there-- a mentor of sorts who invited me to stay in touch. Feeling that if I had made these great new connections that I must have changed somehow, I came to school optimistic that things were going to get better. And I felt I could handle my problems on my own-- that was the mature thing to do, wasn't it? But when my parents forced the story about the lunch table exile out of me, they both exploded.

Mom shouted, "You see what you've done? You've been annoying! You don't take advice from us! You make a joke out of everything and then wonder why people don't like you! Daddy and I give you advice to no end, but you refuse to take it! You annoy people, and the way you dress can't be helping either! With your hair tied back, you look like a boy! If you acted and dressed more feminine, maybe you wouldn't have all these problems!" 

It had been at least a year since I'd given up trying to get Mom to understand that I hated girly clothes; I hated how wearing my thick, wavy hair down made me look like some "pretty young woman" when deep down I was a tomboy, androgynous, gender-nonconforming, take your pick; and that I preferred T-shirts or flannels and jeans, not low-cut tops. And that, yes, I had a weird sense of humor, but I thought it was ridiculous that one had to be male for that to be acceptable. Explaining this sort of thing only made it sound like to her that I rejected my biology, that I was immature, that I was set in my ways.

At one point during the fight, I asked why things at Camp Negev were different, and why people there liked me. Dad said, "Because you were only there for a few weeks! Had these kids known you longer, they probably wouldn't have been able to stand it either!"

I told my parents that people at camp thought I was funny. Mom said, "So then you were their clown."

Because I have a very vivid imagination, I immediately got this image in my mind of me as the village idiot in a clown suit, handing out balloons to my campmates who apparently just saw me as some kind of bizarre entertainment, not someone they genuinely enjoyed having around. 

So it was clear to me what Dad thought-- the reason people at Camp Negev liked me was because they simply hadn't spent enough time with me. My friends from school liked me at first, but the more they got to know who I really was, the more insufferable they found me. 

When I finally went to bed, I wrote the following entry in my journal:

9/13/95

Today sucked. The end. And I wish Jonas was here.

Not long after that day, I actually sat down and calculated how many hours I had spent at camp that summer versus how many I spent at school in one academic year. Since more hours were spent in school than at camp, I seriously began to wonder if that was enough to make a difference in how I was received. 

As ninth grade progressed, things got worse, particularly in ceramics class. Every day a group of girls, led by a girl named Kay, threw huge balls of clay at me when I was trying to work, when I got up to get more clay, when I got up to refill my container with water-- name it. Whenever I reported it to the teacher, she simply told me to ignore it. So in class as I worked, I kept an eye out for balls of clay out of my peripheral vision and held up one hand to deflect them while I worked with the other. That was my reality, that was what I had to do because the kids-- not the teacher-- were in control of the class. I began to believe that what they were doing was apparently an acceptable reaction to someone so odd and annoying, and it was up to me to make it stop. My fault, my fight. My self-esteem, which had been pretty high at the beginning of the year, very quickly found itself in critical condition. By November, it was on life support, in a persistent vegetative state.

I wish my parents could have seen how hard I was trying under so much pressure. In fact, during our fight after the lunch table incident, Mom also said at one point, "When you go flying off the handle, that puts people off too!" But she and Dad didn't know how hard I was trying on that front. Again, how did they not know, especially since I tried to explain it to them several times? How did they not know that when I did fly off the handle-- today, in autistic speak, this is called a "meltdown"-- it was the end result of trying not to get upset, because I knew it was perceived as immature, but it only delayed the inevitable? How did they not know how often I tried to ignore other kids' taunts, and even what amounted to physical assault in ceramics class? I tried explaining to them several times that I did try to "just ignore them" and that it did not work. And, as any bullied kid knows, it just made them try that much harder to get a rise out of me. But somehow, they saw that as evidence that I wasn't trying hard enough.

And one Friday afternoon, I really did blow up in ceramics class, though I think even calling it a meltdown would be too dismissive. Keep in mind that this was in November, after having put up with this crap for two months.

I spent the entire period deflecting balls of clay, as usual. Tense and frustrated, but also pleased with myself for managing to handle it, the only thing I had left to do before class let out was empty my container of water into the sink. But then I felt a sharp pain in the back of my neck. I whipped around and saw Kay with a shit-eating grin on her face. I also saw a ball of clay, about the size of a softball, fall to the ground. In that split second, having reached my limit, I hurled the container of water at her. 

"Julie!" Kay yelled innocently. "What did you do that for?"

Only then did the teacher finally intervene, and when I explained that Kay had just thrown a large ball of clay at the back of my neck, Kay told her that she hadn't done anything, that I was just being mean. Of course, the other girls backed her up, confirming her side of the story. I stood there, frozen. It was clear that I was outnumbered, and that there was no way the teacher would believe me when several kids had a story that diametrically contradicted mine. I stormed out of the room in tears, an explosive cheer of victory trailing behind me. 

The teacher told me to go to guidance, and then told the other kids to "settle down," that their behavior was "unacceptable."

When I got to the office, Mrs. Hayden, the principal, saw that I was in tears and asked me what happened. When I told her, she asked for the names of the girls, vowing to punish them. I begged her not to, knowing it would only make things worse, that they would come after me for being a "tattletale" and that they would just find more creative ways to go after me undetected. "I hate this place and I want to get out of here," I finally said. "I want to call my grandmother to pick me up."

Incredibly, Mrs. Hayden allowed it-- but I also told her not to tell my parents, that they would freak out and scream at me. She promised that she wouldn't. About an hour later, my grandmother picked me up and took me out to lunch. She, too, promised not to say anything to my parents, and even made sure I got home before my mom did.

At home, I felt horrible for this act of deception, and had already vowed never to do it again. But I felt like I had no choice. I didn't need to hear yet another time from my parents about how annoying I was, how my tomboyish presentation and demeanor were unacceptable, and how I bring these problems on myself. It was a Friday afternoon, and I just wanted the weekend to pass so I could move on with my life, whatever that meant.

Just after Mom walked in the door, she asked me how school was. I said it was fine and then I went out for a jog. After completing my two-mile circuit, I came home and found her in the rocking chair in the den, a stone serious look on her face. At that moment, I thought, Oh my God. She knows. She asked me in detail how school was: "How was English? How was science? How was math?" etc. "Are those girls in ceramics class leaving you alone?" I just kept saying, "It was okay," and that "No, they're not bothering me anymore."

Mom didn't push the conversation further, and I went upstairs to check my email. I just wanted to talk to Jonas about what happened, but I also wanted to wait for him to reply to my last email first. Well, maybe I would email him later anyway. I had to get this off my chest to someone who'd understand. 

But I knew that Mom knew; I wasn't out of the woods. And when Dad came home from work, Mom called me into the den. I reluctantly came downstairs, knowing what was coming. They confronted me about what I had done, but I refused to say anything. Mom kept saying that they couldn't help me if they didn't know. I said, "I'm not going to tell you because you're just going to yell and scream at me that it's my fault, like you always do."

Dad then said, "Well, when Mrs. Hayden calls and tells us that you threw a container of water at someone, what are we supposed to think? That kind of behavior reflects on us as parents!"

Again, how did my parents not know? Yeah, okay, technically they didn't know that time because I didn't tell them, but I would have thought that they would have known me well enough that I would only do something like that when pushed to limits. But they automatically assumed-- or at least seemed to assume-- that I did it unprovoked.

Then again, Mom saw all these reactions as me "flying off the handle." But the reality is, I was like a cornered animal-- not just that time, but many times at school. And a cornered animal that is kicked around enough is eventually going to fight back. Forget "death by a thousand cuts." More like "death by a thousand bludgeons to the head." How did they not see that this was the reality I had to deal with on a regular basis? How did they expect me to be stoic in the face of not just verbal harassment, but physical assault?

So I finally broke down and told both of my parents everything that happened. And Dad said, "Christ, all you had to do was tell us, and we would've been up at the school complaining. But instead you lied to us when something enormous did happen." Dad paused. "Lying to your parents is the first stage of delinquency, and I don't know if we'll be able to trust you again."

And how did they not see that the reason I lied to them that day was because I was desperate, that I didn't want to be browbeaten about my clothes, hair, and behavior that felt natural to me but was unacceptable to them? I called my grandmother and asked her to pick me up, to get me the fuck out of there so that I could have a break from this torment for a few hours. I didn't sneak off to smoke weed with friends-- not that I had any left at school. How did they not question themselves, wondering why I felt like I couldn't tell them anything anymore?

"Dad, I'm sorry," I said. "I won't do it again."

Dad nodded.

"You don't believe me," I said.

Dad muttered, "Only time will tell."

I just wanted to get out of the room and email Jonas.

"And Julie," Mom said. "You cannot do this again. You are being punished. You cannot use the phone or email for the weekend. Do you understand?"

How could Mom not see that she was taking away the one line of communication I had to Jonas, someone who would listen, someone who would understand? How could she not see how cruel that was?

Later, Mom and Dad went to the market to get food for dinner-- and insisted that I come. Maybe they thought I was going to run away. All I could feel was that I really blew it this time, and that I made my already shaky relationship with my parents worse. We talked more in the car; I was in hysterical tears about how horrible things were and how I felt like I had to walk on eggshells to make sure I didn't do anything to annoy anybody, weird anybody out, or otherwise provoke them. And only after I started shaking from the release of pent up excruciating pain did Mom cancel the punishment. 

Mom said, "I'm not taking away your phone and email privileges this weekend. I can see that you're genuinely sorry, and I believe you when you say you won't do this again. And I'm sorry if we made you feel you can't tell us anything."

I was relieved to hear that both parents said they trusted me again.

So there Mom started to get a better idea of what my life in school was like-- but to her own admission, only in the past few years or so did she truly know how serious the bullying was, how I was like a cornered animal on a regular basis. Again, how did she and Dad not know?

And the reality is, I wasn't sorry for lying. I was sorry for the consequences of getting caught in the lie. Hell, I'm still not sorry I did it. It was a desperate act, an attempt to prevent another fight with my parents. Maybe they thought I should have been able to come to them with problems, but the fact was, I couldn't.  Because they simply didn't understand. They could think all they wanted that I was blowing things in school out of proportion, but I wasn't. I was at the end of my rope, and I still maintain that, given our relationship at the time, I had no choice.

Well, fast forward to 2025. I'm glad to say that my parents have evolved since then. Additionally, it turns out that stories like mine are hardly unique. Thanks to the invention of the smartphone, bullying of the severity that I want through is now captured on video. People now see that kids with stories like mine are not exaggerating-- the evidence is right there in front of them, and they cannot deny it.

But again, again, again, a thousand times again, how did my parents not know? Why did they not take what I told them at face value? Why did they second guess every story? Did they really think that I was out of touch with reality, let alone that much? Why did they blame me for things like my sense of humor and how I dressed when friendships ended? It felt like gaslighting, and I felt crazy. Absolutely crazy. Like I couldn't trust myself. I knew what I was looking at, but I had been trained to believe that whatever went wrong-- whether the end of a friendship or relentless bullying-- was my fault. It's honestly something that really continues to bother me from time to time, and I admit I've never achieved full closure.

  

Autism and Boundaries Part 2: The Double Standard

As always, names and details changed to protect others' privacy...

Oh my God, I can't believe how long it's been. Again. I intended to write the followup to Part 1 of "Autism and Boundaries" a week later but... I really have no good excuse. All I can say is that the timing was bad: ever since the 2024 United States Presidential Election, I have been overwhelmed. But here I am. Finally. If you haven't read Part 1 or need to refresh your memory, please do read it before continuing further with this post, because I'm not going to rehash everything. 

Well, what I can say is this: for many years, I didn't question the fallout with Kat that happened on the overnight field trip in eighth grade. I took it for granted that the whole thing was my fault. Sure, Kat and the other girls humiliated me and jokingly speculated about my personal medical history ("she needs hormones and hasn't gotten her period yet") to explain why I wasn't interested in dating, but apparently that was to be expected after my comment about "old people smell". My reaction after that episode was not to confront Kat and say, "Why the hell did you humiliate me like that?" but to ask her if she was still mad at me. That was what made sense to me: not to take care of myself, but to throw myself at the mercy of others and beg for forgiveness. I said something so truly horrible that the reaction of the other girls was warranted. Same with any other social drama I found myself in throughout adolescence. It was just the way things were.

Years later, in 2008, I wrote about the incident with Kat as a way to illustrate early signs of my being autistic and my lack of social skills. My brother read it, and said something to the effect of, "I don't understand what you are trying to convey. Kat sounds like a psycho, and it sounds like you had mean friends-- mean, flaky 'friends.'" Additionally, when I workshopped the piece at a writers' group, others likewise expressed their confusion. One woman said, "I knew when I was reading this it had to have happened in seventh or eighth grade."

Looking back, I cannot believe it never crossed my mind that, well, my boundaries were constantly being violated, and egregiously so. But I realize now that I was held to a double standard. While I constantly got in trouble for violating others' boundaries, I also got a very clear message that mine did not matter.

They also didn't matter when I was at a Bar Mitzvah as a teenager and didn't want to dance with a random boy who asked me to dance. At a Bat Mitzvah that same year, I said "hello" to the Bat Mitzvah girl's brother, a friend from early childhood whom I hadn't seen in years. The photographer, who just happened to be right there, asked us to pose for a picture, and insisted that the boy put his hand on my hip. I was extremely uncomfortable with this, and the boy didn't seem to want to do it either. In both instances, my parents admonished me, telling me to grow up. What can I say? It was the '90s and the concept of consent wasn't talked about with the broad awareness that it is today.

The message I got over the years was clear: others' boundaries were sacrosanct, and mine didn't matter. If I didn't make an effort to understand others' points of view, I was rigid and immature. If others didn't make an attempt to understand mine, well, I shouldn't expect them to, because it's a huge burden for that person. If I had a crying fit at home because some kids humiliated me, I needed to learn to be stoic and let bitingly painful comments roll off my back. But in terms of me making stupid throwaway jokes not intended to hurt anybody? I needed to accept that other people were fragile as fuck and that I should expect such slips to end friendships. If I didn't want to hug my grandmother or uncle or dance with a boy or let an old friend put his hand on my hip, that was me being inappropriate and immature instead of understanding what I was comfortable with.

My story is far from unique. Here we are in 2025, and we are seeing similar double standards play out in real time. People who are viewed as the "default"-- white, heterosexual, cisgender, male, and non-autistic-- are allowed more leeway, are allowed to set boundaries while getting away with blatantly violating others'. Look at our current president-- an obscenely rich white man-- and how in his almost 79 years he hasn't been once held accountable. Could Barack Obama, a Black man, have gotten away with the things Trump is doing? Could he have gotten elected had he been caught on video bragging about grabbing women "by the pussy?" And as for women, especially women of color, trying to get elected? They have to be perfect. And if any of these people were autistic and couldn't mask well? Forget it.

If you want to teach your child to respect boundaries, you need to be consistent. Because I am living proof as to how they end up internalizing the double standards they're held to.