A letter to my neurotypical sister

Dear little sister,

You are loud, confusing, sweet, energetic, smart and mature beyond your years.  I can't count the number of times I have mimicked you in a tough social situation, and yet--you've shown me in your own way that people like you better when you're you, not some "perfect" person carved out of illusions and expectations.  You're the one with all the answers when it comes to boy troubles and wardrobe malfunctions, and you always know just what to say to make me laugh.  And you still love me, even after I stabbed you in the face with a straw.

I've spent my whole life, trying to understand you.  Because I believed if I cracked your code, I'd have the key to understand every other strange and confusing person I met.  I've studied your every word, every action, like an anthropologist in an exotic land.  But I missed something.  All this time I've been watching you, studying you, you were simply content to live and let live.  You had no idea the way I thought, the way I saw the world, but you didn't mind either way.  You loved me for me, whoever that was, and saw no need to question it.  You see, we're different like that. When you love something, you love to let it be.  When I love something, I need to know every last detail about it.  I simply can't let it go.  It's who I am.

When I began to realize just how different I am from most other people, I was ecstatic   At last, I understood why it is so hard to understand everyone else.  I'm finally understanding myself, learning how to love myself--in my own unique way.  Just like everything else I've ever loved, I've delved myself into learning every little detail of the way I tick.  It never occurred to me that you wouldn't want to know the same things.

I've begun to notice that every time I bring it up, you shrink.  It's subtle, so I could be wrong, but I've known you your whole life.  I hope that by now, I can at least read your face, if not anyone else's.  You don't like to hear how your big sister is "broken," or how different you and I are.  You just want to hang out, to laugh together, play our games, watch TV, talk about boys and work and school.  You want us to just be.  You don't want to hear about scientific studies and statistics.  You don't want to hear about my shortcomings, or stims, or "superpowers," any more than you wanted to hear about Spider-Man's latest showdown with the Green Goblin, or listen to another stanza of Li nozzi di Figaro.  They aren't your obsessions, they're mine.  And I've learned not to bore you with them (most of the time).

But when my special interest is, in essence, me, I forget that.  I never made the connection that if the way I love things is so different than the way you love things, then maybe the way you love people is different, too.

This warrants much more study and research.

But I'll keep that in mind.  That, unless you specifically ask me, you probably don't want to hear how my autism effects my taste in clothing, my stance on PDA, or my bowling scores.  That when it comes to you, you are content just to be with me.  You don't want or need to know everything--all you need to know is that you are you, and I am me, and whoever that is, is fine with you.

Neurotypicals can be so strange sometimes.  But I love you.

Penny