No Thanks, I’m Just Looking
by Luna Lindsey
I need a dress for a weddingIt is a custom I don't understandAnd endure for the sake of friendship.
My heart burns in my clenched chestas I browse the bright colorsNot finding the color I need.I consciously draw breath, in, out, inKeep breathing, air like waterto wash away the stain of terror.There is always more fear to replace what I exhale.
The employee, well-dressed, blond, intense red lipstick crisp on her pristine face, above her fashionable clothes,and accessories,asks:"May I help you?"Unaware, she ignites my red-pain anxiety into a new inferno.I smile.I pretend."No thanks, just looking. "I repeat the pat line,An uncomfortable lie,Just to make her go away.I really mean:"I don't belong here,"No one can help me look normal…like you.I will never feel normal…like you."My fears are illusionsI know they are illusionsI tell myself they aren't real— If only I were a credible witness.
I am almost forty.Shopping still feelslike I am marching to my death,like I am fighting for my life,like my insides are burning,like my skin sloughs off, charred and liquidlike they are judging me,laughing.I am in the wrong place,doing the wrong thing,looking at the wrong products.I am too fat for this section,Too thin for that,Too old,Not cool enough,Too geek, too punk,Ten-years out of date, So five minutes ago,No dresses here,Sportswear over there.
And they know.
Who am I to be here?I have no right.A pretendertrying to disguise myself in their clothes,lipstick, perfume, pastels in spring,lace and sequins and belts and 2013 stylesThey are all the rage.So they say…
They also tell me you cannot find silver dressesThis late in the season.Customs that seem so arbitrary,UnimportantExcept to the millions who participateEveryone but me.
I try so hard to not care.Yet my Asperger’s mind only possesses one social instinct– “You are doing it wrong.”It shouts and I cannot ignore it.No relief will comeBecause no instinct will tell me what to do rightOr maybe the doing-it-wrong mechanism is misfiring.Maybe I'm just fine.Maybe no one is judging meMaybe I'm succeeding,pulling off the artifice of “normal”I will never know.No one will tell me.And I need to be told.
I am upper class by the numbers,But inside I am of a caste lower,more reviled,less worthy,than any on Earth.A caste with a different brainAn imposter species,outwardly identical,who has to consciously try to make eye contact at the precise time,laugh at the exact moment,Say hello, goodbye, pleased to meet you,But not too early, or too late,I cannot reveal the hesitation I feelThe unasked question:“Am I still doing it wrong?”I can never diverge from the track of known rulesLest I make some unknown mistake.And be thrown outout of the storeout of friendshipsout of social circlesout of societylike I have no right to live inside.Like a leper,I have a social disease which is not contagious.It cannot spread.Yet it disgusts all the same.As if my fingers rotted.As if my face were pocked and swollen.My nostrils red.My eyes falling out.As if my heart were an open, seeping wound.Step back, you normal person.Or you might catch it.
To distract myself, I compose this poem in my head.I note that it is just a long series of tweets.Too many to remember.If I stop to write it, surely,It will break some law I do not know."Thou shalt not write poetry in the mall."It must be written on the walls for all to seeIn the finger of a neurotypical godGlowing in letters only a neurotypical can read.
Each person I pass has a head full of rulesI cannot read.There are more rules I do not knowthan there are unsilver dresses at Macy’s.
I leave the storeEmpty handed.I still have no dressIn the right color,In the right cut,For the right occasion.Uniqueyet just the same as the other three bridesmaid dresses.
Moving to the next shopI begin the ordeal again.
I need a dress for a weddingIt is a custom I don't understandAnd endure for the sake of friendship.
My heart burns in my clenched chestas I browse the bright colorsNot finding the color I need.I consciously draw breath, in, out, inKeep breathing, air like waterto wash away the stain of terror.There is always more fear to replace what I exhale.
The employee, well-dressed, blond, intense red lipstick crisp on her pristine face, above her fashionable clothes,and accessories,asks:"May I help you?"Unaware, she ignites my red-pain anxiety into a new inferno.I smile.I pretend."No thanks, just looking. "I repeat the pat line,An uncomfortable lie,Just to make her go away.I really mean:"I don't belong here,"No one can help me look normal…like you.I will never feel normal…like you."My fears are illusionsI know they are illusionsI tell myself they aren't real— If only I were a credible witness.
I am almost forty.Shopping still feelslike I am marching to my death,like I am fighting for my life,like my insides are burning,like my skin sloughs off, charred and liquidlike they are judging me,laughing.I am in the wrong place,doing the wrong thing,looking at the wrong products.I am too fat for this section,Too thin for that,Too old,Not cool enough,Too geek, too punk,Ten-years out of date, So five minutes ago,No dresses here,Sportswear over there.
And they know.
Who am I to be here?I have no right.A pretendertrying to disguise myself in their clothes,lipstick, perfume, pastels in spring,lace and sequins and belts and 2013 stylesThey are all the rage.So they say…
They also tell me you cannot find silver dressesThis late in the season.Customs that seem so arbitrary,UnimportantExcept to the millions who participateEveryone but me.
I try so hard to not care.Yet my Asperger’s mind only possesses one social instinct– “You are doing it wrong.”It shouts and I cannot ignore it.No relief will comeBecause no instinct will tell me what to do rightOr maybe the doing-it-wrong mechanism is misfiring.Maybe I'm just fine.Maybe no one is judging meMaybe I'm succeeding,pulling off the artifice of “normal”I will never know.No one will tell me.And I need to be told.
I am upper class by the numbers,But inside I am of a caste lower,more reviled,less worthy,than any on Earth.A caste with a different brainAn imposter species,outwardly identical,who has to consciously try to make eye contact at the precise time,laugh at the exact moment,Say hello, goodbye, pleased to meet you,But not too early, or too late,I cannot reveal the hesitation I feelThe unasked question:“Am I still doing it wrong?”I can never diverge from the track of known rulesLest I make some unknown mistake.And be thrown outout of the storeout of friendshipsout of social circlesout of societylike I have no right to live inside.Like a leper,I have a social disease which is not contagious.It cannot spread.Yet it disgusts all the same.As if my fingers rotted.As if my face were pocked and swollen.My nostrils red.My eyes falling out.As if my heart were an open, seeping wound.Step back, you normal person.Or you might catch it.
To distract myself, I compose this poem in my head.I note that it is just a long series of tweets.Too many to remember.If I stop to write it, surely,It will break some law I do not know."Thou shalt not write poetry in the mall."It must be written on the walls for all to seeIn the finger of a neurotypical godGlowing in letters only a neurotypical can read.
Each person I pass has a head full of rulesI cannot read.There are more rules I do not knowthan there are unsilver dresses at Macy’s.
I leave the storeEmpty handed.I still have no dressIn the right color,In the right cut,For the right occasion.Uniqueyet just the same as the other three bridesmaid dresses.
Moving to the next shopI begin the ordeal again.
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