Chapter 17: I Call an Apple an Apple Because I'm Not in the Business of Fruit-Related Subterfuge

Hello, Done.

As both a literal and gestalt language processor, my relationship with communication is anything but ordinary. On the surface, I appear straightforward—unembellished, even. I rely on clear, direct language because my brain craves precision. I speak in full truths, not half-intentions, aiming to distill meaning with as little distortion as possible. But what most people don’t see is that while I process language literally, I also absorb it in chunks—in full, often emotionally saturated wholes. It’s not that I can’t understand nuance—it’s that I take in the entire emotional imprint of what’s said, not just the words.

This combination, as you might imagine, is both a gift and a challenge. My words can land like thunderclaps in rooms that were expecting clouds. I’m often told that I’m intense or too direct, when in truth, I’m just communicating in the way that makes the most sense to my neurology—trying to make sense of the world, one clear sentence at a time. But I’ve had to learn to walk that tightrope between clarity and consideration. I’ve had to learn that even if my intent is clean, the impact might still ripple.

Communication, I’ve come to believe, is sacred territory—not just an individual expression, but a shared ritual. It’s a two-way channel that holds the possibility for deep resonance or utter confusion. And when you’re neurodivergent—whether autistic, ADHD, gifted, dyslexic, or some constellation in between—the act of speaking and being heard isn’t just a function; it’s a negotiation with a world that often misunderstands you. The challenge—and the beauty—is in that negotiation. Finding a way to meet one another halfway. No one should have to contort themselves to fit a rigid mold, and yet we’re taught to do exactly that.

And while I try to offer grace to those who speak in riddles, I won’t pretend it’s not exhausting. One of my favorite memes features Wednesday Addams, deadpan as ever, with the caption: “It’s not my fault I cannot interpret your emotional Morse code.” I laugh every time because it lands. It encapsulates something I’ve felt since childhood—this pressure to decipher subtleties I was never trained to recognize. Where others find meaning in a raised eyebrow or a trailing “We’ll see,” I find an ambiguous void. Just tell me what you mean. Please. I promise it’s not that I don’t care—I just don’t come with the decoder ring.