I tend to side with the term ADAPTING rather than FAKING. Although autistic, I have strong skills in adaptability - allowing many of my not-so-desired traits to be well hidden from most. It is this adaptability that over the years, has turned my ability to mimic into a helpful resource for intentionaly matching emotions to expected appearance. Some would say that I now, can read faces better than most NT people but I clearly, still get my own wrong from time to time.
Hello. I am new to this great site - having recently discovered it.
I share my recent thoughts:
JOY
This seemingly submissive mask – I shape every day;
To date – I have molded it in copious ways.
Many a days, I have twisted a smile upon it -
Difficult this was – when this mask had set a bit.
Easier it was – when an event demanded sad;
Even when the prior day’s festivity called for glad.
Tighten all I could – those muscles from mouth to high cheek,
Joy could never be formed to satisfy belief.
For the eyes never lie – naught even for hopeful boy.
They are tempered from brief motion that would show true joy.
Will - not hope - would try to tighten beneath the eye.
But not even the will of grown man, could form this guise.
And for one giving a moments attention,
Would know the false image – my contention.
Upon another, I would learn to stare with attention
By remembering to pull my brows inward with tension
‘Til they squeeze the forehead to form vertical creases,
And a scarce shadow cast over my cheeks.
An act that must be done with discipline
As not to misrepresent the false intention.
For adding a subtle clenching of my mouth,
And they would think I’m in doubt.
And finding myself in just such condition
It’s too likely to over-compensate the resolution;
By first, loosening the jaw til dropped,
Then with a slight lift the eye, I seem oddly surprised.
Further clenching of brow as an awe struck groom,
And I’m the only astonished one in the room.
Learning these looks took so very long.
So, I carried a look of nothing when I was young.
My mask of nothingness was my canvas
And on it, over years, I became a master;
But there was a pace and order of feelings to be learned;
In my youth, mental anguish would not be naturally expected.
So that – in time, I would come to compose.
As would the intensity of all other shows.
For it’s the privilege of youth in lie and confession,
To draw only the fundamental lines in expression.
On a longer timeline would be remorse.
A personally difficult mold to force -
The opposition of joy plus trust.
Oh the dread of learning to trust.
Ironic, it seems, that I hope for the best;
From me, optimism would not be found north of the chest.
For if I could never get the façade of joy correctly,
I had no chance in adding anticipation adeptly.
My short comings could go quite worse;
Would I falter so far with anticipation to go in reverse,
And shed disappointment…my cast…my curse.
A sign of pain – this mask I have found no use for.
No desire to practice – nor desire to bear.
Both downward and outward into a sinuous flow –
Oblique and unwanted – this curve forms from puckered brow.
And causes an unnatural and undesirable condition of rue;
The skin furrowed by wrinkles of pain that are increasingly hard to remove.
Softly relax the brows and with long-leaving breath,
They lower as if weights of pebbles are attached.
Now, one would believe me reflecting my past,
Then add downward gaze and one can see at last;
This memory is sad - as a morning storm,
And sadder still as I clench the jaw of this form.
The work – I realize will never end;
For when I lay down to sleep, thoughts of her fill my head,
And the look of longing that forms curves ‘round the eyes
Have formed creases…all other looks are lies.
31 Dec 2011, 6:25 pm
