[Note: this was written during the time my therapist and psychiatrist were trying to decide if I has schizoid personality disorder. Like Asperger’s, though I had many of the markers, they weren’t severe enough to warrant an actual diagnosis. Still, I believe this is a useful post for the SPDers out there.]

Scenes From a Schizoid Childhood

I received a walkman for my twelfth birthday. I was so happy to be able to tune out the world and wore it everywhere. Mother shouted at me that she’d got it for me to use when I was alone—not when I was around other people. It hadn’t occurred to me not to wear it around other people. I now wear my mp3 player as much as possible—it helps with my ADD as well as keeps me from getting too anxious in crowds or when I have to do something outside of my routine.

A weekend day in the summer when I was about eight. Several family members were at the house, swimming in the back yard. I was minding my own business on my bed and my mother came in and shouted at me that I could be an asshole if I wanted and I should be ashamed of not wanting to spend time with my family. I was at a loss that I had done anything wrong. No one had told me I was supposed to want to spend time with people to whom I had nothing to say. My mother had never called me a name like that before and I didn’t understand what I had done that was so wrong.

As a teenager I was called a snob countless times because I preferred my own company to groups of my peers. I continue to be baffled by how being happy alone makes a person stuck up, as I do not think I am better than other people. I do not think of other people at all, much of the time. And I’m not bothered if they do not think of me.

I am a grown up now and if I want to listen to music all the time I shall. If I don’t want to converse with people I’m not going to feel bad about it. The insecurities of other people are their own look out.