Like a Soda Can to the Forehead- Big Words/Big Trouble
There were over 2000 kids in my high school. I only got along with a handful of them. I was overly chatty, and abrasive, and I had a habit of popping off with “actual” information.
I love facts. I love putting the pieces together when knowing more makes more sense.
Unfortunately, kids spend a lot of time being belittled for what they don’t know, even now. Learning is hard work, and for any other kids growing up inside the cult of the ego, facts are not highly regarded social capital.
As a matter of fact, there’s this practice in The Cult of the Ego where whoever is on top (and is regularly dysregulated) makes a claim. The claim is purported to be true because they said it. The claim becomes a social truth as others agree that the claim is truthful.Anyone who opposed the claim (regardless of facts), is punished, belittled, and put back in their place.
Kids growing up in thecult of the ego are not taught to seek out reliable sources, do their research, analyze facts, and format an opinion. There’s no room here for critical thinking. Instead, they are taught to repeat scripts of righteousness, and the “truth” is in the perfection of the performance. Bonus points if you find more “evidence” for the circular logic.
My autism protected me just enough from the group think to want actual answers. I wanted to understand how the world worked, and make sense of it all. The more facts I got, the more I wanted. I still had to perform the scripts of my cult of origin which really makes integrating new facts tricky. (No wonder teens act out).
There were occasional moments when people had beef with me. I can remember the altercations, but not what they were over. My response was always the same, and I’m honestly not proud of it now. (I’ve worked hard on this part of me).
Whenever someone would step up, I would pull out the big words.I would tell them exactly how pusillanimous they were being. Talking down to people is not the best de-escalation tool. But, the usual result was that they would step down, because they didn’t know what they were arguing against, and I just stepped back feeling superior.
There was this one time though, that I got in an argument in the cafeteria with someone who likely needed extra support services at school. We weren’t even arguing over anything personal, it was just some ridiculous claim that was wrong, and I had to prove how right I was, so I started explaining in length.
At this point, I don’t think I was even aware I was in an altercation. As I was explaining, however, with Samurai swiftness, he smashed an empty soda can on my forehead.
I didn’t flinch, but did stop in the middle of whatever I was saying, and slowly turned my head to face him, with an unapproving look of disbelief on my face.
He left quickly. My lack of response probably scared him more than anything else could have.
It really hurt. I didn’t know it was coming, so I didn’t brace for it, and it really hurt.
My forehead was bruised and I had to explain what happened to Grandma when I got home. She just looked at me and shrugged her shoulders. Classic Grandma.
We didn’t bring it up out loud, but that kid never messed with me again, and he had a little less bravado, and a little more respect in his eyes when he was around me.
People grew the decency to hush the words they spoke about me, and at least wait until I left the room to trash me.
It was truly an unexpected social improvement, that I couldn’t have planned or prepared for.
Power and Prowess
The following semester I had to take a gym class, and the one I was in had us doing weights once a week, at the same time the “weights and conditioning” guys were using the weight room.
The first day walking in there was hell, dressed out in gym shorts that showed my rolls and my cellulite. They giggled and snickered and pointed. More than once the adults had to tell them to stop while we were receiving instruction.
After that they let us loose on the weights. It was quickly established that I could outpress them all with my legs, and could hold my own with my arm strength. (Turns out being stretchy wasn’t my only trick).
There was a reverence that grew from my presence on those weight machines, and although I was not promoted to likable, I did become unf@ckwithable.
Survivor Literacy 
What do you think?