I don’t avoid people because I dislike them.
I avoid people because of what happens when they start to speak.
Because often, they say one thing, think another, and behave in a way that matches neither. And I see it. I see it quickly. Not after weeks or months, but often within moments. I notice the pause between their words and what they really mean. I see how their actions lean away from the things they claim to believe. And once I notice that fracture, I can’t unsee it.
It’s not just in what they say—it’s in the little things.
Small actions. The twitch of the eye. The smirk after a backhanded comment. The glance away when deception is at play. The change in tone when manipulation was unsuccessful. The posture shift when the plan falls into dissent. These micro-signals, barely perceptible to others, scream contradiction to me.
It’s not bitterness—it’s recognition.
And recognition, when constant and unfiltered, is exhausting.
My autism makes it difficult to ignore these inconsistencies. Where others can gloss over a lie, or give the benefit of the doubt, my mind latches onto the contradiction. I process the world logically, systemically. If someone tells me they believe in honesty, I believe them. If they say they value something, I assume their actions will reflect it. But when they don’t—when their behavior diverges from their words—it creates a kind of static in my thinking. A misalignment I can’t comfortably reconcile.
This is the first reason I find human interaction difficult: I detect the contradiction long before anyone else seems to notice.
And the second reason is more painful—I still believe what people say. I take things at face value because I expect coherence. I expect honesty. I expect a throughline between belief and behavior.
When that throughline breaks, it confuses me. It feels like the ground has shifted. And when it happens again and again, I start to feel like I’m the one who doesn’t belong.
So, I retreat.
I prefer to be alone not because I hate others, but because solitude is one of the few places where the world still makes sense.
Where words mean what they say.
Where there is no performance, no mask, no silent gap between intention and outcome.
I’ve learned this: it is not unkind to step away from confusion.
It is not cruel to protect your peace.
If anything, it is the most honest thing I can do—for myself, and for those I would otherwise come to resent.
The world has bent toward rewarding ambiguity, performance, and curated contradiction.
But I have not.
I cannot.
My mind was not shaped to tolerate dissonance as background noise. I don’t have the luxury—or the curse—of pretending not to notice.
But perhaps that’s not a weakness.
Perhaps that is clarity.
And when your mind is wired to catch every inconsistency, every falsehood, every dissonant note in someone’s song, intimacy becomes a delicate negotiation between clarity and compassion. Between seeing what is, and accepting what cannot be changed.
You begin to measure relationships not by affection or shared experience, but by consistency. Not by how people treat you in public, but how congruent they are when no one is watching.
You start to build boundaries not as walls, but as filters.
Not to keep people out, but to preserve the signal from the noise.
It becomes a matter of survival—emotional, psychological, and even moral.
And when that balance fails—when the inconsistencies mount and the gap widens—you withdraw.
Not to punish. Not to isolate. But to protect the last sanctuary where coherence still lives.
That sanctuary is solitude.
It is the quiet room where no performance is required. Where nothing has to be decoded. Where every thought aligns with its expression, and every intention lives without disguise. It is the only place where the mind can rest—not from others, but from the noise they carry.
Because in solitude, I do not have to question the meaning behind a smile.
I do not have to brace for contradiction dressed as kindness.
I do not have to translate the unspoken tension between gesture and truth.
I can simply exist—in peace, in clarity, in alignment.
Not lost.
Just unwilling to lie to myself.
“Not all who walk alone are lost—some are just unwilling to lie to themselves.”