2. Chapter Two
Chapter Two
Hudson
It’s amazing how easy it is to fall into old routines. It’s been years since I was “one of the guys”—since I worked so hard to fit in with a group of people.
I won’t lie; they made it easy. They were fun, and there was always a ton of alcohol that made me forget how hard I had to try to be normal.
But there was no other option then. It was the only way to survive and get through everything I needed to do.
So I did it, and in the end, I didn’t hate it.
I got a lot out of it—experiencing things I wouldn’t have the balls to do now.
I hardly leave my house unless it’s to go to work or get gas.
Groceries are delivered now, so what else do you have to leave the house for?
My fingers fly over my phone keyboard, responding to the guys the same way I used to years ago. I already feel my brain getting foggy as I try to jump back into the old me. Good thing it’s only a weekend away, then I get a full week at home to recover.
I’m not sure I’ll need the week to recover, but I’m taking it anyway. Better that then go back to work all burnt out and not in the right headspace.
I’m aiming for a promotion, and the last thing I need is to come into work off my game over a weekend with friends.
“Hey, you’re still here?” my co-worker, Jason, calls out from my office door.
“Leaving soon,” I respond, keeping my gaze on my phone.
“Thought you’d be gone by now.”
“I said I was working a full day.”
“Yeah, but… you know. It’s the day before your vacation.”
I spin in my chair to face him. He’s the office assistant manager, and he’s responsible for keeping everyone in line and reporting any issues to the manager. Neither of them are my boss, exactly, they just handle the office stuff—like vacation time and ordering new furniture.
My boss is Karson Thompson, the VP of Analytics. His job is the one I’m aiming for.
I’ve been here a little over three years, but I am more suited for the job than he is. He doesn’t know what he’s doing half the time, and his numbers are wrong more than 18% of the time—I’ve been keeping track.
“Are you suggesting I steal from the company, Jason?”
“What? No. I was just—”
“I’ll have you know that I thoroughly enjoy working for the Minnesota Wolves. This team has been my favorite since I knew what football was, and it’s been a dream of mine to work for them ever since I knew what a job was. I won’t do anything to ruin that.”
He stares at me, open-mouthed.
“Jeez, I was just trying to give you a break.”
“If I wanted to leave early today, I would have put in the time.”
I spin around and go back to my computer, and breathe slowly.
I don’t usually have outbursts at work, but I’m stressed with my upcoming travel.
I hate flying, and I hate being away from home.
New York is overwhelming, and it’s going to take a lot out of me mentally to be the way I was in college with these guys.
And when I get overloaded mentally, it starts affecting me physically—hence the week off.
Still, I can’t say that I don’t miss them. They were my best friends, most of my college experience was spent with them. They taught me a lot about myself, even if they didn’t realize it.
I never told them—or anyone—about my diagnosis because I didn’t want them to look at me any differently, and I don’t plan on changing that now.
My diagnosis doesn’t dictate who I am—I am whoever I want to be, and I don’t need people questioning my motives or thoughts because they know my brain works differently.
It’s bad enough my parents still treat me like a child, still giving me an “allowance” even though I make more money than both of them combined.
They’re convinced I’m not capable of working, just like they were certain I wouldn’t make it through high school.
College was a shock for them. I wasn’t sure they’d survive it.
They’re in denial, which I find mind blowing, considering I’ve had this job for three years, yet it’s like I don’t…
like they don’t believe anything I say. And it’s likely they’re the reason I have this deep-rooted fear of telling anyone about it.
I don’t need more people acting like them, treating me like I’m not human.
I’m autistic, not delusional. My job is real. I get a paycheck. I live a normal life. I can take care of myself, and have been for a long time.
Funny enough, it’s thanks to them that I can.
Though they didn’t think I was capable, they still had me out there doing all the things.
Pushing me to fit in. To work hard at school—which I didn’t have to do because it all came easily to me.
But I know it’s why they put me in football from the moment I could walk.
Maybe because it was Dad’s favorite sport too.
He is proud that I’m working for his favorite team, though I do know he’d rather me be on the team.
I liked playing, but I love working with numbers more.
I’m not bothered for the rest of the day, and when it’s time to leave, I clock out and grab my stuff to head home, where I have a near melt down over leaving.
I can do this. It’ll be fine.
It’s good for me to get out of the house.
That’s what my therapist said. She says I’m retreating into myself and that it will be good for me to go out and experience things.
She’s pushed me to date, but I don’t find myself attracted to anyone.
Not anyone at all. When I was in college, I fucked people because everyone was doing it.
I did it because with alcohol, it was enjoyable.
Okay, it was tolerable . But I have no need for it now.
On the off chance my dick wants some attention, I give it.
I’m satisfied. End of story. There’s no need to bring another person into the mix. That’s a lot of work.
Of course, I don’t tell Mariah that… I’m not sure what she would say. We’re down to seeing each other—virtually—once a month, and the last thing I want is for her to think we need to meet more often.
Should I hide things from my therapist? No. But I’m not ready to start another battle. I am fine with how my life is. There’s enough going on.
Her and I have been preparing for this trip for a few months. She’s been trying to convince me to tell the guys about my diagnosis, but I don’t want to. It’s none of their business. It doesn’t matter.
I don’t care about the diagnosis, never really have. It doesn’t mean anything to me. It’s other people who make a big deal about it, and that’s why I like to ignore it.
My bags are already packed and by the door, ready for me to leave in the morning to head to the airport that thankfully isn’t far, so I don’t have to wake up too early.
My flight leaves at 12:23 which will put me in New York around 3:00-3:30.
The group chat keeps going off with the guys talking about all the things they want to do and Mack showing off all the stuff he has been up to since he got in early. I said what I had to say, complained about not getting in until tomorrow, and now I need a break.
If I’m going to deal with these rowdy guys all weekend, I need to find some peace before I go.