Shells and Shoes
By: Maggie Greenwood
Tags: Diary, Autism, Unmasking, Sensory Overload, Childhood

Unmasking is bizarre. It is like I am coming out of a shell, out of a thick carapace. Molting into a fragile grub. Sensations are amazing, overwhelming. I can hyperfocus on minute things. I can understand and appreciate passions.

An experience with a video game that thousands love and devote their time to used to be a mystery. I had tried the game in the past and found it unappealing. Being able to come back to it unmasked is a different experience. The color choices and character designs are emotional, the enemies revolting. The sound design has the enemies whisper eldritch evils into my ear. I am repulsed and deliciously scared. I am motivated to rid the in game world of their curse. I am able to notice nuances and intent in the mechanics. I understand what type of experience the developers wanted to give me because I am having it. I can understand why people devote themselves to hobbies of not just consumption but to the creation of these types of works. I understand why developers aspire to make this sort of artistic experience.

I use this game example to describe what it is like to be without the shell. This overwhelming joy and pride and appreciation exists in almost everything I observe. I understand and am thankful for good foods and the people who make them. I understand why chefs pair certain flavors together, how and why they carefully craft textures and aromas. To give such artistry and time to a piece of food, to a product that must go away, that lacks permanence, that must be eaten or rot. The temporary symphony in the mouth is beautiful in its instance and is worth the labor.

My senses are fresh and open without the mask. And it is wonderful. I am almost brought to tears reveling in how beautiful life is. How lucky am I? Either I have a neurodivergence that allows me to feel so alive and joyous within my body, or I am learning to unmask and getting to experience what everyone else does.

This brings us to the downside of having this fleshy body, an exposed mass of nerves. I am vulnerable and I realize why the shell built up in the first place, why I stopped feeling anything. The shell is my protection.

Sensations can be too much. An unexpected texture on my tongue, a sound effect of a particular pitch, the sight of too many moving colors and shapes. It feels like I’m daring the sensations to take me over the edge. My skin tingles. My breath gets tight. And I remember sitting on the floor of the Wal-Mart, tears streaming down my cheeks. My five year old feet are screaming inside of a pair of big-girl lace-up shoes. We are shopping for kindergarten clothes.

I am in agony. My little legs thrashing, trying to get the shoes off. My mother tries to console me. She asks me what is wrong with this pair.

“They don’t feel right!” I manage between sobs. “They don’t feel right!”

“What about them is wrong? Are they too tight?” My mother stoops to take them off, doing her best to act calm and not draw attention to her puddle of a child.

“It’s the seams!” I scream at her. “They are not lined up! I can feel them!”

She removes the shoe and my little pink socks. She looks at it, at the ridge on the toe where the fabric had been sewn together. She flips the sock inside out and places it back on my foot.

I wipe my face as she asks if I would be willing to try again. I nod. She gently helps my foot into the shoe again. I wince, but I don’t cry.

“Is that better?”

I nod and inhale stiffly, not able to talk. The shoe is still uncomfortable. The ghost of the inside out sock seam whispers on my toes. But it is bearable and I know it will get better when the shoes are broken-in. My mom picks me up to stand.

“I have to see you walk in them before we buy them.”

I walk a few steps and tell her that I like them. She buys two pairs. She knows that you don’t pass over a shoe that Maggie can wear.

And I sit here 23 years later, feeling the seams of my white grown-up socks teasing at my little toe and I know. I know why the shell formed.