I cannot say

I know things I cannot say.

Nodes of information span what feels like infinite space, like a living constellation. Everything connects. Threads everywhere. It’s all there but I don’t know where to pull from first. It’s not linear, there is no hierarchy of information. Each node in itself is a world of nodes. The pieces that are missing, the imprecision of the knowing, live in the gaps.

Knowing the not knowing.

And from the nodes and threads I need to compose the sentences. But which words. What order. There are layers. How do I speak linearly in layers with words. Linear funnels the thoughts into narrowness.

The funnel doesn’t work.

I don’t work.

 

Not in speech. Not easily anyway. If my attention is highly attuned to something or someone outside of myself, I can articulate better. If it’s in another language it comes out awkward and my whole body recognizes, hands gesture wildly filling the gaps.

I feel like an idiot. At communicating. At being me.

How can I be an idiot at being me?

Between the constellation and the spoken words, there is processing space with a glitchy intent. It needs to hold what I’ve already said, what I’m saying now, and what I mean to say next. All at once, all moving. And when it drops, the threads split. Not the knowing. The knowing floats present. But the thoughts fall apart.

My attention dives into one node completely. Then I have to get out and find myself in the space of everything.

Where was I?

It’s not that I am slow. Nor am I confused. Well, not usually. I’m just busy translating from a space where semantics is the nemesis. What comes out of my mouth is a frayed piece of thread that doesn’t hold what I want to say.

Better I be quiet.

Better not. That isn’t me.

The fray is a piece of memory. Unreliable. The shape of a word, the feeling of a fact. A known thing standing behind me.

Only I can’t turn around.

And it whispers.

I can feel the breath of it, but not the words. They’ll come. They usually do. The next day when I’m brushing my teeth. Some such thing.

I wish people saw the machine inside me. Saw how the gears don’t understand the why in how they are forced to work.

But they see the delay. My awkward way with words. Or they see nothing because I recede into the quiet me. Not worth the effort of the words.

Writing is better. I have more time. I have no one waiting. No pressure. My attention is peaceful. I can come back to it. Sometimes I write for me. A place to put my thinking. Sometimes I write for others. Carefully. And free to take time with the frays weaving threads into form. Slow. But peaceful there.

I have a memory and language challenge with my AuDHD (Autism and ADHD). We can call it difference, but it feels like deficit. Unless I’m speaking with others who have language floating inside their skulls like mine — a version of orbiting textures and shapes. Or something different. But the same.

Double Empathy. When I’m with someone of similar brain architecture, communication happens from within the knowing. With ease. No translation required. No rules.

To be seen, to be understood like that — is rare. And it’s beautiful.

As I’m writing this essay, I realize the book I’m writing speaks of constellations, threads, and navigating through space. Nothing to do with language or the essay topic. It’s the dream world of a fictional character. Yet there I am, my process reflected in my character’s unrelated-related process.

“I’m in the sea but there’s no sea. Constellations float ahead, North Star pointing the way. I need to navigate through this field of stars, all connected by threads. It’s a game or a trick of some kind…I’m guided in by an outside force. This might not have been a good idea. It could be a black hole. I’m traveling inside a theory of strings. I feel lost, my gut clenching, my lungs in my throat. I can scream but I can’t breathe. My scream strums the threads between the stars like I’ve plucked the strings of a guitar. Everything ends.”