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I felt completely different from the other kids. We moved a lot when I was young, so I was in a new school every year. Atlanta, Knoxville, Meridian, Anniston, Birmingham and Pensacola. That was just through the seventh grade.

I was always the new kid in class. I was always the new “smartest kid in class,” too. But even beyond that, I simply felt different from the others. My thinking was different. I wanted different things. My play was different. I felt like an alien.

But on the outside, I complied with every norm of my childhood culture. I looked and acted like the others. I obeyed their norms. I learned to fit. I didn’t want to, but I learned to play the part that was expected of me. I was forced to learn.

I’ve been thinking about this lately because I’ve been learning about the experiences of high-functioning autistic children and their families. Until recently, I’d never thought about the challenges faced by such families, but now that I’m thinking through the issues involved, I feel a lot of empathy for children in such situations.

As I’ve learned about the therapy considered the “gold standard” for autistic children — “applied behavior analysis” — I’m comparing it to what I experienced as a child. I’m finding a lot of autistic people who say this therapy is abusive. And I don’t know what to think.

How far is it reasonable to go to mold and manipulate a child to fit into his or her society? Is it abusive and immoral to force someone whose nature is fundamentally different from ours to conform to our expectations?

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I got a handwritten note from a friend last week. She had to drop something off for me, so she included several paragraphs of updates about her family.

The note was newsy and seemingly happy, but my gut told me she wasn’t doing well. Some tiny whisper in my mind told me to pay attention to a few words that didn’t quite fit with the rest. And then I suddenly knew — without knowing why — that my friend was miserably unhappy. She was stressed and crumbling inside, despite all the happy talk.

I picked up the phone and called her. I told her that I could tell she’s not doing well and that she was hiding what stress was doing to her. I asked what I could do to help.

“How did you know?!” she asked in a tone of shock. “The people I work with think I’m fine. My family thinks I’m fine. You hardly ever talk to me, so how did you know this about me? You’re right, but how did you know?”

The answer to that is complicated. I don’t read minds. I’m not a psychic. But I do read subtle clues from other people, especially in person. Nobody purposely taught me this skill. In fact, the way I learned was very unhealthy. But it’s a skill that all children need to learn.

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Tonight I’m gonna break away
Just you wait and see
I’ll never be imprisoned by
A faded memory
— Rusty Young (for Poco), “Crazy Love”

I almost always believe my own lies. I’ve lived inside this mind for long enough to know better. But I still fall for my own clever tricks.

I try not to lie to other people. I was raised to be a good liar, so I certainly know how, but I know it’s wrong. It know it hurts others. I even know it hurts me in the long run. Every now and then, I trap myself into a situation when it’s easier to lie — but I struggle to stay truthful with others. I usually win that moral battle.

I have no scruples about lying to myself, though. The conscience that speaks so loudly when I’m tempted to mislead others completely disappears when it comes to myself. And even though I’m usually insightful enough to suspect when others are lying, I’m a gullible child when it comes to my own lies.

There’s a war that goes on inside me. Different parts of me want different things. Each part of me is certain that he knows what’s best for me. It works that way for you, too, even though you’re convinced there’s one united “you” in there.

And when one part of me wants what it wants — in defiance of everything which the rational parts of me know is best — that part of me lies.

I lie to myself about my feelings. I lie about my future. I lie about money. I lie about what I’m going to eat. But most of all, I lie to myself about love.

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