In which I utterly overthink and repeat myself……………………………………………. #shatnerellipsis
I’ve learned that when conflict happens, my brain doesn’t do the normal human thing where you react, sulk, and maybe send a passive‑aggressive emoji. No. My brain immediately spins up a full diagnostic report like I’m running a personal NASA mission. I’m reconstructing the timeline, the emotional physics, the misinterpretations, the missing data, the part I didn’t see, the part they didn’t see, and the part neither of us could have seen unless we were clairvoyant or had a drone. I’m not trying to win. I’m trying to understand the system so I don’t repeat the same failure mode like a buggy software patch.
Meanwhile, the other person hears the first clause of my explanation and reacts like I just launched a missile. They hear p and assume it’s the conclusion. They interrupt before I ever get to q, which is usually the part where I explain that yes, I did consider their feelings, and no, I’m not secretly plotting their emotional downfall. But they don’t wait for that. They panic at p, slam the conversational brakes, and accuse me of ignoring their feelings because they haven’t heard the part where I integrate their feelings. I’m still laying the foundation. They’re already reacting to the roof.
When they interrupt, the whole structure collapses. I slow down and try to rebuild the frame so the conversation can continue, but apparently this looks like “rehashing the argument.” They walk away because they think I’m dragging them back into something they escaped. They don’t realize the conversation never actually happened. Only the interruption did. I’m not looping. I’m repairing. I’m trying to make sure we’re standing on the same floor before we continue, because I can’t finish a thought on a trapdoor.
And here’s the fun part: what I said is the trigger. What I meant is their return. People who haven’t done emotional work interpret clarity as intention. They assume that if I named something, I meant to. If I described a dynamic, I was accusing them. If I reconstructed the conflict, I was trying to win. But I wasn’t doing any of that. I was doing the only thing I know how to do: represent the system accurately. I’m not attacking them. I’m narrating the architecture.
The real mess happens with people who refuse to tell their stories. I can’t read minds, so I fill in the gaps with the only data I have: my own patterns. Then they get mad that I “assumed things.” Well, yes. I assumed things because you gave me nothing. You handed me a blank page and then got offended that I didn’t magically produce your autobiography. People who haven’t done the work speak from their own experience and assume everyone else does too. They think I’m attacking them on purpose because they can’t imagine clarity without agenda. They can’t imagine precision without hostility. They can’t imagine someone speaking from integration instead of strategy.
My friends understand me because they’ve learned that my explanations aren’t about them as people. They’re about the architecture of the moment. When I shift into audience‑focused mode, I’m not lecturing them. I’m removing the interpersonal charge so the idea can be seen clearly. They come back because once the emotional heat drains out, they can finally hear the intention behind the clarity. And that intention is always the same: understanding. They know I’m not trying to expose them. I’m just not hiding myself.
And this is where the spiral widens to all neurodivergent people. We don’t struggle in relationships because we’re demanding. We struggle because we communicate in complete systems, and most people communicate in emotional fragments. We don’t speak until we’ve processed the whole thing, and by the time we begin explaining, we’re already at p to q to therefore. People who haven’t done the work react to the first clause as if it’s the whole argument. They panic before we reach the part where their feelings are integrated. They interrupt, the structure collapses, and then they blame us for trying to rebuild it.
Neurodivergent people aren’t frightening because we’re sharp. We’re frightening because we’re clear. We’re not overwhelming because we’re intense. We’re overwhelming because we’re complete. And in a world built on implication and emotional improvisation, completeness reads as threat.
Scored with Copilot. Conducted by Leslie Lanagan.
Stories That Are All True 