Almost 42 going on 10
Someone left comments on three of my previous posts in the wee hours this morning. They’ve since been deleted. The person who posted them couldn’t even reveal his or her full name–not even first name. They just put “A” as their name. Okay then.
One of them took me to task for using foul language. Yes, I admit to that. Too often. I’ve got to do better.
The second said my life was pathetic. I opened myself up for that one because what I put at the top of one of my posts last week. I deleted it, but the damage was done.
The third, however, upset me.
This person said I write like a 10-year old.
I am painfully–very painfully–self-conscious about my autistic disorder. I feel like a teeanager trapped in the body of someone in his 40s. My verbal skills are lacking. My social skills are even worse.
However, I always thought I could write well.
Apparently, someone didn’t think so.
Yes, I should ignore this person. But I’m so hard on myself I can’t right now. Maybe I write like I’m 10, which would put me back in fifth grade. I don’t want to go back there, because fifth grade was one of my worst school experiences.
On the other hand, would a 10-year old go into exquisite detail about something most would find boring?