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| Cecil caught rubbing his head on top of Carol's |
Over the years, Carol and I (and Cecil) spent hundreds of hours—mostly in the warm weather months—sitting and talking in the courtyard of our apartment complex. We talked about many obscure things as well as nothing important, mostly we three were just keeping each other company.
A few people loved Carol and sought out her company. Most people, however, were irritated by her too-happy, naivete, and seemed to attempt to avoid her constant overly-chipper attitude. There were two reasons for this: The first was because Carol was obsessively driven to inject a ray of sunshine into every person she talked to, every day, whenever she crossed their path, no matter what. Always. Incessantly. On top of this, she unfortunately was severely afflicted with an aversion to ending conversations (on the phone or in person). It didn't matter if you were interacting with her for the first time in weeks, or if you had just finished talking with her for an hour, she had to share, and repeat herself, and chat, and keep talking.
The second reason was because almost all Asperger Syndrome traits were evident in Carol's behavior: She was victim to an excessive hoarding impulse (was ashamed of it, but refused offers to assist with it). She suffered from a sensitivity to light, odors, and touch. She had a monotone vocal tone, which was mostly only noticeable when she raised her voice to catch someones attention (usually someone attempting to avoid her). She had an aversion to eye contact. She displayed a difficulty in reading the emotions of others as well as communicating her emotions non-verbally (instead, she would explain her feelings: "I'm so excited" or "I am so happy for you").
This was not something many people knew how to handle. But, because I possess at least half of the Asperger's traits, I understood why she acted the way she did, and wasn't put-off by her discomfiting behavior. I would usually steer her repetitious brain-loop dialogue towards new thoughts. I handled her failure to end conversations by telling her, early in our friendship, that every mutual-goodbye was final. Once said, I hung up/walked away (no matter if she continued to talk or hollered at my back).
The down-side of Carol's naivete and her inability to read body language was that she was a horrible judge of character and remained loyal to some terribly toxic people (who she erroneously referred to as 'friends'). A few of them used her all the way to her death. She would talk about some "really great person" (no matter if it was someone she knew for decades or a new neighbor she only talked to once) and, eventually, I would learn (more often than not) about a large number of terrible things this person had done to her or to other people she knew.
The death of my friend was not unexpected, nor was it a surprise when it occurred, but the shadow of that friendship continues to remind me that it's gone. Although I no longer feel sadness, I do occasionally still miss Carol—especially when out-walking with Cecil if he yowls on her porch while staring at her door (now occupied by a new tenant) his confusion then reminds me of our loss.
