AITA? Yes.

For a good chunk of my life, the answer to “Am I the asshole?” was yes. Not the charming sitcom kind. Not the “we’re all a little flawed” kind. I was curt, impatient, sarcastic, emotionally disconnected, and relentlessly critical of the people around me. And if a friend had the courage to reach out during a rough patch, I refused to get involved—convinced their weakness and dependence would cling to me like emotional barnacles.

Turns out, that’s not how empathy works.

So yes, I was the asshole.

Brick by Brick

This wasn’t some "cartoon villain" decision to be unkind. I didn’t wake up one morning and decide to ruin everyone’s day. I’m not that organized. It was fear, plain and complicated.

I grew up with a vague recognition that I was different, and I watched with dread as other kids who didn’t fit the mold got picked on as if cruelty were a competitive sport. Vulnerability terrified me. Grief and humiliation felt like bottomless pits. So instead of stepping closer to people, I built elaborate defenses and stood behind them, lobbing sarcasm and logic grenades.

I told myself that it was necessary—that other people were the problem. But really, I was just fortifying my own cowardice, brick by snarky brick.

So yes, I was the asshole.

A Gut Reaction

I should mention that being neurodiverse comes with challenges that might turn anyone into an asshole. I’ve always had a kind of synesthesia where logical flaws make themselves known to my physical body. A non sequitur becomes a sphincter spasm. A missing premise shows up as a pancreatic paroxysm. So when someone’s reasoning doesn’t make sense—in school, at home, at work, or among friends—I  feel a jolt of intestinal discomfort. The resulting irritability can come across as cantankerous.

Still, none of that excuses the behavior. People told me—sometimes gently, and sometimes by walking away—that I was causing harm. I knew right from wrong. I knew I was failing to show up. I could have tried harder. And yet, I let fear and discomfort steer the wheel, and it left a lot of people confused, irritated, and hurt.

So yes, I was the asshole.

Removing the Rocks

There’s a parable I love: bad acts become rocks in your lantern, hiding your light. The only way to shine again is to remove those rocks. But you can’t just reach in and toss them aside. It has to count. The effort has to equal the harm you’ve caused.

I’ve spent a long time trying to atone for the mess I made of things. It’s too late to erase the past, but it’s something. I became vegan—an attempt to do less harm in the world. My wife and I have stuck to a pact we made early in our marriage: donate to charity at least as much as we spend on housing. After she was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, I learned to show up for her every day with a patience and commitment I never thought I was capable of.

And I try, however imperfectly, to help other neurodivergent people manage their fear and discomfort. I'll call it a win if I can keep even one person from writing an essay like this one twenty years from now.