Thirty-One: Y’all Come Back, Now!

 

If you missed Day Thirty’s post, it was a doozy (something extraordinary and bazar)! I had to include the definition. My post was extraordinary in that non-boasting way—out of the ordinary for me. Not so much bazar. Did you know Doozy is an Americanism. I am full-on stopping myself from wandering off and researching Americanism, and what words are Americanized; but if you get an itch, I say scratch it!

I always thought doozy came from the word bulldozer, because a bulldozer picks up an extraordinary amount of dirt, and dozer is similar to doozy. I was wrong.

Just last year, I learned that nosey neighbors do not partake in ease-dropping, they eavesdrop. I thought they eased their way into a conversation—that makes so much more sense than standing under the eaves so one can be in close proximity to overhear a conversation. Imagine trying to explain that one word of eavesdrop to a room full of second-language students. I used to teach second-language students. I would fail.  I can’t draw an eave. And don’t get me started on old wives’  tale….seriously? How about my lifelong version: old wise tale. Better, isn’t it?

My mom used to make a celery at her job (salary). I partook in a friendly game of chest (chess), until I was in my early twenties.  My boyfriend at the time found me simply hilarious. Hamburgers were ham-buggers. As in one of my favorite words: bugger-butt—it’s a term of endearment, in my book.

There is actually another human in the world besides me that Googled: when did the word bugger occur.  Oh my, I can’t share the origin here! Probably shouldn’t use it as a term of endearment anymore. No wonder I stopped eating meat. What’s another word for digress? (Laughing.) Digress also means ramble! Who would have known?

Before I so trade-markedly steered off tangent, Day Thirty’s post was the topic. Yesterday afternoon, I was confronted once again with the injustices of the world in regards to the treatment of my son with Aspergers. Pausing.

It’s so hard to write about this, when Crazy Frog is doing the Mexican hat dance in my head.

After the melancholy (but necessity, I might add) of Day Thirty’s post, Crazy Frog is making up in oddity, double-time. He still is trying to figure out where he was when Elephant plunged through. (If you haven’t looked at my lingo, yet. No doubt I’ve lost you. LINGO BUTTON.) There’s an awesome music video on the lingo page

See what I mean: I wrote this line for this post: “My heart was aflame in grief.”

My heart was. It really was. But not now! ‘Cause Crazy Frog is laughing at my words.

This is what Crazy Frog thinks is ridiculous: 

Melancholic Little Me Wrote in reflection of Day Thirty’s post: “As I wrote those words yesterday, a voice rose and spun up from the depths of me like a steel bristle brush. As it moved upwards, the brush swirled round and scraped off all this goop and gunk that had collected and stuck like barnacles to the symbolic-flesh of my very soul. The words excavated, don’t do the experience justice. I don’t know where this new part of me had been hiding, but I reckon she’s a part that was pushed down right about the time I was four years of age. She’s a feisty thing, all done up, like a strong and mighty male elephant, with a silky-sweet interior. She’s the one hiding behind the curtain. “

Here’s where Crazy Frog stepped in to avoid me going into deep emotional, opposite-of-bliss state. Notice how my voice and inflection change: “Anyhow, this voice, she was mighty powerful, and as I think about her I get an odd Southern dialect mixed in with some back-woods cowboy. Crap? Is backwoods cowboy offensive? Oh! It is. In-bred rednecks. Interesting. It’s actually racist; and I didn’t even know. Is it okay to use the words still, since my relatives have the last name McCoy and lived on a farm near the woods with over twelve children? No offense intended to any in-breeds out there. Or to my family. I guess?? I’m getting flashbacks of when I used the term…(omitted) Oops! I reckon I best be stopping myself right there.

Life is hard, when I can’t even get through a paragraph without worrying about burning someone’s britches. Oh, that doesn’t make sense. I used burning britches the wrong way. I give up. I did find a neat article about eavesdropping and its origin, but I can’t include the link, because the poop-head (LV’s two cents; LINGO BUTTON) that wrote the article included some inappropriate jokes at the end. Seems to me that author has a bit of digression issues herself.”

I think that brief description  illustrates nicely the difference between Little Me (melancholic) and Crazy Frog.

And my point? I spent all day thinking about yesterday’s post—the meaning, the release, the seriousness—until I realized a part of me had resurfaced, one I hadn’t connected with in a very long time. So I’m adding Elephant to my lingo list, and letting Crazy Frog teach Elephant how to dance. (Remember he appears as a him but is a girl inside the elephant suit.) Wow! Real life is stranger than fiction.

I think I’ll take Little Old Me and join Crazy Frog and Elephant now, in that dancing. (Tipping my hat.) And  just let the dust settle from yesterday’s post. See what’s left behind in the dirt, after this backwoods cowgirl rides out into the sunset. Buenos noches. Y’all come back, now! You here.

Thirty: I am Elephant!

Days like today I want to find the highest mountain and shout in my loudest voice, “I am Elephant!”

I want to charge forward with my tusks at a massive pile of hay. Stab and stab with all my might, until no barrier is left, only scattered remnants that the animals can feed upon, digest, and carry away.

I hate, if I ever were to hate anything, the aspect of being misunderstood. I hate that my son is being misunderstood. I hate that I am misunderstood.  I feel as if we, as an Asperger’s “species,” have been set up for failure. As if we are supposed to make ourselves less genuine and honest, in order not to threaten others’ norms.

I understand we represent the unknown that exists outside the comfort box of many individuals. And when we surface, stand there face-to-face in conversation, the anomaly, if you will, is seen as a threat, an oddity, a discomfort; and we are made into this perceived entity that requires some degree of change or adaptation on our part.

I question what is it about the way I think and function that requires fixing and change. What if the way I think and function is ideal? Why is it that the majority believe their way is the right way, when all about them the world is falling apart from war, famine, lies, manipulation, blackmail, disease, hatred, bigotry, and poison? These named leaders play these games using their tricks. Wherein I, coming from a place of honesty and genuineness, am perceived as a threat.

Is the feeling of threat erupting from others’ insecurity or perhaps from the uncomfortable feelings that arise when one’s foundation of what is believed to be the right way is confronted?

Perhaps the way communication is currently played out is from a very limited and self-centered scope. Wherein there is this unspoken dance where I am expected to filter what I say, how I say it, when I say it, and how much I say, as to not risk causing discomfort to someone else.

Assuming I am reasonably self-aware, which I am, and I have no intention of ill will or harm, which holds true, and that I have generally mastered the basic social norms of avoiding insult or rudeness, then what other rules must I add?

It seems to me the other rules include this basket of techniques, sayings, buffering, limitations, and balancing that enable the recipient to feel better about him or herself, or at least not any worse. It seems to me a game where the first priority is to not make waves, to win the person over, to sound strong, and to sprinkle evidence of high intellect and likability, in order to allow the other person to feel comfortable enough to maybe begin to trust me.

Why is it that if I accurately and purposely reflect what the other person wishes to hear and see, that they embrace me and wrap the tentacles of interest around me; but other times, when I am entirely authentic, and I share without pretense, plan, or caution, I am questioned, perhaps even distrusted, judged, singled-out, ridiculed, or admonished? Why is it some human beings want to converse with clones of themselves and make me into their egocentric mirror, instead of knowing me?

Communicating is like driving down a dangerous road where there are warning signs at every turn. Beware!  Make sure your words are continually reinforcing the other person’s identity, perception, and worthiness. Avoid offending, weakening, or threatening a person’s idea of truth. Know that complete honesty triggers alarm in people. Understand that ultimately most people you approach already don’t trust you and you have to build and build trust before they will. Even then, know there will be people who will never trust you.

Why is it when I speak my truth some question my intention, my motive, my want, my need, my desire, my expected outcome, my reasoning, my life, my identity, my self-worth, my perception, my judgment, and/or my personhood? Are these seeds I need to plant seeds of dishonesty?

What if I am not the anomaly? What if my son is not the anomaly? What if the teenagers persecuting him with their bullying and snide remarks are the anomaly? What if my son is the teacher? What if Aspergers isn’t a syndrome or a disorder? What if Aspergers is a new mirror: a mirror that reflects back truth and honesty, and genuineness of spirit?

If communication is to based on a scale dependent on levels of trust, then a person sitting across from me in conversation is continually establishing how much they know me and trust me in order to decide what to share about him or herself, or his or her perception, facts, or experience. How do I decide which parts of me to hide?

Why isn’t communication the opposite of distrust? Why don’t people strip themselves of protective layers and speak their truth? Aren’t we all in search of love and attention? Companionship and sharing? Why don’t we all wear T-shirts that read: Love Me, Please. Isn’t that what we crave? Why is it so hard for someone to walk up to a stranger and say, “You look sad and lonely. I’m sad and lonely, too.”? Why is it people say so easily, “It’s a beautiful day” instead of “You’re a beautiful being”?

Strangers ask me, “Why are you being so nice? How did you become so kind?” or say “No one ever asked me that. Thank you so much for taking an interest?” And yet I am the one who knows not how to communicate naturally?

If withholding information is the norm, then I question the integrity of the establishment who dictates such norms. If one is to say to me, “Impossible; if we all spoke are truth the world would fall apart,” then I ask: “Is the world not already falling apart?”

The majorities’ opinion of what counts as the correct mode of communication style appears backwards and disproportionate. This fear-based approach contradicts the doctrines of many spiritual and religious foundations of unconditional love. I don’t understand this barometer I am supposed to carry into conversation—this inner dialogue, gut-feeling, or what have you, that informs me of what to withhold.

I understand to avoid crudeness, rudeness, defensiveness, argumentation, blame and downright meanness—as I see those derivatives of communication equally fear-based as the self-regulating barometer that predisposes the mind to beware of each and every encounter with another human being.

I do not understand the harm in sharing my authentic self and true feelings, if intention to harm and do ill will are abstracted, and what remains is the representation of the true being. Isn’t this what human race is striving for—the disrobing of falsehoods? Don’t people long for genuineness? If so, then why do I feel so oppressed? Why since my youth have my peers and authority continually been trying to snuff my light? Why do I feel as if I am to be locked in some prism of isolation, left alone with my thoughts, so the world outside doesn’t have to fear my reflection?

I am not bold, I am not brave. I am me! But so many people can’t see me.

I crave purity and truth. I abide by these elemental necessities. Yet, I am continually punished for not partaking in a ritual game, of following some unspoken norms of what is supposed to be. When everywhere I look around me the world is falling apart because of all the unspoken lies, manipulation, greed, and trickery.

This dictated “right” way to communicate, the fear-based approach where people say what is expected, and what the other person probably wants to hear, in order to get at some unspoken goal, appears manipulative, preplanned, and superficial.

Why in society is there a limit to what we are supposed to reveal? I understand donning clothing to conceal the taboo of the naked flesh. I can abide by this norm by simply cloaking my body. But to understand the taboo of sharing the naked spirit—I can find no such cloak. I do not know what to cover my truth in so that a person will listen without their ears first burning or their anger first churning. I do not know how to persuade someone to my side. I see no need, have no want of these things. And for this, again, I am lacking.

I watch as those that conform pass untouched in the night. While I remain oppressed because of my nonconformity. Why must I become an untouchable in order to walk freely? Why must I stay hidden in order to be accepted? As many times as I’ve been crushed and hurt, debased and stabbed in the back for sharing myself, I cannot learn another way to walk in this world. It as if the legs that carry me can walk no other way than the way in which my spirit intends. I am made to be silent or to remain in constant affliction. I am imprisoned by my own desire to be.

This is such a lonely and unspeakable place of pain and shame. And all about me professionals with man-invented degrees are claiming their “truths” of what I am, when they do not even know how to even see who I am. They are aliens dissecting me with their eyes, though they wear spectacles with blackened and tarnished glass. They can see nothing but their own imaginings and what has been told to them by others; others whom had things told to them; whom in turn had things told to them by others, with the origin residing in some theorist, who himself was likely twisted in his views and perception by his need to conform.

In my view, I am an elephant. Being an elephant, I know myself as an elephant. I know how an elephant eats, sleeps, dreams, and walks. And I know other elephants who walk in the same way. Who think in the same way. Yet, I have hyenas all about me telling me what an elephant is like. How an elephant should look and be. Who listens to a hyena to know what the elephant is, when an elephant is standing right beside?

Something must change. That is why I shout, “I am Elephant!”

Twenty-Nine: Blue By You

I’ve been thinking a lot about my childhood and how my actions reflected those of a child with Aspergers. I keep getting pulled back into a time period when I was about ten years of age. I was still rescuing animals then. Not that there was much I could do to help, but to love them.

One day the animal was a bird, near death, whose eyes were cold by morning. Another day a snail that had lost its shell. The one I remember the most is the butterfly. She was a monarch. I found her in the gutter on a rainy-walk home from school. Her wings were tattered, and she was nearly drown. I carried her home, cupped in the safety of my hands. I named her Jolie—for her beauty.

I placed her in a cleaned-out pickle jar and watched her in awe, as she stuck out her black tongue and lapped the sugar-water from a small lid. Her little wings were cast in masking tape. I watched her through the night; ever so often turning on the light and checking on her. I loved her. She survived a full day in the warmth of my affection. When she  passed, I buried her in the backyard under a fig tree and gave her a short sermon. This is the little girl I was, so remarkably sweet and hopeful. I wish to go back to her, to her room, to kneel down at her side, and say:

“I love you. I love you so very much. You are so beautiful. So kind. So thoughtful. And I am sorry that you carry such a burden. I know how painful it is to love with all of your heart. I know how painful it is to want to help and to not know how. But you are helping. You are helping more than you  know, my precious one. Look at me. Do you see what you have become. You are going to be a mommy someday, with your own family, and you are going to have what you need to take care of them. But precious child your journey into adulthood will be very hard. There will be times you want to give up. So many times. And you will take many years to find your way. But you will. You will. I promise you that. And when you do, so much will make sense. And you will cry, cry so very hard, like you are now with losing your beloved butterfly. But I will be waiting. I will be knowing that you will survive. That you will be strong. That you will love with all of your heart and get that love back ten-fold. You of all people, shall be loved. I will be here waiting on the other side of time, with my arms wide open. And when we meet again, in dream and in prose, I will embrace you, like no other. Thank you. Thank you for being you and going onward. Thank you for being so brave and so very strong. You are my living angel. And I breathe for you.”

 

 

Twenty-Eight: Giving a Child with Aspergers a Break

 

Giving a Child with Aspergers a Break

Be. Let the words pour out of the child. Let the busy thoughts escape the mind. Let him speak as long as he wants about whatever he wants. Set no time limits. Welcome the rambling, digressions, repetitions, and dissertations. Be present, without interjection or correction. Allow time periods with no communication rules, lessons, examples, rights, or wrongs. Let the child release the pressure in his mind. Take long walks and car rides together, and just listen. Let him be himself.

Retreat. Grant her a day of rejuvenation, a full day with no visitors, appointments, outings, sports, or any mandatory doings. Keep the day free of all restrictions, chores, and obligations. Stay in pajamas. Allow escape, isolation, and repetitive activities. Give her the chance to rebuild her stamina. Provide solitude and comfort. Stay home from school one day. Peel away the rules and regiment. Let her retreat.

Environment. Ask about sensory concerns in the environment. What causes you discomfort in this space? How are the lights? The chair? The sounds? The smells? The flooring? The pictures? How do your clothes feel? Your hair? Your skin? Where is there discomfort? How can I help? What does it feel like? Describe it. How is the shower? The bath? Do you hurt? Where do you feel the safest sitting? What is hard to tolerate? Do you need sunglasses? A pillow? Earplugs? Let him create a more comfortable environment for himself.

Active Interest. Show interest in her special interest. Don’t call it an obsession or fixation. Call it an interest or passion. Participate. Explore and collect. Be together. Establish a schedule. Make the special interest a priority. Place the passion in a spotlight of acceptance. Establish a blog, newspaper, journal, comic, drawing, song, rhyme, act, or other creative outlet to express the interest. Let the creativity blossom. Welcome the opportunity for connection. Let go of the need to control, fix, alter, or end the special interest. Replace objection with acceptance. Replace disinterest with interest. Celebrate new discoveries. Use the interest as a therapeutic tool. Allow him the freedom to escape from the challenges of his world.

aKnowledge. Acknowledge characteristics, talents, skills, and intelligence. List positive attributes. Don’t pretend anything is easy. Be a warrior and teach how to be a warrior. Don’t try to change the child. Imagine how scary his world is. Tell him he is very brave. Tell him he is not alone in the world. Share others’ stories. Find an adult with similar challenges who is an effective role model. Watch movies about Aspergers. Know the child wants nothing more than to be good, to do good, and to feel good. Explain that he is never a failure and always a success. Tell him you hope he tries his best, but on the days he doesn’t feel like he can try, that’s okay. Tell him he has a right to hurt and be scared. Tell him he is a gift and that there is nothing he can do to make you stop loving him. Tell him he is perfect. Tell him even though you aren’t him, you can imagine how hard life must be for him. Ask how he is feeling. Never minimize or discount. Never say it’s not that bad or things could be worse. Say you are getting stronger and wiser every day. Believe in him.


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Twenty-Seven: Who Let the Frog Out?

Don’t be fooled, this post is NOT about dogs or frogs or hamsters!

I tell you it never fails. I sit down to type, and everything I’d planned to say the night before, goes out the window. And mentioning the word window reminds me of the song How Much is that Doggy in the Window. Sir Brain is following that string again—completely off subject. Here’s a funny dog video, then I promise to get back to my post!

 

Okay folks. Looking to get rich? After viewing a dozen Doggy in the Window YouTube videos, I conjecture you can make a million by producing a quality Doggy in the Window quick flick.  Who is with me?

Oh, one more…. You have to blast this one! It will cheer you up! 

 

Last night I was up until one in the morning, again!

I was typing a letter, in that therapeutic fashion, with no intention of giving the letter to the recipients. I was planning on sharing the letter with you. Until I woke up this morning and decided the process of writing was healing enough.

And then I thought (that nasty th word again) to share another letter I wrote—which took about four hours—the letter that I will probably be sending to the dean of the university. It outlines in a professional and factual tone the demeaning words one of my professors said to me after class. I was very much an innocent in the situation, and I offer this fact with sincerity and clarity.  Even would swear on something, which is a ritual I don’t quite understand.

Nonetheless, sometimes there is a discrepancy in my mind, let’s say 99% of the time, and I can see the error of my ways, and how I most definitely contributed to an outcome. On the flipside, I can also recognize when I contribute something for the benefit of someone else. In this situation, with the professor, I was a victim. (Picturing a Salem witch trial and people without health insurance.)

I decided, in the end, not to present either letter, because I began to understand my motives. Something I try to be in touch with quite often: the whys of my words and actions. Which, in and of itself, the continual inner questioning, makes for a circus of self-criticism. Perhaps I shall develop a way to question without the critique. And let you know in the next millennium or so, how that pans out.

In questioning my motives to present the letters, I realized I wanted your empathy. I wanted your comments about how you felt so sorry for me, how outraged you were, how terribly sad and teary-eyed you were after reading my words.

And I thought, is that the vibe I truly desire to put out there: come hither; gather round my fire of sorrow and pity me. Support me. Lift me. Concur. Share in my sufferings. I’m shaking my head and squinting my eyes and mouthing, “No.”

Of course there are times when ranting and venting are therapeutic, and I don’t judge those who need to put the frustration all out there. I would say in the majority of cases, venting on a blog is probably a lot healthier than many alternatives—like having a heart attack or throwing a pan at your husband.

I’ll get through this event fine, just as I always do. I understand, to some extent, that my journey is a continual series of lessons. You know those sitcoms that reach 100 episodes and get duplicated in mass production on to dvd’s. Shows like Friends and Seinfeld; those shows you can always find broadcasting somewhere. In a way, my life lessons are somewhat syndicated, in the sense that my life lessons seem to be the same episodes over and over.

I joke that I’m one of those rascal spirits that stood in front of a board of wise spiritual advisors, before my birth, and presented a grand life plan. I was full of pride and accomplishment.

Upon review of my plan, the advisors all laughed hysterically in unison, proclaiming, “No way. Not approved. Too much learning.”

And me, I stood there, all brave like, with little wobbly knees, (as I image myself quite petite in the other realm), and responded, “Oh. Don’t worry. I can handle it!”

And they raised their brow and shook their heads, before waving me on with a sarcastic tone: “Good luck with that.”

Only, I didn’t understand sarcasm.

Then I figure, the door shut and they all had a good laugh.

The jokes on me! Ha! Ha! Ha! (Please insert a bratty-tone to my laugher.)

When situations get rough, as they often somehow seem to do—The Darn Plan is to blame. Often I stare up (or across, or somewhere) to the powers that be (that I purposely choose not to quantify, to avoid unnecessary defense and questioning from my readers), and say, “You were right. I made a mistake! I take it all back. Change the plan. I can’t take the heat!”

But no one answers. Except sometimes my spastic-colon dog, who thinks I screamed treat!

I think my super radical plan came with a contract, and that I signed off all rights for alterations after I took human form. Does anyone know of a life contract lawyer?

The good news is I’m about 200 times stronger than I was forty years ago. Because I figure I’ve been challenged by significant circumstances at least four to five times a year and that I gain one point for each challenge I overcome, which puts me somewhere between the vicinity of 160 and 200 growth points. (Multiplied 40 years by 4 or 5.) Just call me spitfire! ? Did you know that spitfire means: Highly emotional. Someone that is wild and free, without a care in the world. Considered strong and emotionally spiritually. Someone’s whose angry words are like fiery ice. A high-spirited out spoken female. Usually loud, lusty, lovely and pretty and untouchable. Typically a red head. ?

Okay, then, so I’m not a spitfire, but my alter ego is! And that weenie, who stood up to the board of advisors and thought this life was a manageable plan, was certainly, if not a spitfire, out of her mind.  (Which I’m thinking now is very accurate, because if she didn’t have a body—she would be out of her mind! I love the way I think. I really do. I’m a laugh a minute. There’s never a dull moment with LV (little voice in my head), Sir Brain (squishy ball), and Prophet in my Pocket.

I’m thinking….lol

…I’m planning on starting a dictionary for my blog, for inexperienced new readers, so I don’t need to keep explaining LV, Sir Brain, and Prophet in my Pocket. And, since I’m assuming, more characters in this fictional-like story of my life, will continue to surface, I ought to start the dictionary now, rather than later.

I want to include the word hamping.

Hamping is what I’m calling the loops that go on in my mind. Where I have a repetitive thought that I can’t dispel. You understand, I think…just imagine those times you’re on the couch and all you can hear is the chocolate calling you from across the room. “Just one more piece. Just one. What harm can it do? I deserve a little pleasure in my life. Gosh darn it, I’m getting myself a piece of chocolate.” And then you sit back down, after devouring half the bar, and all you can think about is the other half you placed up high on the top shelf so you couldn’t reach it without a lot of effort. And you’re wondering where you put the stepladder.

That’s hamping. I call it hamping, because I imagine a cute fuzzy hamster.  If I’m going to have repetitive thoughts, I might as well be adorable while partaking in the process. The hamster is in a cage on a wheel spinning round and round. He can’t help his little old self. Can’t get off, even though he knows he’s going nowhere and that the cat thinks he looks really stupid (and delicious).

Tomorrow I’d like to be able to post all these other stories I’ve been savoring. I have a whole list (in my head), such as my ghost encounter; the premonition of my childhood dog dying; the terrors of college. Wow! Now that I’m listing them all out, I’m thinking I savor the doom and gloom. Melancholic at it’s best!

Well folks, I’m off to go work on the Everyday Aspergers Dictionary now. Or hunt for chocolate. Probably chocolate. LV, Sir Brain, and Prophet are still dancing to Who Let the Frog Out!  As I listened to the song ten times while editing.  Oh! I just found a new character:  Crazy Frog—he’s the one that keeps me laughing.

* You can YouTube “Crazy Frog” for more upbeat music.

Day Twenty-Six: Patch Freak Makes Life Change!

 

I’m going to attempt to use humor to explain a major life altering decision.

I’m back.

Bet you didn’t know I was gone.

I totally (California born and raised) slipped out of focus and got sidetracked for an hour’s time about the origin of the word humor. Why? Because I used the word humor in a sentence, Silly. And that led Brain away, like a string of yarn does for a kitten. This morning Brain’s string began at etymology: the origin or development of a word, affix, phrase, etc., and the string ended with black bile. Yucko-mania!

If Brain hadn’t allowed for a detour into Reasoning Forest, and instead he/she had left me in the moment, I fear I would be profusely apologizing for the spattering of snot and tears all over the computer screen. Yes, remarkably indeed, Brain returned me to an emotional state of equilibrium, with one quick, and rather boring, sidetrack.

And I have good news. When Brain examined the root origin of humor, which included words like phlegm, LV (little voice in my head) found us a new patch for our sash! Our lovely patch Melancholic is one of the four temperaments, the others being: Sanguine, Choleric, and Phlegmatic.

 

It is black in color, the Melancholic patch, and now firmly sewn on to LV’s slash, amongst her numerous other merit badges of distinction. She tore off the high-maintenance patch to make room for the new one. The patch of Melancholic represents the following traits: sensitive, intuitive, self-conscious, easily embarrassed, easily hurt, introspective, sentimental, moody, likes to be alone, empathetic, artistic, fussy and perfectionistic, deep, prone to depression, avarice, and gluttony!

Sidetrack: (Brain left again, but only for a brief stretch. He/She had to know the origin of origin. Call him/her crazy. I do. At first I was afraid that there was no origin of origin. Fear gripped, an anguish surfacing from the depths of Grendel’s mire: What if there is no origin of origin? Don’t panic. Luckily there is. The original meaning of origin is to rise, become visible, or from beginning source. I can live with that. I just wish the online etymology dictionary had the real origin of the universe. Which by definition would be the beginning source of the universe. Sadly, the definition only reads:  the cosmos, whole, and turned into one. No real origin there.)

The Melancholic patch is an improvement over some of the qualities listed on the other temperament patches, such as: hedonism (which is an ugly word to begin with), impetuous, prone to hypocrisy, and prone to sloth. Prone to sloth, makes me giggle. To learn more you can click here

I think from now on, when I’m in an Aspie funk, unable to make a decision, on overload, and/or plain overwhelmed with my brain, I will say: “I am prone to sloth, presently exhibiting attributes of the phlegmatic temperament.” Just warning you ahead of time.

Concerning the brief mentioning of my life altering decision, I was a daredevil speed racer in my mind for three hours straight last night, between the convenient hours of 11:00 pm and 2:00 am. Riding a cranked-up dirt bike up and around turn tunnels and across perilous ramps. LV had a lot of processing to do. And when I woke up, I endured two more hours. I did not know it was humanly possible to pour gallons of tears out of my tear ducts; but then again LV is sporting that hip new Melancholic patch.

The good news is the tears have cleared and hope has set in. There’s a seedling sprouting at this very moment at the belly of my spirit and stretching to the open sky.

What happened? You query, so sympathetically, (or not). Well…I took a whirl at taking care of Brain, LV, and Me, and got the Heck Out of Dodge! (Brain notes: Get the hell out of Dodge is in reference to Dodge City, Kansas, a favored location for westerns in the mid 20th century. Most notably, the saying was made infamous by the TV series Gunsmoke). And that’s the only reason my husband tolerates me–because I’m full of…interesting facts!

Sorry, about that. Suspense building. Drum roll. Shying away. Just going to splash it out in one big wave:

I got the Heck out of the University that I was attending for my Masters Degree in Counseling.

Kaput! We Gone!

There are a few distinct patches I’d like to stick on that subject, but I won’t.

For now, I’ll let Brain be, and LV rest, and Me, Little Sweet Me, I think I’ll treat her to an overdue retreat. Pardon me now, as I venture into my Phlegmatic Zone, and contemplate how to proceed through the glory of a new opened door.

Oh, Crap. Brain wants to explore truckers’ lingo! And LV is shouting, “Yes!”   The Gods truly must be crazy. I like the words: Gator Guts, Seat Cover, and Suds and Muds…you know you’re curious. Click  Truckers’ Slang Words or check out the video below:

Below You Can Read: All About the Origin of Humor, By Sir Brain  

 

Humor is Latin in origin and first meant liquid. The word represented moisture, especially the moisture of fluid of animal bodies, such as lymph.

Around 460 B.C. Hippocrates noticed that blood removed from the body separated into four parts: clear red, yellowish liquid that rises to the surface, dark liquid that settles at the bottom, and a whitish liquid. He and his students developed a theory based on Hipporcrates’ observations. Later the theory was expounded upon. Theorists believed mental health was a matter of a good balance of the four liquids (humors). The word humor eventually became connected with someone’s temporary state of mind. Humor’s meaning of amusement did not occur until the 1600’s.

The theory of bodily humors holds that each person produces four humors but that a preponderance of one relative to the others brings on sickness.  Fluid was thought to be part of the makeup of the body, and temperament, (meaning mixture), was determined by the proportions of four fluids (humors): blood, phlegm, bile, and black bile.

A predominance of blood, associated with the liver, equates to an optimistic and sanguine (confident) temperament. Sanguine is rooted in the original definition of ruddy or blood red face.

A predominance of yellow bile, associated with the spleen, equates to being choleric (short-tempered). Too much yellow bile and one viewed the world through a bilious eye. Choleric is rooted in the Greek khole, meaning bile.

A predominance of black bile, associated with the gall bladder, equate to a melancholic (pensively sad) temperament. From the Greek melas (black) and khole bile. Melancholia means too much black bile.

A predominance of Phlegm, associated with the lungs and brain, equates to being phlegmatic (slow and unexcitable).

Any imbalance of these humors made a person unwell and perhaps eccentric. Through the passing of time humor took on the meaning of oddness.

Fasting is thought to bring humors into balance. Humorism postulates that each person is born with a basic temperament.

You can find more information about the origin of humor here: In MY BRAIN!

 

Day Twenty-Five: A Prophet in My Pocket

 

I have a prophet in my pocket.

Ever since I identified my little voice inside my head as LV, and labeled the gray squishy world-ball as my heterogeneous Brain, The Prophet in my Pocket has been speaking to me in rhyme and rhythm.

The Prophet part makes sense to me. All through my life I’ve had precognitive dreams, premonitions, and those “feelings.” I can recount the events in detail. They are numerous. Grand in scale, like the time I predicted an influx of people would be traveling to the small town of Colfax, California to see a spiritual manifestation. Or smaller in scale, but just as potent, like when I saw my mother’s friend die in a VW Bug exploding on Homan’s Highway in Carmel, California, days before my mother’s friend’s death.

I’ve had strange encounters, strange coincidences, and a plethora of people tell me that they know me from somewhere. I’ve also been sensitive to physical pain, since I can remember, starting with terrible intestinal pains and rashes.

I’m officially deemed handicapped, even have that nifty handicapped plaque, that comes in handy when my pain threshold is registering low on the scale. By all definitions, if I wasn’t such a poop-head at times, in theory I’d qualify as a Shaman in some cultures. The thing that sucks about being a Shaman, or anyone born with distinct spiritual abilities, is that the healers always seem able to help most everyone, except themselves.

I think that’s why I have a prophet in my pocket. I think he’s there to guide me through the proverbial mire of life—the sensitivities, the pains.

Looking back at my writings, sometimes I’m amazed I’m still here. I remember an intake psychologist telling me, years ago: “And you’re sure you’ve never been addicted to drugs or had any form of substance abuse? It’s hard to believe you could survive all that, and not turn to something.”

I turned to something. I turned to my faith. And fortunately the powers that be provided me with distinct mentors and supporters along my path.

Which leads me to the current problem I face, that has resulted in my current funk. Recently I’ve lost many of my supporters. Some have disappeared through the engulfment phase of a new love interest and others through moving to a new physical location—some thousands of miles away.

I’m understanding this dissipating funk more clearly. In the last ten months alone many of my supporters have disappeared, my beloved dog passed unexpectedly, a professional used callous words about Asperger’s Syndrome, my mother-in-law and my mother were diagnosed with cancer, my son had a serious reaction to medication, a homeless person ran his bike into my moving van… this on top of the everyday stresses of raising three boys, with one on the spectrum, keeping a household running while disabled, and dealing with my sensitivities, coupled with my recent diagnosis of Aspergers. Deep breath! No wonder I’m sad.

This prophet of mine, if he does indeed exist, I fancy the idea of him residing in my right pocket. I can picture him there, rather small and distinguished looking, like a little cartoon stereotypical university professor. He has the type of beard that’s good for running fingers through, and spectacles that are speckled with dust. He doesn’t brush his wiry white hair. His appearance is not even secondary. His appearance doesn’t matter to him one bit. He speaks in rhyme or rhythm, or very fast in a combination of visuals and streams of words. He uses symbols lots, and has a glorious sense of humor.

The Prophet in My Pocket is the one I pull out often in my sacred hours of writing. He whispers to me through my interior voice (LV), sometimes for the stretch on an hour, and then he gently recedes, returning from whence he came. Here’s a poem he is whispering to me now:

There’s a Prophet in My Pocket

There’s a prophet in my pocket,

And he’s always standing near,

Listening to my stories,

And then whispering in my ear,

He doesn’t long for fame,

Or simplicity of life,

He reaches for the stars,

And lends them through my strife,

His answers are so clever,

Though sometimes rather thick,

With philosophy and prose,

That pours out rather quick,

I think he’s standing near,

When I dream of what’s to be,

I think he hears me cry,

When I’m scared of what I see,

He tells me I am loved,

And that all will be all right,

He tells me to just trust,

And embrace my inner light,

I’m a beacon on a hill, he tells,

And my glow is rather bright,

And you see, he says to me,

“Because of this you fight,

The shadows that draw near,

The games they try to play,

The gifts you carry with,

They try to take away,

Be gentle with yourself,

Your challenges are grace,

Humbled in your walking,

Humbled in your pace,

Remember I stand strong,

As the shadows linger in,

Standing at the doorstep,

Readying to win,

All their twisted dealings,

All their twisted means,

They are nothing to you, Darling,

Even though it seems,

Just call on me, your prophet,

Whenever you’re in fear,

Just reach into your pocket,

And know I’m always here.”

~ Sam Craft (2012)

Much Love ~ Sam

Day Twenty-Four: Life is Like a Roller Rink (and a letter from LV)

 

February 22, 2012

My Dearest Samantha,

Here are a few things you need to get straight. You are a loving being, and humble enough. Don’t pray for any more humility, please, because you already know where that gets you. Take your husband’s advice, and ask for more pride, for goodness sake!

And don’t eat frozen carrot cake by the fork-full when you’re stressed out; it’s not good for the system, or that spare tire you’ve got going around your waist. Thanks to you, we’ve got this non-stop, hacking cough, because YOU shoveled the cake so fast a nut scratched your throat. Thirty minutes later, after a cough suppressant, Benadryl, and cough drop, you’re still coughing. And so loudly, you’ve concerned the youngest lad. And you don’t even like carrot cake. You only like the frosting. What’s up with that?

What’s going on, anyhow? You know what I’m talking about. Where’s that go-getter who wouldn’t let the world stop her? The lady, who taught, counseled, advocated, and even woke up early to meditate? Where is she?

Somehow, when I wasn’t looking, you’ve latched on to this Aspergers gig like there’s no tomorrow.  By the way, I read your post from a few days ago, and I don’t talk that much during most movies, just the boring romantic comedies with no plot worth following.

Come on Girl, I’m dying in here watching you beat yourself all up. And who cares about the professor not recognizing your writing ability and knocking you down points, because you didn’t follow her rules to the exact. That’s life.

You can’t always earn full points in life. Isn’t that what you always tell Joe—to not let what others’ think bother him. But here you are worrying all the time that you’re not enough. Get with it, already. You are already enough, and so much more.

Pull out the prayers and poetry you use for inspiration. Reread some of the plethora of spiritual and religious books you’ve collected. Stop focusing on only one genre: That of poor little old Sam and Aspergers. You’re creating more clutter in that brain of yours than you need.

Yes, you can write a post like this. Who fricken cares? If this is the only post they read, and they think your nuts, so be it. I might wear those tight sweaters with the LV monogram, but I’ve got enough of Brain for the both of us. So let me take the lead awhile, would you?

Stop trying to control life and just ease up and relax. Just because you don’t think you can, doesn’t mean you can’t. You aren’t even trying. You’ve got all you need around you, and more, but still you wallow in self-pity. This isn’t thirty years ago. You don’t need to be sad anymore. This is life—right now, this day, this moment, seize it.

Get that pedicure! See that movie. Have that tea with a friend. Stop hiding in your house. Blast the music. Open the windows. Let the fresh air in. Bang pots and pans. Light incense. Scream. Shout. Cheer. Do whatever it takes to break out of this funk.

Yes, Scooby’s dead. Yes, you have to retrieve his ashes. Yes, sometimes college totally sucks, and your fixations seemingly suck you dry. But you know what, you are the one who has a choice. You always have the glorious choice. Continue to sit on your rump and feel sorry for yourself, or get up and get moving. I don’t care how far or where. Just take a step in any direction.

I know this is harsh, but harsh is what you need right now. I know what’s best, and I see what you’ve been doing. Enough already. Get back to where you were. Nothing has changed that drastically. If you must, keep mourning the loss of Scoob. But please stop mourning the loss of you! You’re still here. You’re still you. Even when others don’t see, you’ll always be you.

Here’s a poem to keep handy. Now get of your butt and start skating! The world’s waiting.

Your Friend for Life,

LV (the Little Voice inside my head)

Life is Like a Roller Rink      (February 2012)

Life is like a roller rink.

We each groove and glide to our own beat.

We slow down, speed up, and then slow down again, taking the turns as they come.

Though others may knock us down, run us over, or push us out-of-the-way, we get back up eventually, and keep moving.

We glide forward and sideways, and every once in a while find ourselves going backwards.

After twirling too fast for too long, we laugh; we cry.

We hold hands to keep our balance.

In moments of bravery, we speed out to the inner circle, keeping our pace in the fast lane.

In moments of caution, we remain on the outer circle, gripping the wall for dear life.

Sometimes another gently pulls us off the wall.

We get blisters and bruises.

We ram into others, stop and apologize, and then lend a hand.

We tangle up our feet and fall on our butts.  Some of us have more grace, some of us more padding.

If we aren’t careful, when we try to pull others up, we fall down right with them.

From the sideline, we observe those gliding by, wondering how they do the things they do, or questioning if we might, someday, do the same thing.

We sweat.  We stink.

Sometimes we trade in the skates that served us well, in hopes of discovering a better fit or style.

There are speeders who don’t pay attention to anyone else, until they collide into someone, or collapse from exhaustion.

Racing ahead, we partake in games, in hopes of a prize.

Some are left behind.

While many never seem to catch up.

We feel the wind in our faces and the rush of adrenaline.

We are surrounded by lights that illuminate our way.

Some spin and do tricks, in hopes of gaining attention.

Somewhere, up high in a box is a person in charge.  We may make a request or keep moving without second thought.

We don’t take much notice that we are going round and round, only to end up right back where we started.

When we rest, regroup, and nurse our injuries, there is nothing that can stop us from getting back on our feet, and starting the circular journey, all over again.

And in the end, when the music inevitably stops, we all must leave.

By Everyday Asperger’s Blog author, Samantha Craft

Day Twenty-Three: A Sliver of My Sacred Hours

Everyday that I sit to write, usually between the Pacific Coast hours of 9:00 and 11:00 a.m., is a sacred journey for me. Whether I am coming off a black tea caffeine-high, and spicing my ramblings with humorous prose, or sharing a profound recollection or excerpt from past journals, I honor this time as a part of my spiritual passage. And for being here, and sharing in this journey, I thank you. My hope is that you leave with something of value, though I understand your experience is your experience, and out of my control. Still, my intention is to connect and share, to never preach or persuade. I hope you can sense my intention.

I feel guided by a higher spirit during my revered two hours. I try not to plan what I am going to write, because when I do plan, the words never match my idea of what I’d thought to type. Usually, the prose is at a dynamic polar opposite of my original preset plan.

I believe in a higher power but choose not to let my belief system affect my open heart and mind—I wish to remain available to life and avoid rigidness and dogmatic viewpoints. Obviously, in someway, my belief system will always define, minimally at a subconscious level, how I perceive life.

In analyzing my spiritual reckonings, I say today, at this very moment of writing, I haven’t had a choice but to believe in some higher being, collective energy, or presence. A source that remains beyond myself and my limited understanding.  As odd as that may sound—the statment of having had no other option but to believe in a higher source—this remains a fact in my life. I accept this is my current truism, and recollect, that like the flowers through the seasons, I will inevitably transition, possibly into a new state of comprehension. As I explained in my fist post, I conjecture our perception of life is based on multiple factors:

“Our understanding of this life experience is primarily based on our individual genetic makeup, societal influences, family environment and dynamics, adopted belief systems, and the limitation of the five senses. Some would go further and postulate that our experience of this life is based on a collective spiritual, and perhaps even ancestral, journey, and/or that we are living a journey already preordained and set out in an exact blueprint. There is the concept of emptiness. There is the idea of heaven. The thought of the collective unconscious. The faith of a higher power. Some even hold true to the fact that we are living in multiple dimensions, creating infinite destinies with each and every decision, each and every breath. Others believe this life is finite–that the real reward rests beyond.

Each of us holds something to be true about our experience of the world: even if that truth is simply believing no truth exists.”

 I understand this is only my idea of my universe. I choose to not place my view onto others, as I recognize my individual limitations to see the whole of what is before me; if in fact, anything exists before me at all. Within the vastness of my mind, I postulate that my higher source is an energetic love, and whether he or she, or even it, bares the face of a recognized deity, God, spiritual being, or other established truth, serves no baring in my determination of what is momentarily true for me.

Whether or not my higher source is the commonly accepted name of any given society—past, present, remote, distant, or near—is no matter to me. Having clung to and/or embraced multiple belief systems and faiths, I have determined, for myself, and me alone, that whatever the masses proclaim to be the form or name of a higher power, does not substantiate or decrease my belief.

I believe the power behind words, particularly the names of gods or deities, comes from the intention of the people proclaiming said names. When a word is spoken by the masses to represent truth and love, then the word reflects truth and love. And I conjecture the opposite to be true.

Like others before me, I believe words and symbols vibrate with collective energy, and that the level of vibration is determined directly by the belief system applied by the individual writing or speaking the word. Each of us experiences a word’s vibration based on the collected whole’s interpretation and in combination with our own life experience and understanding of the word. Words are simply, or not so simply, symbols transformed into pictures, images created in our minds. What I visualize in my mind is ultimately different from what another pictures in his or her mind. The variance of experience is inevitable, but the power behind a given word remains universal.

In current times, the line between science and religion, and other belief systems, regarding human’s state of existence, is becoming narrower and narrower; the line often appearing to vanish, as one sect’s of accepted truth overlaps with another sect’s of truth. I believe any man (woman) who holds onto his or her truth as the exact and only truth to be an innocent one. Inside the elements of my truth, all of us are innocent: for even when one accepts the limitations of the mind, he or she is still grasping at his or her individualized way of interpreting the world. This is not to say that I do not envision my higher power as a particular embodiment, only to say I understand my mind’s limitations.

In actuality, there is current evidence for an ever-changing world and belief system based on individual perception. The science community continues to postulate, from collected data, that an electron’s movement is directly related to the observer. And man has recorded photographs of water crystals forming exact shapes and form based on the vibration of the written words and/or the intention of one’s thoughts. Reality is being captured by man as a state of perpetual transition based on the observer.

I share this with you as a form of preparation. Not for you so much, but for me. As this aspect of myself is a vital piece of who I am, and how I currently present myself through words. In my walking world, where my physical form is present, I often shy away from topics encompassing my reality of life, but here, where I am shedding light on my experience, I find a necessity, at least for today, to be as real and authentic as possible.

Ironically, I aspire to paint with words a picture of my individual reality, while I know this world is not mine to own or create alone.

I’ve included a substantially complex prose entitled Universal Measurement below, which delves deeper into one’s  perception. In no way do I claim this as anyone’s truth. I’m not even certain the writing is what I know to be true. The words are only words, miraculous letters combined to convey a sliver of a glimpse of what I perceived. I still embrace many aspects of the religion I was raised to know; the main difference now is that I acknowledge my own being’s limitations to ever know the exact truth. In peace and love ~ Sam

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