Okay. So it’s technically still Day Four, but according to this blog site clock, it’s the next day somewhere. I just got off of two phone calls in a row with two of my closest friends. Yes, I said close friends; I do have them.
Poor gals. I verbally processed them to near death. I’m learning that the more I talk and write, the more I am able to relieve my anxiety, especially about particular discomforting events. Unfortunately, my path has been paved with repeated discomforts as of late. And nothing like I could have predicted.
I’ve come out, in a sense, with my Asperger’s Syndrome, for the first time in my life. (Put into perspective, not that big of a deal, because I was just recently diagnosed; but from a different perspective, a very, very big deal, as it’s new, unfrequented territory for me = vulnerability.) One of my college professors would call the subject of my Asperger’s diagnosis a door number three. Not a door number one, which is the no big deal stuff in life, conversational light-hearted jargon regurgitated at cocktail parties. Door number two is a little more sensitive–things you’ve dealt with maybe in therapy or another form of processing but that are still personal and touching. Door three, oh boy, that’s the deep, deep wounded junk, the place where the scars get ripped open and you bleed all over the place–again. Well, for me, my fresh Asperger’s diagnosis is a door number three.
And I did bleed, let me tell you.
I tried to do right. I truly tried. I know enough from life and learning that to share, I ought to first evaluate the situation. I’m referring to the safety of the place and person, even the situation, and the whole trust issue. Trust in general is what us Aspies tend to have a hard time evaluating. I’m way over-trusting. I figure everyone will support everyone, will tell the truth, will be there when you need them, won’t back stab you, or let you down intentionally. That’s one of the many qualities I think is super-fabulous about Aspies. We’re not only super trusting but you can trust us. It works both ways, you know.
I’m still learning that whole thingamajig (hey that’s a real word, and I spelled it right) associated around building trust. For the most part, in my later adult years, I’ve been very fortunate with building friendships and working with professional people who are trustworthy. I believe as a general rule that you reap what you sow and you attract what you put out there. Basically, if you act like a boob, don’t be surprised when there are a bunch of boobs about you. And no, I don’t mean that literarily!
Lately, it’s been all boobs. In fact, I’m beginning to wonder if all the manure I put out there to sow my fields isn’t being flung straight at me. Seriously, this University, I’m paying the equivalent to my entire retirement savings to attend, sure is surprising me. I mean, I’m thinking, that of all the places on the planet, that a counseling university program taught by practicing therapists, should be the ideal place to be vulnerable–to spill the beans–to be myself–to show all my cards. Not! Nada! No way in double-hockey sticks!
Gosh Darn it, she strikes again. Without going into obnoxious, over-revealing details, let me say that my experience in sharing that I had just been diagnosed with Asperger’s, (which I did in private, at two separate times, to two separate professors), went over as well as yelling timber at the top of my lungs at a depth hoar, (a very dangerous snow condition that leads to avalanches–and you thought you weren’t going to learn anything).
First off, after my mini-sharing of my condition, my santa-claus-jolly professor side-swipes me with a full on family-system theory muscle fist (emphasis on theory), about how under the umbrella of family system my son and I would be classified as having broken brains created by our family dynamics, and that it was likely I was self-creating my diagnosis to be close to my son. This wasn’t said all in one breath, but dragged on and on in the longest five minutes of my life. Me? I did what I do when I feel assaulted, I fumbled for words, trying to defend myself. The story doesn’t end well. Let’s just say after I left in shock, I experienced a lot of tears, and way too much verbal processing, letter writing and editing. Then the topper was a confrontational meeting (where I yet wept again). End result, I dropped his class, agreed to disagree about how we saw the discussion, and ended up spending a few days questioning my place in this entire world! Oh, did I mention, (as I bite my lip) that he’s the head of the whole dang department. Enough said.