Month: February 2012

Day Five: Swimming in Uncharted Waters

| Aspergers Girls

Day Five

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.

 

 

Day Four: Identity Alien

| Aspergers Girls

Powerful dreams last night. According to Jungian theory, my shadow side was showing me what my true obstacles and fears are through the subconscious process of dreaming. Quite a fruition.

Basically, I am beginning to understand the workings of my mind somewhat to a greater degree. Nothing outstanding, but definitely enlightening. Much of my processing as of late has been focused around my recent diagnosis of Asperger’s Syndrome. While I knew I had all of the traits for several years, and had studied profusely on the subject matter, (as my son has Asperger’s), I’d yet to truly come to terms with the diagnosis for myself. I was actually quite surprised at the reaction I had after I’d heard of my diagnosis. My mental health counselor said something to the effect of: “You? Yes, you definitely have it.” That wasn’t the sole basis of the determination of my diagnosis of course, but that’s what sticks out like the proverbial thorn in my memories.

Beyond the major Aha that lit up every cavern of my brain, what surprised me, upon hearing the diagnosis, was my immediate reaction. I went into a precarious tailspin of depression accompanied by rapid thinking. I wrote and wrote, journalling out all of my feelings. And then I charged to the next step, something I always do, this charging. For instance, I’ll have anxiety about some sort of news, realization, event, or upcoming event, and I move quickly from anxiety to organizing and fixing.

With this Aspergers diagnosis, I went from an emotional state of depression to the act of barging straight into the logical: “What do I do with this information?” For me, whenever there is a “what”–a loose end so to speak, something that has yet to be solved or promptly closed–I cannot rest until the “what” is answered. On the Myers-Briggs Test I’m and INFJ — major piece of INFJ is needing closure. I could get into my zodiac sign, too, but I won’t go there.

Back up, girlfriend! So I have this irresistible urge to put things in order, whether in the physical sense (e.g., books, dvds, furniture) or in the mental sense. Being that I received this diagnosis of Aspergers, which resulted in this need to figure out what to do with the information, I started spinning possibilities. Perhaps I could run groups for females with invisible disabilities when I am a mental health practitioner; perhaps I could query a literary agent and write a book, (I’ve read the ones out there about females with ASD–it’s a start, though very limited): perhaps I could be a subject in a study by contacting Judith Gould in the UK; maybe I could write a letter to Tony Attwood; perhaps I could go onto get my doctorate and ultimately change the diagnosis for females with ASD; maybe… you see the point. And truth be told, the could’s that I listed in all of those statements, were loud should’s in my mind..

I’m trying to paint a picture here, however lacking in clarity. Trying to explain that beneath this lump of a diagnosis, that literally feels like a weight on my chest, I’m pushing up and out, searching for a way to make sense of it all. While at the same instant, I’m stepping back and watching my silly self, and recognizing that the reason I’m trying to make sense of it all at such high-speed and in direct measures is a result of me having this condition to begin with. I’m trapped in those mirrors, the type that face one another, so the viewer sees herself multiplied into infinity. Except, I’m the viewer, examining the viewer, examining the viewer, and psychoanalyzing myself. It’s a blizzard in my brain.

Through the processing in my dreams last night, I came to recognize this journey, as of late, is all about my identity. I’m trying to figure out how this new diagnosis defines me as an individual. It’s all about ego, a Tibetan Monk would inform. But in this society, where I currently live in Northwest America, for me, it’s all about settling my brain.

I’m currently compartmentalize my traits and attributes, in a similar way as I box up everything else in my life. The human brain instinctively categorizes and organizes in an attempt to classify and understand what it is taking in through the five senses. My brain, an aspie brain in overdrive, is likewise trying to categorize and organize by scaffolding off of past experience and knowledge bases. But then my brain gets stuck and doesn’t know where to store all of this new information. I’ve run out of boxes, or they’re misplaced, or mislabeled, something to that degree. What it comes down to is I’m not sure how to classify this condition, and therefor not sure how to classify my identity.  I’m not sure the effects, the consequences, the outcomes, not sure at all about where to place this on the shelves of my subconscious.

I’ve tried to figure this aspie diagnosis out repeatedly, tried to connect the diagnosis with something similar in another’s life. Is this like finding out you have diabetes? No. How about that your father was another ethnic race than you first thought? No, but closer. What about someone telling you that the whole entire way you understood and processed your life, which you believed to be typical, was in fact entirely different than much of the mainstream. That in truth your brain was wired differently? Oh, much closer, but not quite there. Okay, then what if the person said you are an alien dropped down from another planet, trying to figure out the ways of the world, with a brain that doesn’t work the same way as most people around you? Now that, the alien business, makes the most sense.

So, there it is: I’m an alien. And that’s what this feels like essentially.

I didn’t plan on that. The alien business. All I had the intention of sharing was how, throughout my whole life, I’ve latched on to identities to define my place in this society; I analyze and study the identity and then try my best to perfect said identity. Whether I am copying an actress , a best friend, or a teacher, I am doing what I know best: perfecting a role.

Now, with this diagnosis, this Aspergers gig, I wonder, if in truth, I’m not clinging on to the Asperger’s role, my new identity so to say, and then trying my best to play the part. To be the best Aspie Alien out there. And if so, am I driving my self to extremes of the condition in the process?

Back to the dream. Interestingly, my dream was about starting over at a new school with a new identity, and I had the freedom and choice to create myself anyway I wanted to.

Only I didn’t know what I wanted. And I didn’t know who I was.

I wonder, if in fact, we aren’t each wondering in our own way what we want and who we are.

Day Three: Words

| Aspergers Girls

 

Day Three: Words

I’m so excited to share with you, (or over-share with you), that I’m tempted to write thirty posts today. And I could. I truly could. I could type for ten hours straight, not eat, and have a bit of hot chocolate to keep me going. I’d ignore and put aside my three beautiful children, whom I adore, by pacifying them with genuine hugs and compliments, by explaining about my obsession, and by trying to make the lack of my current availability up to them somehow in the immediate future. But I won’t. I’ll only write one post, and then probably come back and recheck the writing repeatedly, dedicating way too much time to editing and spicing the words up some.

The worst (and absolute best), is the way the words feel to me. That’s one of the main reasons I keep returning to the writing. There is a word for it: synesthesia. (From the ancient Greek together and sensation.) Though I might be stretching the meaning a bit. Synesthesia, in my view, is when one sense gets tangled with another. For some people words have taste, for others numbers have color. For me, the experience is somewhat different. Numbers feel masculine or feminine, and have distinct personalities. I literally like certain numbers and dislike others. Some make me feel very comfortable and others threatened. I’ve had this number experience since I was very little. I’ve always liked the number 113, because the number contains all of my favorite digits (well most of them). I am drawn to the masculine numbers for some reason. For me one, eleven, thirteen, and three all have a masculine feel. The number five is a female. Six, he’s kind of on the fence. Four is a girl. It’s odd, I know. Get used to it.

When I think of the power of numbers, as in a binary computer code or the signals transmitted from satellites orbiting earth, and how in both instances symbols are decoded or unencrypted to view on a monitor, I understand how numbers can have extreme power.

Back to how the words feel. I used to think I was experiencing the energy of the person or the thoughts behind words. Now, I’m not so sure. The Kabbalah teaches of the power of the ancient letters. The ancient religions speak of the power of sound, how some sounds are direct connections to our chakras. (Last year my special interest was in spirituality and religion, including sound-healing, and I read about two books a day on the subject for the course of approximately nine months, until I woke up one morning and the interest was gone.) Thusly, from my studies, I can conceptualize and hypothesize about how words can have different feelings of weight. Perhaps I’ve tapped into something unintentionally. Perhaps I’m wired this way. Because of this sensitivity to words, I have a hard time reading in general, especially my own writing.

For instance, the 10 Traits I listed about females with Asperger’s, that list, well, the list feels very heavy to me. Similar to being pulled down by gravity on a high-speed amusement park ride. As a result I keep going back to the list and tailoring the words; the process of returning to my writings is liken to me clipping topiary. I’m attempting to trim off the excess unwanted weight. Trying to figure out what needs modification. And it’s not about adding humor or making the subject matter lighter–not that at all. Nor is it editing to make the message crisper and clearer–not that either. It is the words themselves. Every word feels different, every word a little difficult to punch out onto the computer and set free. I have to go back and change words so the sensation is right, and the meaning is close to the truth of what I’m thinking. In time, sometimes years, the words will feel right. Yet, no matter how long I clip away and alter, I understand I’ll never truly express exactly what my intention and perception is to anyone. That in and of itself, this realization that my words will never actually express the inner workings of my spirit, is a very sobering and isolating thought. I long for that futuristic Vulcan mind-meld, where I can touch a person and know his or her story, and bypass all the words. Then again, I’d miss the words and their rhythm, much like I’d miss the ocean waves lapping onto the shore.

Day Two: The B Word

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Day Two: The B Word

I’d thought on writing of deep philosophy, of sharing poetry, of sharing my fictional prose or a bit from my memoirs, or perhaps providing a little history about raising a son with Asperger’s… I thought on telling of my past and current studies, of my family, of my joys…I used to be a school teacher, an advocate, and later a spiritual life coach…I’ve homeschooled. I’ve been to beautiful places. I live in a beautiful city. I’ve found my vocation, my authentic calling. I have a purpose. I have gratitude, and have ample self-worth and self-acceptace.  I have genuine and nurturing friends. So, yes, I  have some insights, some life tales to share, some beauty to spread. Just not at this moment, I suppose.

Instead, right now, at this very instant, I’m sipping from a dark-glass bottle of a Double Chocolate Stout. (A surprise from my neighbor last week, when she’d heard I’d had a hard day; I’d been saving it for just the right moment.) Honestly, I don’t even know what a stout is. Maybe ale? I’m not a drinker, at least in the true sense. I can count the times I’ve had an alcoholic beverage in the past year on five toes. Though, I might be moving to two feet, this year.  More than likely it will take me a good two hours to nurse this one bottle, if I finish it at all, that is. Alcohol generally hurts my stomach or makes the glands around my jawline ache–gives me that stinging sensation like when I try to blow air into a balloon. The stout seemed appropriate though. I don’t take medication for anything, not for my physical pain, anxiety, depression, or phobias; so when I’m in a real funk, like today, sometimes I have a few sips of alcohol. I’m not worried about turning into an alcoholic though, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m way too overboard-anal-retentive and anxiety ridden to become an alcoholic. Seriously, I can’t eat a piece of cheese without thinking of the poor cow abuse and the injected hormones, and the health consequences to my body. Yet, I did enjoy that cheese sandwich this morning.

When Bob, my husband, (aka: saint, Godsend, patient man) entered the computer room this afternoon, after I’d been in here a few good hours, I gave him a true verbal hacking. I couldn’t stand the way he smelled. I kept repeating, “You stink. Take a shower.” He finally left, after I plugged my nose and said, “You smell worse than our wet dog.” He’s a good sport and all, but my frankness and over-sensitivity, to practically everything, wears on him. I typically feel a little bad after I am so direct. But I did tell him five times the smell was bothering me, before I snapped. I thought he’d get the hint. He’d just finished working out and taking the dogs to the park, so he had that outdoorsy and sweaty stench.

Truthfully, when Bob entered the room, if I wasn’t fixated on achieving a high-score on some online game, I was obsessing over my writing, or some other distraction. I waste a lot of time clinging to obsessive attachments, and it isn’t until afterwards I realize I’ve truly made a grand waste of my time.

All he wanted to do was connect, my husband that is, to touch base and check in, but I wasn’t in the mood. When I’m like this, I’m scary. I can see what I’m doing, but can’t help myself. Luckily, I self-correct after a little while, and dutifully apologize; still I’d sure like to paint an ideal picture of myself, to tell you all the super great qualities I have. But truth be told: sometimes life in general is the B Word. (And yes I meant to make angry eyes in the photo.)

Day One: Eyes

| Aspergers Girls

Day One: Eyes

This is my journey. 365 days living with Asperger’s Syndrome.

We each view life differently. 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’m not here to conjecture the theory of my existence, and definitely not your existence. Nor am I writing to make some claim that I know the workings of the vast mechanisms of our minds–the place (perhaps) where existence is manifested. I’m here only to examine the workings of my mind and spirit, and how, in this present moment, life appears through the eyes of a female diagnosed with Aspergers.