You are like music upon music upon music to me, a figure seemingly out of tune.
At times I think if I could only find your one song, the part that is truly you, then I could play you over and over, and dance, whether alone or together, in endless ecstasy.
Even as I tell myself you are complexity and spiraled wonder, I long to unravel you to thy very core—perhaps as some vegetable with heart or some flower with first petal.
I like to pretend you are easy to find, to see, to paint. For with easiness would come the grace of painting you into the shadowed corner of my existence: a mural to keep me safe, a walking space that requires no effort but touch. One finger slipped onto the wall of me and slid across your slivered silhouette.
For it is in my shadowed times, I cry out for you, for oneness for connection, for acknowledgment that I am as beauty. Only because you are as beauty.
Though it is in my days of sunshine, I too call out from the depths of me, reaching in silent gratitude and shimmering in your brilliance. It is then you are effervescent glory to behold. A gift set amongst a fleet of angels, with the finest and most demur of sails.
I have carved you within my soul light. Sat up constant night awake in my dreary state, counting you as one in youth beholds her sheep. You leap across my chamber ceiling as ghost set free in crimson carriage, bouncing through the valley of my imagination; your face bare except your kaleidoscope eyes. A barren tunnel of absence entering a rainbow of stars. I see there into myself and breathe. My last glance of this world, the beckoning of your substance.
Awoken, the days come, with the joys and woes of worldly possessions explored and dried, withered and left for the illusion of promise they be. Awoken, the days come, with the sorrows and gratitudes, the biting into what was once ripe to find the taste of expiration and abandoned. Still the bell chimes, in memory of laughter, and in preparation for the surprises beneath my pillow. I harbor such secret dreams and cherished gifts. And to share them, I set you upon my shelf of butterflies, and sing only to you, of the time of my happiness.
You are to me the mystery of fantasy, the puppeteer with magical strings of grandeur, capable of contorting a stage of delight or drama of doom. I hone in on what could be called your goodness, and try to trap your substance in my tiny womb, to bathe you in the babe’s cocoon with my essence. Yet, my attempts are futile.
For you are not but one form, not but one song, but an orchestra drawn out into a long and distant parade. I cannot keep you, as beekeeper keeps bees. And so it is, that even in the ward of captive thought, your honey I cannot taste.
For you are the food to the masses; a delicacy set before the king of kings, royalty in your very blood and bones, built up and made into something I cannot decipher or replicate. You are magnificent splendor set upon the eye of my mind, and I ride you, this child of the merry-go-round world, upon a horse ever-changing.
Together, we are endless circle. Our destiny unreachable. Until spinning top stops, and I am flung out of your land, into the stillness, and made to watch alone, your partner for eternity wavering outside and beyond the mystical music of you.
The following message came to me yesterday afternoon in the form of a vision during a James Bond action movie at the local theater. Not the best time, I say while laughing. Nonetheless, I took in as much as possible. I believe I do not do the visions justice as they come through a channel I cannot duplicate with words.
Whether this message breathes from a corner of my mind, the collective unconscious, my angels, or other, I make no claim; I only share what I see. I found this fascinating myself, and the process has freed up much stagnant energy in me.
Interestingly enough, I have processed through many relationships and “gunk” these past couple weeks at high intensity, and this processing has freed up much space inside of me.
The more I process, the more rapidly information collects within me, and the more I process out. This current post led to a deep philosophical discussion between my husband and myself, which inevitably led to more healing and recognition.
I currently like how things are rolling; though painfully gut-wrenching in experience at moments, the joy I feel is equal in measure. Thank you for being part of this journey. I count you as a true blessing.
In addition, I would like to share, that after writing post 261, I was able to release a lot of frustration and lost hope, and see and hold the individual mentioned in the post with more love and forgiveness. So something is working; I’d rather not dwell on the source of my continuing emotional and physical healing, but rather embrace the occurrence and give thanks.
I’d thought about deleting post 261, as my nature is not to spew harmful intention or words of any sort, and I know the vibration of the words are not of my typical writing. Yet, I chose to keep the post, as I am part of the human condition that endures times of deep suffering and doubt, and don’t want to present myself without flaws and confusion at time. Again, I chuckle, as this whole blog seems to be one big blemish exposed to the world. In peace ~ Sam
Falsehoods and Truth
Some say I am crazy, a magical thinker, a dreamer, a pretender, someone to avoid and beware.
This is a falsehood.
Some say I am an attention-seeker, self-centered, someone with too much inside my own head, someone to correct and humble.
This is a falsehood.
Some say I am fooling myself, I have created this calling, I am trying too hard, someone who lacked love in youth trying to compensate through sacrifice.
This is a falsehood.
Some say I should paint these pages with images and quotes of their prophet, savior, or deity, that I am someone misguided, misinformed, not awaken.
This is a falsehood.
Some say I am ugly, big-nosed, big-eared, and old, someone to be fixed, repaired, or enhanced.
This is a falsehood.
Some say I am an example, living truth of light and goodness, someone to be adored, someone to aspire to be.
This is a falsehood.
Some say I am loving and sweet and kind, and adorable, someone to cherish, and hold, and uplift
This is a falsehood.
Some say I am wise, beyond my years, selfless, giving, someone who can prophesize and help others.
This is a falsehood.
For when I accept one truth, I must too accept the rest.
I cannot pick what I choose from the collection of illusions and discard the rest. The rest remain.
When I accept others’ perceptions of me that I deem beneficial, then I must also accept others’ perceptions of me that I deem non-beneficial.
I do not have the power within me to decipher others’ views and decide which are real and which are false.
I do not have the pride in me to take what I value as uplifting, and ignore the rest.
In truth, every word whispered is alive, and in so being a truth of its own form.
In truth, every thought born is alive, and in so being a truth of its own form.
I have not the capacity, nor want, to siphon through a multitude of endless words and thoughts focused upon me to decide which is real and which is fantasy—which is accurate and which is false as applies to my worth and identity.
All are false and all are true.
All are a falsehood, and in being so all are a truth.
They speak of the illusion I am.
They speak of the mystery that cloaks my true self.
That beneath these layers of illusion of word and thought, at my core is where I breathe.
I can only be sensed in silence, at another’s very soul.
And there, I rest, love upon love, the essence of another.
And so, today, as every day forward, I recognize the falsehoods as truth unfolded as illusion.
I recognize every thought of judgment I too hold, every evaluation my mind makes from habit and survival, is mere illusion.
That as I am love: As are you.
And I release the demands I have placed upon your soul to form you into something other than love.
I release the need to lessen you, to build me.
I release the need to build you to make my reflection brighter.
I release, and rerelease, over and over, with the still voice of love whispering: Illusion.
~~~~~~~~~~~
The Apple Tree
There grows an apple tree, in the valley, upon a hill, and there the people gather, one by one; they collect the apples green and ripe, still hanging from the tree, or nearly fallen; if still good, even a semblance of good, they gather
In other ways and times and places the apples appear golden, red, or mixed between; still they are gathered in the same manner, as people set about to gather what is deemed salvageable and decent.
Yet, on the ground remains the rejected, the left, the abandoned, stepped on and forgotten. Some overlooked, some lifted and dropped, some bitten into and spit out with distaste.
And too, up above, on the branches once full, remain the other fruit, the ones marked by time, or insect, or bite of animal friend. Those as well remain, slipped through fingers and not taken from where they live.
The people, they take the apples, and they create, they divulge, they slice and cook, they dice and dunk, they mix and drink. The apples chosen are greeted mostly with delight. Fed upon. Eaten to the very core. Tossed out when no longer needed. Or perhaps set in bin or yard to decompose into ground. Still they are used. They are gathered. They are wanted.
People do the same with words. People stand outside the tree of words and watch with wonder. They have an ache and need to feed upon the words. To digest the words. To take the words. They stand outside the tree and pick what they want to keep, and pass by what they deem distasteful, rotten, or flawed. They avoid the words of bruises and blemishes. They step upon the words of rotten worms.
What people forget is that the words left, like apples, to fall or stay resting upon the ground, broken and forgotten, do not weep. They rejoice. For they are the nurturers of the earth; the chosen ones to feed the soil and meek and tiny animals of the earth. They are the source of newness, rebirth, delight, and new blossoms of spring. They are the deep seeds that rest in the cold and darkness alone to begin again in light or to be taken away to distant land, by wing of flight or animal travels.
When you gather your words. When you collect your words, to signify who you are as a person, who you are as a soul, you cannot just pick and choose the very best apples. You cannot say: This is me, because she says so or he says so. You cannot just be the desirable apples. You are as one with nature. You, too, are the apple on the ground, stomped on and forgotten, bleed out to the earth to be reborn. You too are the distasteful and unwanted. If you are to collect the highest brightest apples, you must also recognize the fallen and forgotten apples. They are all aspects of yourself. Each and everyone. None greater or lesser. All serving purpose and truth. You are a rotten apple. You feed the earth.
Thoughts on Healers/Leaders
He or she recognizes life is ever-changing, that nothing stays the same, and thusly no list of a true leader can ever exist; that to scribe a list, to produce a list, in actuality goes against their belief system. A belief system that in and of itself shifts based on the release of attachment and widening of awakening.
He or she prays or meditates or visualizes or simply thinks without thinking the potentiality and path of the higher good for all beings, whether this affects his or her current state of serenity.
He or she will recognize a truth that vibrates from the core level of a person. A truth that is sometimes based on fear and false messages to self. He or she will recognize his or her own vibrational level and inner core truth, and help lift the vibration of the seeker to an optimal level through seeing, words, or simply holding the person in thought or light.
He or she will sense the presence of a vibrational force in and throughout the world, in objects, thoughts, and words, as well as what is deemed living and/or breathing. He or she will have a reverence for all thing and people, and strive for unconditional love and acceptance.
He or she will question both his or her actions and choice, until a time comes when action and choice moves freely in open form, embracing and loving without thought or intention.
He or she will accept his or her truth as passing and pliable, easily shifted and reformed. Nothing is deemed stagnant or unmoving, even stagnation in and of itself is seen as a powerful energy, as are all things when seen in particular light.
He or she will have released most, if not all, attachments and will for material gain and recognition, and hold instead the good of all as aspiration and goal. Such goals in and of themselves are offered as release, as well, as attachment to goal is too attachment in form.
He or she will not see things in degrees or categories of right and wrong, or good and bad; instead the meeting point between to concepts deemed opposite shall be sensed as a vast expansive universe onto itself, incapable of comprehension or refinement. In sensing such a vast endless cavern separating two extremes, he or she will thusly understand the varying degrees of separateness of right and wrong are impossible to pinpoint, for there is no place to place a pin in an ever-expanding universe.
He or she will look upon others with kindness reflected in manner, breath, presence, and perception. They will radiate light and love, and be understood as one who heals from near or far.
10. He or she will create a climate for healing through words or thoughts, providing shelter for the weary and searching without pride or condensation, see him or herself as equal, a soldier too, to self and ego, and wanderer indeed, ever-moving and journeying through tides and truths. Yes..all these messages I heard/saw/sensed/felt/experienced during the first scenes of high-speed car chases and train escapes. Isn’t life grand!
And life isn’t all seriousness and such….sometimes it’s about finding the perfect little red dress for an upcoming event…or almost perfect! Still dress hunting….
Uhhhhhggggggg! More to process. In prayer, I understood I’d be processing through a lot this month. But really? Who does my higher power or universe or tall cedar tree named Fred think I am? There is only so much a girl can take.
Thoughts are intertwined with emotions and are purging through me at high-speed. I’m on the log water-ride about to hit the slippery slope and crash! I need to row backwards, or jump out and swim, or just scream. But regardless, I’m still in the water.
I feel depleted and wiped clean and then refreshed, only to be depleted and wiped clean moments later. There is so much gunk and junk bubbling up inside me that I am in utter fascination, while clutching my stomach and wanting to barf everything out of my very existence. How I long for a fresh spring of plenitude and serenity.
People who say to relax and let go, really don’t get my mind; nor do they understand the concept of what I believe to be my empathic abilities, a skill which allows me to pick up on others’ energy and the truth or falsehood behind their words.
I am struggling with feelings of great apathy and dislike towards someone and know not what to do, or where to put this. I try my very best to be the very best person I can be, and there is not a moment of my day this is not on the top of my mind. Even when I dream, I am speaking my truth and living my intention.
So much of my confusion stems from the feeling I get, if it can be called a feeling, when someone says something and it is sugar-coated to sound well-meaningful and loving, but in truth the underlying wave is one of “ let me tell you how to be, how to fix you, how you can be better.”
I don’t need to be told how to improve myself; it is all I do all day long, focus on being a good person, and teaching myself how to do so through prayer, listening to higher guidance, talking to friends, reading, silence, processing, and writing. That is my soul’s intention.
However when someone judges me, especially when it is done in a round about “I’m so wonderful and perfect, let me tell you how to be way” I want to physically vomit. I don’t need anyone’s tips or help. I don’t!
My entire childhood my feelings were not validated. If I complained or was sad, I was told one of two things: Things could be worse or I’m trying my best.
Now that I speak my truth, at last, I do not need nor desire to be told how to be better. My feelings were pushed down, and I was only seen and validated when I was happy and joyful. I was put upon a pedestal for my looks and accomplishments, and made to be the trophy for others. I will not be that anymore. I will not have those same energy ties.
There is something about ingenuity and underlying unspoken intentions that eats at the heart of me. Something about the self-centered, look-at-me attitude that gets under my very skin—tiny bugs circulating and pulsating beneath my surface. I can feel this and it hurts and terrifies all at once.
I recognize that each person will create who I am in their own mind. From stranger to foe, people will perceive me based on their limited senses. I know this. But I sense people at a deeper level. I can see dishonesty. I can see the truth of how someone sees me; how they might bend me into a wrong-doer to make themselves feel better.
The fixers….they are the hardest for me. I used to be that way. I try not to, as I know how it feels to be at the other end. Anyone who feels the need to fix another and reaches out to do so, is in essence not looking at the truth of who they are, and what they still need to fix in themselves. Not that we are broken. We are whatever we choose to be. But the fixers, I do think they are broken more often than they realize.
I have been dealing with a toxic energy for so long and do not want this energy in my life; yet society dictates it is the right and proper thing to do. To keep this person in my life. How does one handle a sick mind? A desperate spirit that clings and tampers with my very peace? Someone who is blind to their own self, actions, and the pain they cause others. Someone who turns blame always to others, who twists reality and truth, to make themselves appear and feel better. Someone who their truth is more important than others? How do I deal with the selfish human, who I recognize as a lonely spirit weeping for love and attention, but who scratches out my eyes so I cannot see my own beauty.
The last thing I want to be is righteous or prideful. I pray over and over for humility. I cannot heal myself or help others if I am ego-based, or if my writing has an unseen and unspoken motive. I believe that the intention behind words and thought does carry energy. If I write something that says one thing but I am feeling another, to me that is an untruth.
I think people with Aspergers, and some others, will get this. There are true words, straight from the heart that flow out of the whole of me. There are words that are not true, that have a hidden agenda…those words I cannot write, and when they are tossed upon me by one blinded by their own ego-based perception, I want to scream.
But then I question my own self. Why has this affected me so? Why do I again judge? Why do I allow this person to harm me in any way, once again? Why have I not learned to protect myself, yet? And I spin out of control into self-doubt and wonderment of my world.
Had I not just said I wanted to love all unconditionally , to see the supposed “flaws” as a reflection of me. So what is it inside of me that needs to be cleansed and seen? What is it in me that is attracting this, all of this, into my life right now?
I am so confused and tired. And that is okay. I am so lost in my mind. And that is okay. I am okay.
And I guess that is the main growth that has occurred; for as I go through this, dragging myself through the muck, I can still see my light, my truth, my beauty, and rejoice that I am still learning, growing, and journeying onward.
There is something beautiful about a person who cannot see her beauty on the outside. A sad humbleness that pulls the person into the eyes and soul—a vulnerability that others pick up on innately but generally cannot recognize or pinpoint.
When anyone complimented my looks, I thought one of many thoughts:
1) You can’t really see me
2) This isn’t how I normally look
3) You must have poor eyesight
4) You are lying
5) You want to hurt me
6) You want my body
7) You are just saying that to be nice
8) I hate me
9) You say that to everyone
10) You must feel sorry for me
I could never own my beauty.
This view of myself, as being not adequate on the outside, is something I’ve held onto since I was eleven. I can theorize until I’m blue in the face, and come up with a plethora of reasons why I doubted my beauty, starting with my overbite and chipped front tooth and ending with being victimized by men.
But the truth is, I think I was made to be that way….this way. I think I was chiseled and molded into this me that I am.
There are beliefs I carry that say: To love yourself in completion is to be vain and conceded.
There are thoughts that scream how can you think you are pretty, look at your flaws?
There is the dark voice that says, you will age and no one will love you.
I’m starting to have flashbacks of all the times strangers came up to me when I was younger, and the messages they said:
You have such beautiful eyes. So intelligent and wise.
Your face has so many angles and emotions; you should be a model.
Oh, I can tell by looking at you that you are one of them—a deep soul.
Do not worry, you are prettier than her, inside and out.
Wow, they didn’t make teenagers like you when I was in school.
Has anyone ever said how beautiful you are?
Those were strangers. Off the street, they would approach me.
And I never could take in what they said. Never believe it. Never for a moment feel their words or truth. I always had doubt and disbelief. Actually it was beyond doubt. The compliments I quickly shifted into sadness and fear. For what if they were to see the real me? What if they realized how very wrong they were?
Something did happen, though. I began to see how my exterior gained attention.
In some ways I was fortunate. In my youth, with this “beauty,” people were typically accommodating, overly-friendly, and eager to date me. However the experience was more over misfortune because I felt I was not seen for the real me and thought furthermore that because I was truly ugly that I was playing some game of trickery. I believed one day people would awaken and the truth of my ugliness would be seen.
When I went to college, ripped away from my best friend of six years, and not having my boyfriend at my side, I felt extremely self-conscious, vulnerable, frightened, and paranoid. I was beyond shy. I walked with my head down and never ever peered up. I gave off the vibration of Keep AWAY at all costs. I was lovely, but untouchable. I thought I was ugly and unwanted. No one said hello to me. Only one boy in five years at college. I thought for certain that validated my beliefs; that in truth I was born ugly, unwanted, unneeded, and desperately flawed.
If a boy tried to make contact with me in class, I brushed him off with my insecurities or was clueless that he was trying to connect. I took “come on” lines at face value. If a boy asked about last night’s homework, that’s what he was interested in. Not me, only the homework. If he said I looked young for my age, that was the truth of his statement, nothing beyond, no agenda, just an observation. I couldn’t feel or see people reaching out to me. I was lost in my own world of ugliness and isolation.
When I gained weight in my early twenties, and then later gained sixty pounds from my pregnancy, I saw how others treated me differently based on my weight. I began to see how fickle and surface-level people could be. At that point I had nothing to turn to. I hated myself on the inside and outside, but at least for a long time I could get by on these supposed “looks.”
At this time, I began to really hook onto and believe all the negative messages I told myself. In fact, I had been right all along: I was horribly ugly.
It has taken me the last few months, since late April, to reclaim the beauty I misplaced when I was eleven years of age: thirty-three long years. For the first time in my adult years, I can look at my face and not cry, cringe, or loop over my image. For the first time I am embracing this wonderful woman I am, and morning for the lost years, when the word beautiful was masked behind a curtain of fear.
What I find odd, is I didn’t judge my friends or strangers in the same way I judged myself. I saw their beauty. Their souls shined through. And all I saw was gorgeousness. Now, when I look at myself, my soul shines through, and I too am the same, one with all, pure loveliness.
Some will call me self-centered, vain, obsessed with my looks, or shallow, but I know the truth. I am home. I am reconnected. I am in love again with me. A child reborn.
I still have doubts. I still have those thoughts…and that familiar dark voice. But there is a light, no doubt, that outshines the rest. A light I am learning to embrace more each day.
I have a very active fantasy life. I live more inside my head than outside in the “real” world.
I am in control in my fantasy world, and no one can get me, can see me, or judge me, unless I say so. And I always look fabulous!
Outside of my fantasy world, I am vulnerable.
I create very elaborate fantasies, more often than not, about the future. It is not living in the future or goal-planning; it is living in the present and in the now, only inside my mind.
My fantasy nurtures me and fuels me. I am motivated and calmed by repeating the same scenario over and over; perhaps a conversation in which I picture the people and their exact dialogue. Often I am very aware of what I am doing, meaning I know I am fantasizing, and am an actual observer of my own behavior.
Sometimes I can live inside of my head for over an hour; basically rerunning the same images and conversation repeatedly. I start from the beginning and then do the whole thing all over again. Kind of like being on an endless ride that loops. The fantasy could be a minute long or a few minutes long, but it is replayed so many times, that it feels much, much longer.
My emotions match the fantasy; sometimes I physically feel the fantasy. The fantasy is not typically sexual, but more than likely involves a deep emotional connection with another or an elaborate design, such as reorganizing or decorating a room.
I am coming to understand that when I have a fantasy I can turn to, whether the fantasy is a future job, vacation, friendship, or other, I do not focus on the concepts of illness and death, which are normal triggers for me in real life.
Sometimes the fantasy is of an upcoming real event. For instance, before we moved into this house I spent countless hours organizing and rearranging all of furniture and belongings into the house inside of my mind, including what went in what drawers and cabinets.
For me, I see this as a type of mental stimming, a way of relaxing and calming my whole being. I have seen people do this with words, where they have to repeat the same few sentences aloud over and over; for me, it’s the same scene over and over in silence.
When a fantasy ends, typically because a future event I’ve imagined comes to be, or because reality sets in and the fantasy no longer seems feasible, I am left unnerved and searching for cover. If my fantasy is about a person, as was common when I was in relationships when I was younger, and the person disappoints me, this is detrimental to my fantasy. If I lose a person in real life who was an active part of my fantasy life, then I feel a deep loss in all parts of me. I feel a loss of the real life relationship and I also feel a loss of the fantasy relationship. Always, without fail, the loss of the fantasy is harder than the loss of the real person. I mourn over the images I created in my mind, and who I made the person to be in my mind. I then might confuse the fantasy person with the real person, inflating a person’s image. I do not mourn over aspects of the real person as much; except in unusual circumstances, perhaps after a very close connection or a long time together.
I mourn over what could be more than what was. In fact, I could feasibly mourn over what could have been for years after a romantic breakup. A part of me believes the fantasy was attainable and very real. A part of me knows it was not realistically ever going to happen and that I would have been miserable. But the fantasy-seeking part of me typically wins out, creating havoc and heartache.
The worst type of fantasy involves death and illness, in which the worst-case scenario plays out in my mind, over and over again. I slip into that illness/death fantasy-type when I don’t have a more positive fantasy to focus on, when I am under extreme stress, and sometimes when someone else is sick and I pick up on their stress.
Another reason I fantasize is to avoid the stimulation of the environment. I often have sensory overload where the sights, sounds, smells, and textures are putting me into overdrive. Inside my fantasy world I can momentarily forget where I am and what is happening. In addition I can forget my physical pain or pending unnerving plans or upcoming events.
I can be engaged in a conversation, and like a robot turn on “standard communication mode for humanoids” and still be deeply involved in my fantasy. I will nod when appropriate, smile, make occasional contact, and come up with reaffirming and validating statements, or perhaps a question, yet still be in my fantasy world.
I don’t see this as rude. I see this as necessary. I liken this process as me entering an oxygen chamber ever so often so I can continue to breathe, and if I don’t enter I will die. If someone wants to talk to me while I’m am rejuvenating my very breath, then so be it, but I cannot stop rejuvenating to give focus to a current predicament or circumstance. I do not view this is selfish or uncaring. I care and love people, and value them enough to want to listen. There are simply just times I cannot be entirely there.
Conversation alone is often too sensory overloading for me. Not only do I have the nonstop chatter in my head telling me how to act and what to say, but I also question if I’ve done the communicating job right; all the while reminding and critiquing myself inside my head. I’ve done away with the critical voice, thank goodness, by the expert coaches and evaluators are up in the bleachers shouting their observations. Take that along with the feel of where I am sitting, e.g., hardness/softness of chair, temperature of room, humming noises from electricity or fridge, clicking clocks, children talking, music playing, air fresheners, and the feel of my own body (pain, taste in mouth, tightness, cramps, etc.) and I am struggling stupendously just to remain inside my body. Add following the conversation so I can reply in the appropriate way, and I’m ready to collapse.
Plus, I always have this little voice in side my head that says, “Boring. Can I talk now?”
I know it’s rude, and I am not more important than the person talking, and what I have to say is likely boring, too. But I feel so much better when I am talking aloud, because I can process so much, and relieve so much tension. And when someone else besides me is talking, her voice and tone and pitch and ways are likely hurting my ears and adding to my inability to pay attention. In addition, besides monitoring my own self and communication skills, I am monitoring the other person’s skills, and noticing miniscule “flaws” both in communication skills and in physical attributes. Even the tiny hair on that freckle can distract me for a full minute. Then I have to come back and figure out what the person was saying before I was pulled into a freckle. Then I worry about his or her expectations and if I am a good enough friend or listener. And then I wonder, over and over: are you this distracted and bored when I talk to you?
In addition, each word a person says triggers an avenue of feelings and possible alternative avenues for me.
For example, at mention of dog, inside my mind this might happen: Did you say dog? Oh Scooby; I miss my dog Scooby; have I told you Scooby died. Why did he die? Maybe it was……Oh no! She is still talking and I missed most of what she just said. Should I tell her or just nod? If I nod is that lying. I should remind her I have Aspergers. Or maybe I should just pretend.”
That’s just one word. Typically a conversation has much more than one word.
That is why online communication is better for me. I can forgo a huge section of people pleasing. I can pause when I want to, skip sentences, reread for clarity, and take a long time to process information. Heck, I can ignore the person, go grab something to eat, and come back later. I can even scratch, fidget, or even doodle or work on something else, and the person isn’t offended at all!
In person, I concentrate better in conversation, if I can draw or listen to music or look at my computer or do the dishes or walk. I don’t want to try to give my full attention. I slip away too fast when I try to give my full attention.
I dislike when my husband comes up to me to tell me about his day, if I’m not in the place to listen. I might need more time to process something, to listen to music, to slip into my fantasy world or to write things out, before I can actively listen. Otherwise, I too quickly slip back into my own thoughts and barely hear the first sentence spoken.
This can be hard on him, as he feels rejected, ignored, or unloved. But I really cannot help it. I need my oxygen chamber. I just do.
My easiest moments are with my middle son who has Aspergers. We get each other to a degree people without ASD cannot. On our walks he will say to me: “I will likely talk a lot about video games, and probably repeat the same things over and over, and you might be bored, but I need to talk, and you don’t have to listen to everything.”
As he is talking, he doesn’t check in to see if I’m paying attention. Pretty much whatever I do, my son will keep chirping away, unnerved and unbothered. At home I can turn my back to him and do the dishes while he talks, giving him no validation and not engaging at all, and he still talks. He doesn’t care. He just needs to get it all out. He understands this, and I am happy to be available for him, even if I’m only catching the bare bones of what he has said.
Sometimes I think people demand too much in communication. They expect someone to be their everything, to validate not only what they are saying but also their worth and existence as human beings. It’s all wrapped up in confusing innuendos and masked self-doubt.
For me, it is easier, if someone is just really honest and speaks from the heart (for example): “I think I’m ugly and unlovable, will you tell me you love me and I’m pretty,” instead of rambling on and on with only hints of inner turmoil.
Like I said, I get bored; especially of boundless surface talk, when the heart longs to speak.
I don’t get bored with deep philosophical conversation or conversation filled with emotion and fantastic news, only with the dull mundane. I really don’t like to hear a review of someone’s day, unless there is something of importance or something I can help with. I don’t mind listening. I’ll listen for a long, long time. I just will check out and back in again.
Of course there are times I can truly hyper-focus on someone, especially when he or she is in need. I will do my very best and likely pick up most of the conversation, but the cost will be utter exhaustion. Last time I was a listener to a friend for an hour on the phone, I spent the entire next day in bed. It’s more than the words, it’s the energy of the person, too.
It’s a paradox and a half, as I long to be listened to and understood, but lack the skills most time to reciprocate. That is why writing is so very necessary and vital for me. I can write and write and not have to loop in my head or ask someone to listen to me.
I’d like to say I’ve grown a lot as a communicator, and really enjoy someone’s company, but the truth is, even when I’m with someone in person, I’m still inside my head 80% of the time. I think this is why Aspies are naturally drawn to other Aspies as mates. There is an unspoken acceptance of one another as is and a forgoing of all the typical social standards, and this creates an environment of rest and retreat.
Everyday Asperger's 
