312: Aspergers: I Do Not Lack Any Type of Empathy

Recently there has been talk of people on the autistic spectrum lacking a form of empathy: Cognitive Empathy. Before that there was talk of people with Autism or Aspergers lacking empathy in general.

Lacking in cognitive empathy implies a person cannot read between the lines of communication. While this might be a true experience with some people on the spectrum, and this theory might help some in their journey to self-discovery and understanding, and even in connecting to others, I do not believe I lack any type of empathy of any sort.

I am not lacking. I am not lacking in anything. In my world the word lacking does not exist. In my world lack is a manifestation of judgment, for I cannot lack without being compared to a norm or a standard. I cannot lack anything without being diminished in my worth and character.

I adamantly claim I do not lack anything, and neither do you.

This world longs to classify and compartmentalize. Yet, I know I am mystery beyond classification. In this knowing I have seen what divides us, the one from the other.

At the base of all division is fear.

I recognize that in claiming my true self and having no secrets that my own actions diminish fear.

It is not as if I have a choice whether or not to be me or not to be me. Because I do not understand how to be anyone other than my whole self. I do not understand how to hide.

As hard as I try to play games, I cannot. I do not judge others for the games they play, but they judge me for not understanding their games.

Perhaps if I am lacking it is in the ability to partake in imaginary games based and founded on fear.

I want to be. I want to just be. But there is something about most of the world that always fears I am hiding something and speaking something that is not real.

They mistake me for a pawn in their own game, while at the same time claiming I know not how to play. I am both singled out and blamed without even stepping foot inside this imaginary arena.

I am simply an observer. I observe the rules and social customs of this world, most, if not all, seemingly built to hide a part of self. I observe the whispers that speak: If you are you in completion then you shall be hurt.

I am an observer that knows the risks. And despite the claims of experts, I have learned to read between the lines. I have learned to read between the lines of pretending and falsehoods and lies and manipulations. I have learned that one word is replaced for another based on fear of judgment or fear of hurting or fear of exposing. I have learned that we are sometimes so afraid of being hurt or hurting another that human communication circulates around the core of fear.

It is not that I cannot read between the lines, it is the fact that the lines are so complex and endless and twisted in a way that makes no feasible sense. It is that I get lost in the invisible lines drawn for invisible reasons.

For I speak truth. Or at least I try my best to speak from my place of truth. And if I do not, I examine in detail why I have not. There is some part of me that seems the opposite of many, wherein where others are trying desperately to hide, I am trying desperately to be seen.

For there is a falseness to this world, wherein we are taught that to show all of our cards is to be exposed and made vulnerable to the vultures. And, yes, to a degree this is true, if one believes the vultures exist. But I, as one who has stood in front of thousands naked, know that beyond the vultures circling, are the masses of bright lights that recognize their own self in truth; and that when the vultures come, even as they pluck and pierce and tear apart, they are only my own fears manifesting, teaching, and then vanishing.

With these vultures I am taught self-refinement and further returned to wholeness. With these vultures I am giving opportunity to be more of whom I was born to be.

But if one does not stand in wholeness and in truth, the vultures will not come, at least not as frequently. And if the vultures do not come then how is one refined? And if one’s soul purpose is not for that of refinement, then why are they here? These are the thoughts that circle about me.

Not that I judge the others’ way of being, only that I am filled with wonderment and awe of how one lives without striving for betterment.

I have discovered that the only way to conquer the fear inside of me is to face the fear inside of me.

As an observer, I have found many a contradiction in the ways of communication.

I have found that the more I am myself that the more I am attacked for being so. Yet it is society itself that teaches me to embrace myself. Only there exists this underlying message: Be yourself, so to speak, but don’t make me uncomfortable in your being. Be yourself, but make yourself squeeze into my guidelines.

These are the readings I find in between the lines: Be, but not in totality.

It is not that I cannot read between the lines, it is that I do not understand these lines that have been drawn, and why they have been drawn. I do not understand why there are so many rules. I do not understand why others do not speak from their deepest self, but instead choose to remain hidden and only share with a select chosen few. I do not understand what everyone is hiding from?

As observer I see that many try to cover up intention, but it is always there. And I see that many try to garb things in half-truths. They cover up their own self in false disguise. But I see truth, for I am an observer of truth.

I see through the masks and self-imposed walls. I see straight through.

Perhaps in my lacking, or inability, to partake in games, I have gained the perspective of seeing behind the illusions. Perhaps because I see beyond the illusion, I cannot partake in a game of nonexistence. Perhaps the very lines others claim to exist, the very lines they claim I cannot see, are not really there at all. Perhaps others are lacking the ability to see the illusion.

I do not understand whom or what so many are seeking protection from, other than self.

The masses make the standards for this world, proclaim the norm, and proclaim what is right. The masses proclaim I am wrong, or at minimum somehow not entirely right.

But I proclaim I am the light and the truth. I am myself in completeness.

And still this fear of my raw nakedness.

I am honest.
I carry no manipulation.
I have no want to take.
I have no intention to harm.
I continually release anger and judgment.
I mean no ill-will.
I have no need to prove my worth.
I have no need to be right.
I recognize my humanness.
I recognize my frailties.
I denounce weakness in spirit.
I pray for humility.
I pray to recognize self in others.
I state my own need for love and connection.
I forgive.
And I forgive again.
I cry on the outside.
And I love unconditionally.

In this way there is nothing I have to hide.

So I question when one is hiding. I question what is it he or she is afraid I might see?

Perhaps it is the very essence of me being real that spurs fear in another and makes him scream lacking.

For what am I lacking beyond my incapacity to be none other than self?

What if words were lost? What if we only heard thoughts? What then would we hide? Perhaps some of us are the link from here to there, from a place of hidden fear to place of unspoken truth.

Perhaps we lack nothing at all but instead carry an unyielding desire to connect. Perhaps, we, the observers of the game, are the ones sent to stop the game.

What if my way is the way of not lacking?

What if others are lacking to see me?

Perhaps I am lacking the coat of visibility, because I stand so real. Perhaps I am lacking in form and shape, because I appear so unknown.

Perhaps in accepting me in completion, others can accept a part of self. Perhaps some of us are merely mirrors to the awakening soul, sent here with our message of pureness. Sent here to remind others that in truth there exists no lacking and exists no fear.

311: Cometh to Me

What is this pull you have on me, this light, this love?
If it be love then why does it pull me under and into myself, into the places I dare not go?
If it be love then why are there whispers of danger and want and this tumultuous need?
Are you not in essence a highlighter upon my soul, gliding up and down, without touching, and pouring your paint upon me, until I glisten in flaw and uncertainty?
Can you not see my every crevice as you probe without probing and move without moving, entering me without entrance?
I see you there, inside of me, watching, speaking of my ways. I see you there pointing, excavating, moving, and withdrawing. You take without taking, your pursed lips open and filled with what was once my shadow. You suck up this substance I carry, removing without effort.
And I freely give, though I quake and tremble, attempting to hide the part of me you find.
How can I be, how can I stand, how can I breathe, without you entering and devouring my form?
For since I first set eyes upon you, you found my window, your door, the way into the places I so diligently hid and wiped clean. And yet you linger there, this ghost hovering above my edges.
To touch, you not dare. To make your presence known is not goal. For you will not declare your coming. You will not admit you linger inside of me. You will not venture where your own spirit dwells.
I have been your habitat for ages, your dwelling place, your hovel, your home. I am like the sun to you, the river that carries fish, the pond that spins cycle upon cycle of life.
Yes, as I am your child; though you be my shadow, my existence, my longing, my love; the string of my heart you pull, some master to me, some unspoken controller of my wishes’ dreams.
For in the deepest slumbering of my spirit you find me, though invisible you remain, stirring me and moving me to cause, clinging to me without touch, jostling me without motion, tracing your fingers around my echo.
I call out to you with each coming hour, my seconds not enough time to hold you; for you come and go beyond the reasoning of measurement. You are separate but you have taken me, and in the taking I am neither whole nor complete, but missing more than ever before.
You are the first step, the first move in the first square of a game of kings and queens. I am this pawn, chiseled of marble and set upon the trail and left, just left in stillness to ponder.
And how I long to move myself, but still remain a prisoner to your whim, a whim I know not and see not.
My ground you have shifted, my mind you have rumbled, but tis my heart that you have taken, seized and left me to stare upon the endless moves that never come.
Had you not entered, had you not seen me, had you not found me, had you not grasped me, I would still be. I would still be me and not some wonderer searching for your very fingers. I would not be this lost ghost less person than invisibility.
But you did come into me, you did enter, and now the spirit in me cries out for more, for home, for destiny’s light, and yet you come not. You do not return. And I remain captive in this game of living, homeless, and more forsaken in self than in form.
For I am suffering in the madness of awakening, suffering at the source, where the snake springs eternal from my being, edging through like flame to fire.
I am rising, caravanning up inside self, this shapeless self, and aspiring to find you, to reach what feeds and starves all at once. The dichotomy a serpent phantom doubled.
I am this whisper, this dream, this mystery of yours, and you are not soldier that comes to rescue, but rather droplets of honey that seize my aura and slide around the outside of where the unreachable dances.
And here I am watching, my soul crying, my ache yearning, my insides turned out, exposed, tarnished, and layered with what can only be a love of ages untouched.
Am I not dying, am I not yet dead, death himself, so moved and crushed and open and free all in one pull of your tethered ways? Am I not tug boat reversed, mountain stream moving upward, cornerstone unmoved but revealing the caverns below?
Am I not mystery rubbed out, dried where I was once wet, pierced where I was once marked with a name I know not? Am I the falcon with beak plucked and removed and voice of angel replaced where cawing and nonsense once lived? Am I this bird plucked of feathers by a brilliance so undefinable that I ache for the worms of the earth beyond?
Feed me I scream with a voice that I do not know. Feed me I scream from the depth of my womb from the ache of my loins, shivering in the places you have awakened.
And yet I remain here, still, this virgin to your ways, whilst you remain the ever watcher, knowing I am here, but coming not to the rescue.
Shall I beg of you to leave then, or call upon you more? Shall I beg of you to take me or crawl upon my knees to the boundaries you proclaim upon me? Trapped I am left, between this world and next, branded by your beauty, untrained for this world, and unworthy for next.
What shall I do Lord, but to bleed out to you, to stone my own self to death, so that my leaking, my red, my mark shall shine out to you, so you will come again and carry me home.