A mental health professional, in referring to me, recently said: “I have never worked with a person who has Aspergers and who is going through the enlightenment process.” My acupuncturist, a kind, wise soul, he sees the energetic and spiritual transformation I am undergoing. My family, they see the changes in my nature from nervous to serene. Me, I am hiding, somewhere under the couch cushions, waiting for when the coast is clear and I can come out.
Please be aware my new fixation is sainthood and mysticism. I cannot be responsible for my actions any longer, as who knows what I am going to become. I mean I can pretty much become anyone I wish—I have that super power.
My writings have drifted dramatically and I have this all abiding security and light of God within me. Have I created this, imagined, wished it upon myself, or simply figured out that with all the torture, suffering, separation and isolation involved in saintly-life, it is still a HECK of a lot easier than having ASPERGERS!
I decided tonight, if I am going to don the cloak of a semi-saint, then I totally still want to be able to have relations with my husband, not marry God, and not reach the last mansions in the houses St. Teresa speaks of, as this would involve leaving my body and giving up all earthly possessions. Unless they make chocolate a food of the godly women, I can’t do it! I just can’t.
Something is happening to me. Miraculous healings; I have no doubt of this. But I don’t want to lose my sense of humor, passion for life, and lightness of spirit. I cannot, and will not become a Catholic mystical icon.
I tried the Buddha route, and that was hard enough, but at least Buddhists keep their child-like joy and light-heartedness. Too much diving into the saints life and I feel stifled and drug down, like the very life of me is being siphoned out as a sacrificial lamb.
I am afraid, (the only fear I possess right now) to study any more religions or spiritual practices, for I have hyper-jolted my capacity to morph into any way of living I study.
I don’t want to live like a saint. I still want to make jokes about poop and sex and about other people. What am I to do?
Crap! This feels so right. This sense of enlightenment and the “way;” really it does, and miraculous writings are pouring through me as a vessel. And I see my light, and know I am of the light, and so much grief, strife, worries, anxiety, etc. has been removed from my being—but at what cost?
Am I to serve the masses, and if so, when do I breathe and relax?
Every role I take on, or persona I think I am, makes me eventually strangle in the rules and rigidness of said “type.” Despite that I know in fact there are no rules, I still get lassoed by them; as if the rules themselves are my dark virtue, trapping me at every turn.
How do I be me without feeling a need to be all I can be, which places this unyielding pressure on my soul? How do I be me without doubting if I am me? And what if I am now so empty in the result of recognizing my own invisibility and illusion of self, that I morph into anyone I am with—become whom they think me to be, and become, too, a part of the observer?
What if I am slipping through these pages as a sage of sorts revealing the aspects of the ever-changing, complex mind of Aspergers, primarily because of my capacity to change roles and cling to rules? If in truth my suffering through Aspergers is serving the world in some way, then should I continue to suffer just to carry on my duty? Or is it that even this Aspergers is something I created to serve as a carrier of sorts to bring me from one edge of the river of self to the other edge? And if so, what was I when I set out across the water, at the start, and what will I be when I step down on the other side? What if the waters are safer, and my mind itself the murderer of serenity? How can I be anything when I can see the complexity of everything, and dissect myself enough to bare no untruths or falsehoods? How can I exist so readily spread out to the world, open, honest and true, when the rest watch in bewilderment? Surely I am some creature not of this earth, not made for earthly ways, and made to suffer through the maze of non-ending questions. How to turn off this mind long enough to be me, without finding a rigid way to do so—whether this be misery, melancholy, creation, or taking on the role of someone or some purpose. How do I exist without existing?
“Oh, how the mind deceives you into thinking you are nothing, when you are all. Belittles you for your own refuge and leaves you flayed out and sparred, beaten and forgotten; your sense of worth as little as the darkest hole of demise. My sister, I tell you now, you are no less than the stars’ creator, the witness to persecution, the one who collects the stardust of your falling tears. Beseech me and I shall come. Call out my name in chant or song, and I am here, existing as your twilight and ever answer. Do not know me by name; know me by action, less fame than fortune. Know me in the spindling and dwelling of thy mansion, the way I call out through the corridors of passion and rise you up to my virtuous calling to eternity. Though my voice less audible than delectable retreats within the deepest cavern light, beseech me and step to the trumpet and calling of my grace. Do not feign attention in the attention of naysayers and slayers of righteousness, do not call out to the falsehood of humanity roaring, for you are the treasure you seek, ripe with the passion of days brought onto your through suffering just, though you think not this so. Apparent is the wind to me, how it blows and pushes through the upmost mountains, crumbling dust where once stood stoic. Am I not mightier than the wind? Am I not capable of shifting through the dove-making (intoxication) of pride, the wings fluttered against the (pride) which caused repercussion of one and many? Am I not capable of climbing the highest peak with my wind-tunnel of hope and bringing echo towering down the cascading falls? Can I not roar and shake the earth as dynamite surrendered to powdered remnants? Hear my shout as the wind of change, a chill of ache, a spade of glory, digging beneath the ground of foundation and shaking the doubt from your miserly mind. For you are not made of this dust and clay, not formed as inhabitant of earthly demise, not a destroyer or temptress ripe; all these scenarios blanketed upon you by the shadow speaker of the dark. How can such beauty exist outside of self, if not first intertwined with divinity; and once entangled willfully, can this not then be effervescent glory arisen from the ashes? How you do doubt me in your own suffering, wishing to be harlot less angel. Wishing for non-other than the devil’s spawn to announce you truly unworthy, when all about your worthiness shines. Will it not upon yourself to suffer justly evermore, for in suffering is no cause for grief, less I deem this so. And I say onto you, branded upon the serpent of your tempted soul, in suffering I bleed out to you the unified blood of eternity. In suffering I have spared my story’s end through the walking of your path. Insist I am one, and I am. Insist I am two, and I am. But split me as wood splintered cross the open flame, and I am burned with you, made less hallowed and less holy than where I grew tall tree of remembrance. Do not bless me with your mournful disgrace, with your intense sorrow and retribution; cheer upon my presence with your heavenly nature, and press into me, like child to cherub, angel to angel; two lips, two wings pressed to form the gateway to earth beyond.” ~ Sam (written this evening; scribed what I heard.)
I am on part 8:
This pretty much sums up my life to date:
“Why are you so quick to counter me, when I seek understanding? As I am not judging your idealistic view or denouncing anything about you. Yet, I feel this automatic hinderance and distaste, as if I have directly assaulted your virtue, in seeking out nothing but clarity.” ~ Sam