Aspergers

452: Scarlet White

| Aspergers Girls

The agony is torture, pure fire to the soul—the way such solitude is split into ravenous venom, devouring me as leash to the chain, choking the breath of life.

I am that I am. And then I am not. Lost again in some unfathomable labyrinth of thought.

Where and why eludes and leaves a trail of dust dried blood. Help, I scream from somewhere else. Inaudible and out of direction. No path left. No place to go. But inward, where I already dive deeper in the vine of self.

Is it not this place again? The familiar place of no sunrise and no sunset. Where the cold dribbles down the walls of caves, and placates the answers with sweet soft denial. Is it not this somewhere found in the furrowed causeway of my mind’s nimble foresight? My meanderings all leading back to here. Some forgotten spot of eternity missed.

I am a vagrant, a vagabond, a ghost traveler to my own shadow. Unable to distinguish between in and out, what is penetrating and what is piercing, what is poking to release its plundering poison and what is slicing to divide where I begin.

I am invaded by darkness, the soul long forgotten in the night, the enemy out to demolish the light. I am what is not in the way I move without motion and touch without rhythm, stagnant in an air of dismal lies. Here I stand in the place I was, only the place no longer is. Here I stand in the place I was, only I no longer exist.

Wobbling is my fortitude. Swaying, ignited by the dreams unwound, the sword plunged further into the stream of mystery spat open. Coughing up the remnants of who had been. Torn down into oblivion, obliterated and left as carrion to the greedy hunger of naught.

They find me, these naysayers, and call out to the lost sheep I am, with doings undone in their torturous view. I am but what they wish, set asunder below them, and made to bleed about as the rabbit sunken in the snare of despair. My white coat diminished by the scarlet fever set upon me.

Who am I but this child undone, left in the valley of rivers, and blown into the sea of forgiveness? Chiseled and chiseled, as if stone were the heart of me. Made to blend in with misery, to melt in the doorway of pain. Charred to the bone with the starch black of misery.

And here, still, he comes. With his arrow strung across the shoulder of time. His answer seized in the windstorm. Here, still, he is. This gentle grace of knowing naught and knowing all in the splinter of thyme. He enters me as clear day. The light upon my forehead new. The pressing spot of hope spun open into the rebirthing. Come, my lady, he declares, pronouncing me the victorious one, the homecoming of his awaiting. Come, my lady, he mends, his words the golden thread of healing.

And I follow, as blind lady lost in his rapture, spread open by the seams to his glorious name. Come, I do, and trace out my destiny in his waters, dancing in the stream of desert turned dream. At last in the home of home. No longer chased down by the dark ones seeking to erase what has been brought to them as buried treasure uncharted. No longer stalked by the nightingale’s ghostly brother, who pecks out a song of bitter vengeance.

In only this way I am free. In only this way. When the darkness sets upon my soul and the bleeding ceases to flow without follow, and the voice comes, from the seeping of my chaliced tears. Only then I am home. Only then, in the making of self whole.

451: I am so weary…

| Aspergers Girls

I am thankful for much, despite the ups and downs of life. Thankful for my intellect and strong spirit, especially, and for the earth angels that are always near—the people in my life that inspire me and hold me in their light.

I am calling all light workers today to send me some love. I can’t figure out what is happening, except that I must be under some type of psychic attack or advanced, warp-speed spiritual growth.

It isn’t so much the circumstances themselves that are the cause of pulling me out of equilibrium, but the constant bombardment, one after the other of occurrences. It seems once I get my head above water, another event occurs.

I went on my knees in the late spring and begged in prayer for direct change, for concrete soul transformation, regardless of the cost. I was, so it seemed, at a stagnant level of pure bliss. Theoretically, I suppose I could have remained here, in this state of zen. Yet, I felt detached from humanity, and this rumbling in my spirit ached to do more…

I know better than to beg in prayer. Seems, if it is a true desire from the depths of me, from my light, I always get what I ask for. Truth is, it is also always in a much greater and fantastically bazaar way than I ever imagined.

Lately, I just am bewildered by my circumstances. I am not without hope. I am still clinging to the light. Yet, I am definitely forlorn and feeling abandoned. I keep pulling myself up, keep getting myself through, and more and more keeps coming at me. In the last day and a half, I have had a severe falling out with a close relative, a serious conversation with a dear one about the potentiality of ending our connection, the experience of over hearing a close friend speak poorly of me, and now, before four am this day, my dog attacked by something wild in the backyard.

In the last weeks, I have been to the ER five times, hospitalized, accused my doctors of inventing my symptoms (after being diagnosed with POTS syndrome by a cardiologist), had little to no sleep, been in the process of selling a house, and on and on.

I have been depleted in all forms. Last night was my first “good” physical night; I could feel myself progressing towards “normal.” This morning I awoke discovering I had five hours straight sleep! A blessing after two months of being unable to sleep much at all.

I was hopeful. For about thirty minutes in this early, early morning, I was hopeful. Now I have a hurt dog in her crate trembling, and I am wondering if this too, isn’t me. Attacked in the dark repeatedly by something I cannot recognize or see.

449: waiting

| Aspergers Girls

I still have a problem with people who are cruel. I don’t mean people who are blunt or direct, or speak straight. I mean people who seem to not care about another human being; people who seem streaked with so much anger and self-righteousness that they reek of havoc and discourse. People who don’t see what harm they are doing.

And that is where my trouble begins, as I begin to examine my own self-made rules. For I have taught myself what I value and what I do not value. I have even gone so far as to untie what I value from the post of reason, as to not tether my own self to the exactness of how things should be.

I practice detachment: the absence of having to think, be or act a certain way.

This is freeing. And in releasing attachment, in the same way, I release others from their behaviors. I can discount my own judgment and evaluation, and mark my processing as discernment, gently releasing any assumptions and labeling I might be doing at a conscious or subconscious level. I can step back and observe myself observing life and its nuances.

In examining my process of being, I have come to the conclusion that I still am shattered at an energetic and psychic level by a certain type of abashment. I can’t say why or how, or even what it is that allows this uncomfortable feeling to slip into me. But it happens. Again and again it happens. Substantial is the effect, when I am in a vulnerable state; yet equal, it appears, is the effect even when I am strong and in a state of persevering confidence and love of self.

There is an emotion-like sensation that overcomes me, wherein I don’t want to preach or fix, or even explain anything; more so I want to shake a person without physically touching, and move her to another place in her reality—a place away from cruelty.

The problem follows when I attempt to sort out in my mind where this cruelty is found and in reasoning how it is demonstrated, as everyone displays their own sense of reality through their perceived and self-contracted truths. In so thinking another is cruel, I am ultimately deeming my reality more true and accurate than another’s. And this act of deeming another different and therefore wrong is not a practice I endorse.

And so the question remains as what qualifies as cruel, and particularly, what qualifies for downright cruel. Is it to be based upon repeated patterns of continual harsh words and/or actions? Is the cruelty to be justified by the individual’s past experiences or unjustified by the lack of qualifying disturbances in the past? And who is to be the judge and evaluator? How can I readily serve as the judge and jury of someone else, when that is the exact thing I wish others to not do to me?

It comes down to, again, asking myself, where is the line to be drawn? In this instance, where is the line to be drawn between cruelness and gentleness? And in addition, who gets to decide where the line is drawn? In accepting this way of living, this choice of idealism in myself, that of acknowledging a world in which I am neither captain or mate, neither leading or following, I am simultaneously accepting that another’s actions are neither here nor there, and like I am, another being is merely a player in a part of an illusion he or she has created.

Here is where the confusion begins: For when is enough enough? And is it ever enough?

Would I have listened to another’s advice or adhered to another’s heeding years ago, in my fumbling youth? Adamantly, I think not. Then what is it that I would accomplish by establishing my truth as the truth, whilst hammering into another my ways of moving in the world?

I can believe for a while my truth might persuade, or at minimum seduce; but even the thought of such beliefs feels burdensome upon my mind’s pallet. Therefore, I conclude, for myself, that it is better to say nothing, and to watch, to visualize and understand that all is as is, than to attempt to explain my way of existing. For it is my very silence which serves as the testimony of accepting another in completion.

Still, there is this lingering doubt in me, and inkling of self that believes there remains somewhat of an unspoken tribe of others whom set out to harm with intention. And in believing so, I sit with myself, and wonder what is it inside of me that causes me to think this? What is it inside of me that wants others to love unconditionally and accept unconditionally, yet also remains constant and steadfast in desire to extinguish parts of another?

In truth, I acknowledge that I must first surrender all battles, for good or for bad, and face my own self with outstretched arms of love. I recognize I can only overcome the shadows outside of myself, once I cast out the shadows within myself.

And so, I watch, as the outsider looking inward and outward, waiting for the signal, waiting and pondering when to move beyond the limitations of my own existence, of my own creation of reality, in order to assist in the greater good. And I can’t help but think, that in my silence and discreet opposition of opposing, I can create the exact love the others of cruel acts so desperately seek.  

448: Quilted Thoughts…

| Aspergers Girls

Some days I see lots of things, in beautiful pictures, pieces of floating loveliness, and I like to piece together what I experience in visual into a collaboration of words that rings cohesive wholeness into my interior being. This is this day’s quilt:

* When I doubt my worth and question my way of being, when I think I am lacking or not acting or responding in the right manner, I remind myself I am judging self by some pre-established norms I have attached to, that I am indeed honoring someone else’s deemed truth to diminish my own light. I cannot be all things to all people. I cannot even be all things to my self. Yet, I slip, time and time again, trying to honor this place of perfection that I know exists but cannot materialize in such a world made by man. It is here, in my troubled state of doubting my worthiness, I often pull closer to my belief in a higher source, and hold fast to the truth that I am established and deemed worthy in my humanness brought to life through spirit. That I am enough in the exact recognition that I want to be more, that I want to be better. That I am everything in my suffering to strive to be that which I know resonates in my heart as truth and love. Here is where I must let myself slip further, back into the place of wholeness, before I was birthed into this world, a place filled with mystery that baffles and complicates the essence of self. Here I must remember, in the inside of my being, that I exist as purity, and without a doubt remember as well that my very questioning of adequacy demonstrates the depths of my passion to be good.

* The world has taught me to hide my dark side, to shine a façade of joyful-bliss and positive being. I have taught myself that no such existence of positive being is found, for I am not the parts of me divided: the good, the bad, the worthy, the unworthy. I am me in completion, in all my states; and no state is fluid in consistency, just as no state is stagnant or definable. There are no lines and boundaries inside of me. I cannot flag who I am as worthy of exposure or unworthy of veiling. For I am ever moving and ever changing, a wave that cannot be captured outside the oceans, outside the element of I am. I have taught myself to shine in all my travels. There is nothing about me I need to keep undercover. For to think something of self must be kept secret is to honor the practice of hiding. I do not exist to conform to the rigid guidelines created by the act of the masses’ ever-changing clutching of the illusion of normalcy. I exist to be the only way I know how: in the totality of self.

* Every time I meet another female with Aspergers, and peer into the depths of her genuine-loving spirit and grasp the miraculous complexities of her pondering mind, I fall in love with my self again and again.

* I go to a place so dark and dismal that no one can reach me there. And in this place, I cannot find my way out. In this place I cry, either inside or outside, more afraid of the whys and reasonings of the experience than the experience itself; for it seems there, in this place, my thoughts are a strange shovel, so that with every passing reasoning I dig myself deeper in, until I am lost. It is an extreme place of isolation and loneliness that no one, absolutely no one, can understand, unless they have been there. And it is a place that seems so far away when it disappears: as if it exists in a distant land I never belonged in to begin with. At moments it seems I will never return, but then it comes again without warning, like some ghost that steals my soul.

* Freedom arrived when I recognized that my heart is pure. Freedom entered when I dislodged the words flaw, imperfection, and normalcy from my reality. Freedom stayed when I embraced my self and silenced the haunting voices of strangers’ unfounded truths. Freedom grew when I accepted that to love myself in completion was the definition of beautiful.

sammy sammy

an afterthought…
You might be an aspie if you type something as simplistic as ‘xo’ and then wonder, in depth, if the person reading your markings will assume you really are hugging and kissing them in a non-platonic way; so to avoid confusion, you delete the ‘xo’ and replace it with ‘blessings;’ only to find yourself questioning if, in fact, the word blessings might be offensive to someone who does not believe in a higher power or the ability to bless. Thinking perhaps you might be perceived as a person that is placing her beliefs onto another, the word ‘blessing’ vanishes, and you choose a safe word that likely won’t offend anyone, or lead anyone to question your motives. Then, in the act of choosing this alternative way of expressing self, you question your seeming inability to be your true self, because you are so wrapped up in what others would deem ‘people pleasing.’ This all occurs together with the recognition that you aren’t ‘people pleasing’ at all, but indeed aiming to be as authentic and true to yourself while contemplating all the feasible ways your words will be misinterpreted because others have attached to preconceived norms of right and wrong….

(How can something be an afterthought? I don’t get that..you are still thinking…it doesn’t come after thought, it is still thought. lol)

447: Gifts Offered

| Aspergers Girls

My thoughts upon waking this morning:

“Most days on my newsfeed for my like-page on a social media network (Facebook), I offer out many so-called ‘positives.’ I make posters with messages about love and light, sometimes about experiences some of us share. I giggle, lol, do the heart thing, poke fun at my quirks. I post silly you tubes. I post my son being handcuffed, a link to my mammogram ‘taking the ladies out,’ and/or teenage puberty puns.. I try to maintain a balance in my life of seriousness, introspection, and humor. Face-to-face my friends and I crack up all the time. I love to laugh.

I have chronic pain and have been in the house mostly for 3 + weeks, but I am getting better. Yay! I am also waiting for a brain MRI result. So yesterday I scanned through posts 321 – 340, the dark night of the soul part of my blog. And the depth of self and spirit brought me solace. Most of what I posted here yesterday was links or poems from there, or from an advocacy piece ‘I Am Elephant.’

What I posted here yesterday was not how I was feeling all at once… I am not that complex and prolific. lol. And not depressed. I am reflective and in that waiting stage of wanting to know health results and letting go of the attachment to the outcome, as I’m sure many of you know well.

It was not my intention to bombard anyone with ‘negative’ or ‘sad’ posts. I just know as a sensitive soul, that when I can see someone else is feeling or has felt the same as me, I feel far less alone. I share my sadness, not to be lifted or to be sheltered or cared for…I have plenty of that. I share because I have been to deep places that some others can at times not comprehend or understand without placing judgment. And I want YOU to know I understand and do not judge where you have been or will be.

I know I will be evaluated and sliced and diced by some, and yesterday was no exception. And in truth, that is still the scariest part for me: Risking my entire self and knowing I will be evaluated. But the illusion of fear will never stop me from shining my light. Never stop my authentic self.

If I need to be melancholic one day, or share melancholic works one day, to shine brighter the next, I shall. And it’s really up to the reader to decide what my motive is. I can’t decide that for anyone. I hide nothing. I know it’s not the current trend….. I know I am not all smiley faces and think positive and be the best you… but I am ME.

I choose you and your light over fear, over trends, over anything. Thank you for allowing me the space to be me. I truly feel we are family.”

****

I still feel more when someone critiques me verses compliments me. In fact, I still feel close to nothing when someone compliments me. I just can’t feel it. I don’t know why. But it doesn’t feel like a bad thing. It feels quite good—like others’ opinions are not who I am. However, when someone is passing judgment in a way that does not resonate with my core being, I feel this intense rattling.

I then go through a process similar to this:

1. Is this truly reflective of where I am at in this moment?
2. What is this teaching me?
3. Is this something I can learn from?
4. Is this of value to my journey?
5. Did I overlook something?
6. Do I need to look at this more deeply?

This process either takes seconds or hours.

I then decide if the gift someone else has offered me is for the betterment of my being or better to return calmly. In the case of anger, I often return it calmly. Not in manners or actions, but by spiritually sweeping the energy away. Thank you, but no thank you.

I visualize, (as I was taught in Buddhist readings), a gift being presented to me with outstretched arms, and me smiling, accepting and saying thank you, holding, and then reaching out my arms and returning the gift, with a gentle ‘no thank you.’

Oftentimes a surge of energy moves through me as I am holding the gift offered that does not resonate with my core being, and I write this energy out with a powerful force.

As I write, I have to shave off the ego, the defensive me that wants to barge through and proclaim: I AM right. I have to laugh at this ego-part, and recognize I am being humbled and growing further.

I notice that when I am concentrating on spreading love and light and connection that the bombardment of judgment about me comes on stronger. It’s a definite one-to-one. The evaluations of me come in huge waves, typically. Not just one person, but several, a building momentum that I find fascinating. Gifts of all sorts come tumbling towards me, one after the other.

I understand, too, through all this, that anything anyone thinks, feels, or says about me is an evaluation; whether interpreted as truth or falsehood, or right or wrong, or good or bad by me, makes no difference. It’s all judgment, at one level or another. It’s all resonating, deciphering, rejecting, and sifting,this process people go through in observing another. I think perhaps I can feel this process though, like tentacles fingering into me. And I think it can be oftentimes discomforting: some alien life form penetrating into my bubble of space to feed into who I am and conclude what I am.

It’s the conclusions that are hard for me to digest—the end product of what is brought out into the light.

I keep waiting to be seen in completion, and keep realizing that this is far beyond the capacity our limited human senses.

****
Thoughts on Keeping Silent