I like goals. I like plans that have an end result.
Painting or any art, is VERY HARD for me to do.
This morning I had so much angst, and I needed to release it.
I took out this canvas and oil paints. And had at it. I don’t even have paint brush cleaner, yet. Oil paints do not dissolve in water, I learned.
I blasted music from August Rush. I squirted tubes of paint, used assorted brushes, and made quite a mess of red on my sleeve. It symbolized the blood of my tears, I figure.
The first hour of painting was all confusion, worry about end product, about not being good enough.
I started putting that frustration into the painting itself—layers upon layers of personal angst atop painting angst, along with many other emotions.
I slowly started to let myself be. It was liberating, though still very uncomfortable.
By the end of the second hour, I said what the heck, and let loose.
I am hoping to continue to paint some more pieces and release a new part of myself onto canvas.
Painting isn’t as comforting to me as words and writing are, and isn’t what I would consider my “gift” or “skill.”
But that is the entire point for me: to explore something without trying to perfect, prove, teach, show, or learn.
To do something without an end goal or audience in mind.
I like to step away from the painting and look at it from far away.
I took the ladies out today. Just the three of us. Me and my boobs.
Can you see my reflection? 🙂
Yep. Squishing-under-the-glass-time. Also know as Mammogram. A word which makes me think of screaming for my mamma and grandma, all in one heated breath! Yelp.
I like to smile thinking of a very special machine built for men, where they can go and get their balls squished under glass and be man-handled. Not that I don’t love and appreciate men. I only say this as I believe this idea might provide equal ground and assist bridging the barriers between the male and female gender. Plus, the image is really fun to picture in my mind.
For some reason I think this would be a good theme song for men when they go for their ball exam:
Don’t ask me to analyze. It’s the beat, I suppose. No pun intended.
The old me, unlike the new and vastly transitioned me, would FREAK out about lab tests of any type. The old me put off this particular boob-squishiness for a bit, all out of fear. It’s not so much the test itself. It doesn’t hurt at all; it’s quite fast; and the technician had warm hands.
I freak about the time in between: the waiting period. That’s what I freak out about in life in general, that unknown zone. I’m not good with unknowns. Or at least I used to be no good. Now I’m pretty dang functional, borderlining on fabulous.
Today I focused on the positive. I didn’t allow any thoughts inside that weren’t beneficial. I imagined that my boobs, my lady friends, we were going to a party. I listened to Dancing Queen by Abba all the way to the appointment. Oh, what the heck. Here is the song again.
I sang at the top of my lungs. And I didn’t care who was watching. I hoped I made them smile. Or think: What is that girl so happy about?
If they’d asked, I would have said, I’m putting my ladies on stage, out in the spotlight. I’m bringing them out to PARTY.
That was and is my attitude. I make it so. I made this a positive experience.
To keep my spirits lifted and to protect my bubble of love from outsiders who might unknowningly spiritually intrude upon my awesome zone of energetic space, I used all sorts of protective devices. I have my lovely nana’s rosary in one pocket, and in the other pocket a stone a special friend found for me on the beach. I sprayed myself with a protection spray made of various natural herbs. I even dabbed on my Tibetan Holy water, blessed by Buddhist monks. I put a drop of olive and garlic tincture on my tongue—energy vampires begone!!! I made my hair look lovely, and lips inviting. We were going out on the town, half-naked, after all.
I wore purple to represent my third-eye chakra. I grounded myself and got super comfy in my big tan poncho. And I donned my fabulous amber healing necklace. At the last minute I grabbed my lady’s out purse, the one with the glittery sequence.
I listened to my inner voice all morning. And she guided me. First suggestion: Limit the caffeine. So I ordered a decaf peppermint mocha coffee and water for hydration. I forgot my water, but two people, and older man and an employee, came running outside after me to give me my water. I felt special.
I drove to my destination, taking an exit I don’t usually take, and trusting my intuition, found a new short cut. I arrived super early, and had ample time to focus on the message on my bumper sticker
And I rubbed the thick moss off a stoic tree and talked to him about his beauty. And then this stud muffin tree beckoned me over. I couldn’t resist him. Big HUG!
I took lots of photos, but my phone wouldn’t work. That’s okay. I did manage to capture a little detail I added to my entrance paperwork. A little extra love, never hurts.
You are missing out on the photo of me in my gown and a great shot of the boob-crusher machine.
I talked the technicians ears off. Go figure? She had to remind me to keep my mouth still while she was clicking the device to capture the rare images of my glorious ladies. I asked her if it hurt woman with small boobs more. She kind of grinned, and said, “No, it’s just different.” I wondered for a bit, what that meant. Then wondered if she thought that I thought I had big boobs and was bragging. I almost explained, but was distracted by the way my flesh appeared all flattened and spread. I remarked about the overall comfort of the machine and the improvement in technology. And of course, I verified twice when my results would be available.
I did mention about my Aspergers and my son’s Aspergers. It’s kind of what I do.
Turns out someone she works with has a son that just got diagnosed with Aspergers. I offered out my phone number to give to her friend as a gesture of support–cause that’s kind of what I do, too.
But no! WAIT…..
My technician got a little bit happy, and instead of taking my number, she asked me to return to the dressing area and wait there. She specified, “Wait here. Get dressed, and I’ll be back.” I thought it was funny that she told me to get dressed. I wasn’t about to meet a stranger half-naked.
Minutes later, I hear two ladies outside my curtain whispering: “Do you think she is dressed, yet?” And I’m thinking, behind my curtain: This is the oddest way I’ve ever entered a room before to meet someone for the first time.
I open the curtain, swishhhh, all dressed, and feeling like I’m the wizard in the Wizard of Oz, popping out with my hand extended. We hit it off, the kind lady technician and me; and before we are too deep in conversation, another lady nearby pops out of her curtain, still in her gown, not yet finished dressing. She says: “Me. Me, too. Give me your number and name. My son has Aspergers.”
So there we are laughing and talking in the middle of the mammogram dressing room, so much so that we had to hush our giggles. I even took their photo, with the one still in her gown! It was for my blog, I said. My Aspergers itself pretty much giving me the liberty to do and say anything, so I said teasingly to myself.
I left just so very happy and pleased.
My only intention entering that radiology department today was to make connections, to brighten someone’s day, and to make a difference. That’s what me and my ladies set out to do. All dolled up and out on the town, we just wanted to touch someone with our love.
~~~~~~~~
^the song my grandpa’s spirit sang for two days to the seer, until he met with me, and figured out the message was for me. See Yesterday’s post if you are confused. Or take a nap. Or just nod like you understand, like I frequently do when others are talking and I haven’t got a clue.^
Now I’m going to listen to this song over and over. Me and my ladies, we feel like a good cry:
….. To make you feel my love. Hopeless romantic at heart.
Fifteen years ago, when I was in my late-twenties, I heard my angels; they told me: “You are going to write your story. You are going to write to heal others and yourself. But it won’t be for a long time. You still have a lot to go through. You will not use your real name and you will not make money. This is your gift.”
A year before that, a seer told me: “The best part of your life will begin in your early forties, when half of your life is over. Until then your life will be very hard. Your life career will change, and I see you in front of many people teaching and touching people all over the world.”
Eight years ago, during a powerful vision, I was told to write my story to heal others and to heal myself. I was told I would not be writing for profit. That I was not to make money or this would take away from the healing. I was told to start writing. I fell asleep and dreamt I was a giant oak tree, and people were gathered around me in unity celebrating and crying. They were healing through me, through my journey. When I opened my Bible, after I woke up, the Book fell open to the passage of the tree on the hill and the prophet. I began writing that day.
Seven years ago, a seer told me: “Everyday You Write the Book, the spirit of your grandfather is here singing this song. You will write and your words will reach people in a profound way, and you will bring healing to the world. It will touch people in a way you never imagined.”
Two years ago people began to remark on the healing energy surrounding me and of my “glow.”
Last year, a seer told me: “You are going to write. You are going to teach. You are going to reach people, and help them to heal.”
Having been told in several ways my destiny, there was definitely many times I felt inadequate, and many other times I felt I was insane.
There were times I pleaded to God to make my passion to heal the world stop.
Times I pleaded not to see and know so much.
I wanted a normal life.
I wanted the simple.
Still, after the vision of the oak tree, I spent everyday for a year, (except one day), writing. The end result was a release of so much negative energy and past wounds that I sank into a deep depression.
I cursed the heavens for what they had ‘made’ me do, and for the resulting failures. My writing wasn’t up to par. My skills were mediocre at best. After a year of tears and sweat, there was still so much more work to do.
I took a year off. Not planning to write ever again. The prophesies and my angels were clearly mistaken, and I was surely crazy.
The third year I was called again, and spent months redrafting my first writings. Still no luck. No one would look at my work. No publisher, at least.
But still this longing. I was supposed to write. I had to write. The second draft was not one of sorrow, but one of rage. I was so angry at my mother and for my past. I spent months in isolation and pushing others away.
I rested, almost another year, before writing again. The third draft was magic. My heart sang. The anger and sorrow released. And there was a lovely healing rhythm and love to my writing. The third draft was of forgiveness. By the end, when my manuscript was done, a large part of my past was healed.
Still no audience, though. No way to share my works.
I let it go. I’d done all I could. A part of me gave up. A part of me thought everything was just a coincidence, and that I only heard my angels to make myself feel special. I cried over the loss of my calling. And I mourned a part of me. Primarily my ego.
It wasn’t until this year that I began to share some of those writings and much new writing through this blog..
I hadn’t realized that just like my grandfather had sung those many years back: Everyday she writes the book.
I had absolutely no idea I would be writing for an audience any larger than a handful of people. Mostly, I wrote for me. I wasn’t intending to heal or help anyone, but myself. I’d let go completely of my calling, at least in regards to healing others through writing.
Slowly, through the months, I began to see that what I had been told all along was coming to fruition—the reaching others around the world, the different name, the no need or desire for profit.
The last seer I saw, a little over a year ago, she said I had the gift of creating a safe haven for people. I was a guardian of sorts. I didn’t understand then.
Remarkably, in the last months, through this blog, I have healed more than I ever thought imaginable. Not just at a physical level, but at a spiritual level, and even at a cellular place.
My husband and I both agree that the light in me has returned, a light I think I lost about the age of thirteen, when the fear of what life entailed set in.
Age Thirteen
At times, I truly feel like I went away for a couple decades, just slipped out because life was too much. I don’t know who took my place, but it wasn’t me. I look back at this woman I was, and I don’t recognize her. I truly don’t. I love her. I know she was in essence a part of me. But she wasn’t me.
This is Eleven Years ago. My son with ASD and Me
I know the light returned because despite the trials of my life, I never gave up hope. I never let the world destroy my heart. I never stopped loving. I never stopped believing I could make a difference. Even when I wanted to die, my angels led me forward by reminding me to: Think of the Children. I know that in addition to my three sons (all birthed on a Sunday) that they meant the children of the world.
I’ve known since I was a very young child I would be called to be a healer. Probably at the age of four, when I stopped eating lamb as I didn’t have the heart for it. Probably again when I was nine, and I hid in the bushes weeping as I couldn’t comprehend the vastness of the universe and the depths of human suffering. Probably too, when as a child I would sit with people in convalescent homes by myself, just so I could be near the lonely at heart. I knew I was a healer when I became a teacher, and later when I served as an advocate for children with special needs. I knew too, when I began to write.
What I didn’t know is the profound effect the healing would have on my own life and journey. I didn’t know how deeply I would be blessed.
Today I woke up frightened. I felt like I regressed. I began to cry. The fear was back. I couldn’t see a way out.
All about me the walls closed in. I became immobile, unable to do anything but feel and respond to the fear. My body shut down. I had pain everywhere. I was taking on the world, taking on the fear, taking on the dark.
I couldn’t stop.
I was brought back to a place I sat months ago. To a place I don’t wish to return.
But this time something was different. I had another me. A stronger me. And she was there holding me and cheering me on.
She shook me out of my place. She made me reach out. She made my light shine. She led me back to the amazing place I created on a social network site, filled with the most beautiful, caring of souls.
A safe place.
And I reached out.
I wrote: Please send me positive vibes….not doing well today physically. Frustrated. Thanks so very much. xoxoxo Brain fog, too. ♥ love to you all.
Within moment, before me, people reached out in all forms and ways from all over the world.
I received messages of:
Hearts
Wind from the Valley
Positive Vibes
Positive Energy
Hugs
Music
Lots of Love
Sorry you are having a rough time
Looking North
Much love Sweetheart
Big Bear Hugs
Loving healing bubbles of light
Dark Chocolate
Smiley Faces
Mashed Potato
Hope
Within a few minutes my pain dissipated, my fear decreased ten-fold, and I was able to breathe again. I was able to live again, and to find myself.
I was only lost for a moment, just long enough to be reminded that I am never ever going to be alone again.
Just long enough to know that I have created through vulnerability, honest, and pureness of heart the most wonderful place that draws to it the most wonderfulest of souls.
If ever there was to be a people I’d want to cherish, it would be these people. For they face challenges upon challenge. They face ridicule, displacement, misery, isolation, worry, dread, and pain on a daily basis. Their days are never easy. Their minds always searching.
And still they shine; they shine like no others, giving and loving unconditionally.
They have freed me. As have the people who read my words. And the people who write to me. The people who hold me in love and in thought. The people who thank me. They have freed me. You have freed me.
If there is one thing I could tell you, I would say this: Be you. Be the best you that you can be. Shine your light so brightly that your own soul sings out in celebration. And then watch how the light follows you, how the world unfolds, how your richest and purest dreams become the steppingstones to glory.
My famous I-don’t-know-how-to-relax-my-face-SMILE. That sign reads: UNWIND
For years I’ve been searching for ways to unwind. I’ve been to meditation retreats, listened to visualizations on cd, and learned sound therapy and chanting; I’ve read countless books on meditation techniques, from modern to ancient. I’ve listened to gurus and people I consider saints on earth. And still, with all my seeking, I couldn’t unwind and relax.
I figured out recently, as I seem to be figuring out so much as of late, that I don’t have a typical mind for relaxation. HELLO! Kind of an amazing discovery–don’t you think. It’s okay, if you know me, and by know me I mean read my inner most thoughts, perfectly spelled out for you on my blog, or in person, if we meet casually over coffee for the first time, then you know my brain is a non-stop dyno (as in dynamite) nugget of extreme reeling discoveries and energy. I download stuff all day from some vast emptiness of the collective unconscious, listen to my angels “babble,” (they said I could say that/they have great senses of humor), compose poetry, prose, and verse in my head, and constantly make connections, classify, find patterns, all while reminding myself how to live in the present, breathe deeply, and find joy in everyone and everything.
Not an easy task, being me. And definitely not a brain that shuts off easily, even in down-mode.
Heck, in down-mode, I have dreams almost all night, some fantastically wild, and some prophetic. There isn’t peace in my mind. There just isn’t. I know. I searched!
At least there is not PEACE in the traditional sense, but there is peace. I was looking in all the right places, I just forgot to consider whom I was searching for.
It took me a long time to get him looking at the camera. And I almost forgot to tell you, I watch my goldfish while in the sauna dancing! 🙂 We all be fish.
I forgot, believe it or not, that I’m not a typical fish! I’m just not. I’m atypical, like lots of the coolest people (a.k.a. geeks, dorkpots, angels, aliens, dweebs) stuck on this blue planet. I forgot my brain is SPECIAL. Yes, I said it, I’m special. Gosh darn it! And so are you!
I realized that when I do things I always have three things happening at the exact same time:
1) I am doing for a purpose. There just has to be a clear purpose, something I can physically see and experience, and something I can logically process and understand. And usually, something I can also explain and demonstrate to others. The Teach in me.
2) There has to be a motivation. I don’t care if it’s chocolate, trying to impress a visiting relative, a mad dash to complete a procrastinated task, the want to finally clear out the clutter so I can breathe, or a need to fixate or obsess. There just needs to be some type of motivation. Often this motivation is someone else or an upcoming deadline or event. (Oh…to help someone…I ought to include that to sound more saintly; don’t you think?)
3) There needs to be an audience. I don’t exist as a singular unit. I am not a one. I shall never be a one or feel like a one. I do not feel like I exist unless I can share what I am thinking. Double-that when it comes to doing: I do not feel like I exist if I cannot share something I have done. Whatever I am doing, I imagine explaining my action to someone else or teaching what I’m doing. Indeed, I think I spend my day teaching mini-lessons to an imaginary audience. Yes, even when I’m on the toilet. And if I picked my nose, (which I never ever do), then I’d imagine an audience then, too. This makes life hard sometimes, because I am literally constantly on stage, even when I’m undressing, eating, or showing an extreme emotion. Imagine the pressure, now multiply that by a billion-trillion.
When I tried to mediate, as hard as I tried, it didn’t feel like there was a purpose. Primarily, because I feel tapped into Universal-Energy all day long. I don’t disconnect from source. I just don’t. I’m always trying to be a living, breathing example of the best possible earth-bound soul I can be. I give myself breaks through logical reasoning and statistics, when I seemingly falter, for instance, by remembering great spiritual teachers of our times, and how they were not perfect, how they experienced an extreme of emotions and what could be considered failings.
When I tried to meditate, as hard as I tried, I didn’t feel like I had a teachable moment. I just didn’t know how to explain empty space and not thinking. Or letting thoughts flow and then gently releasing. I didn’t get blank space and just being in the silence. And plus, I was super bored. I can’t even get through a staff meeting without doodling, tapping my neighbor several times, and making goofy offhand comments. Being with myself, alone in a room, in silence, was torture. I could carry on a whole ADHD session with myself in my head. And it wasn’t the least bit of fun.
When I tried to meditate, there wasn’t an audience. There just wasn’t. Who wants to stare at me while I’m sitting there doing nothing…I know, I know…it’s something. I read the books; I told you that already. But really, it looks like nothing. And, yes, I do think watching me put on socks or floss my teeth would be more interesting than watching me sit, and try to get comfortable in a body that isn’t comfortable in one position for very long.
I have found the best two ways possible to meditate. I can imagine a complete audience; I have a purpose; and I am motivated.
1) I meditate while listening to music in the bathtub while soaking in something nurturing for my body and spirit (bath salts, dead sea salts, essential oils, vitamin C), while conditioning my hair, and stopping occasionally to scrub certain spots to make sure there is no visible dirt on the tub or walls. I do this while blasting music from my I-Pod shuffle. I listen to the random songs and meditate to the music. I sink down low, and let my body be still, and I breathe deep. I feel so relaxed, sometimes as if I am elevated above my body. And I always hear the most perfect songs for the moment. Sometimes a meditation/visualization selection comes on during the music shuffle, and if that’s the case, I go with it. I feel like I am accomplishing so much at one time, that I can RELAX!!!!
2) I get almost naked, turn up my far infared sauna, blast “Dancing Queen” and dance, while seated. See I demonstrate this in the photo above. Aren’t I cute. I imagine an audience watching me, and I imagine teaching this as a sort of class, and I’m detoxing through sweating, and dancing, and laughing all at once. During this 30 minutes of hot mama meditation, I close my eyes and have the most wonderful soul connections. Today I cried tears of joy, over and over, as I could see many of my relatives that have past on and pets all dancing with me. They formed a circle around me and went round and round energizing my chakras and loving me! Then we were all on stage, any age we wanted to be, and my loved ones were lifting me up. They showed me as a baby, and they lifted me high, high, high into the air. And they healed me. They went through different stages of my life, lifted the ME that was during that time, and healed me. I was overcome with delight. I was laughing so deeply and so truly, from the very depths of my spirit, that I felt indeed I resembled a crazy man running down the street in bewildered blow-your-mind away glee. At one point I actually thought: What if I can’t stop being this happy! The tears kept coming. The giggles so very real that they were alive. For the time being I was truly out of my mind, not in the NUTTY ME way, but in the ability to escape my thoughts, my worries, my everything. I was no longer in my body. I was joyous and one with all.
To me this is my meditation. I’m certain there are critics out there who can quote the benefits of the empty, or the still, of the nothing, but at this point my mind does not have that capacity. For me, this is the first step towards bliss; actually both ways, the bath and sauna, are bliss. They are my meditation, my being me and loving me and connecting with me.
I have to laugh, as I just realized I’m either nude or almost naked when I meditate. That totally figures!
What is wonderful, as life is full of coincidences for me lately, is that as soon as I was finished, and started blaring music while showering, this song came on in my I-Pod shuffle. It described my experience in the sauna of being a baby held up in the light of love, perfectly; so much so that I actually pointed to the ceiling and said, “You guys; you guys are too much!” I’m not certain, but I’m fairly sure, my angels smiled!
Wonder
“O, I believe
Fate smiled and destiny
Laughed as she came to my cradle
Know this child will be able Laughed as my body she lifted
Know this child will be gifted
With love, with patience and with faith She’ll make her way ”
Here is the magic Hot Mama Meditation. Or Hot Papa Meditation. 🙂 Enjoy. I like the Mamma Mia! version because the energy of that movie is so good.
“I think he might like me,” I told my husband, in reference to a man at a coffee shop.
“What do you mean?” my husband asked.
“Well, he was smiling and taking interest in me,” I answered.
“Honey, he doesn’t like you; he doesn’t even know you. He is attracted to your body or something about you physically. That is different from liking you.”
“Oh,” I answered.
The next day, as I was heading out the door to go to the grocery store, my husband said, “Remember if a man looks at you because he is attracted to you that doesn’t indicate that the man likes you. You are a very pretty woman who some men find attractive. But their attention doesn’t mean they like you.”
I found his words to be a mixture of both comfort and confusion.
I am slowly, very slowly, learning the social innuendos regarding communication with men. I never knew there were so many unspoken rules when speaking with men. It’s fair to say I’ve got the female social interactions down, but now there seems to be this whole other guidebook regarding men.
I think, for me, having not had the example of a healthy father and mother relationship, nor brothers, or even uncles that I knew well, as a child, meant that I never had the chance to really learn how to interact with a man, except single men I sought after to make my husband. (starting at age six)
And, I guess, too, the actions of predators in combo with the uncouth behavior of some other men, added to my confusion of my place in the world as a woman.
I only had one male friend as an adult for a very short time. He wasn’t actually a friend, really, more of a member of a support group that I belonged to, a man about fifteen years older than me, who I once in a while saw outside of the support group–maybe once or twice. I was involved with another man at the time—obsessively. So I never saw my friend as anything but a friend. And I was like a little sister, to him.
Interestingly, after lacking in male interactions for over four decades, I’m still looking at males the same way I did when I was six. They might have aged, and I might have aged, but the little girl inside of me is still wondering is that my prince?
It doesn’t matter that my husband adores me, and that I think he is a very dear man. I doesn’t matter that I logically understand that there is no prince out there. What matters is I still have this pattern. I still see men as someone who I want to make love me. That if they love me then I am of worth. But this love isn’t based on how they see me inside; it is based on how they see me outside.
Likely, (obviously) there are still some Daddy Issues; the holding, hugs, kisses and I love you’s from a father that never materialized.
The fact that I need validation of my physical worth from a male, more so than a female, and that indeed a female’s opinion of me, unless repeated over and over, does null for my self-esteem, is troublesome.
Logically, I recognize that the opinion of another is not a reflection of my worth, but somehow I still hold onto a man’s words and actions towards me more than my own belief and love of myself.
I’ve grown up some in the last few months, grown up to the point that I am hyper-aware of my thought processes, actions, and my emotions. There are very few moments in the day that I’m not an observer of self: outside of my own body watching me exist and walk through the steps of my day.
I understand what I am doing in regards to the power I grant men. I used to think it was shyness, now I think it is a not knowing, a not understanding, a confusion and displacement of ease. Standing near any man close to my age or older, causes my ears to turn red and face blush. Almost any grown male seems to put a magical spell of nervousness, meekness, neediness, and insecurity upon me. I naturally become a shy, flirtatious giggle machine, complete with batting eyes and the flushing cheeks.
I realize that I was basically unseen and unnoticed, very much invisible, in most areas of my life, until I blossomed at the age of fourteen and began to gain attention based on my appearance. I was homecoming princess, popular, and dated a very handsome boy. I learned then that my looks could serve as a form of power: a way of being seen.
I learned to equate being seen with having worth.
I am starting to reprogram my prior learnings.
I am interacting with males more and recognizing they are no less powerful or magical than females, that their opinions are not more important than others’.
The hardest part is I still don’t understand the nuances of male/female communication. I don’t understand how much I should look into a man’s eyes, how close I should stand, how I should smile, what my tone should sound like, what topics are socially appropriate. I don’t understand what most people seem to learn subconsciously through experience.
I understand now how often men have actually flirted with me throughout my life. I understand now why, in high school, I shouldn’t have been having an ex-boyfriend massage my back when I was involved with a new beau.
I am starting to understand how I surely give out mixed signals, matching and mirroring a male, thinking that reacting as a mirror-image is the safe and appropriate technique. After all, it works with females!
I feel so very alien and unprepared for earth, as I approach the male zone.
In dealing with male encounters, I don’t want to come across as a prude, or rude, or stuck up, or extremely shy, or as a flirt. I just want to come across as me. The problem is I don’t know what that looks like.
I’ve trained myself to make facial expressions based on my environment and whom I am with. I’ve trained myself to act in the best way possible, to not lose female friendships and to not embarrass myself.
I don’t have a natural facial expression. I don’t know what that even means. It used to be, if my face was relaxed that my mouth was downturned, and I then appeared mean and unapproachable. For a few years, I walked about with slightly puckered lips. Silly, but true. Now my face has been trained to be in a constant puffy-cheeked smile in public.
I looked at my husband the other night, as he was checking me out, and I said, “Okay. So I’ve added a new understanding, a new rule to this computer brain of mine. I have new input. I now know that a man looking at me doesn’t mean they like me. But now I am confused, because you look at me with desire all the time. So does that mean you don’t like me? Does that mean you only care about my body?”
My husband then spent the next several minutes explaining to me about the concept of getting to know someone, of how attraction can turn into like, and like to love, and then, after time, the person is liking the whole of you.
I stared back at him with a quizzical expression. My eyes grew wider. “I don’t understand,” I said. “In all my male relationships (boyfriends) I loved the person as soon as I met them. It didn’t change. It doesn’t grow. It just was.”
I went on to explain my perception of love. That yes, indeed, I can grow to respect a person, to enjoy their company, to take great pleasure in learning from them, and grow in companionship and familiarity, but that my love doesn’t grow. It remains the same.
I began to see, through my husband’s explaining, that clearly I don’t experience life as many people do, particularly love. I don’t experience relationships in the same way, either—or communication.
Last night while at the local store grocery store, I asked a handsome store employee for some help finding a dessert wine. I know little to nothing about wine. Just asking a man for help is a huge step for me. I have to stop myself from staring at my feet, stuttering, giggling, and staying stuff that is just plain stupid.
He asked if I was going to need the dessert wine for dinner, for dessert, or after dessert, and what dessert I was having. He said this while staring deeply into my eyes, as if searching, and connecting. I stared back for a while. Locked eyes. I was processing.
I didn’t know why I wanted the wine, or what I was going to have the wine with. I just wanted to have something sweet. I processed how the man was looking at me, and I did what I knew to do, I stared back, mirroring the man, as I processed his communication skills thinking: This man is really good with eye contact. I wonder if my mascara is smeared. My ears are on fire. I am nervous. Can he tell? I’m so glad I have this hat on.
So many thoughts, so very fast. With even more intense eyes, I offered, “I don’t know why I want the wine; I just want to drink it.”
I think I came across as giggly, clueless and cute, perhaps even flirtatious. Not my intention.
The man was standing very close, and very, very kind. (I think) He spent five minutes with me giving me a mini-lesson on wine, and showing me his favorite. I kept thinking: He doesn’t like me. He might find my eyes pretty. That’s why he can’t stop staring. And I think he swiped a peek at my butt, but he doesn’t like me.
The entire time I was listening to the brown-eyed man, I was simultaneously analyzing his body language, his choice of words, his proximity, his inflection, his everything. I noted there was some attraction going on, but I couldn’t tell if he was interested or flirting, or just nice to everyone.
In retelling the story to my husband, he took in the clues and observations of my encounter with the store worker, and reported that likely this man was somewhat interested in me. He reminded me I was an attractive woman. (He lingered at my beauty for awhile. Bless the dear man.) He explained that if a man instead of a woman had approached and asked this employee about wine, he likely would have been shorter in his explanation, not have locked eyes the entire time, and not smiled and offered out his favorite wine. He wouldn’t have been standing as close either.
I still don’t know. I told my husband, in all seriousness, (and while slightly tipsy from the port wine in hand), that I’d like him to come to the store with me the next time and stand back an aisle or two away, and watch how men approach me and interact with me, and tell me if they are flirting.
He said, “Honey, I really don’t take pleasure in watching other men pick up my wife.”
Hmmmmmmmm. Hadn’t thought of that.
For now, I guess I’ll keep watching men watch me, and calculate what it means. Take note in my little imaginary spy book. Note that a stare at my bottom doesn’t mean like, and definitely not love. Note that a prince isn’t likely out there roaming the wine aisle waiting to take me away to his castle to live happily ever after. Note that the attention towards my outward appearance doesn’t note my worth. Nor does the lack of attention. And note that though I may appear to others as an experienced butterfly, I am still very much a naive nervous caterpillar quivering inside.
Everyday Asperger's 