Aspergers

A Dog’s Poem

| Aspergers Girls

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A Dog’s Poem (Valentines 2012)

The Reasons I Loved My Life

My luxurious golden coat of fur; everyone commented; everyone petted

Playing keep away, and never ever giving up my fluffy toy, ball, rope, or underwear

My handsome mug; some say I resemble the actor Richard Gere

Deep brown bedroom eyes—for the ladies—and long lashes

Eau de Toilette Water

Quick leg lift, to mark my territory, even when running on empty

The rustling sound of plastic bags and the jingling of my leash, before the spelling of W-A-L-K

Steak

Pawing humans on the knee to receive free all-over-body-massage

Big, manly hugs

Wrestling with little humans on the plush carpet

Rubbing my butt across plush carpet

Ignoring cat

Reaching that itch

Ear rubs

Rolling in the green, green grass

Running crazy all over the house, after a bath

Shaking bathwater all over the humans

The scrumptious word: Treat

Learning the meaning of sit, wait, leave it, down, and good boy

The one, and only time, Violet, my miniature black-Labradoodle-lady, was in heat {Maybe move that one to the top of list}

Those many times I appeared sleeping, and humans would walk by, and I’d lift my one leg in the air super stiff and high, and keep it there, until someone rubbed my underbelly

(Sigh)

Reiki

Dog sitters

Dog sitters leaving an entire peach pie on the kitchen counter

Visitors

When my hair grew back after the groomers

When Violet had to wear those dorky purple bows in her hair because the groomer glued them to her ears; and I’ll I had to do was yank of my dorky bandana—Ha, ha

Letting Violet eat my treats, sometimes

Strange ladies on the road with doggy treats in their pockets

The sand and the sea

The tree-lined trails

Sneaking up the steps to the trampoline

The one time, by chance, I figured out if I reached up just right with my paw I could get the water dispenser on the fridge to squirt out

Opening glass sliding doors with my nose

When the humans were trapped outside because I accidentally locked the sliding door with my nose

Doggy doors

Charging full force and knocking over the littlest human into the grass ten times in a row, everyday, for a good twelve months

Little humans

Blankets and pillows

The expensive chair that I adopted upon my arrival

Grabbing a rope-toy super hard with my teeth and shaking it to death

Rapidly torpedoing around the backyard in circles

Dog-surfing—the van window down, wind in my fluffy face, big, teethy-smile!

That people could tell I was smiling

Jumping over that old dog, back and forth, because it was the only way he could play with me

My tail

Being brave

Slurping water from the hose

Squirrels!

Butts

Off-leashing at the canine park

When I was brave enough to venture into the backyard on my very own

Standing on my hind legs and dancing with humans

Standing on my hind legs, reaching over the stovetop, and eating the entire pan of barbecue chicken

Standing on my hind legs and licking the dishes in the sink

That one chocolate Santa I found in the bedroom

Remember?

Lounging on the first step of our swimming pool during the hot summers

Our old backyard

Running at the side of my male human

Drinking out of water bottles

Parading around the lake

People’s smiles

People’s love

Steak (again)

Hearing my name

Big spoonful of peanut butter

Knocks at the door

Doorbells

Birds on the roof

Footsteps

Barking

People

The oddity of lamas and deer

Protecting

The last embrace felt as you kissed me goodbye

Your faces

Your voices

Your touch

Your farewell

Your wishes

Your promises

Your laughter

Your tears

And mostly just you

Your love

And everything about you

My beloved family

Forever walking at your side

Scoob

Our beautiful Scoob departed this world in February of 2012. I love you, angel face.

Day Fourteen: The Proverbial Foot in the Mouth (Both Feet)

| Aspergers Girls

 

For Day Fifteen, I wanted to write about Death Terror; you know that gripping existential fear that we subconsciously all suppress but that surfaces in subliminal ways in our waking hours. Or in my pathetic case, the all-encompassing dread that bypasses the subconscious and just haunts me pretty much 24/7.

But I figured Death Terror would be just a little bit too bleak for Valentine’s Day.

I tinkered with writing about this term I’ve coined Flash-Sense, the sensation a person has when he or she gets a flash from the past, an extreme sensory experience that seemingly connects the past to the present in one blast. But that would have been a long boring list of all these fragmented memories that have been coming back to me locomotive-speed-fast, since my diagnosis of ASD. And although, I super-dee-duper love lists, and will gladly write you one anytime, (and edit your diary while I’m at it), I didn’t think a list of my current flash backs would interest you much.

And so I asked myself, what would make me happy to read on Valentine’s Day? I scratched out (in my mind) the idea of love and gushiness—‘cause seriously how many people want to read about a middle-aged married woman proclaiming her love for her husband? (Besides my mom.) Nope. Scratched that one.

And thus, I was left with the old fall back, something I’ve always been super good at doing; it’s one of those hidden talents that catches people by surprise. Sort of like a cute cuddly kitten hacking up a fur ball on your new carpet. Yes, I thought for Valentine’s Day, I’d treat you to one of the most embarrassing moments in my life, and then we could all laugh together; and maybe you might offer out some of your secrets; especially if you’re not going to let me edit your diary, quite yet.

I’m thinking you’re with me on that one. I mean about skipping the whole Death Terror prose; although, doesn’t it sound a little intriguing?

But alas, instead, my fine friends, the story I shall scribe for attentive audiences involves the wonderful magnificent Asperger’s trait of NO CLUE WHATSOEVER. (Write that in your silly-old DSM-V, Stupid Heads.) Did I make that clear enough?

Here it is, the story, The Proverbial Foot in my Mouth.

(And still she digresses???) I will say, it’s not as bad as the time I told my roommate’s brother, in passing (whom had just graduated from college with a teaching credential): “Congratulations, the chances of you getting hired are great, since you’re an ethnic minority and a male!”  But it’s pretty close.

And then there was the time, just three months ago, (love you number three), that I asked my son’s math teacher, while I was working with the students in her middle school classroom, “Do you actually like math?”

And after she responded with an adamant, but very odd-sounding, “yes,” I still (perpetually clueless) responded, “Really? I don’t.”

Hmmm? And I hadn’t yet figured out I had Asperegers? Go figure.

This story is similar, only time stood still, in the way it stands still while you’re waiting for that call from the doctor about those tests, or waiting for that special someone to return your call, or waiting for your dog to take a poop in the rain, and tugging and tugging at his leash, but he just won’t finish, and you forgot your jacket, and you’re soaking wet, and cursing at yourself because you’re still not used to the Pacific Northwest weather….yes, that last one, that’s the ticket—that’s a clear reflection of the inner agony of everlasting time that victimized poor little clueless me.

Once, not too long ago, (in a far away suburban neighborhood with little trees that hadn’t yet grown tall and lots of concrete), my friendly neighbor, the type that’s always kind and willing to lend a hand, well, he returned from a trip that he had taken back to his home of origin in another country.

And me, in my infinite blindness, having been caught in the front yard by said kindly neighbor, (before I had time to duck behind the bushes and sneak into the backyard), graciously accepted my predicament, and partook in the ritual of small talk. (Definition: What people do when they’re connecting out of courtesy and societal norms, but they don’t have anything substantial they want to offer out at the moment, because they don’t trust or know the person, or worse, don’t want to bother. But they know they’re supposed to, so they talk anyways; even though it’s typically meaningless, and both partners know they really could care less; but they are sort of stuck, so have to proceed anyhow.)

Returning to the story.  Me and my neighbor (and I mean me and my neighbor, not my neighbor and I—because let’s get real, this encounter was all about me—my processing, my nervousness, my fear. The guy in the jeans and white t-shirt, he was kind of an afterthought.)

Starting again. (You are so patient. Has anyone ever told you that?)

Me and my neighbor, we were engaging in this dance I like to call the Small Talk Tango. (Insert music here. Any type you like. I’ll adjust to it, and probably make it my favorite eventually, if you’ll be my best friend.)

Begin:

First I wave.

Then he waves.

Then I look at my shoes; they need to be cleaned.

Then I notice my face heating up in embarrassment because I am in the presence of another earthling other than immediate family. And he is the male species, which causes me to turn a deeper shade of crimson, than the females cause me to turn.

Then I shuffle ahead; force myself to make eye contact with his chin. (He has a nice chin, but needs a shave.)

Then I search my brain, similarly to how I search on Google, input the words: talking to neighbor + help!

Hit return key.

Downloading.

“I’m fine thank you,” I answer, because he’s spoken somewhere in between the chin and input.

Retrieving Data:

“How was your trip?” I ask.

Steady and appropriate tone. Check.

My little inner voice supporting the process shouts: Good Job!

Quick, high-risk glance at male species’ brown eyes.

Return to chin.

Closed mouth, medium-sized grin. (Deleting image of full mouth with big teeth from brain.)

“Great,” my neighbor answers. (He’s a fast processor.)

Pause.

Time to insert remaining string of data.

I offer, in a happy-go-lucky, I’m-as-cute-as-a-puppy, tone: “I bet you’re glad to be back!”

Fumble.

Need more data.

Recovery.

“Because…”

Thinking. Keep it real and simple.

“Because…because…

…because it’s so much cleaner here!”

Smile with some teeth, offering out support.

Wondering if I flossed the spinach out.

Waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting.

He’s not responding.

His face is curling into itself.

Kind neighbor does not look so kind.

He sort of looks like I told him his zipper was undone.

What’s that look?

Oh, crap!

The running voice in my head speaks louder. (The running voice is that little inner voice; the voice that sounds like me; at least the voice that sounds like me when I speak inside my head; which is actually different from the voice you hear with your ears; so you’ll never know what my inner voice sounds like; thus the thoughts of existential isolation and death terror resurfacing…)

Oh, crap!!

Oh, double crap! !

Inner voice retreating, abandoning ship, leaving me no raft.

Silence.

Blinking red light; beware.

Responding to the alarm.

Insert something to break never-ending, dog-relieving-self-in-the-rain silence.

“I only mean… I’ve heard it’s so…

…so…

..dirty there.”

Emphasis on dirty.

Sigh.

Waiting.

Waiting.

Hearing heartbeat in both ears which are both aflame.

Need to escape.

Oh, no!

Epic Fail.

Two strikes and OUT!

He spends the longest minute explaining, in a very diplomatic and kindly manner, the error of my comment, while I break into the equivalent of ten thousand pieces, each piece shouting out the way I should have small-talked.

Lots of chatter in my head. But no reliable inner voice, still.

Big smile. No teeth. No words.

Big wave of hand.

Stepping back.

Big nod.

Stepping back.

Can’t feel face. But I think I’m still grinning.

Another big nod.

And a final lie.

“Great catching up.”

Turning around.

“Walk slowly, so you don’t appear like you’re in a panic; casual-like,” little voice, inside head, offers, in a meek little tone, knowing she’s in deep doo-doo. Her, and whomever runs the Google in my head.

Silence.

Waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting.

More silence.

“Sorry,” little voice whispers.

Happy Valentines

| Aspergers Girls

 

Happy Valentine’s Day! 

Love is the measure of all things (by Aspergers Girls)

Love is the measure of all things.

Above and beyond all,

Is love,

Love is creation in its purest form,

Love entangles and embraces,

Grows and rebirths,

Returns and remembers,

Never stopping or ceasing,

Love is the air we breathe,

The breath we take,

And the being that is able to breathe,

Circulating within us is love,

Our blood, our living,

There is no without,

This love,

The absence of love is an impossibility,

Love is neither necessary or needed,

Love is,

Love cannot be evaporated or destroyed,

Disguised or taken,

Love is the one element,

Which remains,

Ever tempered, ever balanced,

We stand in love,

We bathe in love,

We think in love,

In love’s absence there is nothing,

In love’s absence there is no is,

All that has been before,

All that has been ahead,

And all that exists at this singular moment,

Is love,

Know you are love,

As much as the purest form of beauty on earth,

Know you are love,

As much as the person you hold on high,

Know you are love,

As much as all,

In this equity we are joined in love,

Neither forgotten or remembered,

Purely existing as one,

The love,

Our life force,

Streaming through the one,

As much as the other,

In all we say and do,

We are in love.

Day Thirteen: The Jokes on Me

| Aspergers Girls

 

It’s well known that people with Asperger’s are sometimes a bit gullible, especially when it comes to jokes. Here’s a special story for Day Thirteen…my absolutely favorite number in all the universes! Good to balance the deep and profound with some light-hearted laughter, every now and again. Enjoy.

I was a bit naïve when I was a young adult, very gullible, and easily confused by jokes. Those were my vulnerable-gentle years, where I feared life more than explored, and often hid in the house afraid of the stream of emotions I experienced when I was around others. This isn’t to say I didn’t appear normal. I was a good actress, after all.

While walking one summer day on the sidewalks of my suburban town with my dear college friend Jodie, my gullibility shined bright. We were newly friends then (soon to be best friends), with so much to learn about one another. I remember the exact place we were on our path, when Jodie fooled me. I remember because, even now, I still chuckle about the event.

During our stroll Jodie informed me that she was from Washington. On hearing her pronounce the word Washington, with a tongue-rolling r-sound (Warshington), I laughed. Jodie guffawed, raising her brow, as if I’d done something entirely incorrect and worth admonishing. “Why are you laughing?” she asked.

“Well,” I stammered. Not sure what to think of this inquiry. “I just thought it was funny the way you said Washington. How you made it sound like it has the letter r—there’s no r in Washington.”

Jodie was unmoved in her expression, if anything she appeared more stern. “What do you mean?” she asked. She hit her thigh slightly, and the crease of a grin edged upward on one side of her face. I watched with curiosity. Jodie continued: “Oh, you think I meant Washington D.C. No. No. No. I’m talking about the state of Washington. The one up north. You know there is a difference, don’t you?” Jodie faced me with a full smile, reading me with her green eyes.

I shrugged my slight shoulders, and debated about what to say. Before I could speak, Jodie continued. “Don’t you know the state of Washington is spelled with an r?” She spelled it out slowly and surly: W-a-r-s-h-i-n-g-t-o-n. And she said it again, but this time super slowly: “Warsh-ing-ton!”

I blinked quickly. “What? No, it isn’t,” I answered, with my trademark nervous giggle.

Jodie continued, stating her case in a matter-of-fact way. She was so sure of herself. So confident. So…..so…..experienced! I reasoned I’d always been a bad speller, mixing up letters, omitting consonants and vowels, why not now? And here Jodie stood, from the state of Washington; she’d had to know what she was talking about. Didn’t she?

Jodie continued. “A lot of people get the two Washingtons mixed up.” She winked.

“Oh, wow!” I said, feeling a bit relieved that I wasn’t the only one who’d mistaken the spelling. “I never realized that.” I breathed in, evaluating Jodie’s expression. She seemed pleased with herself, but there was this awful silence. I quickly added, trying to save face, “Good thing to know, since I’m going to be a school teacher.” With my last words, I settled back into the walk, glad to be corrected, and thinking more on my tanned legs than anything that had verbally transpired. It was nice having an intelligent friend.

Jodie nodded her head in agreement, and picked up the pace of our walk. She held her silence for some time, at least a few blocks, before, after a brief moment of noise that sounded like a toad caught in her throat, Jodie broke out in a husky, rip-roaring laughter. “Oh, Honey,” she said. “I can’t make you go on thinking that.”  She laughed some more, trying to catch her breath. “It was a joke. You were right before.  There is no r.  It’s just the way I pronounce it.”  She laughed some more. Her face equally as red as mine.

I took a second to evaluate the situation, before busting up myself and shaking my head in disbelief.

Day Twelve: Behind the Curtain

| Aspergers Girls

 

This is an excerpt from a previous journal entry in 2009. I wrote Behind the Curtain before I realized that I had traits of Asperger’s Syndrome. As I reflect back to this time period of my life, I now recognize that I was searching  for any explanation, in order to attempt to sort out the disorder in my mind.

Behind the Curtain

I made a decision a long time ago, when I was old enough to venture across the street on my own and play in the open field, that I would try to be a good person.  I already knew more than I ought to have known about the world, I suppose.

I remember years back looking up at the wide-open sky and wondering where the universe ended and more so where I began.  I recognized I wasn’t just my flesh and skin, was so overly aware of the inner core of my being that I felt as if I were walking a narrow line between this realm and the next.  There was turmoil at home, which left me with a general uneasiness, but there was another more defining uneasiness building inside of me, piling one atop the other, an unsettling recognition that there was so much more than the grownups could explain, and more so, ever venture to understand themselves.

Such knowing, at a young age, carries with it insecurity and reckoning of the uncertainties of the world, an acknowledging that reality isn’t what one’s peer group believes.   There was a stepping out of sorts, a separating at this point of my life, a kindling of new insight that propelled me onto the other side of the street, so to say.  As if, I was standing alone, isolated and curious, observing my playmates across the way.  I could hear them, I could even speak and they would acknowledge my presence, but I couldn’t join them.  My thoughts were a deep canvas, a three-dimensional painting I could step into and live.  From my side of the road, I would watch with wonder and interest, recognizing my own separation from humanity, without understanding what in actuality I was experiencing.  It was then, about the time most kids were discovering the wonderment of above-ground pools and slip and slides, I was discovering simultaneously the limit of my mind and the un-limitness of the universe.  I had wanted desperately to understand where I belonged and where I fit in, for I wasn’t as the birds left to fly in the sky; I wasn’t an adult with the freedoms; and to me, I wasn’t a child.  The others were all different than me.  It was as if I had been given an alternate pair of lenses in the way I interpreted the happenings around me, in the way I analyzed the truth behind words, and the actions behind truths.

I knew too well already about death and dying, as I knew too well about living.   I knew when I slept my dreams would come like torrent winds and tear me from where I slept and carry me forward into another realm of consciousness.   And I knew well the dreams would sometimes speak to me and give me glimpses into the future.   I could tell my mother things, speak to her about the dreams, and then we would watch together to see if the  essence of my dreams was true, if in fact the dream had revealed an element of an event to come.   And often the dreams did.

Knowing a dream can speak, can whisper some form of truth, and can open a door and allow one to peek into another universe is most unsettling to say the least.  But then, as a child, when I stopped to analyze the happenings, to grasp why I knew things before they occurred, I felt a shudder of confusion, and further uncertainty about where I stood, where I breathed, where I actually dwelled on the planet.

And I knew things about people, I felt certain I shouldn’t ought to feel.   I could tell things about people, understand their intention, feel a part of their spirit. From early on in my life, certain people left me feeling heavy and invaded, while others, though nothing on the outside was perceivable peculiar or different, left me with a flowing sense of calmness and general well being.  Some people felt like gifts, a present I wanted to play with and keep close to heart, while others I wanted to return from whence they came.  I wondered what was in people that made them thus so.  Why some seemed so light and airy, and others weighed down by an invisible ghost of woes.  I wished to speak, to find out, and became increasingly inquisitive and interested in adults, for I secretly hoped one of them would have an answer for me.  I searched out a guide, even though I knew not what I was searching for, or even that I was searching, and I am certain they came to me at different intervals in my life as needed, though I did not recognize them.

As I grew older, the feelings inside of me also grew, filling up every inch of new space.  I was so abundantly filled with emotions that at times I often felt as if I were drowning inside my own being.  I could hear things by then, too.  See things.  See things no one else I had encountered could.  I continually felt more isolated and lonely, though I had people around me, I nonetheless remained isolated in thought and spirit.  It seemed to me that no one understood me.  For years I longed to be like my classmates.  I came to see them as narrower and straighter than me, like the letter “x,”so that nothing could fill them and leave them gasping for air; wherein I perceived myself as wide and curved, like the letter “o,” so that everything and anything could use me as a vessel.

The later years were painfully difficult.  When the teenage trials came, I felt bombarded and stampeded with emotions.  If there was ever a time I believed I was from another universe, it was then.  I played a game—that is how I saw it.  I pretended to be someone.  I was lost, lost on some stage, trying to find where I’d hidden my true self.

I still feel as if a part of me is hiding somewhere, afraid to come out entirely, for fear of misunderstanding and judgment.  The tender part of me, the piece of myself that doesn’t understand in the smallest bit the cruelty and harshness of this world, remains divided and alone, always hidden behind the curtain.