I am such a dichotomy of prisms, multi-faceted in a way that confuses me, the observer.
I keep looking into myself and finding only tunnels, web-like hallways leading in all directions. There is such mystery here, and clutter. I am an open book, but not to myself. I am an open book to only that which I let out and that which I allow in. Even as I share so much, I hold eternity inside. I worry, when I have all the reasonings harvested of why not to worry. I fear, when I have all the reasonings set out of why not to fear.
I am this pendulum; this constant pendulum. I know not what moves me, but I am continually moved. At times I feel I become the person you are. At times, so many times, I lose the person I am. I absorb the world, all of the ingredients brought into me; and then I am left, in my loneliness, both awe-inspired and drowning in pain of recognition.
I see too much. I feel too much. I know too much. And there is no remedy.
I am the heap of pain that one carries on his shoulders. I am the sorrow of the mistress. I am the angst and guilt of the destroyer. I am the pillager weeping at the joyful bounty. I am the child in the glee-filled park. I am the mountaineer on highest peak. I am the widow crying at the grave. I am the tie tightened around my very neck, chocking me from the outside, to match the fury of pain within.
I am enveloped in need and then enveloped in release. I am tortured by thoughts and misery, and then let free by understanding and the depth of beauty. I am unstable, yet stable in my instability. I am consistent in my varying degrees of emotions. A spit-fire of desire brought to tender knees by only the touch of your words.
I am affected by all and none. This silence speaks to me. And the loudness hurts. I am the fury in your eyes. I am the heartache in your bosom. I am that raw pain that eats away at you. Time and again I rise, some mercenary to the many; unable to stop my vengeance; my need to take revenge, to beat the rhythms of my own soul down.
I am anger. I am rectification. I am renewal. I am lust. I am all this and more. And they merge and spin inside of me, claiming their take, and taking more than was offered. I eat of myself, devouring the agony.
If only I could find a way to balance the esteem of you with the esteem of my own being. If only I could find a way to stop the pain you feed me. Your naked trembling fear. To unchain the leash that takes me to the dark side of my own moon.
How I long to be the sun, the perfect sun shining overhead; and then with one touch, without consequence, to set free with flame this yearning for rescue.
I am not sure where my head space is. Or where my head is for that matter. I tend to ascribe to the Buddhist teachings that we don’t exist, as we can’t see ourselves in totality… Ever! And so, like the rest of me, my head has mysteriously disappeared.
Lately, some part of “Me” has been noticing I am much more aware of my environment. It seems that for decades, until now, I have skid past life and missed much of what happens around me on a day-to-day basis. Kind of like a first time ice-skater skidding on her butt so fast and so far that when she stands she doesn’t reckon she notices anything, except the full-heated rush of blood to the face, the cold butt, bruises, and torn pants.
Life seems like that for me, right now. Like I spent some four-decades plus skidding on my butt on the cold ice, only to just now discover that there are bleachers, chairs, and waiting areas, and even snack bars!
Today, everything is more clearer, as if, finally and at last, somehow I figured out I could step off of the ice, and even remove my ice skates. I cannot explain it any better.
Just recently, I am beginning to notice things I never ever did before. Patterns for starters, like the patterns in puddles, and patterns found in the streaks on the road after it rains, and the patterns in the shapes leaves make after falling. I am starting to notice patterns everywhere. I somehow managed to spend years not recognizing things that are right in front of my face.
I am going through many ah!ha!, look-at-that!-moments; It is similar to how I never understood about how a flower only lasts so long and then dies, even if it is in a pot of soil. I used to think a flower would last forever. It wasn’t until my twenties that I made the connection. While all around me flowers were blooming and dying. I just couldn’t see it or comprehend the process.
I have discovered, that at like faces, I cannot remember scenery. I cannot grasp the completeness of my surroundings. I am in a way in some type of visible matrix, in the center of an ever-changing energetic playing arena.
I cannot remember the order of houses when I drive down streets, the order of streets, the order of trees; I can’t remember where I saw the fire hydrant or where that one street was I once turned down. I just can’t. I have this incredible mind, but it cannot grasp the simple things, or at least not hold onto them.
I am finding great comfort in painting. Well, truthfully comfort isn’t the appropriate word, as the painting process itself is excruciatingly emotionally. So much energy and purging comes up. I go through cycle upon cycle of feeling, and have sensations of intense energy, both beneficial and exhausting. And no matter how hard I concentrate, I do not know what the painting will look like until it, the painting itself, is done.
As I have said early, when I paint, I am waiting for what is inside of the canvas to emerge. I feel this presence there just waiting to be uncovered and discovered.
And that is how I am seeing life now: That behind everything and everyone is this universal light and love waiting to be recognized and recovered, waiting to be held for its beauty alone.
I am much like a young child in so many ways, in so many “good” ways, able to see the same street again and again with new eyes.
Everything is shifting. Like the image of me in the mirror, my world is not stagnant.
Life to me is a river of sorts, and I am carried daily.
Instead of thinking I have fallen and am endlessly sliding on the cold ice, I can see I am very much alive, awake, and full of newness, the same newness that exists everywhere.
Interestingly enough, when I first delved into painting a few months ago, my angels (Holy Spirit) spoke to me and said with a camera I would be able to see images (spirits and souls) in my paintings.
This is truly amazing for me, as I am finding more and more “messages” and “signs” in my paintings. On this post I have shared one of my most recent paintings. It went through hours of transitions.
I love this painting. I see this as a spiritual being, me, in which essence and energy attaches. I am able to look at this and find peace. This painting is how I see the world. What I take in shifts and changes depending on the angle, my mood, the people and events around me, and the energy of the moment.
There is a beautiful energy here.
Gratitude is immeasurable. I am gratitude.
I exist as joy and thankfulness. And I embrace all parts of me, however imperfect or fabulous they are deemed.
I know, that like the images I am creating, in my painting, and through the limited scope of my mind and eyes and senses, that everything is always changing and shifting. There is no need to pitch down a tent upon myself and force, or, better yet, try to force myself to be this way or that way for this purpose or for that purpose; because soon, none of what is now will exist.
I am a river. My life is a river. Silly to try to capture a river.
This little girl who lives inside me was crying today.
And through the tears, I started punishing myself saying, “This is ego; don’t go feeling sorry for yourself.”
Until I remembered that by focusing on ego, I simultaneous give ego power!
One of the things weighing heavy on my mind is this chameleon presto-chango act I do.
As chameleon, I have perfected several degrees of metamorphosis. I do this by mimicking someone else (real), a character (tv), or the stereotypical characteristics of a specific role (detective/when I was 8).
I’m quite good at imitation; I can pretty much take on any role to perfection.
It’s like a hidden talent. A type of hidden talent that seems like it would come in handy, like double-agent-Jacquelyn-Smith-from-Charlie’s-Angels handy. But it doesn’t. It just pretty much sucks.
Case in point, when I first moved to the state of Washington, two and a half years ago, I meet a spiritual teacher I admired.
Bingo! Bingo! Bingo! Some part of my subconscious brain screamed, upon the acquaintance of this lady; and then, without telling me, some part of me set about to transform. Not to be her exactly. I mean I didn’t want to live in her house or steal her husband; that’s kind of loony, fatal-attraction-psycho-scary. But a piece of me did mean to clone her using my body. Hmmmmm.
In regards to this one woman, I learned how to mimic her voice, how to dress like her, and then studied to become a spiritual counselor, just like her! Surprise. Turns out I make a pretty good spiritual counselor. And, even after I tossed her persona out, I kept her cool, mellow voice. Bonus!
I think this self-discovery of self acting out a role that is not actually true self, has to be one of the oddest sensations known to mankind. And you can't really debate me, unless you've experienced this; and if you have experienced this taking on of roles without your conscious knowledge, then I am certain you would agree with me about the oddness factor, anyhow.
For all you non-chameleon types, the presto-chango experience is akin to being possessed by another life form or like being in a drunken spell for several months, and wondering what you did during those black out moments. Only you never black out completely, just a part of your awareness does. Maybe it's like waking up and finding out you have had a third hand for a few months but didn't even see it or know you were using it.
How, with my keen observation and analytical skills, I could not see my very own self doing something so obvious confuses me.
I imagine, beyond my ability to see, somewhere inside of me is a tug-of-war, where the participants are fighting: This way; be like her, be like her! No this way; be like her, be like that!
Which leads me to today.
Lately,I have been having a lot of spiritual experiences.
I am woken about three in the morning to vivid spiritual lessons. I am still half-asleep, but very aware that the lessons are occurring. But before I awake fully, most of everything is erased. Sometimes it’s poetry, other times images, sometimes Biblical verse. Also, I have been having powerful prose just pour out of me. And I have felt grand moments of serenity, peace, and healing. All of this is divine, in and of itself; the only trouble is that a part of me, that subconscious part, has been latching on to a new role; that of guru, or seer, or prophet, or even martyr. And it doesn’t help that my mom, who is always overly proud of me, bless her heart, is sending me links to saints!
And it all kind of sucks big time. Because that role of a seer, unlike suburban bimbo bunko player, is super serious and frankly no fun at all. And yes, I did the suburban bimbo bunko player part well, until I realized the acting had just about crushed the whole of me.
Oh, poo poo, crap, yuck-o!I so don’t want to drive down another road of roles again! “No way!” she exclaims. She being me, and flipping off ego, to boot.
To get sucked down the hairy drainpipe of yet another role will kill me. And this one role of the perfect seer is just too much.
I was already too serious (INFJ, Idealist, Cancerian, Only child, Aspie)…label Queen I be. How could I get more serious?
Crap! Where am I?
Damn it! (ahhhhhhh)
I’m tired of this role playing. I’m just plain tired. I’m turning in my costumes for good. I don’t care if the rest of me protests. I just can’t live anymore pretending. And if my brain won’t listen to me, then I’ll just have to take measures into my own hands.
Today was a step in the right direction. I figured out what I’d been doing, again. And then did something to symbolically stake my claim for change. I am happy. I am relieved. And I am excited… Unless, of course I am a seer channeling Shirley Temple and perfecting the role of a twelve-year-old, which is pretty darn possible.
And just to think two days ago, I was wondering if since I’ve been married and had kids, if I could still join a nunnery, and if my kids could live there, too, and my husband could have those special type of visits. I figured, likely not.
Here’s what I did today! So twelve and so loving it!
I am often depleted energetically in new environments with unfamiliar people. Part of the reason is because I am empathic and can innately pick up on others’ emotions and state of being. The other part of the reason I am energetically depleted seems to be entirely biological, at least in the way my brain senses the stimuli around me and in the way I process the input I am receiving as a result of the stimuli.
Sometimes, quite frankly and honestly, I would be a better listener and friend, if I didn’t have to look at you.
Because I am extremely analytical, acutely self-aware, and live in a heightened state of sensory awareness, I often forget that the majority of mainstream society does not process their environment the same as me.
I forget that the majority of people are not responding to me in the same way as I am inexplicably responding to them.
The first part of my energetic depletion is spawned from the belief system that I am being sliced and diced and dissected visually by another, only because when I spot another, I generally have to take each piece of person apart and put the features back together to make sense of what I am seeing. As a result, distinct markers of a face and body are found, categorized and reorganized.
I try to take apart another perosn and piece him or her back together without being judgmental. In other words, if a “big” nose is the first thing I see, I remind myself that “big” is a judgment and based on my limited perception and biased collective experiences, while understanding that societal norms determine the essence of beauty for most folks, norms which are indoctrinated onto a sub-culture by profiteering establishments.
Thusly, as I’m beholding another’s appearance, and trying to make sense of what I am seeing, in regards to features and taking in the whole picture, I am also simultaneous reminding myself that the individual’s features are not right or wrong, good or bad, or striking or dull, they just are.
And beneath this linear thinking of releasing judgment based on the indoctrination of societal norms, in the same juxtaposition, of me being with me, I am trying to remind myself, that according to many spiritual belief systems, that self and this other person in my line of vision do not even exist.
All of these thoughts pass through me, just as I am stepping into the line of vision of another: the release of judgment, the reminder of the limitless of the illusion of universe, and the fact that I am entirely analytical when it comes to viewing another.
And the added fact that I know way too much for my own good (and would apparently make a good sitcom character).
With all of my thought-processing, I become distracted and don’t realize that the other person I am analyzing is most likely not viewing me in the same manner as I am viewing him or her.
While my mind is shooting a million miles per second, the other person’s mind has probably just thought: nice red sweater or there’s a brunette middle-age woman; or, if it’s my husband: There’s my hot wife.
But I forget this.
Somewhere between wondering if my fly is open, my teeth are flossed, my nose is big, my hair is brushed, and if I matched the right color socks, and wondering what the other person is dissecting about me, and what this makes that person think, and how he or she has categorized and judged me and has fit me into his or her comfort-level of classification, I turn into a tailspin of panic, fearing that the other person is not only doing to me what I am doing to him or her, through dissection and examination of part, but also reaching conclusions based on the data received.
Ultimately, when all is said and done, in the midst of my boggling analysis of said other person, I am fearing the conclusion the other person has reached about me, whether it be red sweater or big-breasted tart; I am wanting to huddle into a corner and make myself entirely invisible and inaccessible to onlookers.
Wherein if I lived in a world where I was masked and cloaked, and perhaps entirely invisible, I think my anxiety, and resulting depletion of energy, would be drastically reduced.
But since I live in a world where I am seen, I am also faced with the fact that I am judged and categorized based on my appearance.(It’s no wonder my son with ASD refuses to wear anything other than plain clothes—no designs, no images, no nothing.)
And in so being keenly aware that I am looked upon with deciphering eyes, whether fleeting the observer’s glance be or not, I want to then explain to the observer as much about my true self as possible, fearing that the person has reached conclusions about me that are entirely false and inaccurate, because the gathered data is based solely on my exterior.
In the meanwhile, I am having a miniature debate in my mind about how the release of fear and the release of worrying about whatever people think of me is optimal for my state of well-being and reciting the random quote that says: what people think of me is none of my business, while holding back an entire dam of dialogue longing to be thrust upon the person returning my glance, so that I might attempt to accurately describes my spirit behind this cloak of humanness.
When all is said and done, all of these processed thoughts, (including the deductions of reasonings circling around the non-beneficial and detrimental effects a fear-based outlook to the collective of spirit, mind and body), have left me wiped out, and wondering how it is that up until this point in my life I have not become dependent on the port wine I savor some evenings, or at least a stiff shot of cough syrup.
For my brain is such a grand uniform of thought that even a sergeant general, marked with the stoic stars and stripes, could not maneuver his troops inside me to find the potential threat of enemy.
And then, with the coming of more and more rushing thoughts, I begin to laugh inside, realizing again that more than likely the stranger is not analyzing my distinct features; and then the sadness settles in, or at least what seems like sadness, but of late seems more akin to the knowing I am different and likely a different species of human all together.
In the meanwhile, with all of these aforementioned thoughts, my mind is continually involved in a game of connect–the-dots, bringing all the facial features together to make a collective whole.
And quite frankly sometimes I don’t like what I see. And then there is always the lingering notion, that this is all much-to-do about nothing, because if I was ever to see this person again, I wouldn’t recognize him anyways, because I cannot retain visual images of faces in my memory banks.
By this time, when my thoughts have run full course into a state of exhaustion, the person I was looking at has either moved on and out of my view or he or she has moved on in conversation. And where the person is left waiting for me to respond to something said, that she assumed I heard, just as she assumed I was ready to listen, I am still wondering, if in fact, if I look older or younger than this person, because I have wrinkles under my right eyes in the same way, and likely the same depth; and this person is still so pretty even with the marks of age; and I wonder if the wrinkles are appearing more engraved because of the lighting and what the person would look like in an alternative setting, with say a red scarf instead of green; and if her hair is naturally blonde, or now with her aging, recently dyed; and when I should stop dying my hair; and if I remembered to mark my hair appointment on the calendar, and why at times I seem so forgetful.
Through all the analysis piled upon rhetoric and philosophical jargon, added to the process of scaffolding current information with past information and connecting other to self, and the tangent of strings my mind travels to, I am left literally spent, my pockets of reserve penniless, and my wallet flung open for the taking.
And so it is I wonder, when the others, perhaps less aware of this process, say: “Look at me, while I’m talking to you.”
I wonder if a person realizes what one glance, what one look, what one simple demand, demands of me.
Pass me the port, please.
~~~~~~~~~~
(dang if I ain’t one prolific goofball and a half)
1. He tells you as he is making out with you, “Someday your future boyfriend will be really glad I taught you this.”
2. He corrects and critiques the way you break your bread, showing you how to separate the roll into four equal pieces.
3. He stays up all night scraping the black factory-painted pinstripe off of his truck because he can’t sleep until it’s entirely gone.
4. He stays up all night making cardboard hotels for cats, convinced he will be rich off of his invention.
5. He owns a limo, but it turns out he’s the driver, and he likes to tell you often what he watches the passengers doing in the backseat.
6. He explains that he likes you a lot, and will share a bed with you, but doesn’t feel comfortable sitting on the same couch as you.
7. He steals your expensive perfume bottle (again) and “secretly” gives it as a present to his other girlfriend.
8. He doesn’t have driving insurance and totals his truck while on a secret rendezvous to the mountains with his other lover, and then asks you to come get him at the hospital.
9. He says, after your first dinner date, which he planned to be out of town, that he is too drunk to drive home but has conveniently already booked a hotel room nearby.
10. He promises he just wants to cuddle.
11. He says he has a romantic surprise for you, and when you enter the room there is a “toy” and a video camera set up.
12. His father tells you, after your lover has gone missing for three days: “He is just like me, a player, and he ain’t changing.”
13. His mother takes you out to an intimate lunch and tells you, “You are so smart and lovely and kind, why are you with my son?”
14. He takes you to an antique store to teach you have to shoplift.
15. He sells you a stereo that he bought with his roommates “stolen” credit card.
16. He doesn’t come and find you when you run out of the house crying.
17. He calls his ex-girlfriend when you are still in bed together.
18. He has rearranged the photos of you as a couple each time you come over.
19. He lives with his sister, has no job, is addicted to pain-killers, and is a chain-smoker.
20. He makes you gag.
21. He makes you wish you lived on another planet.
22. He says, “I don’t love you, I’m certain.”
23. He is the roommate of the other really odd guy you dated.
24. He has an ex-wife that warns, “Watch out, he is trouble.”
25. He enters a room and every woman wants to give him his number, and he takes them.
26. He has deep dark brown bedroom eyes, and he knows it.
27. He shows up late all the time, and always has a very detailed excuse.
28. He says, “It depends, are you planning on losing weight,” when you ask him if you should cut your hair shorter.
29. He tells you how to dress.
30. He tells to wear long fake fingernails painted pink.
31. He is in therapy with you and seeing another therapist with his wife.
32. He enters the athletic gym, and the male employees look at you, raise a brow, and say in a derogatory tone, “That’s your boyfriend?”
33. He was the first man you saw after breaking up with your other boyfriend who was the first man you saw.
34. He claims he cannot tell you where he lives because it is a temporary situation and he can’t give you his phone number because he doesn’t have a phone.
35. He plans a party and not one person shows up.
36. He asks your father for your hand in marriage, shortly after his mistress, holding a baby, kicks down his apartment door in an attempt to kill you.
37. He does things with himself at stop signs you know are plain wrong, but he insists everyone does it.
38. He lies to his mother.
39. He yells at you because you packed the camping ice-chest wrong.
40. He tells you that your suspicions about his cheating on you means you are paranoid.
41. He likes beer with his breakfast.
42. He takes you out to drink “brain freeze” alcoholic shots for the first date.
43. He tells you all about his special adventures with his guy friend, with a twinkle of love in his eyes.
44. He takes you to a party and you find him half-naked in the bathroom with his ex-girlfriend, and he claims she is helping to adjust his Halloween costume.
45. He tells you how you could be prettier.
46. He asks you to buy something for his mother’s birthday because he can’t afford it.
47. He takes you on an out-of-state trip, via airplane, to his hometown and disappears in the early morning to meet up with a past lover.
48. He calls you from a phone booth, a few blocks away, claiming he is out-of-town working for a few days.
49. He doesn’t say, “You are beautiful.”
(He points out your mistakes often, like forgetting to add number 50 to this list.)
Please protect your aspie daughter. Teach her she is worthy. Love her unconditionally. Pay attention to her. She doesn’t know as much as you think she does. She thinks, like herself, that everyone is kind-hearted and filled with good intention. Teach her about red flags, about predators, about liars, about trickery, and about manipulation. Teach her about appropriate behavior and conduct. Consider her an angel on earth, uneducated about the ways of this world. Hold her and cherish her. And above all teach her how special she is.
This was my first album; I used to play this song over and over and over. I memorized all the lyrics. I was so awesome.
Random thought: What if the reason why my dog is so very happy to see me every morning is because in her reality one night is 100 years!
Everyday Asperger's 