challenges

385: Navigating the Female Aspergerian Mind

| Aspergers Girls

“Samantha Craft,” M.Ed. has served as an educator for adults and children, a spiritual counselor and an advocate for individuals with special needs. She holds a teaching credential and a Master’s Degree in Education, and has completed multiple postgraduate courseworks in the field of psychology and counseling. Currently, under the penname of Samantha Craft, she manages and authors the well-circulated blog Everyday Aspergers: Life through the eyes of a female with Aspergers. Her prolific writings depict the multifaceted daily life of an adult with Asperger’s Syndrome. Samantha maintains contact with people across the world touched by ASD and serves as the founder of an online support group for adult females on the autistic spectrum. She resides with her husband and three sons, (one with ASD), in the state of Washington.

This article may be duplicated for professional use in an educational setting and for family members in the home setting. Please keep contact information on the page. The works are copyright protected and not meant for duplication for groups or presentations. Copies of the edited and complete article can be found in the future publication of a peer reviewed journal.

Navigating the Female Aspergerian Mind

Chances are, because of the lack of available resources in regards to Females with Asperger’s Syndrome, an undiagnosed female with ASD has slipped under the radar of many professionals. With today’s growing rates of autistic syndromes, any professional established in the field of mental health therapy would benefit from careful examination of the complexities of Asperger’s Syndrome, as it pertains to the female experience. Until recently, little to nothing was known about the female with Asperger’s, as most, if not all, current diagnostic tools are geared toward and develop based on the male genders’ characteristics of ASD. The simplest of signs that might indicate the female representation of Asperger’s to a practitioner are often misunderstood, misdiagnosed, denied, diluted, or unnoticed.

As a result of under-diagnoses, a large majority of females on the autistic spectrum are reaching adulthood as survivors of multiple emotional and physical traumas. Because limited resources and tools are available for working with the female client with Asperger’s, professionals sometimes fall back on what has worked with clients who do not have ASD, regardless of the fact that Asperger’s is not a mental health condition, but a neurological syndrome. More often than not the practitioner treats the symptoms and not the condition, focusing on the obvious comorbid traits of Asperger’s, such as depression and anxiety, without full consideration dedicated to the whole of the person, in particular the fact that he is working with an individual who views the world somewhat different from the mainstream client. Though the professional has the client’s best interest in mind, in some cases the professional’s overall lack of education and limited know-how can be not only non-beneficial for the client with ASD, but detrimental to the psyche. Wherein the astute practitioner recognizes the challenges at hand in regards to the female with ASD, he seems to be a rare minority.

Considering the sensitive nature of the female with Asperger’s condition, an individual whom has likely often found herself a subject of alienation, ridicule, suspicion, doubt and abuse, it is vital for the professional to understand the power she holds to make or break her client; especially the client’s feasible outlook on seeking out further assistance as pertains to her emotional well-being. In example, females on the autistic spectrum develop both conscious and subconscious strategies in their attempt to function effectively in a world which often appears unpredictable and potentially volatile. Oftentimes, a female with Asperger’s is using all of her mental and emotional resources to merely survive and navigate the social world. In response she is fatigued and over-taxed. If a female is partaking in mental health therapy, and the therapist suggest to her that she change or adjust some of her coping mechanisms, for example seeking out strategies to decrease verbal processing, the suggestion itself has the potential to create increased anxiety and feasibly shutdown the client’s ability to remain focused and present. Aspects of the unexplored “Aspergerian” mind can present challenges and/or roadblocks that the practitioner does not necessarily encounter in therapeutic dialogue with ‘typical’ clients, e.g., those presenting with mental health illness without a neurological condition. (I avoid the word ‘disorder’ entirely, in regards to Asperger’s Syndrome, as it is my firm belief that just because one functions outside the perimeters of the current majorities’ collective agreement of norm does not by the process of negation establish a select group as abnormal or having a disorder.)

In understanding the female’s (with Aspergers) mindset is uniquely different from the majority of mainstream society, including her capacity for complexity of thoughts, intense mental connections/scaffolding, and advanced logical sequencing, and taking into account the potential effects of a lifetime of repeated humiliation and abuse, it is advisable for the professional to consider the (ASD) client’s trauma may reach far beyond what is considered the typical depths of post-traumatic stress. Add this to her tendencies for sensory-stimuli overload, and the female with Aspergers will likely exhibit an instinctual flight-or-flight response to any new situation; especially those pertaining to vulnerability and emotional intimacy. Other factors hindering the benefits of therapy include the client’s ability to recreate her self-presentation based on how she perceives the professional perceives her. Often a master actress, the female with Asperger’s has developed a toolbox of masks enabling her to move in the world undetectable to the naked, untrained eye. Here in the client-practitioner relationship, the client is likely to mold into the persona that she believes best fits the comfort-level of the professional, moving within the room of therapy just as she moves in the exterior symbolic rooms of her life. A professional, unstudied in the elements of the female condition of Asperger’s, is apt to miss the nuances of a given client’s chameleon qualities, overlooking the client’s subtle changes in representation of self or wrongfully assuming the client is resorting to trickery and sabotage.

The female with Asperger’s, while extremely witty and intelligent, exhibits continual emotional fragility. In some cases this is hidden behind emotionally-detached humor or within the guise of a persona she is currently exhibiting; e.g., she may imitate a character on television. Though she is emotionally vulnerable, she is capable of hiding herself from other people and is keen in her honed ability to detect social norms and acceptable behaviors of a given situation. Given her nature and character, one word or mannerism from the practitioner may be overanalyzed and/or perceived by the client as a threat or criticism. Misinterpretations, distrust, or a number of other variables, can lead the client to shutdown (emotional withdraw), meltdown (emotional outburst), retreat into imagination or fantasy, recreate the presentation of self, and/or switch from a state of emotional presence to logical analysis. When the client is triggered by the professional and responds accordingly, the quality of the therapeutic relationship is adversely affected. Unlike the mainstream client, a woman with Asperger’s may never trust a professional once she believes she has been misinterpreted and/or criticized.

As a professionally diagnosed female with Asperger’s, in reviewing my own experiences in therapy, which encompass a decade-long-span of individual, couple, small-group and large-group interaction, incorporating a cornucopia of therapeutic techniques and theories, my most damaging experiences occurred when the practitioner was neither vulnerable nor authentic, a perceived-lacking from my point of view, that affected my capacity to connect at a humanistic-level with the practitioner. The best scenarios, in my therapy experience as the client, occurred when the professional was free of dogma, restrictions, and rigid-habits, and able to see through my mirage of disguises. In truth, I don’t think this ever happened, the best scenario that is, and that I, in actuality, through the process of vigorous self-help and psychological self-studies and applications, became my own psychologist by trade, primarily implementing Transpersonal Psychotherapy and elements of Logotherapy.

Based on my own life experience, the deep-level of understanding of my own Asperger’s condition and the personal interactions with other females on the autisitc spectrum, I have developed a list of what I would have liked to have seen, given the means and opportunity to time travel back as a client or to time travel forward as a practitioner. In recognizing each therapist has his unique style, I offer this as a list of suggested ideas, my hope and intention being to provide others the opportunity for a beneficial client-practitioner relationship.

List of Ideas

382: SAMANTHA CRAFT WAKE UP

| Aspergers Girls

My son just told me he is only wearing his retainer (for his teeth) at night! He is supposed to wear it all day and night for a year!!! Oh, noooo; he is breaking a rule! I watched myself in the mini-van spin into a semi-state of hysteria. Just when I thought I had this “rule thing” all figured out, I lost it. However, I was able to step back enough to watch, as the observer, as I “scolded” my son. “Do you know how much we invested in your teeth? What do you mean you are not wearing it all day? How could you do that?” By the tone of my voice, and the racing of my heart, I’d have thought, in reflection, I’d just found out that my eldest son robbed the mini-market down the road. Oh, my gosh! Freak out. Total freak out. This is so wonderfully awesome, to be a witness to my humanness.

I just apologized. “You kind of over reacted,” my teenage son responded. “I know I did. I know I did,” I said, the words floating inward to my core.

Something shook me; I don’t know what, but something. I am thinking my reaction is two-fold, this mini-freak out. Part one is my close adherence to manmade rules, the second is my immediate embracing of fear (in this case the loss of all the time and money in fixing his teeth). The fear part, I think I am getting a huge grasp of. I can talk myself through, and as observer sit back and take a sip through a straw of cool iced-tea and watch the other me spin. I know she’ll come back; it’s just so weird to watch.

I recognize this is part of my learning and growth. Right when I think I’ve got this “me” under control, something comes out of the woodwork to remind me that first of all I do not have control of anything, and second of all, I don’t need to focus on this “control.” I am me. This is me. This is how I currently walk in the world, and that is okay.

Had you asked me two hours ago, how I was, I’d tell you Aspergers, at least the fear and anxiety part, was behind me; this is troubling, as I now walk half of my day in extreme peace and solitude, and a large portion of the rest smack back down in the earth zone. I feel like a gladiator that retreats to pray in the chapel each morning and then is thrown into the arena with the beasts. Truth is, I am a champion; I continually destroy the beasts; problem is I’ve gotten all these bites on me now, like giant-mosquito-wasp-mutant-beaver-teethed-ghosts keep buzzing about and chomping. Flesh is literally at my feet!

I am never going to be perfect! Never, ever, ever, ever. And that kind of sucks; but it’s good, too; because I don’t think there are many people who want to hang out with a floating semi-saint. I mean, I would totally miss sipping a hard pear cider and drowning myself in garlic-cheese fries, (with freshly grated parmesan.) Can you sort of tell that I am having some trouble navigating life? I love, love, love the floaty, ethereal part of being connected with my higher source; I seriously glow. But all that floating, it has a price. Coming out of that state makes me hit bottom hard. I imagine the process of drifting down is much like coming off a high of a shroom or some drug, like LSD.

As case and point, semi-saint speaks below:

“I am walking through a tunnel, the tunnel of attachment to enlightenment. I am attached to the enlightenment. But soon this tunnel shall be lifted, and I shall see a million tunnels before me, all the levels of attachment lifted. And then I shall be in that space above the tunnels and blessing the tunnels one by one; my life an endless bliss of thanking every single thing that brought me suffering. Soon I will see beyond the tunnels into the space of nothing. Then I will be filled with the divine laughter at the seat of my soul; then the imaginary tunnels as they float in front of me will bring me nothing but joy as they explode and burst into butterflies.”

***

I mean who in their fricken mind talks like that? Well, supposedly I do! Surprise. All the sudden all these aspects of me are emerging full force, like this confidence I have reclaimed has in and of itself called out all the parts of me and declared: “Share who you are with the world. We are free!!!” I can hear the trumpets. I can see the dancing. I can see the naked guru fluttering down the street: I am butterfly. I am butterfly. I am butterfly.

What if that is my next state? What if I am morphing into a street streaker? That is possible you know! I could manifest it, or some person out there might be manifesting it right now!

Of course, this would draw an increasing number of people to my blog. So there is that.

I was contemplating, the other night, after my husband’s classic quote: “I keep thinking to myself, how do you do that? I mean who’s got that much shit to say,” that perhaps the book title I have been searching for is truly: Shit, my wife says. I mean that would draw the other half of the population in that isn’t in it for the streaking.

What do you think? We (you and me—as you are automatically my best friend by reading this)..we could insert “aspie” right before the word “wife,” so the search engine could find it better, or I suppose “Asperger’s.” We could indeed insert several adjectives of interest there. Hmmm. Let us change the subject.

Here is some more of myself this morning. There has to be a middle ground, between this shaking-her-head-at-sad-little-wanna-be-guru-half-me (who is typing now) and the sad-little-wanna-be-guru-peon (who is writing below.) There just has gotta be!

***

“I find myself slipping back into self, into a place I cannot see; it is as if I am there and watching, experiencing the whole thing, but then when I try to look back, it appears I wasn’t there to begin with; as I cannot remember walking through life, or breathing, or even thinking. The process is similar to when I write my spiritual prose, in which I hear this delicate woven oneness throughout my being, and from somewhere deep that isn’t deep at all; this lovely-joy emerges without emerging. There seems to be no door opened or closed, just a stream within a stream within a stream. And I am swept up into the images of where I am not, but am; perhaps this is grace or being touched by the divine. Whether this is manifested, an embrace from beyond self, or an embrace by myself alone, makes no matter, for in the “teachings” which are more akin to remembering, I know without boundary and outside the numerical representation of percentages, that there is no right or wrong, or any answers.”

Photo on 4-19-13 at 11.58 AM #2

I inserted the photo so you would think the post was over. hehehehehe

Sounds like she is drugged, yes? Come on, come on, be truthful. If you are an Aspie, I can count on your for that.

And I go on, and on, and on….like my experience is the make or break of me. Like if I don’t share this insight, I shall have died inside for not fulfilling my destiny. Please. Cut out the crap, princess-semi-saint!

She continues:

“As I have mentioned before, I recognize this is my experience; I don’t expect anyone to get “me,” or understand “me,” or even want anyone to accept “me.” There is an inner peace I have come to find and any moment I experience attachment, the serenity seemingly vanishes. Thusly, it is far more freeing to release what I want than to release the serenity. It is simple to me. Really. I am on this other side of nowhere, in this space, and I have no desire to slip back to the other space, even though I know all is space. Isn’t that a silly thing? Yes, indeed this all is. That is why I laughed so deeply this morning, uncontrollable spiritual laughing. I chuckled so deeply that the only thing I can compare the intensity to is the extreme polar opposite beyond opposite of weeping deeply. The experience was reminiscent of the moments I have sobbed on my knees or in the fetal position inside my closet begging for rescue from my own self; except, and in this joy-filled weeping of love…”

***

Pausing to sigh, and laugh, and remind you that I (the fun-loving gal) am still here. Hold on, it gets better:

“….I felt so deeply and fully that it far surpasses the deepest I have ever wept. For once the measure of my pain did not equally match my joy. My joy reached tremendous glorious heights. And there in a moment, all of it, all of my life made so much sense. I saw everything, like I had died, but what was flashing before me was instant knowing of the comical joke of being lost for so long. And there wasn’t any sadness or remorse or regret; nothing that didn’t fit into the ring of sublime love and joy. I was a giddy guru celebrating the entire journey of me. All of time stopped and I slipped through my own mind, outside of somewhere of nowhere. I just was. And in this intense being and what felt to be connection, I felt nowhere and everywhere at once. I understood so much so fast, as if a person had lifted open a box to find me and He or She or It was peering down at me with glorious kind eyes and laughing.”
***

YES, it’s me SAM CRAFT…and I have come with a club to smack you on the head!

And she goes on more:

“The remarkable part of the divine laughter was I found myself unable to be afraid of the experience. I was able to ask questions and have answers before the questions were entirely formed. I knew what was happening was from the divine and I knew all was well. I laughed harder, as I thought: “What if I never stop?!” I now understand clearly that I don’t have to endure suffering to connect with my higher power.”

***

You see? Come on, who would you rather sit with at a pub? This me writing, or that me above, who literally is above, floating two-feet off of her stool. I think you would enjoy the other emerging (barging out me), but she gets boring, and stiff, and old so fast. You’d be begging me to stop, like if I have a switch or something. I don’t. Of course you’d likely learn a lot because I have grand flashes of knowing! You’d learn that it hurts when you yawn so much; you’d learn that my face has a freakish way of not being able to stop smiling. You’d learn that it is indeed not an act and that I am either in some trance, taken over by aliens, or, filled with something or another. (Port wine?)

Then I would drone on more. Here, stick some fries in your ears.

“Last night I noticed, as I was playing catch up with responding to lovely souls who leave words for me to delight in,”

***

lol…. I am sorry… but can’t she just say “people”? Okay, carry on….

“I didn’t feel what I used to feel when people responded to me. There wasn’t any evaluation of them or me, of their words, of their intended meaning, of their intention. I just saw beauty. That is it. Just lovely beauty. And I thought how kind of them to reach out and connect; how very kind.”

***

Someone tell SAM she doesn’t have to share EVERYTHING. I already deleted like 30% of her ramble. And still she babbles on and on and on. I bow down to you, oh enlightened all-mighty one.

Again…..

“This morning when I read a few new comments, I found myself at a distinct crossroad. I stepped back and watched myself process. At first I thought, “Well that doesn’t fit what I was feeling when I wrote it.” And then I played out all these ways in which I would have responded to self in the past and to another in the past. I would have wanted to plead or prove my point, or explain, or re-explain, or justify or point out. I would have wanted to prove who I was and how I was. But then with a flash, and a great relief of both physical and spiritual pressure, I realized, yet again, there is NOTHING to prove to me or anyone! I am who I am and that is all. I am a reflection of the person viewing my words and the being I weave within these words. What a person chooses to see is how he or she sees the path before him or her. Not me. It’s not about ME! It’s about everyone else.

(Not me! What a relief.) << that's non-semi-saint talking.

I could then just reflect back to the self inside self or outside self or no self at all…(you see the confusion, and how I still blunder within-hahaha)…that what is written for me, carries NO message at all in the words beyond the emotions and experience I choose to have when I read the message. Each word is my teacher. And then all is reversed. It is me reading their words and choosing what I see to be the path in front of me. They become my teacher. In releasing the judgment, the discernment, the questions, I simply let them teach me. And so I take in the vibration of their words now quite differently, or what seems differently than before. I smile, with this smile that just never seems to fade, and think: “Ah, so that is how you see yourself? And, ah, so this is how you teach me, with your blessings of being.

When I am out in the world, something else has “transitioned.” I had finally received another person fully. There are no questions, only a gentle acceptance. Thoughts of: What a kind person. What a beautiful light. What a dream. What a love.

I have also released attachment to words. I see how every word, no matter the word, can be loved for the word itself and nothing more. Words have no implications on me or the world or anyone. I have the only implication upon self. If a word doesn’t resonate with me, I just sit with the word and what it carries, and I listen to the experience, opening as I am taught. That is all. This is no trick of the mind or game, it just is; like the salmon in the stream, I just move as I am called, up or down or around, with no fear of my destination, but still following the course that either drives me or moves me.

I have been spending quiet time daily, studying different spiritual texts, my favorite at the moment being the gnostic Christian gospels, the Catholic Saints, and Buddhist texts. I also have been listening to my angels throughout the day. I am practicing being in the moment without effort or strain. I am learning more and more about where I am and where I have been without asking or yearning. I have let go of the thoughts of attachments, to need, to anything that is not matched exactly to the serene peace my higher power brings."

***

Photo on 4-19-13 at 3.42 PM

(not over yet…she ain’t! I think I just did a mini-barf! Tastes like garlic)

“I understand fully that my path is my path, and that anyone and everyone chooses their own path. I have no judgment in how one walks, in how they choose to see me, how they choose to see the choices I am making. I know I am not leading the way. I know each person is his or her own leader. There is no judgment I place on my own journey. I know without doubt that I am a living example of the LIGHT, and in this way, I am the key, just as everyone else is a key. I now view this word Aspergers as a symbolic representation of the cycle of everything. I see the connections within the connections.

I had to latch on and attach to Aspergers. I just had to. Any attempt to pull me out the immersion of Aspergers was met in fierce defense. I am wondering if Aspergers is not indeed a state of limbo. A state of being half-awakened, the beginning of recognizing the illusion of conversation, the illusions of the games people play, the illusion of rules, the illusion of everything. And if perhaps this Aspergers, with this sometimes intense anguish it brings, is not the hugest blessing of all; at least to me, because it thrust me into so much confusion and discomfort that I had the choice to live in fear and pain or to find the answer.

I found the answer in attachment. I was giving the ability to fixate and attach to things. And so I attached to me and my mind and my pain. And I went through it all. I sifted through it. I made a pledge to come out on the other side a transformed person; I did this through attachment. Much like I attached to the word Aspergers. I had to attach to self. I couldn’t bypass this step. I sank into the depth of self, and while doing this took my greatest risks. I risked being exposed, being judged, being wrong, being not liked. I risked all the things in which Aspergers had “made” me fear. I faced my fear.”

*****
Intermission…. in case you need to pee.

*****

Continue:

“This journey has been two-fold, one of embracing Aspergers and of diving into self. I was brave and I conquered the dark night of the soul. The trick is, I didn’t know what I was doing. The entire time I just did. I just let go and did. I allowed myself to be authentic and whole, no matter what state I was in….”

(so true….look at her go)

“… no matter how the other person might perceive me. In this there was torturous hell, repeated doubts, and endless fear. But in this there was freedom, for having faced my demons, they no longer exist. Whether gifts are found in living with the Holy Spirit, walking the path of the Buddhist, connecting to the divine being, or in other elements from the variety of paths to the Light, I see that in Aspergers, or more so specifically, in the traits that make up the manmade concept of Aspergers, I have:

A heart like a child
A longing for the truth
A longing to be gentle and kind
A desire to be the best person I can
The ability to see through games
The ability to step back and be observer of self
The huge capacity for intense studies of any subject of interest
The want to be the best person I can be
The lack of wanting to hurt anyone, to manipulate, or to lie
Compassion for all living things (some objects, too)
An ability to love easily and forgive easily

Indeed, I believe that Aspergers is and was my path to freedom. I also understand fully that attachment and non-attachment are twins. I see a doorway for each and everything I have attached my energy to. I see millions of doors. I see how I had to attach to many things, like “love” interests, and fear, and food, and so on, in order to reach non-attachment, just as I had to attach to Aspergers and myself to un-attach from both. There is a door of attachment. I open the door. I experience actions, emotions, or waking trials/challenges and walk through the tunnel of this specific fear. The tunnel is dark and scary. And as I am walking through this tunnel I face the demons. But I keep walking, keep trudging forward. I do reach the end. I open the closed-door and I am back in the light on non-attachment.

In this way attachment is my tunnel. In this way attachment is my greatest teacher. All along I thought that I had to first release and let go to heal, but what I had to do was let go enough only to face my fear. Now I go through the tunnel in an instant; the dark comes and then the huge light. In taking in the dark and holding the fear, I am simultaneously embraced by the light. Soon the dark is such a small sliver that the light just keeps coming and coming. But My hope now is nothing. I realize I don’t have to keep forcing myself to not attach; instead I allow myself the freedom to attach to anything and everything and watch as I pull my own tentacles off of what I am embracing. It has become so evident that feeding off of a desire is painful and standing in the light is intensely freeing. I can no longer rest as a giant octopus sucking upon the dark side of an underwater rock. I just can’t. It doesn’t resonate. I see myself instantly and think, “No, thanks. Been there, done that. Give me the light.” ”

*****

I forgot to mention, I just paid a fortune for my new retainer, as my teeth shifted back, because I never got a retainer as a teenager and didn’t have an Aspie mom.

Photo on 4-19-13 at 4.08 PM

SEEEEEEEE I told you, she’s a talker. She is so virtuous and good and loving and kind. Oh, NO!! Am I experiencing split personality??? Stopping myself from looking up characteristics of such a condition.

You know what totally sucks about semi-saint is the fact that she will never ever say one bad thing about me. She won’t even use the word “bad” without something in parenthesis editing her own dull verbiage. Crap! Fricken Crap. I am always going to be the bad guy, without her ever pointing it out! Until she crushes me, or I crush her. And I won’t see her coming, she’ll be so charming and loving and truth-filled and radiating love that I will be wooed by her, just like my husband. I will wag my imaginary tail, shaking my bootie back and forth and just give in. I’ll just slip away.

Is this enlightenment? Because it royally sucks!

This is ALL my teacher’s fault: The Buddhist monk, or nun, or mountain man who lives in the cave, (he is hot and in a flannel shirt; hot as in sexy hot), or whomever was supposed to beam down and help me through this process.

I give up. My hands are in the air. This off-her-rocker-elven-princess who morphs into semi-saint-wannabe needs a proxy-teacher. Anyone up for the job? Anyone? Anyone?

(thank you to the person who shared this song, today!)

380: Star Poop and the Naked Boy-Toy!

| Aspergers Girls

young rob

Reader Beware: This is an example of what goes on in my head. (If you are bored, scan down to the end. Where my husband made a remarkable revelation!)

I was curious about some “things” and so I asked some random questions, as I seem to have a direct line to the collective unconscious of something or another; if you are comfortable with Carl Jung, let’s go there to the expansive wave of collective thoughts—the whole hundredth monkey theory.

If you are comfortable with inner-awareness, let’s go there, into the deep spaces of my untraveled mind, the pieces I have gathered from multitude of sources, and pinned together into a cohesive, almost understandable oneness.

If you like the idea of aliens in space beaming down prophetic knowing through the crystal in my cranium, let us travel there, into the ameba of oneness, or in this case the enema of oneness.

(You know in a bad comedy how they hint to the dumb audience what they were referring to, and you are part of this assumed “dumb” audience, and you say to your partner, or buddy, or invisible ghost friend: “Like I couldn’t figure that out on my own.” Well I kind of feel like a producer of a bad comedy, with me as the star, and I truly don’t want to direct you to why the word “enema” connects to the title, so I won’t. But just thought I’d pause to explain, as that is why you tuned into this channel I am supposing. Oh, and if you think I think you are a dumb audience then you are, but if you don’t think that then you’re not. It’s all a matter of perspective.)

Or how about angels and God, those are fun places to venture, as there are always four camps it seems: the believers, the objectors, the debaters, and the unattached (aka: zen, enlightened, or I don’t give a hooting fricken chicken’s butt).

I wonder why that four-camps theory doesn’t work with the whole alien theory—there doesn’t seem to be the fanatical thing attached to alien theories, (unless you’ve been beamed up, of course)—maybe because they don’t threaten man’s perception of reality. Maybe green little men are easier to comprehend than God/Creator/Life Force. “I mean look at how huge the universe is! Aliens must be somewhere,” Earl said. With me responding, “Yeah, who cares about how the universe got here! There must be aliens!”

Perhaps you are comfortable with hovering spirits or guiding ancestors, in that case these are some pretty smart relatives and ghosts I have about.

Or perhaps, you liken the appeal of genius-aspie, as you yourself are on the spectrum or married to someone with Aspergers (lucky, lucky you!); and the whole genius aspect is intriguingly-comforting in that “I am so awesome” kind of way, or in that “at least she’s got that going for her” way.

Ideally, you think this is all utter nonsense, babblings of a mad woman who has falling off her rocker and can’t get up and has no device to contact the aliens to beam her up, or voice to beckon the spirits or angels, and no means to direct the hundredth monkey to fly down for rescue. Ideally, I say, because, how you see me doesn’t much matter. You will interpret me. I have no control over that. And honestly I don’t want to control you, unless you are chocolate; then I would like to control you and digest you. And that’s where the fun is, in eating you as chocolate, and in knowing in this moment in space, that you see in me what you see in yourself. Hehehe, you are so ________.

It doesn’t matter if you think I am a nutter. But if you are having trouble deciphering who you are, please insert chocolate.

Recently, I am thinking that I become magically transformed by your perception of me. If this theory is true, as some sages claim it to be, then somewhere I exist as a thousand replicas… time travel in its purest form!

(Remember, way up there, in my first big paragraph, I mentioned I was curious about some things…well I haven’t forgotten to get to the end of that point. I am sort of time traveling in my mind from one thought to the next, but eventually I will get to the place I was originally headed. Or not.)

I spoke to a special friend today, I call second mom, because she is so fabulously sweet. She actually counts me as one of her daughters, which makes me think she seriously is deranged—which is further proof we see in others who we believe ourselves to be.

My second Mummy (for my UK readers, Mummy instead of Mommy—comedy producer doubting audience) was the victim of my verbal spillage. I HAD to tell her most of what had happened to me in the last three weeks (Verbal Vomit.) The whole time I spilled, another “better,” and much more spiritually-matured part of self, I call the observer (or sexy goddess, depending on my mood) watched with a Buddha-grin, as I was split into two distinct forces: 1) my inner guru/semi-saint and my 2) excited-aspie-persona; then someone came and sat behind the observer watching all of us: the observer, the guru, and the aspie. Sometimes they all merged into one, and other times the guru and aspie were sparring, while the observer remained cautious. And the guy behind the observer, he resembled my angels and laughed at me. When I think about how I was able to see the man behind the man behind the me, my head hurts.

(I think as the observer as a man; no stereotypical reasons I can offer. I likely have God-abandonment issues. But the person watching the observer, I think she is a woman. So ultimately the she-me is in control; until I start to think about who is beyond her. Then I need a brain-enema.)

I decided spilling my thoughts onto my sweet mummy was liken to a little girl who had just opened a bunch of presents (toys) and has a strong desire to share them ALL at one time. And thusly, quite dynamically and swiftly, in a span of two hours, I ended up burying my dear sweet one into a huge gigantic heap of toys.

In the end, she was under a massive pile of wooden toy blocks, because figuratively speaking, I had built a gigantic castle right on top of her sprawled out body. Way down low, beneath the block castle, peering up from the moat, was dear second-MUM! While I swung from the castle turrets hollering with glee: “Hello down there!” (wearing a purple princess dress). We surmised, together, that this was okay, me burying her and spilling upon her and such, as I let her keep, after some discussion, not a Stretch Armstrong doll, not a Six-Million-Dollar-Man doll, not a Donny Osmond doll, but a Rob Lowe doll, to play with and make her very own. With this she was giggly-happy, my seventy-year old second MUM… She was especially happy after I mentioned the imaginary Rob Lowe doll was completely naked! Yes! Naked. As I’d removed all of his clothes.

rob lowe

Yes, this is my life. And I kind of like it.

As my self-proclaimed second-mom and I were speaking, before I buried her completely in my new found toys, I had mentioned about a previous vision; and my special friend, very special indeed to be buried in my toys, well she said the vision I retold to her helped her a lot. The vision I had, which I shared partially a ways back, was a breaking point for my personal healing, much like my mum’s naked boy-toy.

In this past vision, I was shown a room, a vast room filled with a thousand people. There was a stage, and each person took his or her turn getting on stage and saying what he or she thought of me. Not all of them, as even with the ability I seemingly have to STOP TIME, I didn’t want to hear the lot of them. And so, through this vision, I listened through the visual representation of imagery. And in so doing, in being there in this vision, I was taught without word, but through energetic form, that each person in the room, every single one of them, had a unique individualized view of me.

I understood, instantly and with great inner depth, too complex to relate in words of any longevity, that no two people’s perspectives of me would ever be the same. That for another to perceive me as the “real” or “actual” me was an impossibility. I was further shown that in choosing what perceptions of me seemed to be the true perception of who I was, I would have to draw some sort of imaginary line of separation. I would have to choose. For instance, would I take the top twenty who spoke great of me? Or the bottom ten that spoke ill of me? The ones in the middle? The ones with mixed feelings? Or the perceptions that they had at a different moment, say next week, or next year? When they left the room and their life experiences changed, would I still want that same perception? Was I willing to define myself by ever-changing dependent variables, and more so base my sense of worth, and emotional state, even vibrational energy, on the ebb and flow of the perception of masses? On examining this room, I was able to come to the conclusion that the thought of basing my identity on so much uncertainty and constant variation, was not only exhausting, but entirely unpredictable and unreliable. In seeing this, and drawing swift recognitions, I accepted I would rather be something simple, something I could hold onto and embrace. I would rather be a light—nothing more and nothing less. And beyond that perhaps nothing, even the nothingness behind nothing. Here I was able to accept that I was all of these perceptions of the people in the room and at the same time I was none of them. I existed somewhere unattainable in between, in the infinite space between two whole numbers, the never ending decimal.

(End of powerful vision, and start of brief intermission.)

The only issue with my identity I am having now, beyond the sparring guru and aspie, and the endless observers that alternate genders, and the God-abandonment issues, and… is that as of late, I seem to morph into different personas depending what life force is perceiving me, (who I am talking to or nearby), and sometimes animals, like monkeys or my dog, or even my pet cedar tree, Fred. This can pose a huge problem; I mean what if I am in close proximity to a pole-dancer?

And finally, what my main point was, some seven pages ago, is presented below. The lingering questions I had answered by the life force of something or another, whom doesn’t care what I call it, as long as I understand the whole non-attachment thing. All of this I was mostly shown in the span of a five-minute drive home. I tried to recapture the thoughts/vision/knowing with the help of the monkeys, but we have obviously had one too many bananas. And so I offer you, what the observer of the observer of the observer, aptly titled: Star Poop. And in which I thought later, after typing this all out: The Crap that comes out of my head and stars’ butts.

*******STAR POOOP*******

My question: “Am I creating a need for others to suffer by wanting to be of service to others?”

Yes, however the truth is in the words you choose to use, not in your intention.

If your intention is to truly serve, then where is this foundation?

If the foundation is love, then the need is based on love.

Therefore, remove only the remaining attachment of the word “need” and replace with the word “open,” and you may simply restate: I am open to love.

This, “open to love,” can mean many things, including open to service, if you deem partaking in service a form of giving love.

Likewise, if you say you “need to create,” and this is from love, then you are “open to creation.” Love works in this same manner, as being open to creation, though love is the foundation of all. So when one speaks: “I am open to love,” he is thusly “open to creation,” and open to anything he deems beneficial under the umbrella of love.

If one then asks: “But what of this love?,” and in so doing recognizes readily that even love then has boundaries, for surely he thinks one cannot love while creating hatred; then he has met the point of openness in which he might ask: “Let me be open.”

In this state, a state without need, and a state without the boundaries of love, (as love is a concept created for union and not division, and love is subtracted in the sight of separation), than one is better able to comprehend the vastness of open.

For is not “one being open,” imply open to any “thing;” in one being open to anything, he is thusly the distinguisher of fear, and thereby recognizes that love can be manifested in what would previously have been deemed “hatred.” For all are our teachers.

If hatred is a teacher that pulls us out of self and closer to egoless, or our true being state, then hatred surely is love.

This is to say: Turn the other cheek, but in turn, turn the other as well: the hidden cheek of humility.

It is not enough, to choose to turn away in physical form. To turn away in spiritual form, the mirror of illusion peering outwards into the mirror of illusion, and therefore releasing the thought before thought of self, is to truly turn away. Or in other terms, to turn forward and into self, by turning out of self, this is the measure of turning the cheek: to turn the various views of self long enough to render no self. In this state you are truly open to love, and there by an empty vessel for hatred.

Here, in this state of openness, you become openness, and in turn in being open, you are being self. This is a circle, as all life is, and without circle life is not.

Next question: “Did I tell a truth that wasn’t a complete truth, and is it better to speak the whole truth?”

A truth spoken from the heart with no intention, desire, or need, except to love, is a truth.

This does not mean the truth is a complete truth to the speaker or the receiver of said truth, it means it is a truth formed of love.

In opposite measure is truths formed from the stem of fear. All truths formed from the stem of fear, particularly the darker virtues of fear, included but not limited to greed, need, and attention, are stemmed from a place of falsehood.

To truly speak in truth the words spoken must in all ways reflect the interior intention beneath the words spoken. (The inner core of the being speaking.)

Therefore it is more “ideal” to say “I hate you,” if this is the truth of the vibration beneath a word, than to harbor this belief of truth (to keep within you the belief of hating). Because here, once spoken and declared, the truth is seen and digested and vanishes. Wherein if a person was to say “I love you,” whilst angry and in an inner state of dislike or non-congruence—which is all hatred is: an inner-state of non-congruence with self (not other)—then the truth would be buried and fester like poison in the body.

So why is it safe to utter the word hatred?

It is safe to say “I hate” because truth as the will-doer (person forming words) sees fit to match his inner state (core).

Better to say, “I am in a state of fear, or unrest, or uncertainty” than “I hate.” But still to say, “I hate you,” is in superior position in ranking the out-spring (core to spoken form) of emotion, than to say, “I love you,” or “I like you,” and not mean this utterance.

Uttering any non-truth from a base/foundation of fear is a true falsehood. Here even falsehood is accompanied by truth, as truth can be found in all measure.

However, in considering another scenario in which a one, rather feverish for another, withholds his love, by uttering, “I like you,” instead of “I love you,” perhaps because the other, he believes would hesitate, fear, or erupt with the mention of “love,” or perhaps because the social perimeters do not dictate that this person would be approved, for example, if he says “love” to another already “attached” or committed to another; in this case, if the person mutters “like” but resonates below, at the core, as “love,” but he chooses to do so out of “love” (not fear), then and only then, seeing he mumbles a replacement out of a core of love, then this can foster a truth.

This is what could be deemed a partial-truth, if the truth is stemmed from a core of love, as a mother not telling her daughter she appears unsightly; in this way she holds her tongue, which is best to do in all manners of appearance. In so doing, if the motherly figure replaced this truth of perceived non-beauty (which is a falsehood in and of itself, but used as scenario nonetheless, as seemingly relevant), in this way we say, all things stemmed from love, rather a truth in completion or truth in partial, become truth in totality. In after thought most mothers view their daughters as pure beauty; a better example may be a man peering at a former love-interest.

It is often the case, accordingly, that when one witness connects the words to truth, the other connects the words to truth simultaneously, when done in love.

Therefore, all things stemmed in love are truth, all things stemmed in fear are false.

Just as falsehood is an illusion, as fear is an illusion.

And anything stemmed in illusion births illusion.

So to state that the falsehood even exists in the perimeters of discussion, states the illusion is of some substance, and contradicts our speaking; but nonetheless negates the polarity of truthfulness, as we are speaking a truth stemmed from love, though the truth not be in totality, it resonates from the core of our being, presenting itself in exact foundation of what we perceive as self or we.

Next Question: “Are lies bad?”

All lies, except lies stemmed from love, without fear, are falsehoods, and therefore illusion.

All lies stemmed not from love are stemmed from fear. All lies stemmed not from love are thusly illusion.

There is no lie that can be told that does not have an element of fear, if the believer recognizes the uttered word as lie; this indeed contradicts the previous discussion, but only in manners of extreme theological inquiry. In truth, if lie is spoken to protect, serve, lift, support, without intention to manipulate, trick, deceive, or benefit, then this lie can be manifested as truth, if the receiver accepts the true inner core of the speaker that radiates love.

In this way lies are an illusion, but stemmed from the core of radiating love, and therefor transformed into living truth, some lies are perceived as truth. This is the only way lies transform—from love. It is the only way anything transforms: from love.

In considering the immediate question, “Are lies bad,” then it is important to distinguish the concept of “bad.” For no bad exists unless wished into existence for higher purpose, not by receiver, or wisher, but by collective; in this way no singular is responsible for bad, as no singular can be responsible for bad, as anyone labeled “bad” is a product of the collective environment of “we,” stemmed from either the majority of love or the majority of hate.

That is what “to love thy neighbor” means; for if you do not love your neighbor from an inner core of love, then what do you create, what do you stem, what do you feed the environment, to this created one?

If not love, there is either absence of love or the illusion of hatred. Others drown, if others would be, in the illusion of hatred, a toxic poison that breathes at the necessity of false illusion, to prove time and time again, through all veins of reason and travel that yes, indeed, in the illusion of hatred there is suffering.

Thusly, the liar and the lie are the same, both illusion formed and stemmed from the majority of fear, with love blocked out and extinguished, waiting in the shadows for the illusion to vanish.

For even illusion exists in thought and form, though not fluently recognized in planes of existence.

Therefore where you are, you have taken down a way of perceiving that doesn’t readily belong to you, and never has. Your perception of lies is neither here nor there, as it cannot survive here.

******

In another plane, perhaps depicted as the thought of distant stars, or say ye angels bright, then this concept of hatred exists, but only as collected thoughts from what could be said exists below.

Therefore when you embrace hatred, you in essence take in the wasteland of your own thoughts; once given to the stars for depletion, but stolen back for false comfort, for only false comfort arises from stealing falsehoods.

In this way hatred can be seen as the pollution of one world leaking into the other and being stolen back for sake of stealing, when the real culprit is the illusion of fear, unseen and untouched in the depth of the core.

Displace the illusion of fear from core, analyze and hold the fear, digest and demolish the fear, and eliminate fear at a soul-level, say earthly-level, and there exists no need for a wasteland of hatred, and then there “be” nothing of overflow waste to steal from.

Think this when you hate: You are stealing the waste of stars.

All the brightness, the nutrients, and “goodness” have been passed through the bowels of the stars, and you are receiving the manure.

Thusly, anger exists as an illusion, but in star-form as a teacher, for what can grow from manure but the finest of gardens.

In this way there is no judgment in anger, or hatred, as anything stemmed from fear, or the collectors of fear, is illusion, and beyond illusion, nothing is judged in totality or in separation: all is as is and unfolding as decided before the unfolding of time.

In this way do not judge your neighbor, rather turn the cheek and take in the waste they have collected for fertilizer for your very growing.

Feel this manure as illusion and nothing more, but gather the existence of the dimmed stardust and take this into you for your greater good.

In this way when you wish upon a star, wish for the waste of the star before the light. As you are already the light.
You are already love, and the waste itself, the nurturer of the soul in solid-star form, will un-yield you to this beauty, collecting the images of self in the other, as the anger stemmed from illusion of fear, as the illusion of self stemmed from love.

In conclusion of the complexities of this answering, we say, indeed YOU are a truth stemmed from a lie, but the lie that vibrates from the core of love, for your protection, for your safety, for your guaranteed security—for to stare into the beauty of us, and what you be, would to be again the star, only exploded with rapture.

In this way, count on your own star-sister and star-brother to be your nurturers, either in love or in the illusion of hatred. For either way they turn you into the light of you and teach you of your fullness. Take readily the hatred, until the illusion of hatred is turned into love, and the stars (we be) no longer need to filter and digest what was never you to begin with.

*********

“I keep thinking to myself, how do you do that? I mean who’s got that much shit to say?” ~ My husband, after I recited this post.

379: I am very saddened by the state of the world

| Aspergers Girls

shaman

I am very saddened by the state of the world. While I can only speak of the nation I occupy, I gather enough from others that similar events are happening globally.

No matter how long I live on this earth, I am continually confused by many people’s behaviors and actions. Manipulations, lies, and false-intentions aside, I am dumbfounded by the angry-hearts and finger-pointing souls.

It seems so obvious to me: don’t judge another until you have entirely looked at your complete self and accepted who you are, learned to love yourself, and made a vow to be the best person you can be.

And hopefully, by the way of nature, having been through that process, the ability to judge simply ceases. Therefore, I find myself in a quandary, as what I feel within borders much on judgment, though I hope it resembles in form more of a heartfelt discernment.

I watch all around, in this place I find myself a part of, and see people acting out of spite and bitterness. To me, this seems as children at play, individuals who have somehow never gained what some of us were naturally born with. So many walking blindly, a victim of their self-created unbridled passion, set upon a path of feeding the darkness more dark.

I am at a crossroad of self, in many ways looking back at where I have been, without harboring much thought or even intention. Neither am I looking forward. I have tossed away the childish ways of dwelling anywhere other than I am, but still the present lingers here and penetrates my being, reminding me of why, in the past, I so often chose the route of escape over living. And I cannot help but think that the gentle souls of the world continue to choose the same, to slip back into a part of self, where the light is pure and the surroundings safe.

My hope lies in the minority. For in them I see this endless river of kindness, acceptance, and genuineness. And there is where I choose to see my own reflection, in the soul inhabiting this lost planet, which continues to shine despite the glaring dark broadcasted by the deceitful and righteous ones.

I am by no means a religious scholar, but I have had my share of studies in theology. What strikes me as evident is that many religions and spiritual paths have the answers; they speak of not judging, not lying, not cheating, not stealing; they speak of detachment, release of the desire for material ways, and unconditional love. Yet, it seems, that still most of society is buzzing all around, hounded by some beasts, corralled in like sleeping sheep, and made to behave in ways that may not be notorious but are as equally damaging.

It seems I am made, as I be, to walk in this world half-blinded to the ways of the majority, left outside of the fenced-in and blinded, and watching from a hilltop wishing for my brothers and sisters to join me and step out of the illusion of hatred. I am made this forever minority, for separation seems the only prize over entrapment of soul.

Today, I do not choose to celebrate tragedy or turn a disaster into a false idol. I will not choose to share grotesque images, nor to splatter hearsay and falsehoods. I see no benefit.

Have we become a united people whom can only feel close when disaster strikes? If so, what then will keep the disaster from repeatedly happening? What if there was silence upon disaster? What if there was just support, love, protection and safety; and the rest, the disastrous aftershock of tragedy, the spawned pods of evil, were left behind—just dropped, just forgotten, or at minimum ignored. What would the dark broadcast then, and what would we hold onto?

There is a part of me that knows I would be better to release this, to let go of this pain, as I do the rest, to detach from the horrors before my eyes—the dark aftermath of disaster. To close my eyes as the wolves circle in tighter and tighter, the false prophets, of modern day, spinning their webs of deceit; our neighbors joining in the game of hatred and rebel, or perhaps shedding their own tears in the spotlight. See me—notice me—love me. Why not just claim you need attention without the façade of displaying a tragedy to bring you forward? And why spread images of hope or horror based on tragedy with your name stamped upon the photo; how obvious that this is a way of profiting from suffering, whether for self-attention or material gains.

I don’t understand how people can be blinded to their own motives and own intentions. How they cannot feel what they are doing. See how they are acting. And if they are aware, how they can continue forward. Who are these people, as I do not belong to them?

And for the ones gently retreating, doing their part to help in silent fashion, without want of recognition, without need to scream, what of their dear, dear hearts? Who are these ones who humbly serve? How I wish to join you in prayer or meditation, and walk in the light at your side.

I do not understand this world or my place in it. Existing here seems like living on a giant stage of fools, with everyone rushing to be seen and be recognized, everyone in this giant game of Monopoly.

I am deeply saddened, today. I am not sad entirely because of the events of the original disaster—I hurt for the families and the loved ones—but at the same time I recognize disasters happen all over the world. People die in horrific ways all the time. People suffer. People are beaten, tortured, enslaved, persecuted, starving, and so on. There is no shock to me when disaster comes—the only shock is when I see what should by now be familiar, the clamoring for attention, resurfacing of the dark feeding upon the dark, ways and means that remind me of how far we’ve yet to come.

I am sad mostly because I live in a society that has been in essence brainwashed, a place where people are bombarded with negativity and bred to believe in lacking, and behave as if in desperate need. If the world were a spinning top, and I were still child, I would halt the toy entirely, and just let the earth breathe, let the people step out of self and watch. How I wish people could see they are love, they are light, and not these false illusions they have claimed.

I sit here very much isolated, unable and unwilling to share in the masses way of being, unable to take part in a celebration of the darkness. It is like being made to sit in the coliseum of ancient Rome, whilst crying, when all about people are cheering. It is like, this agonizing grief, a singular one watching from a singular window, waiting for the world to stop.

374: Moments

| Aspergers Girls

“It is not that I am not present in the here and now; it is that I am so entirely present to the universe that I become intoxicated in possibilities and rapture, and self must retreat back to the echoes of my imagination in order to breathe.” ~ Sam, Everyday Aspergers

cropped-my-other.jpg

 

Everyday Aspergers, Samantha Craft

The moment when you know you’ve spoken your complete truth, whether it was a word or thought, and you sift through what you said, wanting to make sure there isn’t a splinter of doubt, that you didn’t indicate anything other than truth. And you feel your stomach twist, because maybe, just maybe, somewhere inside of you, you were wrong.

The moment you speak your truth loudly and clearly, with extreme empathy and knowing, weighing the validity of your words with the interpretation of necessity, while fighting back the voices that analyze and dissect the coming unspoken that is surging its way out through your veins, as you question your need, your want, your intention, wondering if the silence will win out over the pulsating necessity to share.

The moment you risk for the higher good, knowing if you speak your mind that you shall be persecuted, ostracized, and judged, but also knowing, all the greater, that you shall in speaking your light have conquered the darkness, at least a splinter of the darkness that permeates your world.

The moment you lie, only to protect the feelings of another, and you replay the falsehood over and over in your mind; a broken record that hurts your ears and leaves you suffering; not for the sake of another, but for the sake of going against your own self and truth, as you wonder if a better course could have been detected, discovered, and executed; something beyond the distasteful torture of falsehood.

The moment you realize no one has the answers, no book, no preacher, no teacher, no guru. Absolutely no one. And that all of your efforts have led you back to self; only now you are carrying a giant book of something that resembles truth. But in actuality it is a drafted, desperately edited and marked up tablet stack of contrived and siphoned rules, many of which contradict, point fingers, and leave in the ring either victim or prideful one.

The moment you speak your truth and the others leave, except perhaps one that stays for analysis and judgment, or to set you straight. And you listen, trying your best to look like you are interested and are learning, as you bleed all over the sidewalk from the bitter and deceptive words; your heart only wanting love, acknowledgment, and acceptance, not to be told again how you don’t fit in, don’t have it right, or don’t understand.

The moment you realize you understand more about a topic than anyone in the entire room, but to say so would immediately set up barbwire fences of division; thusly, you keep quiet and nod, trying to ignore and not comprehend the analogies that go against the base foundations of truth, justice, and love; with your last hope being that someone, somewhere in the room is like you, sees the light in your eyes, and wishes to not push their belief system upon you, or prove to you their theory, or embrace you in their way of life, but only enters your space to welcome you unconditionally as another being of substance.

The moment you dial up a conversation, and with first word, the person on the other end begins the game, following the rules of conduct and behavior and asking you blank, empty questions, not caring, unattached, unwilling to connect or even listen; the shallowness of the encounter physically hurting your chest and making your heart weep, as you attempt to move through with your life-preservers of nodding and smiling, acting as if you are comfortable, while feeling the energy of the speaker pierce you like daggers: the tone of the voice, the inflection, the pauses, the drawn out non-silence that does not match who they are, what they are, and where they are going. You are merely a dancer in some line of communication, knowing not where to step or when to pause, trying not to step on toes, and staring at a blank empty face, whose only need is to check your name off of her list.

The moment the sun rises, and your breath is taken away, and you are dancing in the rays, your heart free, your child like nature set to the wind, spinning, leaping, abounding in spirit, without moving an inch; and wanting to share this experience, to share the opportunity of hope you see, and in the dawning of a new day, you giddily laugh and celebrate and raise the arms to the magenta skies; only to discover the persons surrounding you can’t sense what you sense; and you think somehow you are made wrong, too attached, too intuitive, too knowing. And so comes the feeling of separation, the sun’s hues shifted, the day begun, with you lost to self, trapped within thought of why your way is not their way, and why your way is left out of the equation.

The moment you kiss another and you wonder what the kiss means, because it has to mean something; and you question how two could connect without connecting, touch without touching, and how the game of romance is only a game, marked with pitfalls and dungeons and war. How you have instinctively set up camp upon another’s territory, and in so doing have been given a safe zone, in which you shall not tread outward; for in stepping out, you risk annihilation, alienation, and doom. You weren’t meant to spread across his land and place flags of declaration about your feelings or experience. You were built for silent torture as you sit spinning in your small space of reason, wanting to scream out the ecstasy and dynamic shift of being, but forced to crease your edges, sew your own self shut and hide out until the coast is clear, or the being you so loved, simply slips away.

The moment you want to be present, but you can’t; and the guilt settles in as friend or child, spouse or son, he looks at you with wide open eyes ready to connect at his level, in a place of happiness and delight, without deep thoughts, without theories and strings of reason, without doubt, without prospect of future circumstances; and how you sit in this passing moment, longing to reach out and be this same way, to stop the clock of the own mind and silence the tick-tick-ticking; and so you pretend; you try; you harbor your very own secrets of misery; a false grin, a false laugh, an intense glance, all means in which you try to give back and let the other know he is loved and needed; even as your brain radiates outward, living in an imaginary land, pulling you back to a place so distant that all connection, all being, is lost in a blink of letting go. To speak and be present, like the other, is to balance on the plank, with the sharks below, knowing without fail, you shall fall with a splash, that your eyes shall dim, your mind blank out, and you shall undoubtedly sink into the dark and murky depths, embracing the emptiness and cold, where once the potentiality for sharing, an open beckoning space with dear one, existed.

The moment you know you are different and you celebrate the uniqueness, recognizing you have a purpose and a bright light and that you will make a change in the world for the betterment; perhaps you feel enlightened, like a teacher or creator of beauty, or . . . but to speak this to the world would be the death of you; for others would claim you are self-centered, grandiose in thought, or egotistical; but you know deep down you are meant for greatness, even as you walk in a world that seemingly does nothing but dilute your own fuel to your own fire. You are passion, you are insight, you are intuition, and you are connected to the grand scheme of life; but to say so leaves you breathless and unsure of yourself, dipped in the pool of humility time and time again. Only to be told you are wrong.

The moment you understand that you are only a perception, a glimmer of what people think of you, and that no matter what you say, or how you get your point across, that no one will see you other than how they choose to see you; that ultimately you are an island onto yourself, with tourists that caravan by and wave, but never set foot onto your sands. And so you stand, unmoving, shining your light, wishing upon the star, that feels more liken to friend than any other being you know, waiting for the day, when a brave one will enter, and join hands to the infinite beauty of you combined.

The moment you realize you are no one, but you are supposed to walk in the world as someone; a someone who acts a certain way, dresses a certain way, expects certain things; but you no longer expect anything and no longer know how to act, and stand on this endless stage watching the ones garbed in their costumes, refinery and fancy ways; and you wonder where you are to stand, how you are to observe, and what you are to take in, if not the bewildered stares of stagehands, whom keep pointing and glaring at your indecent and unpredictable ways. Where to walk. Where to move. Where to be—each become your questions, as the world moves onward to a beat you cannot hear and do not wish to hear.

The moment you realize you do not have a condition or a syndrome or a fault, but understand intensely people are trying to make you believe you do, trying so hard that they convince themselves they are this illusion of normal, and you are this jumbled mess of faults; only you see the truth. Your blinders have been removed. You march in the silence; the one not dictated and orchestrated by the misers controlling the masses. Your eyes have been made open. In essence you have been reprogrammed, the barrier of righteousness, to shine the light on falsehoods and bring out the truth; yet, no one knows this, but the few others that see in truth; and thusly, you move forward half-blinded in lies and half-open to truth, stuck in a place of limbo, with something beyond the beyond, urging you forward through the life that seems not life.

The moment your hands hurt, your feet hurt, your eyes hurt, your heart hurts, but you can’t stop, because there is a force inside of you that burns so deeply that if you do not open the crevice to creativity and let the flames burst out, as dragon releasing delicate-rage, then you shall perish in your own internal war. And so you move, in whatever way called to move; your own self bleeding in the efforts; your own self lost in the time without time, sinking into the separate land where no one can see you move with the freedom of angels, and you cannot see where this world was that you were made to walk in. And here you breathe, inside the escape of freedom, where the others cannot reach in and pull you out, cannot shape you and make you, and tell you lies of whom you be and whom you are not. A place of refuge where you can meet your own maker, whether self, universe, or God, and sit there in your trembling awe.

The moment you can no longer stand being you, as the music never stops, the thoughts never linger, but leap and bound across eternity, bringing up the genius of the world and making you into a spinning top of fury-making; when even the sound of the silence singes your ears and stops your heart, so that you want to scream at the annoyance of the drumming universe; though none around you can hear the pounding. And you cringe and cry and rant and plead, exploding inward as much as outward; for you have been placed in a merry-go-round of havoc with blind-seekers, each dumb and deaf, and wishing you were something other than your own self. And you have no way, no thread, no line of communication in which you can explain how you are the one displaced, removed from where you belong, and brought down to be tortured by the nonsense. How you have all the answers within, but are continually haunted and stopped in your making and doing; when the others, who know you not, shun and persecute your actions. Can they not see you are only trying to be, and that the more they stomp on your being-ness the more they push you back into the dungeon of no recourse but explosion? Why do they force their ways upon you, when they, in their infinite blindness, know not what they do.

The moment you recognize you are not alone, that there is at least one other person like you on the planet, and you recognize their heart, their purity, and their need to make a difference; and in seeing her fully, you fill her with hope, because she knows at last you believe her and you trust her; because, contrary to what she has been told, she is not pretending to be kind, she is not pretending to be generous, nor is she pretending to love. She does love you, with all of her being, with all of her heart. And like your lonely, forlorn and forsaken self, you long to scoop her up and paint her in your compassion and security, to blanket her in your own goodness, and let her know she is this thing called beauty; she is this joyous light.

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