challenges

312: Aspergers: I Do Not Lack Any Type of Empathy

| Aspergers Girls

Recently there has been talk of people on the autistic spectrum lacking a form of empathy: Cognitive Empathy. Before that there was talk of people with Autism or Aspergers lacking empathy in general.

Lacking in cognitive empathy implies a person cannot read between the lines of communication. While this might be a true experience with some people on the spectrum, and this theory might help some in their journey to self-discovery and understanding, and even in connecting to others, I do not believe I lack any type of empathy of any sort.

I am not lacking. I am not lacking in anything. In my world the word lacking does not exist. In my world lack is a manifestation of judgment, for I cannot lack without being compared to a norm or a standard. I cannot lack anything without being diminished in my worth and character.

I adamantly claim I do not lack anything, and neither do you.

This world longs to classify and compartmentalize. Yet, I know I am mystery beyond classification. In this knowing I have seen what divides us, the one from the other.

At the base of all division is fear.

I recognize that in claiming my true self and having no secrets that my own actions diminish fear.

It is not as if I have a choice whether or not to be me or not to be me. Because I do not understand how to be anyone other than my whole self. I do not understand how to hide.

As hard as I try to play games, I cannot. I do not judge others for the games they play, but they judge me for not understanding their games.

Perhaps if I am lacking it is in the ability to partake in imaginary games based and founded on fear.

I want to be. I want to just be. But there is something about most of the world that always fears I am hiding something and speaking something that is not real.

They mistake me for a pawn in their own game, while at the same time claiming I know not how to play. I am both singled out and blamed without even stepping foot inside this imaginary arena.

I am simply an observer. I observe the rules and social customs of this world, most, if not all, seemingly built to hide a part of self. I observe the whispers that speak: If you are you in completion then you shall be hurt.

I am an observer that knows the risks. And despite the claims of experts, I have learned to read between the lines. I have learned to read between the lines of pretending and falsehoods and lies and manipulations. I have learned that one word is replaced for another based on fear of judgment or fear of hurting or fear of exposing. I have learned that we are sometimes so afraid of being hurt or hurting another that human communication circulates around the core of fear.

It is not that I cannot read between the lines, it is the fact that the lines are so complex and endless and twisted in a way that makes no feasible sense. It is that I get lost in the invisible lines drawn for invisible reasons.

For I speak truth. Or at least I try my best to speak from my place of truth. And if I do not, I examine in detail why I have not. There is some part of me that seems the opposite of many, wherein where others are trying desperately to hide, I am trying desperately to be seen.

For there is a falseness to this world, wherein we are taught that to show all of our cards is to be exposed and made vulnerable to the vultures. And, yes, to a degree this is true, if one believes the vultures exist. But I, as one who has stood in front of thousands naked, know that beyond the vultures circling, are the masses of bright lights that recognize their own self in truth; and that when the vultures come, even as they pluck and pierce and tear apart, they are only my own fears manifesting, teaching, and then vanishing.

With these vultures I am taught self-refinement and further returned to wholeness. With these vultures I am giving opportunity to be more of whom I was born to be.

But if one does not stand in wholeness and in truth, the vultures will not come, at least not as frequently. And if the vultures do not come then how is one refined? And if one’s soul purpose is not for that of refinement, then why are they here? These are the thoughts that circle about me.

Not that I judge the others’ way of being, only that I am filled with wonderment and awe of how one lives without striving for betterment.

I have discovered that the only way to conquer the fear inside of me is to face the fear inside of me.

As an observer, I have found many a contradiction in the ways of communication.

I have found that the more I am myself that the more I am attacked for being so. Yet it is society itself that teaches me to embrace myself. Only there exists this underlying message: Be yourself, so to speak, but don’t make me uncomfortable in your being. Be yourself, but make yourself squeeze into my guidelines.

These are the readings I find in between the lines: Be, but not in totality.

It is not that I cannot read between the lines, it is that I do not understand these lines that have been drawn, and why they have been drawn. I do not understand why there are so many rules. I do not understand why others do not speak from their deepest self, but instead choose to remain hidden and only share with a select chosen few. I do not understand what everyone is hiding from?

As observer I see that many try to cover up intention, but it is always there. And I see that many try to garb things in half-truths. They cover up their own self in false disguise. But I see truth, for I am an observer of truth.

I see through the masks and self-imposed walls. I see straight through.

Perhaps in my lacking, or inability, to partake in games, I have gained the perspective of seeing behind the illusions. Perhaps because I see beyond the illusion, I cannot partake in a game of nonexistence. Perhaps the very lines others claim to exist, the very lines they claim I cannot see, are not really there at all. Perhaps others are lacking the ability to see the illusion.

I do not understand whom or what so many are seeking protection from, other than self.

The masses make the standards for this world, proclaim the norm, and proclaim what is right. The masses proclaim I am wrong, or at minimum somehow not entirely right.

But I proclaim I am the light and the truth. I am myself in completeness.

And still this fear of my raw nakedness.

I am honest.
I carry no manipulation.
I have no want to take.
I have no intention to harm.
I continually release anger and judgment.
I mean no ill-will.
I have no need to prove my worth.
I have no need to be right.
I recognize my humanness.
I recognize my frailties.
I denounce weakness in spirit.
I pray for humility.
I pray to recognize self in others.
I state my own need for love and connection.
I forgive.
And I forgive again.
I cry on the outside.
And I love unconditionally.

In this way there is nothing I have to hide.

So I question when one is hiding. I question what is it he or she is afraid I might see?

Perhaps it is the very essence of me being real that spurs fear in another and makes him scream lacking.

For what am I lacking beyond my incapacity to be none other than self?

What if words were lost? What if we only heard thoughts? What then would we hide? Perhaps some of us are the link from here to there, from a place of hidden fear to place of unspoken truth.

Perhaps we lack nothing at all but instead carry an unyielding desire to connect. Perhaps, we, the observers of the game, are the ones sent to stop the game.

What if my way is the way of not lacking?

What if others are lacking to see me?

Perhaps I am lacking the coat of visibility, because I stand so real. Perhaps I am lacking in form and shape, because I appear so unknown.

Perhaps in accepting me in completion, others can accept a part of self. Perhaps some of us are merely mirrors to the awakening soul, sent here with our message of pureness. Sent here to remind others that in truth there exists no lacking and exists no fear.

310: I Ran from the Bully

| Aspergers Girls

Last time I checked I received something like 2,000 comments; but don’t quote me on that, as I’m not certain, and don’t know where to look to find the answer.

And I think that sums up what happened to me with this blog: I didn’t know where to look to find the answers.

Basically, I don’t know how to respond to people who come across as defensive, mean, and pointing blame. I take the comments so seriously that I change my entire self. Case in point, as I mentioned I have received over 2,000 plus comments on this blog, and I have answered almost all of them. In doing so, I have been able to make contact with many beautiful open-minded and loving people. And guess what, besides the teenager that was “trolling” and harassing me at the beginning of my blogging time, an action that really freaked me out, I have only had three what I would call “negative” or “non-supportive” comments.

But that’s all it took: a few comments to cause a rippling effect. I did the math. There were mainly two comments that pierced me—Two out of 2,000—0.1 %. It took 0.1% for me to throw out in my mind all of the positive of my truth and absorb the negative.

I received the comments two days ago, and I ran, and I ran fast.

I then internalized the people’s words. Took it all in, though poison it seemed.

With the internalizing, I altered myself. In a way, I cut myself open for analysis, not a fun feeling, and then, in an attempt to mend my inherent “flaws,” I rearranged me, and attempted to sew myself back together.

All because of two comments. But mainly one. I was told by someone that I was a bully and ego-centered, and that everything was about me. That overall, in summary, I was so self-focused that I didn’t even know how to validate someone else’s hurt or to own my own actions.

This is so far from the truth of who I am that I don’t understand why I would even accept this as even a glimmer of truism. But I know the words against me carried the haunting echos of what I was told as a child.

Regardless, I ran.

A day before this comment, I asked God for a sign. I’d prayed deeply for humility, for release of control, for release of want; and thought that the recent negativity was His way of showing me to stop blogging, to stop exposing myself. I thought He was hinting that I was too sensitive and not cut out for this task at hand. I believed I was indirectly self-punishing and hurting myself.

In retrospect, I know my God. I know those were false conclusions. As I know I am complete and whole in my creator’s eyes, and that in truth that my extreme sensitivity is my attribute, my way of reaching others.

What happened next, was interesting, in my opinion, and entirely gut-wrenchingly painful.

Upon reading what I consider “spiteful” words, I over-analyzed, and submerged myself in a puzzle of truisms and falsehoods, mainly in an attempt to see who I was.

Was I indeed ego-centered? Was I indeed essentially lying for 300 posts and presenting a false self? Maybe… I pondered this.

Was I a fraud, having fooled my deepest self, innately a liar of sorts?

This was the first loop I went through.

Afterall, if this one or two human beings thought so, of course they must be RIGHT!

You see this is the mind of this Aspie woman; this is what it is like to be me. This is why I hate, and I rarely use that word, but hate being in the spotlight, because of course eventually someone will be mean, retaliate, or disclaim who I present myself to be.

And to some, who can’t understand this, they will take this as weakness and silliness, or maybe even an outcry for attention, but it is not. If I wanted attention I would have used my real name; I would have self-promoted… I have the brains and know-how to self-publisize and gain a wider audience. It is not hard. But that was not my intention, and anyone who reads my blog with open-mind and a open-heart will see that.

What amazed me most, and still does, through this processing, as I have clearly and openly stated who I am over and over for months upon months; I have essentially bled myself out to the world; I have been nothing but open and honest and filled with best intention, but like vultures, some people be, just waiting to strike at my slightest interpreted “failing,” “flaw,” or “unappealing action.”

And this has been my ache since childhood: the ache of knowing I am good. Knowing I am filled with good intention and love. Knowing I am sincere and only wanting to make the world better. Yet, continually being viewed by someone as flawed and wrong. or worse fraudulent and false.

And this seemingly seems to be egotistical. At least that is a good argument for those wanting and wishing to point blame. Why not? Here is a woman (girl) pointing out her flaws, sharing her woes and hurts, so of course she is doing this to receive support and love. But that couldn’t be further from the truth. As I have stated before, here and in my support group, I cannot feel compliments; I cannot feel pride. I just cannot. If even a hint of pride enters me, I pray. And maybe that is prideful to admit even that, but how can I share it if not through words?

I get excited by someone connecting with me, when someone see that I can write well, with someone recognizing the real me. But to me that is not ego-centered. To me that is being seen and appreciated. I can absorb that. But only for a fleeting moment. Only for a glimpse. And then I am back to wondering how I can do more to help.

Where in it is hard for me to take in kind words, I do feel insult to the hundredth degree. Because innately I want to be perfect, even though I know this isn’t humanly possible, perfect in the sense that I want to walk the path of Holy people. I don’t want to be seen as a Holy person, or have that title, I just want to be that way. I see no reason to live unless I am loving more than hurting, giving more than taking, and reaching out more than receiving. This is how I am wired. This is me. Again, I can’t help if this sounds ego-based. Maybe it is. But it doesn’t feel that way to me.

And so I looped more, thinking well psychologically one would analyze me with daddy-issues and having to prove my worth to feel worthy or replace some broken piece inside of me. But I know that is not it.

I know I am worthy. I really do.

Inside I know so strongly that I am filled with Christ-love, or whatever love one is comfortable calling my love. I see this in the friends I have. They are so lovely. So beautiful. I can’t help but see myself in them.

I know so well I have light inside of me, as I have felt love most, if not all of my life.

I was a sensitive, joy-filled child, endowed with love and a depth of knowledge beyond my years. I was so sweet and essentially happy, until I began to uncover the ways of this world.

And that is when I changed. That is when my eyes became sad and my heart burdened. It wasn’t my father. It isn’t a perfectionistic personality; it is my heart, though so huge it be.

I looped again, further in intensity, thinking I wasn’t meant to be this way; I wasn’t meant to be a giver; I wasn’t meant to help people. I wasn’t built for it. If I was built for it why would I take so much to heart? It must be I am flawed. It must be I am ego-centered.

And round and round I went.

I wanted to explain myself…. but would that be ego-based.
I wanted to let it go…. but would that be denying a part I am that is so typical of a person with Aspergers.
I wanted to get angry, to curse, to yell, to scream… but would that be losing control.
I wanted to copy and paste the unkind comment to this blog for analysis and help with interpretation…but indeed I knew the social customs did not deem that appropriate at all.
I wanted to cry out my horrible pain, as I shed tears for hours… but wouldn’t that just push me further into a light of seemingly wanting attention? Poor me, love me please. Tell me I’m special. Look at me.

But YUCK. I don’t want that. I despise that to some degree. No amount of reassurance or words will build my worth. Yet, for some odd reason, any amount of negative-energy pulls me down. Humbles me further.

And I think, in reflection, that I am still at the exact same level of sensitivity and vulnerability as when I began this blogging journey. I don’t think my skin is any thicker. I don’t think that is spiritually possible for me to grow thicker.

I processed so much about this ONE comment that I became immobile in action; and then I did what I needed to do to make the loops stop!

I changed.

Like I have done in the past, I adapted who I was to fit the eyes of a stranger I wanted to please. Knowing I didn’t really want to please them, that ultimately I wanted to make sure I’d taken out all that could be deemed “non-beneficial” out of me. I wanted to destroy my humanness. I wanted to purge not my frailties, but anything that might stand in the way of me misrepresenting myself.

I believe I am not longing for acceptance, I am still longing to be seen.

And then I began to think of all the spiritual readings I’ve done. All the rules of right and wrong. All that somewhat point to the same thing: Your enemy is a reflection of you.

And so I self-persectued more.

I told myself well then I am this person; I am this spiteful person.

Though I knew inside she wasn’t spiteful. I knew she was just seeing what she chose to see.

And I saw all of my past learnings. Logically I knew it all. I even knew cognitively what I was supposed to do, but I couldn’t.

I just kept thinking what if she is right? What if I have done all this for no other reason than ego. What a terrible, awful person I be.

And I twisted and turned, and did what I know to do. I took her (their) words and reformed me.

If I was ego-based then I needed to deplete ego more. It wasn’t enough that I prayed all day for humility, wasn’t enough that I exposed myself, wasn’t enough that I spent hours helping others, expecting nothing in return, (even writing this feels so wrong but I will to prove a point), but I had to crush all aspects of self that symbolized I wasn’t representing who I was.

So I deleted almost every single one of my photos on this blog. I took tons of images of myself in an attempt to understand what I looked like. But saw this could be seen as ego-based.

I then deleted the about me page… because “about me” seemed ego-based just in the name.

I deactivated my like page (which I will bring back, maybe) because I’d only started it to reach more people. I never used it to self-promote. Like I said, it would have been so easy to do. Here’s a cute photo and a cute quote from my blog, read it, share it, and bring me the higher numbers— so not who I am at the core! But I erased the like-page, just to be certain.

Then I deactivated Sam Craft, because she somehow seemed to be the ego-centered one, because me, this woman, this spirit, this one with another “legal” name other than my penname, isn’t Sam in completion. Sam is my spokesperson.

I did all these actions to stop the loops, to stop the replaying of the negative message in my head.

And then, I thought I HAD to stop blogging. How could I share about myself and not be ego-based? It was an impossible riddle to solve.

Then I convinced myself this was for the best: More time with family. More time to focus on me. More time to just enjoy life and live.

But really, who was I fooling?

I have to write. I have to. There just is no way around it. Spirit has opened something in me and I am filled with thoughts and images all day long. Whole posts recited to me as I awake.

There is nothing I want to do more than helping others: that is my joy that is my happiness that is how I live. And if admitting that seems ego-based, I cannot help this. I cannot help if I am human, and part of me is still with ego.

Yes, in blogging there is huge fear of exposure. Yes, there are enemies out there, but what better way of defeating fear and enemy than announcing to the world: Here is my enemy.

And then realizing I am the only enemy to my own self.

Yes, I ran from the bully. I ran and ran and ran with my tail between my legs. But more so I ran from my self.

Why?

Because I don’t know who I be in flesh. I don’t know my role, my place; I only know who I be inside my heart.

I am fragile in spirit. But I am a tower of strength within my truth and light.

So why am I posting again? The thoughts come… as I risk comments such as: The only reason you said you were stopping was for attention.

I am posting because I am not done risking. That is why. I am not done risking, because I know in risk I can at last face the demons in my mind that speak that I am not enough.

I am posting because I can at last face the enemy that has persecuted me throughout my life telling me I was wrong or false.

I am posting because I am choosing not to run anymore.

This is where I stand.

I write for those that see me for me. Who see beyond judgment and labeling. Who know the pain of rejection. Who have been afflicted time and time again. I write to give them strength too. I write to say I am still here. I am still loving you and seeing you and your inherent good and worth.

I will not judge you. And if I do, my judgment shall not last.

I write for those that see their self in me. Who see that we are one in our struggle, that we are not alone. I write because the fire to know you within my own self burns so high that I cannot lessen the flame unless I reach out to find you.

I don’t know why all of this happened like this. I don’t know why I have to feel so much pain. But I know something, I will continue to be humbled. I will continue to be exposed and hurt. But there will come a time when I love you so much that I cannot help to see my own beauty. There will come a time when I can finally stand my ground and stick my tongue out at the bully and know that is okay. That the bully doesn’t exist. And that standing my own ground is okay.

To just stand there and shout: You are wrong! I am filled with light, and if you cannot see that then that is the darkness in you.

To the person out there: Your opinion is not a reflection of me. Your opinion is in constant motion, ever-changing based on some composition of rights and wrongs instilled inside your head. And though I may have felt wronged, I release this energy, and I embrace you for all that you have taught me, whether it be through the illusion of spite or not, because you are my teacher; I have called upon you as you have called upon me. And whatever I choose to do with the lesson is my choice. Just as whatever you choose to do with your perception of me be your choice. I give you that freedom, not that you need the granting, only because I need the granting. I need the freedom to release you. For you are not my maker and equally not my breaker. I choose all to be my teacher. I choose however you choose to respond to be another lesson learned. Your words will no longer create me, transform me, or make me into someone I am not. They will only serve as fuel for my passion to love others. So feed me all that you want. But know I shall not run. I shall stand here and shout, if not for me, than for all the others who have been hurt by you.
~~
~~
I dream of getting to the point where I can say: Your opinion of me is none of my business.

At least I used to dream of that day. But I don’t think I’m built that way. I think I am meant to be continually chiseled and brought back to my knees. I think that is my deepest wish. I see no other way to be. I think I am meant to be hurt, until I am tired of being hurt. Until I can look at someone and know, with every inch of me, and with total acceptance, that their pain and fear is not a reflection of me, because I have released my pain and fear. I think that is my journey, to hurt and hurt, until I am beyond hurt. Until I see how beautiful this world really is beyond the limited scope of my perception.

And so I release myself today. And I embrace my son’s words, my son with Aspergers: “Why did you stop blogging, Mom? You are so close to completion? If you give up you are letting the bully win. There are a lot of people who want you to keep coming back here. The only reason the bullies talk is because they are the ones that have spite. The other people are completely content.”

And so I write. For you. For me. To calm the burning passion. And to be able to look at my glorious son, and say, you are right. You are so very right.

Blessings and Light and Love. And here is to a life filled with so many unexpected turns that I might as well just let go.

In much love,

“Sam”
P.S. I guess I found some answers
Always and forever a learner.

309: My Wounded One

| Aspergers Girls

My wounded one
I see you
I see you there crying alone
I see you with your hands pressed against your fragile skin
Your endless wonderment less chariot than dungeon
Your blizzard mind a target for jagged daggers
Though you are fearful and doubled-down with fear
Though you are strangled, the agony rising and choking dragon from within
I see you
I see you there crying alone
I see you with your heart set out for all, freshly pierced and bleed out upon your sleeve
Your efforts ignored, your desires stifled, your wishes buried with the agony and trembles
Your dreams trampled, your journey unknown, the light dimming and dimming
Though the isolation suffocates and pulls you further inward
Though the ground sinks beneath trapping you in what can only be hell
I see you
I see you there crying alone
I see you, the streaks of your past spread across the room and painted black on each wall
Your moment passed, your joy forgotten, your answers diminished, a sunrise never set
Your sense of isolation churning and twisting, your path unknown in its familiar confusion
Though the images of the future be blurred and joy feels beyond reach
Though the exhaustion breathes alive and misery claims you as chained-companion
I see you
I see you there crying alone
I see you, your swollen eyes, your swollen love, your swollen wants and needs
Your sadness pouring and pounding out in waves, your veins split open and pouring hurt
Your flesh a painful reminder of who you are and who you are not
Though you are crushed and beaten, bombarded by questions and uncertainty
Though abandonment seems certain and slumber your necessary avenue of escape
I see you
I see you there crying alone
I see you my sibling of this strange land, captive to the unknown hauntings
Your strength burdened with heaviness, your view one of bleakness and doom
Your begging a desperation born into being, your emptiness still empty
Though you be an injurious child, nailed to what appears to be destiny
Though you be a fallen star, burned out and spread upon the masses as aged ash
I see you
I see you there crying alone
I see you my precious earth traveler, your shoes worn, your feet bruised
Your image I hold, as I hold the most cherished of nature’s treasures
Your journey I behold, as I behold the purifying waters of a revisited well
Though we be apart, I recognize you as my equal warrior
Though we be separate, I recognize you as my equal healer
For I see you
I see you there crying alone
I see you there calling out in the whispers of your silent ache
Your beauty penetrating the deepest portion of my own existence
Your strength fueling the carved out substance of life that has surrendered
Though you feel blinded, your gift of being grants me the capacity to carry on
Though you feel unworthy, your gift of being grants me the capacity to see my light
I see you
I see you there crying alone
Your heart as my heart, your soul as my soul
Your pain as my pain, your fear as my fear
Though we be temporarily burned within the flame of all consuming mystery
Though we be masked in a disguise of imprisoned misery
I see you
I see you there crying alone

~ Samantha Craft, January 2013

Repost From Day 20. My vision of the Wounded Healer.

The Wounded Healer

“There are many types of healers. They are all brave. No healer is better or lesser than the other. One healer is called The Wounded Healer. Sometimes this may be preferred to as The Wounded Warrior, as they are like warriors, in their undying effort to overcome obstacles and serve. Before coming to this earth Wounded Healers make a soul-contract to answer the calling of a healer. Those that answer the call follow a similar pattern in life; some eventually become healers of great magnitude through various means, others partially complete the process; and still some, as hard as they try to answer the call on this plane, cannot. Still the soul-commitment of a Wounded Healer alone adds to the positive vibration of the earth and heals. And in this way there is always success. A Wounded Healer need do nothing on this planet and still contribute to the healing effect. However, The Wounded Healer that does go on to complete his task will have a huge impact on others’ pain.

Human pain is perceived as physical, emotional, spiritual, mental, and psychological in combination. No pain experienced is singular. Because no pain is singular, Wounded Healers “learn” to understand various levels of pain in their own life. To a great degree, each person on earth has the potential to be a healer. In fact each person in recognizing the light in another human being automatically heals. Thoughts heal. Words heal. But The Wounded Healer varies from many others in that their life’s purpose from birth is to heal. Because of this, there will be distinct markers of a Wounded Healer.

At all times it is beneficial to remember that a Wounded Healer is no greater or lesser than anyone on this plane of existence, and seeing oneself as a Wounded Healer is not meant to elevate or lift a person. In truth a Wounded Healer will feel a great degree of conflict in reading this; not wanting to feel prideful, pleased, or increased in any measure, there will be discomfort in the physical body upon reading these words. For The Wounded Healer’s main objective, above all, is to remain humble in spirit. Without humility, the healing efforts are lessened, not decreased entirely, but depleted with feelings of judgment of self and others. One cannot judge oneself lesser or greater than another, without losing humility. One cannot heal to the greatest degree without humility. Thus, these variants are dependent upon one another; that is to say, give up self to become humble, become humble to heal. Of course, as humans, there is a degree of self-giving and self-worth that is necessary to survive. Therefore, a balance is necessary—that is to say, for The Wounded Healer there needs to be a balance of healing of others and self-love. Though most Wounded Healers, when reaching the fruit of their calling, will be naturally loved and healed through healing others in humility. And therefore, in its greatest capacity, the healing is contradictory in terms of existing as both self-serving and endowed with humility. This is a complicated matter in considering, but no less necessary to explain.

There are five distinct traits of a Wounded Healer. These traits can be used to identify a healer in yourself or others.

(1) Wounded Healers are set on a path of empathy from birth. This is referred to as the “pain-cycle.” Often over-sensitive and naïve in nature, The Wounded Healer will experience pain in all forms before reaching their final role as a Healer of Mankind. This pain will happen throughout many years of their youth, and likely into young adulthood. Some will experience strong degrees of pain for half or more of their life. When this pain-cycle is complete, differs for each healer. When they have experienced the pain intended to experience, the cycle will make a dramatic shift. This will be an obvious shift. Observers will recognize this shift, as will the individual. The shifting of the pain-cycle will feel like a rebirth. This is often predicated by a dramatic change in lifestyle or life choice. This is not to be confused of “hitting bottom” or breaking the cycle of addiction. This is the end result of years of trials and tribulations—one after the other of soul-experience of pain and human-experience of pain, until at last there is a sunrise of a new day. This will literally feel like a “dawning.” There will be no doubt that the pain-cycle has come to an end. Healers will thus still experience pain, pain does not disappear, but the cycle of learning through pain will have ceased to spin.

(2) Often, almost all of the time, the child will experience great trauma in childhood. This will be perceived at one pain-level at minimum, most commonly the psychological-level, but very often the pain comes in combination. Wounded healers choose to experience a childhood of trauma in order to obtain a higher degree of empathy. This trauma (during this current time period) can be seen in all forms of abuse, ridicule, shame, addiction, neglect, malnourishment, poverty and abandonment. In the absence of an outside force produced by others, or in combination, the pain may be self-inflicted, as in perceived ailments of the mind or body. This may take the form of disfigurement, or the inability to be considered by others as “normal.” In later life this pain-cycle may manifest itself in the form of repeated unexplained sickness. These traumas will make a mark on the child. Each mark will serve as a greater good in the years that follow. Each mark indicates a pain that will be released from another being other than the healer. This can be visualized as slashes on the skin. A Wounded Healer carries these slashes that have turned to scars. Each person they heal at a later date will cause a healer’s scar to heal. Thus it follows the more scars a child experiences, the mores pains she is destined to remove from others. But remember, the number of scars is not equated to the number of people. In the process of healing only one person, all of the healer’s scars can vanish. In this way, a Wounded Healer’s soul-purpose may be to heal only one. Whether one or millions are healed is of no difference. Healing one has as much power and magnitude as healing millions. There is no lesser or greater; this is of up most importance to remember. Therefore, a Wounded Healer may complete his contract by healing one or healing many.

(3) All Wounded Healers are called to serve since childhood. It is not uncommon for the child to know before the age of ten what they aspire to be. Whether this vocation transforms rapidly or slowly is dependent upon the pain-cycle the person is to experience. Some will arrive at the vocation at a young age, while other will change jobs many times before answering the call. Still others will slowly transition. All life experience will benefit the Healer’s vocation. In childhood, The Wounded Healer will seek out ways to help others. Oversensitive, they will feel drawn to saving, nursing, rescuing, and easing discomfort. They will notice the wonders of nature that others often overlook. They will cry if a creature is hurt. They will cry if a person is hurt. At one point, in an attempt to survive, they will learn to stop crying as much, and this can cause much inner turmoil. These children will seem wise beyond their years. They will have the strong need to serve the greater good. They will often feel like failures and not good enough. This will be mistaken for low self- esteem. This is not so. These souls have a strong, if not all encompassing need to serve and heal, and when they cannot do so they feel suffocated, inadequate, weak, and not good enough. They might be mistaken by others as depressed, failures, dreamers, or perfectionists. Emotions may be out of control.

4) All wounded healers are empathic and also considered Empathic Healers. The Empathic Healers carry empathic traits, but do not necessarily carry all the traits of a Wounded Healer. The Wounded Healer includes the qualities of an Empathic Healer. However, an Empathic Healer may or may not have the traits of the Wounded Healer, such as: traumatic childhood and pain-cycle. In distinguishing the two, there is no urgency or necessity. But for clarity we point out the difference. Traits of an Empathic Healer include the ability to read the emotional energy field outside of a person. This can or cannot be seen. Usually the energy is felt more than seen. But seeing can be developed with focused practice and attention. Empathics have the ability to pick up on others’ emotional state. They may feel “depleted” in energy around other people, especially in crowds. This is a falsehood to consider the experience a “depletion.” This interpretation implies that there is not enough energy left in the person, and that something has been removed, taken, leaked, or escaped. There is no depletion of energy that is possible. What is happening is the person is taking the others’ energy and reworking the energy so to say, and then returning the energy cleansed to the others. This is like a doctor removing a sample of blood, cleaning the blood, and returning the blood. Only the Empathic Healer is the doctor, the tube holding the blood, and the source of healing. Thus the Empathic Healer is left feeling tired from the process. There is no danger in this except the feeling of exhaustion and the possible susceptibility to taking on another’s pain instead of cleansing the pain. Each Empathic Healer will have to learn how to protect themselves from exhaustion and the transfer of pain. The key is to recognize ultimately there is no pain, and thus, what is really happening is an energy transfer, a giving of one to heal another at a soul-level. This “healing” is complicated, but it is suffice to say the one must recognize the other for the earth to heal, although, even this is very much not the true and ultimate meaning.

5) All wounded healers are repeatedly humbled. This begins in childhood and does not stop for the course of a lifetime. For in order to heal to the greatest degree, as mentioned before, the person must practice and live in humility. Each will do so in various degrees. The greatest healers and shifters of mankind will be the most humble. We need not look far to see who these souls were that existed to transform this world. Not all souls who are Wounded Healers will retreat to the greatest of humility, there will be varying degrees based on culture and the necessity to affect change. How others perceive the healer is still important. Societal rules and regulations, and the status of a person, can all affect the perceived skill of the healer. Therefore, each Healer will have different degrees of humility. Not all seekers will feel comfortable with a half naked man with no teeth. Therefore, Healers are colored in all patterns, and dressed in robes that will attract those needed to fulfill their highest good. This may mean no robe, a tattered robe, a designer robe, or a robe of gold; what matters is not the robe the healer wears but what he houses beneath. A Wounded Healer will heal. This is a matter of practicality. There is no way she cannot.

Wounded since childhood, and sometimes before entering this plane, the soul of The Wounded Healer will seek out help from an early age. They will attempt to remove the pain in many methods. Many of the methods will lead to further humility. Sources such as strict religion, addictive relationships, drugs, alcohol, gambling, overwork, and the like will often accompany the Wounded Healer in his journey through the pain-cycle. Many will seek help through doctors, psychics, energy-healers, therapists, clergy, and counselors, and in this way continue to be humbled. Others may succumb to mental collapse or physical breakdown. Again, they will be stripped to the bare bone. Some will experience great pain through loss and affliction repeatedly, which end results leads to humility. The pain-cycle will continue. When the fruitful time has arrived, The Wounded Healer will break free from the pain-cycle. This is different for each person. If one were to know when the pain would end, this would be no different then knowing the age of death. On knowing the age of death all life is unavoidably lived and experienced differently. Therefore The Wounded Healer has made an agreement to not know when the pain-cycle will end, in order not to affect change or the end result.

Even as the pain-cycle ends, pain remains to a degree. Humility remains, as does the ability to see in others what is in thy own self. Humility then becomes a coat of armor and a friend. A blessed companion we thank the heavens for creating. For in this grand humility we find the comfort of knowing what has come before has served to heal.

In evaluating a Wounded Healer it is best not to use logic but instead to rely on instinct and feeling. A healer of such magnitude, who carries the armor of humility and the pain of many scars, will be notable to you on many levels. First, and foremost, they will carry with them a peace and inner light so that you will have a tendency to feel that you “know” the person or want to know them. You will be attracted to The Wounded Healer and not necessarily know why. This of course is after the completion of the pain-cycle—before this you might actually be propelled away or want to escape. But we speak of the end of the pain-cycle, when the cloak of humility, grace and service is evident. In this time seek you signs of a welcomed presence. This Healer will seem wise beyond his years, will gravitate towards serving others for the sake of healing alone, and will often be serious-minded and unable to easily let go and relax. Overall, in considering The Wounded Healer it is important to remember their coat of humility. For whatever they may say or do, or seem to say or do through your perception, their ultimate goal is healing.” ~ Sam

(No editing was applied to this prose. This all came out in one quick sitting.)

If you be a wounded healer, I recognize you, I see you, I hear you weeping, and I love you. Wishing you love and light and the strength to carry on. With deep compassion and love. ~ Sam

304: Time Travel Back to Pre-Teen Me

| Aspergers Girls

I sometimes think if I could go back in time to meet my pre-teen self, I wouldn’t. Mainly because of the whole “Butterfly Effect” and my inner dread of somehow erasing my own children, or possibly my own self.

But… if I was able to travel back in time and actually be triple-pinkie-promised, by the Big Man in the Sky himself, that nothing would change in my life when I returned, and that my entire memory of the event would be wiped out, and that the girl (that is little me) would not be negatively affected in any way whatsoever or have her life altered drastically, and I could verify I was really talking to God, and get the archangels, all the great gurus, and talking trees to back Him up, then, and only then, would I maybe consider traveling back in time. I’d want a contract too that insured I wouldn’t explode on impact, and I’d likely ask for a cute Dr. of some sort to come along.

In meeting me there are several things I’d want to say. Beyond the greetings, and saturation of unconditional love, positive affirmations, kudos, information about boys, men, and safe dating, and lessons on proper etiquette and manners, and compliments on my beauty, and the reassurance that all would turn out, and so much more, I’d definitely want to set myself straight on the whole hygiene and puberty thing.

I’d probably put the hygiene stuff into a list form, specifically listing things I was relatively clueless about.

1) Brush the back of your hair. I went until my early forties not realizing that just because I cannot see the back of my head does not mean that everyone else can’t.

2) Look at your toe nails every once in a while. Try to get into the habit of cutting them and cleaning them. Despite what your stepmother once told you, in an attempt to get you to cut your nails, you will not get nor die of toe fungus. Never. Stop obsessing. And if, and when, you go to get a pedicure, try to remember to clean your nails first. As an aside, you will feel guilty getting pedicures and making someone clean and touch your feet. The best way to solve this is to tip big, preferably in cash. You’ll always forget to cut your children’s toe nails too; so teach them young or they will look like little hobbits.

3) Remember that food gets stuck between your teeth. I know you don’t like smiling in the mirror. Eventually your chipped, discolored, and dying front tooth, and your extreme overbite, will entirely vanish. Look in the mirror, open your mouth, check in between your teeth, and floss. If you don’t have floss, you can use a piece of your hair. If you learn this before you are a senior in high school, your boyfriend’s older sister will not have to teach you these things in a public restroom.

4) Scrub your hair with your nails when you shampoo. Suds up the soap and scrub all over. Scrub hard and only use a dab of shampoo. The chemical shampoos will cause an allergic reaction; so start saving up now for the expensive natural alternatives.

5) I know you don’t like washcloths, but try ever so often to scrub behind your ears. You will discover in your forties that dirt collects there.

6) You don’t need to go to the dermatologist at all, until after you are in your forties. The spot on your eyeball is a freckle, it will not kill you. It will not grow. It will not change. You only have like five dark freckles on your entire body, and the doctor will not consider that a concern or a lot. The red spots are red freckles. There is nothing they can do about the dark patches you got from pregnancy on your forehead and along your jawline, except offer expensive laser treatment. Just wear a hat and sunscreen in the summer. When you move to the dreary northwest, you’ll be too pale most of the seasons to notice. (By the way you will get every pregnancy side-effect imaginable. Don’t panic. You will be fine.) That one dermatologist you see about the age-spots on your arms, well he will way over charge you to burn the spots off, your arm skin will turn red for weeks, hurt like hell, and the treatment will make no noticeable difference. And by the way, that skin doc closed down shop permanently two years later after being sued for malpractice. You were smart not to pay that $400 he wanted to remove the one red scalp freckle.

After answering hygiene questions, I’d sit myself down and tackle the topic of puberty. Then I’d leave my little self a reference letter:

Dear Beautiful Me,

Those books mother gave us in third grade aren’t going to help you in most areas. I know the nude beaches were creepy, but wait until you watch those movies in that Human Sexuality Class you take in your first year of college. Maybe prepare a bit for that. Your bodily changes at age twelve will totally freak you out. Hair is supposed to grow in those places. Please, please, please try not to kiss so many boys. Perhaps fixate on a movie star and write him letters—a much better choice than boy chasing. Do not, I repeat, do not tell your friends everything. Do not tell anyone about kissing boys, your body, or fantasies. Write it out, and don’t show anyone. Keep it under lock and key. Try very, very, very hard to share nothing private with ANYONE. Remember we spent an entire day together, you and me, discussing the concept of PRIVATE. Take out those notes and refer to them again and again. Do not under any circumstances draw pictures of boys’ private parts or the diagrams will get passed around middle school. I guarantee you will regret it. It’s funny when you are thirty, and a great joke to retell, but so not worth it! The entire “here comes the period” drama… you are not bleeding to death. That terrible feels-like-your-guts-are-being-eaten-by-a-mutant hamster clan, those are called cramps. Take some pain reliever. It will improve after you have babies. Don’t wait four months to tell your mother. The toilet paper won’t work. Give mom a note, if you are afraid to speak to her. And talk to her years before the event, so you can fill up an entire walk in closet with supplies. Huge Warning: Do not take the free samples of super-size expandable tampons that they PE teacher gives out in gym class. That should be illegal. But if you do by mistake, whatever you do: DO NOT USE THEM. Also, do not look too closely at that baby-birthing area, after your first child. Your insides are not on the outside. I totally promise. The emergency examination by your family doctor caused by your full on panic-freak-out-episode will result in the same level of humility as the penis picture in middle school. And goodness, use soap and water or shaving cream when you first shave, unless you want a scar atop the shin bone area of your leg the rest of your life. Oh, and don’t announce to the other seventh graders standing in the lunch line: “Look, I got a new training bra.” That circles back to the whole privacy thing. Read the reminder list, please!

Love,
Sam (Who somehow turned out just fine, despite all the little mishaps.)

302: The Black of Me

| Aspergers Girls

I was standing in front of a variety of buckets of paint. I dipped myself in paint after paint.
I was in search of answers.
Soon I was multi-colored and dripping in knowledge.
I dipped and dipped more and a brilliant rainbow blossomed.
I dipped and dipped, covering every inch of me, until the colors all merged.
Then, and only then, I was the color of black.
But it did not bother me, this guise, this dark, this black.
For I knew all the other colors were still there, still with me, and now in me.
But then the “experts” and “professionals” entered the room, where I stood dripping black. And they observed. Their clipboards and furrowed brows moving in an unwanted rhythm. The dance of them entering my mind and hurting my being.
And they looked and looked where I stood—noting this black shroud upon me.
And I knew then that they were blind, that they could not see all the colors.
They only saw black.
They were quick to form theories about this black. And they were quick to find words, and labels, and meaning.
They assumed since I was garbed in black that I liked black, and only black. They assumed what they saw was the truth.
They couldn’t see.
They couldn’t see that just as black was my companion, so was every other color. Colors they had never imagined.
I couldn’t explain the colors to them. I couldn’t go back and show them where I’d been. I didn’t know how.
I didn’t know the words.
I was blind to their words, as they were blind to my colors.
To them I needed black.
To them I was black.
To them this end product of black was their everything.
They didn’t know that black was merely the mixing of everywhere I’d searched and everything I’d questioned.
They didn’t know that black was not the end product. There were still more colors to find. Still more colors to be.
But when they looked, they saw black.
They gathered their boxes next.
They needed boxes like I needed colors.
I understood that we both craved things that the other did not see or comprehend.
But somehow I was supposed to accept and understand their boxes. Even though they do not attempt to see my colors.
This made me cry inside. This disconnection. And the black grew darker, thick and coated. A darkness that stopped the colors from seeping through. And stopped me from dipping and dripping. Stopped me from being.
And as I was black to them, I was placed in their box of black.
And from there, in the box, I watched them write the words of who I am.
I could not tell them how these words made me feel. I was too busy crying for the lost colors.
How I longed for them to see my colors. To see me in completion. How I longed for them to dip.
For then I knew they would see.
They would see what I see.
And through their dipping and dripping
They would soon discover
That their boxes never existed.