challenges

Thirty-Three: The Celery String is Alive! Personification Pondering.

| Aspergers Girls



For those of you wondering: Yes, I do have a life outside of processing what’s going on inside my head. It’s just that, at the moment, what’s going on inside my head is extremely fascinating. Just so you know, I did just return from my city’s quaint downtown, with a cheese puff and apple fritter in hand, from the best bakery this side of the western states. And, I might add, I had a hot brewed cup of coffee with just a tad of nutmeg. This, after partaking in a relaxing venue atop the acupuncturist’s cushioned table. The coffee is about to kick in, so I will try to make this fast, as to not dial into manic-mode. I’m one of those types that given a drop of coffee, becomes frantically intense and even more interesting, in that peculiar, glad-I’m-not her, kind of way. I’ve been known to rearrange an entire room, sometimes clean for eight hours straight, given the adequate amount of particular slow-roasted beverage. Coffee is certainly and enigma of our time. I wonder what substance or activity will eventually replace the black gold as our source of rapture and excuse for social gatherings.

I cried all the way home from the bakery, while balancing my coffee, and listening to Jars of Clay. I’ve listened to the same song some 100 times in the last couple of weeks. Finally thought it was time to share the song. I added the video at the end of this post. Though I have reservations, as the group is Christian. Reservations only because I fret you might not listen for that reason alone. Which is sad. Because I’d like you to hear the song, for no other reason but to connect to my experience and feel supported, by whatever support that brings you peace. (For my thoughts on spirituality/religion press HERE.) Because when I listen to the song I picture us all together in a large non-denominational, unconditional-love stadium, think the 1970’s, with our arms up swaying back and forth to the music, and supporting one another through this experience someone once named life.

Sometimes I picture us holding white candles, until I think of the fumes, the potential fire hazard, and the possibility of wax dripping all over my arm. In my vision, we are weeping, in the same way I wept all the way home this morning while wailing aloud to the song—there has to be a word for that huge release of energy that comes from a good cry, the type of cry that explodes with love and knowing that we are not alone. The type of cry that means: I made it to the other side, and I’m still standing! And here we are standing together.

Anyhow, that’s how I was crying. There has to be a word.  Maybe: vociferating restitution (wailing with gain-based recovery) combined with hue and cry, (loud public outcry). Restferating Hue! That works. I had a huge restferating hue!

Part of the restferating hue was in response to a video clip I watched yesterday. The other part was the freedom I felt in no longer being connected to the heavy energy from the university. And, yet another, very important piece, is being able to connect with people like you. Well, not like you, but YOU.

Today I would like to plan a gargantuan of a party to celebrate the freedom I am feeling. I think of hosting a party quite often, for you all, in my town in Washington, in the best weather-month ever—August.  I’ve said before that I love to plan a party. Not to be at the party, per say, but plan the party.

I imagine the whole of the gathering would be quite the happening. Everything would have to be very well thought out, though. I’m thinking sunglasses and hats, lounge chairs with pillows, soft lightening, definitely name tags, and for certain the use of inside-voices. NO perfumes. NO loud clothing or squeaky shoes. No toenails showing, hair just so, as to not be visually distracting. Sorry, no children—they are far too unpredictable (in a good way).

All attendees need be double-showered, maybe wearing name tags on their backside as well.  And background checks would be beneficial. Crazy frog is laughing! (Press LINGO BUTTON, if you’re new to my rambling.)

I do imagine meeting you. Our conventions would be a hoot. I don’t think I can do the entire dialogue, LV’s got going on in her head, justice, as I’d have to wean out a lot of material that LV is giggling about. But let’s just say there is a lot of sensory-issues and people-watching, and tons of brutal honesty.

“How was your flight?”

“Crappy!”

“What’s your greatest fear?”

“Standing here talking to you!”

“If you could be doing anything right now. What would you be doing?”

“Running the other direction.”

Like I said, LV is having a laughing fit!

The BBC video that LV was all happy and get-up-and-go about, introduced the most precious little girl who spoke about personification. Personification: giving human traits (qualities, feelings, action, or characteristics) to non-living objects (things, colors, qualities, or ideas). For example: The rain-covered window is crying. The verb, crying, is a human action. A window is a non-living object.

This discovery is getting a bit too emotional. Just a minute.

I’m back. Crazy Frog is doing deep breathing exercises, and looks so darn adorable with his green bubble chest inflating so. He’s quite muscular. Let’s all take a deep breath and relax the shoulders, shall we? Better.

I have this thing (there’s no better word I can think of) I do, that I’ve always done, that the little girl in the video does, in a similar fashion.

For the longest time, before knowing other people do this thing, too, I thought I was over-sensitive, connected to another dimension, and/or just plain wacky. Well, even with the discovery, those thoughts haven’t changed.

I’m sure there is some cool British word for wacky. I shall allow Crazy Frog (Lingo) to cut loose from the deep emotional stuff for just a minute.

Crazy Frog is such a Jeeves. (Jeeves = resourceful helper; cool word, right?) He loves Yahoo! Here are some British words for wacky, according to Yahoo! Yes, I know, real alive Brits would be the best direct source, but no Britons happen to be in my house at the moment.

Other words for wacky, British style:

loony

gone off my rocker

nutjob

headbanger

stark raving mad

bonkers

a few sandwiches short of a picnic (cucumber sandwiches?)

completely mental

mad as a hatter

barmy

dippy

total spaz

and my favorite: away with the fairies.

With fairies, I’m thinking a lush green, mossy forest with magical waterfalls and pixie dust sweeping through the air—the smell of honeysuckles and hyacinth flowers.

Wouldn’t you know that hyacinth is my favorite smell, but I can’t pronounce the name. I sound like this when I say the flower name aloud: HIj-sint-HY-sin-t- Hy-nt-sin-ahhhh-ahhhhh. Poop!

I know this wacky list was from Yahoo! So I’m not so certain the list is entirely accurate, but assuming most of the words are, Crazy Frog is thinking, “You Brits have a lot of words for a crazy person.”

Crazy Frog is now trying on different hats, and considering changing his name from Crazy Frog to Sir Barmy. Crazy Frog loves the eccentric, daft, flighty elements of the word. The Daft-Hatter Frog is blowing kisses to himself in the mirror and tipping his hat.

Back up. Scratch that, like there’s no tomorrow. (Sorry if no tomorrow makes you think of the Mayan calendar.)

He just saw that barmy can mean dumbass. He is throwing off tall black hat, and placing daft-hat on nearest politician. I’m liking Crazy Frog.

I’m placing the barmy hat on one of my recent professors whose actions were dumbass in manner. Oops. That kind of slipped out from nowhere. Blame it on the Frog who’s away with the fairies.

So, as I was saying, I do this thing where I personify objects. The little girl in the video clip personified her shoes. She gives objects feelings. If one shoe is on her foot then she feels the other shoe is lonely. And I do the same thing. With shoes, and practically every inanimate object in my world!

For example, this may get a little gross, but if two globs of minty-green toothpaste are clinging on for dear life in my bathroom sink, and one glob is washed down, and the other glob is still there, I feel sorry for the lonely glob! And sorry for the other glob that I washed down the grimy drain, too. Fearing what awaits him. Notice the him. Nothing is an it. There is no it! Which has me thinking, if you haven’t read the children’s classic: A Wrinkle in Time, you ought to. And The Giver, while I’m going there.  Strings, strings, strings. Isn’t it cool, if you’re a regular reader of my ramblings, that you actually get my use of strings?

I even sometimes feel sorry for fruits and vegetables, like when I’m shoving cucumber peelings down the garbage disposal to their impending doom. When I used to fry (massacre) potatoes in a cast iron pan, when I was about the age of ten, the potatoes would make a squealing noise, like they were crying in agonizing, your killing us, pain. It was actually just the horrible sound of oil sizzling, but I felt for those particular potatoes. Sometimes I removed the ones that cried the loudest. But then I didn’t know what to do with them. Because who wants to be put in the garbage?

All this personifying is a big part of the reason eating and cooking, even preparing school lunches, is sometimes hard for me. It’s probably why I don’t ever care to empty a jar completely, or don’t finish the last pages of a book. Who wants to be brought to an end?

Personification is likely why I don’t eat meat; although, oddly enough, I have never felt sorry for chocolate. Except, of course, for the left over chocolate that must join the rest of his commune in my stomach, as soon as possible.

This marvelous discovery, this whole personification thing, explains why the other day, I was actually wondering how the strings of celery must be feeling as they were traveling through my digestive track. Sounds loony, right? I pictured the strings like they were at some waterslide park that ended in a tomb of bubbling stomach acid. Who does that?

Well! Supposedly sometimes some other people with Aspergers do that! So there! LV is sticking out her tongue, which is covered in blue from the jaw-breaker she is sucking on. (I even personify my thought processes!)

It’s okay in my heart that I feel sorry for crumpled paper that didn’t get tossed into the bin, and is now stranded on the floor, because there are other earthlings that feel sorry for the paper too.

What huge compassion I have. If you understand the compassion I have for inanimate objects and food, then image the immense compassion I carry for animals and people! It’s phenomenal.

My blog is personified, too. Bet you didn’t know that. It’s a living breathing entity. And when you are there reading my words you validate its life form. That’s why comments and stats are so important to me. If I know someone’s been here the blog is alive. Writing in a journal isn’t the same. The journal remains lonely and untouched. Get it?

Wow! I’m making huge revelations and connections. Now, the only issue is I have to turn off the study light and leave my poor computer idling in sleep mode, alone in the dark. Maybe you can keep him, Mr. Computer, company while I go frolic with the fairies. And why you are at it, when you make a comment, know you’re keeping Mr. Blog from isolation. Cheerio! (That’s goodbye not a cereal.)

Clarification:  I didn’t use personification in the exact way one is supposed to use the word. Personification references a rhetorical technique, one of many types of figure of speech or metaphor; whereas pathetic fallacy describes a disposition of the mind. ‘Pathetic’ isn’t derogatory; the word pathetic is in reference to being empathetic towards something. To further research look into pathetic fallacy.

Addition: My Blogging British Friend AilienHippy (BBF) added some more wacky words for me: “Barmy, Bonkers, Plonker, Noodle, Wally, Narna and Nutjob.” She does say, “…away with the fairies. And…He’s off his trolley.”  Laughing Housewife added her thoughts, too “…nutter, a bottle short of a six pack.” Schmidleysscribbling (hard one to spell with dyslexia, but a great lady) added: Bodman

Below is the video: Shelter by Jars of Clay. I picture us never walking alone. Upholding one another, and letting our inner light shine! I told you Little Me is a hope-filled melancholic. She can’t help herself.

Thirty: I am Elephant!

| Aspergers Girls

Days like today I want to find the highest mountain and shout in my loudest voice, “I am Elephant!”

I want to charge forward with my tusks at a massive pile of hay. Stab and stab with all my might, until no barrier is left, only scattered remnants that the animals can feed upon, digest, and carry away.

I hate, if I ever were to hate anything, the aspect of being misunderstood. I hate that my son is being misunderstood. I hate that I am misunderstood.  I feel as if we, as an Asperger’s “species,” have been set up for failure. As if we are supposed to make ourselves less genuine and honest, in order not to threaten others’ norms.

I understand we represent the unknown that exists outside the comfort box of many individuals. And when we surface, stand there face-to-face in conversation, the anomaly, if you will, is seen as a threat, an oddity, a discomfort; and we are made into this perceived entity that requires some degree of change or adaptation on our part.

I question what is it about the way I think and function that requires fixing and change. What if the way I think and function is ideal? Why is it that the majority believe their way is the right way, when all about them the world is falling apart from war, famine, lies, manipulation, blackmail, disease, hatred, bigotry, and poison? These named leaders play these games using their tricks. Wherein I, coming from a place of honesty and genuineness, am perceived as a threat.

Is the feeling of threat erupting from others’ insecurity or perhaps from the uncomfortable feelings that arise when one’s foundation of what is believed to be the right way is confronted?

Perhaps the way communication is currently played out is from a very limited and self-centered scope. Wherein there is this unspoken dance where I am expected to filter what I say, how I say it, when I say it, and how much I say, as to not risk causing discomfort to someone else.

Assuming I am reasonably self-aware, which I am, and I have no intention of ill will or harm, which holds true, and that I have generally mastered the basic social norms of avoiding insult or rudeness, then what other rules must I add?

It seems to me the other rules include this basket of techniques, sayings, buffering, limitations, and balancing that enable the recipient to feel better about him or herself, or at least not any worse. It seems to me a game where the first priority is to not make waves, to win the person over, to sound strong, and to sprinkle evidence of high intellect and likability, in order to allow the other person to feel comfortable enough to maybe begin to trust me.

Why is it that if I accurately and purposely reflect what the other person wishes to hear and see, that they embrace me and wrap the tentacles of interest around me; but other times, when I am entirely authentic, and I share without pretense, plan, or caution, I am questioned, perhaps even distrusted, judged, singled-out, ridiculed, or admonished? Why is it some human beings want to converse with clones of themselves and make me into their egocentric mirror, instead of knowing me?

Communicating is like driving down a dangerous road where there are warning signs at every turn. Beware!  Make sure your words are continually reinforcing the other person’s identity, perception, and worthiness. Avoid offending, weakening, or threatening a person’s idea of truth. Know that complete honesty triggers alarm in people. Understand that ultimately most people you approach already don’t trust you and you have to build and build trust before they will. Even then, know there will be people who will never trust you.

Why is it when I speak my truth some question my intention, my motive, my want, my need, my desire, my expected outcome, my reasoning, my life, my identity, my self-worth, my perception, my judgment, and/or my personhood? Are these seeds I need to plant seeds of dishonesty?

What if I am not the anomaly? What if my son is not the anomaly? What if the teenagers persecuting him with their bullying and snide remarks are the anomaly? What if my son is the teacher? What if Aspergers isn’t a syndrome or a disorder? What if Aspergers is a new mirror: a mirror that reflects back truth and honesty, and genuineness of spirit?

If communication is to based on a scale dependent on levels of trust, then a person sitting across from me in conversation is continually establishing how much they know me and trust me in order to decide what to share about him or herself, or his or her perception, facts, or experience. How do I decide which parts of me to hide?

Why isn’t communication the opposite of distrust? Why don’t people strip themselves of protective layers and speak their truth? Aren’t we all in search of love and attention? Companionship and sharing? Why don’t we all wear T-shirts that read: Love Me, Please. Isn’t that what we crave? Why is it so hard for someone to walk up to a stranger and say, “You look sad and lonely. I’m sad and lonely, too.”? Why is it people say so easily, “It’s a beautiful day” instead of “You’re a beautiful being”?

Strangers ask me, “Why are you being so nice? How did you become so kind?” or say “No one ever asked me that. Thank you so much for taking an interest?” And yet I am the one who knows not how to communicate naturally?

If withholding information is the norm, then I question the integrity of the establishment who dictates such norms. If one is to say to me, “Impossible; if we all spoke are truth the world would fall apart,” then I ask: “Is the world not already falling apart?”

The majorities’ opinion of what counts as the correct mode of communication style appears backwards and disproportionate. This fear-based approach contradicts the doctrines of many spiritual and religious foundations of unconditional love. I don’t understand this barometer I am supposed to carry into conversation—this inner dialogue, gut-feeling, or what have you, that informs me of what to withhold.

I understand to avoid crudeness, rudeness, defensiveness, argumentation, blame and downright meanness—as I see those derivatives of communication equally fear-based as the self-regulating barometer that predisposes the mind to beware of each and every encounter with another human being.

I do not understand the harm in sharing my authentic self and true feelings, if intention to harm and do ill will are abstracted, and what remains is the representation of the true being. Isn’t this what human race is striving for—the disrobing of falsehoods? Don’t people long for genuineness? If so, then why do I feel so oppressed? Why since my youth have my peers and authority continually been trying to snuff my light? Why do I feel as if I am to be locked in some prism of isolation, left alone with my thoughts, so the world outside doesn’t have to fear my reflection?

I am not bold, I am not brave. I am me! But so many people can’t see me.

I crave purity and truth. I abide by these elemental necessities. Yet, I am continually punished for not partaking in a ritual game, of following some unspoken norms of what is supposed to be. When everywhere I look around me the world is falling apart because of all the unspoken lies, manipulation, greed, and trickery.

This dictated “right” way to communicate, the fear-based approach where people say what is expected, and what the other person probably wants to hear, in order to get at some unspoken goal, appears manipulative, preplanned, and superficial.

Why in society is there a limit to what we are supposed to reveal? I understand donning clothing to conceal the taboo of the naked flesh. I can abide by this norm by simply cloaking my body. But to understand the taboo of sharing the naked spirit—I can find no such cloak. I do not know what to cover my truth in so that a person will listen without their ears first burning or their anger first churning. I do not know how to persuade someone to my side. I see no need, have no want of these things. And for this, again, I am lacking.

I watch as those that conform pass untouched in the night. While I remain oppressed because of my nonconformity. Why must I become an untouchable in order to walk freely? Why must I stay hidden in order to be accepted? As many times as I’ve been crushed and hurt, debased and stabbed in the back for sharing myself, I cannot learn another way to walk in this world. It as if the legs that carry me can walk no other way than the way in which my spirit intends. I am made to be silent or to remain in constant affliction. I am imprisoned by my own desire to be.

This is such a lonely and unspeakable place of pain and shame. And all about me professionals with man-invented degrees are claiming their “truths” of what I am, when they do not even know how to even see who I am. They are aliens dissecting me with their eyes, though they wear spectacles with blackened and tarnished glass. They can see nothing but their own imaginings and what has been told to them by others; others whom had things told to them; whom in turn had things told to them by others, with the origin residing in some theorist, who himself was likely twisted in his views and perception by his need to conform.

In my view, I am an elephant. Being an elephant, I know myself as an elephant. I know how an elephant eats, sleeps, dreams, and walks. And I know other elephants who walk in the same way. Who think in the same way. Yet, I have hyenas all about me telling me what an elephant is like. How an elephant should look and be. Who listens to a hyena to know what the elephant is, when an elephant is standing right beside?

Something must change. That is why I shout, “I am Elephant!”

Twenty-Nine: Blue By You

| Aspergers Girls

I’ve been thinking a lot about my childhood and how my actions reflected those of a child with Aspergers. I keep getting pulled back into a time period when I was about ten years of age. I was still rescuing animals then. Not that there was much I could do to help, but to love them.

One day the animal was a bird, near death, whose eyes were cold by morning. Another day a snail that had lost its shell. The one I remember the most is the butterfly. She was a monarch. I found her in the gutter on a rainy-walk home from school. Her wings were tattered, and she was nearly drown. I carried her home, cupped in the safety of my hands. I named her Jolie—for her beauty.

I placed her in a cleaned-out pickle jar and watched her in awe, as she stuck out her black tongue and lapped the sugar-water from a small lid. Her little wings were cast in masking tape. I watched her through the night; ever so often turning on the light and checking on her. I loved her. She survived a full day in the warmth of my affection. When she  passed, I buried her in the backyard under a fig tree and gave her a short sermon. This is the little girl I was, so remarkably sweet and hopeful. I wish to go back to her, to her room, to kneel down at her side, and say:

“I love you. I love you so very much. You are so beautiful. So kind. So thoughtful. And I am sorry that you carry such a burden. I know how painful it is to love with all of your heart. I know how painful it is to want to help and to not know how. But you are helping. You are helping more than you  know, my precious one. Look at me. Do you see what you have become. You are going to be a mommy someday, with your own family, and you are going to have what you need to take care of them. But precious child your journey into adulthood will be very hard. There will be times you want to give up. So many times. And you will take many years to find your way. But you will. You will. I promise you that. And when you do, so much will make sense. And you will cry, cry so very hard, like you are now with losing your beloved butterfly. But I will be waiting. I will be knowing that you will survive. That you will be strong. That you will love with all of your heart and get that love back ten-fold. You of all people, shall be loved. I will be here waiting on the other side of time, with my arms wide open. And when we meet again, in dream and in prose, I will embrace you, like no other. Thank you. Thank you for being you and going onward. Thank you for being so brave and so very strong. You are my living angel. And I breathe for you.”

 

 

Twenty-Eight: Giving a Child with Aspergers a Break

| Aspergers Girls

 

Giving a Child with Aspergers a Break

Be. Let the words pour out of the child. Let the busy thoughts escape the mind. Let him speak as long as he wants about whatever he wants. Set no time limits. Welcome the rambling, digressions, repetitions, and dissertations. Be present, without interjection or correction. Allow time periods with no communication rules, lessons, examples, rights, or wrongs. Let the child release the pressure in his mind. Take long walks and car rides together, and just listen. Let him be himself.

Retreat. Grant her a day of rejuvenation, a full day with no visitors, appointments, outings, sports, or any mandatory doings. Keep the day free of all restrictions, chores, and obligations. Stay in pajamas. Allow escape, isolation, and repetitive activities. Give her the chance to rebuild her stamina. Provide solitude and comfort. Stay home from school one day. Peel away the rules and regiment. Let her retreat.

Environment. Ask about sensory concerns in the environment. What causes you discomfort in this space? How are the lights? The chair? The sounds? The smells? The flooring? The pictures? How do your clothes feel? Your hair? Your skin? Where is there discomfort? How can I help? What does it feel like? Describe it. How is the shower? The bath? Do you hurt? Where do you feel the safest sitting? What is hard to tolerate? Do you need sunglasses? A pillow? Earplugs? Let him create a more comfortable environment for himself.

Active Interest. Show interest in her special interest. Don’t call it an obsession or fixation. Call it an interest or passion. Participate. Explore and collect. Be together. Establish a schedule. Make the special interest a priority. Place the passion in a spotlight of acceptance. Establish a blog, newspaper, journal, comic, drawing, song, rhyme, act, or other creative outlet to express the interest. Let the creativity blossom. Welcome the opportunity for connection. Let go of the need to control, fix, alter, or end the special interest. Replace objection with acceptance. Replace disinterest with interest. Celebrate new discoveries. Use the interest as a therapeutic tool. Allow him the freedom to escape from the challenges of his world.

aKnowledge. Acknowledge characteristics, talents, skills, and intelligence. List positive attributes. Don’t pretend anything is easy. Be a warrior and teach how to be a warrior. Don’t try to change the child. Imagine how scary his world is. Tell him he is very brave. Tell him he is not alone in the world. Share others’ stories. Find an adult with similar challenges who is an effective role model. Watch movies about Aspergers. Know the child wants nothing more than to be good, to do good, and to feel good. Explain that he is never a failure and always a success. Tell him you hope he tries his best, but on the days he doesn’t feel like he can try, that’s okay. Tell him he has a right to hurt and be scared. Tell him he is a gift and that there is nothing he can do to make you stop loving him. Tell him he is perfect. Tell him even though you aren’t him, you can imagine how hard life must be for him. Ask how he is feeling. Never minimize or discount. Never say it’s not that bad or things could be worse. Say you are getting stronger and wiser every day. Believe in him.


© Everyday Aspergers, 2012. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. https://aspergersgirls.wordpress.com.  spectrumgirls@gmail.com
This article may be printed for  home and school use. Please keep the Everyday Aspergers© on the printed page. Thank you.

Twenty-Seven: Who Let the Frog Out?

| Aspergers Girls

Don’t be fooled, this post is NOT about dogs or frogs or hamsters!

I tell you it never fails. I sit down to type, and everything I’d planned to say the night before, goes out the window. And mentioning the word window reminds me of the song How Much is that Doggy in the Window. Sir Brain is following that string again—completely off subject. Here’s a funny dog video, then I promise to get back to my post!

 

Okay folks. Looking to get rich? After viewing a dozen Doggy in the Window YouTube videos, I conjecture you can make a million by producing a quality Doggy in the Window quick flick.  Who is with me?

Oh, one more…. You have to blast this one! It will cheer you up! 

 

Last night I was up until one in the morning, again!

I was typing a letter, in that therapeutic fashion, with no intention of giving the letter to the recipients. I was planning on sharing the letter with you. Until I woke up this morning and decided the process of writing was healing enough.

And then I thought (that nasty th word again) to share another letter I wrote—which took about four hours—the letter that I will probably be sending to the dean of the university. It outlines in a professional and factual tone the demeaning words one of my professors said to me after class. I was very much an innocent in the situation, and I offer this fact with sincerity and clarity.  Even would swear on something, which is a ritual I don’t quite understand.

Nonetheless, sometimes there is a discrepancy in my mind, let’s say 99% of the time, and I can see the error of my ways, and how I most definitely contributed to an outcome. On the flipside, I can also recognize when I contribute something for the benefit of someone else. In this situation, with the professor, I was a victim. (Picturing a Salem witch trial and people without health insurance.)

I decided, in the end, not to present either letter, because I began to understand my motives. Something I try to be in touch with quite often: the whys of my words and actions. Which, in and of itself, the continual inner questioning, makes for a circus of self-criticism. Perhaps I shall develop a way to question without the critique. And let you know in the next millennium or so, how that pans out.

In questioning my motives to present the letters, I realized I wanted your empathy. I wanted your comments about how you felt so sorry for me, how outraged you were, how terribly sad and teary-eyed you were after reading my words.

And I thought, is that the vibe I truly desire to put out there: come hither; gather round my fire of sorrow and pity me. Support me. Lift me. Concur. Share in my sufferings. I’m shaking my head and squinting my eyes and mouthing, “No.”

Of course there are times when ranting and venting are therapeutic, and I don’t judge those who need to put the frustration all out there. I would say in the majority of cases, venting on a blog is probably a lot healthier than many alternatives—like having a heart attack or throwing a pan at your husband.

I’ll get through this event fine, just as I always do. I understand, to some extent, that my journey is a continual series of lessons. You know those sitcoms that reach 100 episodes and get duplicated in mass production on to dvd’s. Shows like Friends and Seinfeld; those shows you can always find broadcasting somewhere. In a way, my life lessons are somewhat syndicated, in the sense that my life lessons seem to be the same episodes over and over.

I joke that I’m one of those rascal spirits that stood in front of a board of wise spiritual advisors, before my birth, and presented a grand life plan. I was full of pride and accomplishment.

Upon review of my plan, the advisors all laughed hysterically in unison, proclaiming, “No way. Not approved. Too much learning.”

And me, I stood there, all brave like, with little wobbly knees, (as I image myself quite petite in the other realm), and responded, “Oh. Don’t worry. I can handle it!”

And they raised their brow and shook their heads, before waving me on with a sarcastic tone: “Good luck with that.”

Only, I didn’t understand sarcasm.

Then I figure, the door shut and they all had a good laugh.

The jokes on me! Ha! Ha! Ha! (Please insert a bratty-tone to my laugher.)

When situations get rough, as they often somehow seem to do—The Darn Plan is to blame. Often I stare up (or across, or somewhere) to the powers that be (that I purposely choose not to quantify, to avoid unnecessary defense and questioning from my readers), and say, “You were right. I made a mistake! I take it all back. Change the plan. I can’t take the heat!”

But no one answers. Except sometimes my spastic-colon dog, who thinks I screamed treat!

I think my super radical plan came with a contract, and that I signed off all rights for alterations after I took human form. Does anyone know of a life contract lawyer?

The good news is I’m about 200 times stronger than I was forty years ago. Because I figure I’ve been challenged by significant circumstances at least four to five times a year and that I gain one point for each challenge I overcome, which puts me somewhere between the vicinity of 160 and 200 growth points. (Multiplied 40 years by 4 or 5.) Just call me spitfire! ? Did you know that spitfire means: Highly emotional. Someone that is wild and free, without a care in the world. Considered strong and emotionally spiritually. Someone’s whose angry words are like fiery ice. A high-spirited out spoken female. Usually loud, lusty, lovely and pretty and untouchable. Typically a red head. ?

Okay, then, so I’m not a spitfire, but my alter ego is! And that weenie, who stood up to the board of advisors and thought this life was a manageable plan, was certainly, if not a spitfire, out of her mind.  (Which I’m thinking now is very accurate, because if she didn’t have a body—she would be out of her mind! I love the way I think. I really do. I’m a laugh a minute. There’s never a dull moment with LV (little voice in my head), Sir Brain (squishy ball), and Prophet in my Pocket.

I’m thinking….lol

…I’m planning on starting a dictionary for my blog, for inexperienced new readers, so I don’t need to keep explaining LV, Sir Brain, and Prophet in my Pocket. And, since I’m assuming, more characters in this fictional-like story of my life, will continue to surface, I ought to start the dictionary now, rather than later.

I want to include the word hamping.

Hamping is what I’m calling the loops that go on in my mind. Where I have a repetitive thought that I can’t dispel. You understand, I think…just imagine those times you’re on the couch and all you can hear is the chocolate calling you from across the room. “Just one more piece. Just one. What harm can it do? I deserve a little pleasure in my life. Gosh darn it, I’m getting myself a piece of chocolate.” And then you sit back down, after devouring half the bar, and all you can think about is the other half you placed up high on the top shelf so you couldn’t reach it without a lot of effort. And you’re wondering where you put the stepladder.

That’s hamping. I call it hamping, because I imagine a cute fuzzy hamster.  If I’m going to have repetitive thoughts, I might as well be adorable while partaking in the process. The hamster is in a cage on a wheel spinning round and round. He can’t help his little old self. Can’t get off, even though he knows he’s going nowhere and that the cat thinks he looks really stupid (and delicious).

Tomorrow I’d like to be able to post all these other stories I’ve been savoring. I have a whole list (in my head), such as my ghost encounter; the premonition of my childhood dog dying; the terrors of college. Wow! Now that I’m listing them all out, I’m thinking I savor the doom and gloom. Melancholic at it’s best!

Well folks, I’m off to go work on the Everyday Aspergers Dictionary now. Or hunt for chocolate. Probably chocolate. LV, Sir Brain, and Prophet are still dancing to Who Let the Frog Out!  As I listened to the song ten times while editing.  Oh! I just found a new character:  Crazy Frog—he’s the one that keeps me laughing.

* You can YouTube “Crazy Frog” for more upbeat music.