It’s All About the Ovaries (Second Edition of Everyday Aspergers: Part One)

So, I’ve been procrastinating on this post since December 2018.

I’ve analyzed why and have come up short. It’s likely that I don’t care much for self-promotion. Indeed, in the last 6+ years I can count on one hand how many times I’ve asked folks to share about my Everyday Aspergers Facebook page. (And that counts the mention here!) If you haven’t checked it out, please do.

I could blame my procrastination on the countdown to menopause, which I hope and pray arrives tomorrow, as I’ve been dealing with the complexity of endometriosis for years, including the 2018 road traveled of chocolate cysts. Don’t let the name fool you; it’s all about the blood. And now that I’ve over-shared, I will switch gears.

 

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Recently, I’ve had a profound peace — could be hormones shifting and my lady parts semi-retiring — could not. (Oops, focus Sam!) I’d like to think it’s something to do with my faith and spirit. It’s likely a combination of coffee, getting older, and finally getting fed up with not speaking up for myself and finally understanding boundaries! That, and I do feel the presence of an angelic spirit. But that’s another story.

Not much has changed (with my brain) in the past years, since I started writing Everyday Aspergers. Which now has over 1.4 million hits! Well, yes, some of the reason behind the high ‘hit’ number is because there are over 500 posts! Omgosh — write much?

My point being, I still digress to a close-to-annoying degree.

That’s likely why I typically get called to interview for a job, based on my awesome resume, skills, and experience, but don’t seem to ever get the job! (In fact, I don’t even get a rejection letter — just GHOSTED.) Picture me bungee jumping off a high cliff of ‘tell us a bit about yourself,’ and swirling in rapid circles, giggling like I’m twelve, raising my voice in high pitch, fidgeting about, announcing how proud I am to have ASPERGERS, and then correcting myself: “I mean to be on the autism spectrum.”

I leave an interview feeling like I either nailed it and they absolutely LOVED me, and want to be my best friend, or convinced I terrified the living daylights out of them. It’s likely the latter. As I mentioned: I don’t ever hear back. Thank the lord for my job at ultratesting.us, where being neurodivergent is the norm! Thank my lucky stars. (< Madonna video)

Ironically, I have studied 1000s of hours of best hiring practices for my vocation, and can’t seem to keep my Aspie-ness in a bag when under distress at an interview. There must be a pill I can take. (Now picturing Violet in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, and now must Google to find an image.) “. .  . because Charlie she’s a nitwit.” Not to say I’m a nitwit.

 

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Okay, alas the REAL point of this post is to tell you THE SECOND EDITION OF EVERYDAY ASPERGERS IS HERE! And it’s now available in paperback in many countries. Check out Amazon or ask your local library to see if they can order it. Look at the PRETTY cover by an autistic artist (and my friend and colleague)!

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UK amazon

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10 Facts You May Not Know About the Book Everyday Aspergers

Are we friends yet? (Facebook link)

 

Okay … done! Although, I don’t think this is what my publisher had in mind.  (scan down for more.)

 

 

On a side note, I will speak to you as if you and I are in a cafe, and I’m catching you up with my medical stories. Sorry for the monologue, and the white-haired man sitting kitty-corner to us that is blushing because I am talking too loud.

This here ^^  … that’s an image of a chocolate cyst. Funny story … after an ultrasound in early 2018, when I found out I had at least one chocolate cyst, (and had gone to the emergency room in excruciating pain, and was curled up on couch most days for weeks) in typical Sammy-fashion, I researched with hyper-focus about the chocolate cysts and implemented some home treatments — including essential oil, strict dietary change, etc.

When I returned months later for a follow-up ultrasound, the technician confirmed indeed the cysts presented (3 of them) exactly like ‘chocolate’ cysts! Immediately following, (literally a few steps down the hall), my OBGYN doc informs me, “The cysts are shrinking, and that doesn’t happen with chocolate cysts, so we can’t call them that anymore. They don’t shrink.”

I was dumbfounded.

Surely, in some cases they can? And I’d done so much, including talking to my body, to ensure healing.

My scrunched up face demonstrated I was confused, as I asked in a high-pitched voice, that no longer suits my age: “Well, what would we call them if they weren’t shrinking?”

She responded, “Oh, definitely chocolate cysts.”

I then got that familiar feeling in my gut that means ‘NO ONE on this planet is truly an expert in anything and most of the time professionals are talking out their donkey.’

(“vulgar slang To say foolish things; to talk of nonsense. Don’t pay Jonathan any mind, Mary, he’s just talking out his ass again.”)

The next time I went back in for a check up, with said Doc, she informs that my chocolate cysts are shrinking or stabilized.

So I guess we are back to calling them that?

Anyhow, it reminds me of the time I had a dead front tooth, when I was in my early 20s, and I went to a dentist that a colleague had suggested I see. It was 1992, a sunny day. The dentist’s recommendation for my dead tooth’s discoloring was to darken all my teeth to match!!! Yes, that’s right. And, noooo, I did not!

I have trouble believing this actually transpired, especially after I told my dental hygienist the story yesterday, and she said that’s the worst telling she has heard to date. Also, because decades have past with my pretty veneer tooth. (The other dentist I saw bleached all my teeth to match the new veneer. Yin and Yang. Dark and Light. Theme of my life.)

(On another side note: I found out this week I have no cavities and an unusually small mouth [which matches my usually small head]. And I warned the dental hygienist not to say she has a small mouth despite what her husband says, because that can be interpreted in different ways.

She was appreciative, and said, “We’re going to get along just fine.”

I always find it to be an interesting phenomenon when I give out unsolicited advice to non-autistics about social graces.)

Needless to say, I never went back to that dentist who wanted to darken my teeth! But the young, inexperienced (terrified) me did shake hysterically in her car afterward. The same way I shook after seeing a ‘specialist’ a few years back.

That time a doctor would diagnose me with ‘a close cousin to POTS syndrome,’ (as my blood pressure acted a bit different from typical POTS, but the tilt table test confirmed the condition.)

This was after 5 ER visits wherein my pulse would go to 160 upon standing, wherein the IV would add sodium to my blood, and remedy the POTS-like reaction, making me seem better; only to be sent home and the symptoms to come back (160 upon standing, weak, shaking, etc.); only for me to return to the ER and be told I must be inventing it for attention.

Yes, hysteria is still widely falsely the diagnosis for women! No wonder I have white-coat syndrome.

Fortunately, my then-husband Bob (now-good friend) was in the patient room with the ‘specialist’ (notice the quotes) and me, when the Doc told me my diagnosis and prescribed an exact treatment plan, e.g, constricting stockings, raise bed, exercise regime, salt intake, etc.

A year later, I came back, feeling super pleased I’d followed the Doc’s directions, and was able to sit up for long periods of time, and return to life as normal (well atypical normal). BUT THEN . . . she SCOLDED me, accusing me of making my condition up, and saying I didn’t have POTS, and didn’t have to do all that. That I wasted my money on salt pills and where did I get the idea I had POTS?

I had to phone my ex-hubby from the car to avoid a nervous breakdown; literally thought I was losing my mind, until I realized the doctor was …

(Scan down for book reviews.)

So . . . I likely should write another post soon that is more about the book. I will. I think. Can’t wait to see what pops out of LV’s mouth then! Sir Brain is shaking his head in shame. (He doesn’t have ovaries.)

452: Scarlet White

The agony is torture, pure fire to the soul—the way such solitude is split into ravenous venom, devouring me as leash to the chain, choking the breath of life.

I am that I am. And then I am not. Lost again in some unfathomable labyrinth of thought.

Where and why eludes and leaves a trail of dust dried blood. Help, I scream from somewhere else. Inaudible and out of direction. No path left. No place to go. But inward, where I already dive deeper in the vine of self.

Is it not this place again? The familiar place of no sunrise and no sunset. Where the cold dribbles down the walls of caves, and placates the answers with sweet soft denial. Is it not this somewhere found in the furrowed causeway of my mind’s nimble foresight? My meanderings all leading back to here. Some forgotten spot of eternity missed.

I am a vagrant, a vagabond, a ghost traveler to my own shadow. Unable to distinguish between in and out, what is penetrating and what is piercing, what is poking to release its plundering poison and what is slicing to divide where I begin.

I am invaded by darkness, the soul long forgotten in the night, the enemy out to demolish the light. I am what is not in the way I move without motion and touch without rhythm, stagnant in an air of dismal lies. Here I stand in the place I was, only the place no longer is. Here I stand in the place I was, only I no longer exist.

Wobbling is my fortitude. Swaying, ignited by the dreams unwound, the sword plunged further into the stream of mystery spat open. Coughing up the remnants of who had been. Torn down into oblivion, obliterated and left as carrion to the greedy hunger of naught.

They find me, these naysayers, and call out to the lost sheep I am, with doings undone in their torturous view. I am but what they wish, set asunder below them, and made to bleed about as the rabbit sunken in the snare of despair. My white coat diminished by the scarlet fever set upon me.

Who am I but this child undone, left in the valley of rivers, and blown into the sea of forgiveness? Chiseled and chiseled, as if stone were the heart of me. Made to blend in with misery, to melt in the doorway of pain. Charred to the bone with the starch black of misery.

And here, still, he comes. With his arrow strung across the shoulder of time. His answer seized in the windstorm. Here, still, he is. This gentle grace of knowing naught and knowing all in the splinter of thyme. He enters me as clear day. The light upon my forehead new. The pressing spot of hope spun open into the rebirthing. Come, my lady, he declares, pronouncing me the victorious one, the homecoming of his awaiting. Come, my lady, he mends, his words the golden thread of healing.

And I follow, as blind lady lost in his rapture, spread open by the seams to his glorious name. Come, I do, and trace out my destiny in his waters, dancing in the stream of desert turned dream. At last in the home of home. No longer chased down by the dark ones seeking to erase what has been brought to them as buried treasure uncharted. No longer stalked by the nightingale’s ghostly brother, who pecks out a song of bitter vengeance.

In only this way I am free. In only this way. When the darkness sets upon my soul and the bleeding ceases to flow without follow, and the voice comes, from the seeping of my chaliced tears. Only then I am home. Only then, in the making of self whole.

440: Angel Tears

There is an invisibleness that comes with being me. It is unfamiliar and familiar at the same time, each time rising in me somewhat reformed, yet, still the same.

I am that I am, and then I am not. I am this woman, and I am this man-woman combined beneath. I am the sun and the land, the air that I take in, and the waste I eliminate, through various means: my breath, my being, the cocoon I will once be.

As in time rewinding and returning me to the state of unreason, where logic is dismissed and gently slides out the regions of the dissipating mind. And here I shall be the cocoon erased, the beginning point and the end, as one, withered-not in my shell of fragility exposed, but open to the region beyond the space that once played host to the shadowed cage of self.

I see this. I know this. I see that there is not time, there is not space, there is nothing but what the imaginary state of being creates. And in this I wobble some, in this reckoning of something I cannot feasibly grasp, but that still continues to trickle through my outstretched fingers—as water to the thirsty—absorbed, understood, drifting and disappearing again.

I am what I am, and yet I am not. And for any man to see this, to really see this, is to feel lost and isolated at the start, and still very much alive in a world of spinning chaos. To see this, is to behold all the answers and construct all the abstract causeways, and in the same seeing to know that all paths lead to none other than the original place of standing.

I am this grand inventor seeping of potentiality and ideas, with no place to release, less I return to the place of exact thought again—the chasing of tail, spinner of tales, in one. I am circular in my meanderings, forced by my uninterrupted inhibition to want to glide out of this discomfort onto the ice of discovery, only to discover the waters have broken open, and I am once more drowning in a place of illusion, unfounded in appearance and ruptured of all substantial reality.

It is eruption, in the sense I can detect the elements of my own self fading into obliviousness of juxtaposed thoughts. How I be such an explosive touch of truth, and still bathe in denial of the actualities.

I am. I am. I am. I try to decipher these words, and they feel like nuggets, gold nuggets, in my mouth. I chew and they are pebbles. I cough and they spurt out into the world in which I know nothing of. I am here and I am not, and from where I be, I watch as the doorman and the moving pictures transport within and without, following the opening and closing of the door. No leader, only the revolving avenue exposed, erased, exposed, erased…stepping through a labyrinth of uncertainty, and certain dismissal of what is.

How to live in such a constant state of recognition, and to believe in anything as subtle as hope, eludes the part that hides. And, still, she waits, this fire-driven wand of desire, pleading and placating to the eternity to expand, as the womb rewound, to suck her in, some warship turned peaceful, the latches speared open forever, her essence returned to the source that dropped her so sparingly to the tumbling tremors of disemboweled earth.

I crumble here in my universe forgotten, in a land that is not mine, is not home, is not where I am meant to be. How I sink in the soils of stench, forging through the forest of the misshapen shadows in search of familiar. My wings, soiled, by the ash of my own tears, drowning in the grey-stone of my weary heart. I am not made for this land of make-believe, where the games rip apart at the tender souls. I am not made for this game at all. And still I am here, in this broken place, searching for the answers, through the kaleidoscope of illusion torn through.

414: Beyond Dreaming

Last week when I paused a movie, it was paused on accident at 11.11.11

11:11:11 means total recall, creative expression of who you are, and kindness/positive outlook. I just found out. Makes sense to me now. Statistically I wonder what those odds are at stopping a movie randomly at that precise number? That has been happening to me a lot with numbers. Many 3:33, 2:22, 1:11 patterns.

Last night I painted in attempt to process emotions. I was frustrated, sad, and in a (hormonal) angry state.
A figure kept popping up in the center that felt like my mother-in-law’s spirit. She recently passed. I focused on trying to release more and more energy as I painted, but was feeling a lot of energy blockage.

Here is the painting last night:

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Here is the painting today. Called ‘Beyond Dreaming’

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Like my writing, in the last few months, I have to paint. I don’t have a choice. So much energy is surging through me. A fire and burning passion. I cannot remove it as hard as I try. On my new blog: Belly of a Star, I have been writing some of the words I hear during my times of reflection.

When I woke up this morning, I had to change the original painting I did last night, and express what was in me. The challenge is I don’t see things like the typical person. I can’t hold the shape of faces in my mind, nor the ways bodies change as they move. For instant, how a nose looks sideways, or how a neckline appears. I often paint and paint, and all I see are flaws; until I see something I like, and then after a bit, I don’t like it. So, I paint. I erase. I paint. I become one with the process. And eventually the canvas starts to speak to me.

It is an excruciating process. I seem to go through much confidence, then fear, then doubt, then anger, then sadness and grief, and then after all the emotions, I am able to break free and create. This last piece took six hours. I am exhausted, yet, very much cleansed. I am also happy that this painting reflects the inner state of my being, currently.

I was told months ago, in prayer, before I ever started painting, that I would paint healing works, and that in taking photographs I would see energetic/spiritual images. I see one in the bottom of the canvas, for certain. And I find much healing in staring at this painting.

In looking back at the progression of my paintings, I notice a definite transition of spirit. From shapeless forms, to almost formed bodies, to people with no faces, to people with simple drawn lines for faces, to simple faces, to more complex faces. It’s as if my paintings followed my spiritual journey. Lately, I see that most of my paintings, beginning with the bear and the girl, are two people connected. Their body language usually conveys my spiritual state as well.

This series of works in chronological order shows a bit of the transition of my spirit reflected in art.

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The Shift

I think art therapy would benefit many people with Aspergers. It is more therapeutic than anything I have tried thus far.

397: Invisible Nothingness and Topless Men

I shared with a friend what my two oldest sons said to me this morning. But I sort of left out the last part.

Here is what my sons said, each contributing their not-so-discreet, two-cents:

“It’s true, Mom. You are always nice and kind; you are uncommonly good to people.”

Here’s the part I ‘forgot’ to mention to my friend.

“Yeah, but it’s creepy, Mom. Really creepy. I mean who is so nice?”

“Yeah, Mom. I mean how do we know you’re not a sociopath or something? Because based on your characteristics it’s quite feasible….” <<< son with ASD, starting a dissertation.

I’ve been generally in a grand state of la-la-land happiness because I reconnected with my true spirit. I am that magical little girl I used to be. I love her. She is so fun and sweet and terribly kind. Likely a sociopath in the making.

On my walk a few days ago, I found a stick with sea-green moss attached and a natural loop on the top, and I pretended it was my elven princess wand. I kept knighting my little black labradoodle “Sir-Princess Violet.” Except I poked her in the eye. After she smelled this really cute mutt’s butt, I said, “See, what good fortune you have after I knighted you?” My dog has crazy white facial fur that looks like Einstein eye brows, and when I am in my little-girl-mood, she raises them often, as if questioning if she’ll get the bed to herself when I go to the insane asylum. On our walk, we stopped and took turns looking through the wooden-looped-wand. Every once in a while I pretended to change people into other things. I have this new game I play; when I see someone I attach a new name to them. Like I say: sac of potatos, or tow-truck, or peacock butt. I just make any random name up, to teach myself that nothing I have learned before is real—just all names someone made up at one time or another. I like to do this to keep things straight in my head. Nobody needs to be labeled fat, tall, skinny, dirty, stinky, etc. So I like to turn them into things before my mind can catch up. So far my favorite was the turnip. On our walk we sang: “We’re off to see the Wizard, the wonderful Wizard of Oz, because, because, because”…(long pause)…. (and start song again.) That’s how we sing it, because I have a terrible memory for lyrics and Violet never saw the movie.

I am relatively worry-free. It is amazing. Sometimes, if I over-indulge in food, which has happened for two days now, some anxiety resurfaces. Wheat and sugar seem to be the main culprits. I know this. But I like to pig out and see if I can manifest myself to not only have no reaction but to also lose weight. It hasn’t happened yet. My fret as of late is actually related to…

my lack of anxiety.

Yes, this is the genius aspie mind at work. What? No anxiety, no thoughts of stress, no fear of tomorrow? Hmmmm.

Well let’s analyze this lack of worry to death! Shall we?

When I am not dissecting the reasons for my peace of mind, I am leaping into the future and worrying about aspects of spirituality.

Show-and-Tell Inside my Head:

1) If I continue to be anxiety free, I might no longer have Aspergers . (hahahahaha)

2) If I become enlightened I will have to give up things like Ben and Jerry’s Crème Brulee ice-cream and staring at men, twice my oldest son’s age, when they take off their shirts at the park. Or worse, give up my long rambles on my blog.

3) I will never understand the gnostic gospel’s angel legions and leagues and guardians, and what gospels are authentic, and which are altered, and who did what to whom when and why, and where, and how this all works out; and if God knew all this, then why is it happening; and why is this His plan, and is he a he, or a she, or Us, or no one, or empty space.

4) I can’t remake that hand like I did in that original water color painting. God has abandoned me. I suck.

Sunday, after some after-hour coffee, I partook in what I would call much too much internet searching. On Monday morning, I called up my husband at work and said, with much delight-filled eagerness, “Hi. You know how I have been teaching you about the core of fear and helping you with relieving your state of fear?”

“Yes, good morning, Honey.”

“Okay. Anyhow, I was up late last night and the gnostic gospels led to this other site; and did you know there are actual theories about another life form that feeds of our fear? So I was thinking, since you are a sci-fi-minded type of person, this information might really help you. Supposedly there are these creatures of non-matter living outside our stratosphere and to add to our fear they actually plant thoughts in our heads! Like when you get a negative thought all of the sudden, that’s them! So just picture some alien species probing your mind. That should help you clear your head. I mean you don’t want to feed them, do you?”

Yes, this is what my husband gets to hear at the start of his workweek.

Why? Because my current love interest is God. Yes, that’s right. I left the mortals behind and have got my eyes set on the top dog (or tree, or fish, or whatever He is or isn’t). I suppose, if I embrace my Buddhist studies, I am in love with the emptiness. Which is hard to convince to love me, I suppose.

I have always had special love-interests, since I was in pre-school. Probably, since I first laid eyes on boys. I dream of them. I love them. I see me with them in the future.

I thought getting fake-nails, wearing mini-skirts, and lining kitchen cupboards was tough! But it’s nothing compared to trying to be the best I can be for God. I mean talk about high self-expectations?

This whole God-Bride thing has got me trying to figure out how to be more saintly and humble. I am studying ‘The Buddha Said,’‘A Course in Miracles,’ Christian gospels, various spiritual documentaries and videos, Ram Dass, Ram Dass’ guru included, and so on. I’ve got myself literally praying to Jesus, my angels, my saints, my ancestors, my elders, my guardians—and then putting that all on hold, as Buddha teaches prayer is basically obsolete and goes into a bunch of theories why, that I won’t get into—so then I practice being in the now and the moment and connecting to nature; and then I’m practicing seeing the light in everyone; I’m holding people in love; I’m controlling all my thoughts; I’m repeating love, love, love. God help me!

But Man, oh man, is it a great excuse not to do laundry! “Oh, Honey, I need to listen to this ‘John of the Cross’ series to analyze my potential sins. And “Oh, Honey, God moved through me all day; I painted for six hours. So tired. Can you make dinner?” See! And by the way John of the Cross specifically talks about what I am doing in putting off other things to over immerse myself in Godly things as a type of deadly sin. So I am so back to square one. (aka Screwed!).

I’m putting my token on the Buddha board again. According to Buddhism I can look at the topless men at the park—I need only step back in thought and reflection and analyze myself doing so, as to possibly stop this the next time. So I’m kind of good to go, in those terms.

Do you see how complicated this can get. I mean look at the nature, but don’t think about the nature in parts; smile, but don’t smile with pride. Humble yourself, but if you’re asking for humility for your own betterment, so you can feel better, that’s a sin! Really, God? Really? There is even a path of sins for people trying to dedicate their lives to you? I am so confused.

And the God-enema doesn’t help. All that beautiful prose coming through me for weeks on end. I really just want a hot, hunk-of-burning love, guardian angel to come down. That’s all. That’s all. I’d be satisfied. Topless would be good.

I think I am liable to explode. I have taken the perfectionistic obsessive passionate aspie girl to a whole new level. I mean I am surprised some great ancient one hasn’t come down to propose to me, already. I keep picturing Egyptian, broad shoulders, staff with serpent, sexy almost skirt-like-thing revealing hairy legs. I digress.

Truthfully, I am in the greatest state of peace I have been my entire life. My whole day is not about catching God. (Pause for insane laughter.) I was actually relieved when I read in OSHO’s Buddhist book about some Buddhists being able to un-attach to the easier things, like money, fame, etc. but not un-attach to other things like the process of enlightenment itself. Those Buddhists, the ones that cling to less worldly things, but hold onto spiritual quests, they still get to progress: come back next time as still enlightened. In fact, they get limited times back here, instead of indefinite, potentially millions of return trips. I don’t mind coming back a handful more times. Because I am really not ready to turn into invisible nothingness, yet.