identity

Day Twenty-Two: Brain, Little Voice, and Me

| Aspergers Girls


Have you ever been in one of those relationships where the person is highly intriguing, passionate, and overall seems like a very likeable gal, but for some reason, you can’t stand to be around her? That’s the type of relationship I’m currently in. Only it’s not exactly with a person….. It’s with my brain!

Brain and I, we go a long way back. Yet, I’m still trying to figure him out. Sometimes I try to understand Brain more by comparing him to other brains.

For instance, just the other day, I asked my husband, “What are you thinking about?”  He responded, “Nothing.” And I said, “What? You’re joking. Really? Absolutely nothing?”

He thought (or did something) for awhile, and then answered, adamantly, “Nope. Nothing.” Now, by this time I’m laughing, in that annoying I-do-know-better way, wanting to knock my knuckle on his head, and say: “Hello, in there!”

Later, I asked my eldest son, the same question. And his answer mirrored his father’s. “Well, what were you thinking about a few minutes ago, then?” I queried. “I don’t know, Mom. Leave me alone. Nothing important.” (He’s fourteen.)

Now, get this. When I asked my middle son, “What are you thinking about?”, he gave me a thirty-minute dissertation. Can you guess which one has Aspergers?

I didn’t bother to ask my baby-boy, Robert; he was too busy securing plastic wrap over a clear plastic cup that he’d carefully filled with the blood he’d collected from his bloody nose. He was saving the blood for future science experiments. I easily guessed what he was thinking about.

Movies are interestingly-annoying with Brain. There are times I  have to press the pause button on the remote during a film, because I’m so excited by the fact that I was actually enjoying the show for five minutes strait without brain interruption!

This is a super big explanation mark deal in my book, because usually when a movie is playing, some 99.99 % of the time, LV (Little interior Voice in my head) and I are carrying on an entire conversation.

I noticed today that LV is starting to have a full personality. Which causes my stomach to rumble, somewhat in fear. Because I fret I may end up with yet another neurological disorder. And there’s only so many LV and I can keep track of.

I picture LV like Laverne, from the show Laverne and Shirley. Like Laverne, LV has letters monogrammed onto her tight sweater (LV), and she’s totally clueless that her sweater is too tight. So she looks like a loosey-goosey, even though she doesn’t mean to appear that way. She’s like me, when I wore those glossy yellow shorts, during freshman class physical education, that were way too short; yet, I hadn’t a clue why the boys and girls were calling me those names. I’m picturing Rudolph the reindeer crying. I’m fine. Santa and the elves loved Rudolph.

Not to should on LV, but she should have a question mark right along side her LV monogram. It’s all about inquiry with that chick. Here’s the typical repertoire of clauses she choses from, while I attempt to watch a romantic, carefree comedy:

Is this the director’s first movie? I wonder how much that actress got paid? Do you think Shakespeare knew actresses would be idols one day?  Is this a box office hit, for real? Wow, nice hair; maybe I should get my haircut. Look, did you see her pause for a whole fricken five minutes to let the other person talk?  How does she do that? Is that normal? Is that what I’m supposed to do? Oh my goodness, do you think she realizes what the plastic surgery did to her face? That can’t be her? Is that her? Should I pause the movie and ask? I want that table wear. Is that materialistic of me? The blue is so pretty. What color is that? Cobalt. Cobalt is a strong sounding word…

Which leads me back to the whole: I wouldn’t want to be my brain’s friend argument. Not that LV is my brain; my brain is mostly a man. LV’s more like the cute cuddly ambassador of my brain. And I have no idea why my brain is not homogenous, probably because he/she has a right and left hemisphere, but I feel invaded by one side—if you must know.

You might have noticed, beyond the rambling, that I used the word  fricken, earlier. That’s because LV doesn’t like to swear, beyond crap and poop head. She does have fun turning harsh “bad words” into less offensive words that sound dorky. Oh, and she does call our little female labradoodle the B-word, only because that’s logical. She also calls the dog spastic-colon!

LV kept me awake last night. Her and the caffeine I had after the noon hour. Anyone, who’s had that can’t sleep ‘cause I’m caffeinated experience, knows the agony.  Now add LV to the picture. Well, I’m twisting and turning in bed, illogically trying do to the same thing over and over again, while expecting a different outcome; even thinking if I fluffed the pillow just right, I’d suddenly slumber, when bam! Smack out of nowhere, a parade of words and numbers start drumming in my head.

They were in a row, all these words and numbers, flashing at me, like the letters and digits in the television show The Electric Company.

I just made a whammy of a flashback-connection: I loved Electric Company because the show was all about words and numbers! And all these years, I thought I liked the show for the Gorilla and his bananas.

Here are some of the words I saw as I tried to fall asleep:

Pretty Sure, Maybe, Kind of, Almost Certain, Could Be, Probably, Perchance, Most Likely, We’ll See, Perhaps

LV, obviously awake from the caffeine as well, was trying to figure out how to assign a statistical number to each word to determine which word/phrase indicated a more likelihood of occurrence. For instance, when parents say, “We could be going to get ice cream later,” is that a more probable chance than parents saying, “I’m pretty sure we’re going to get ice cream later.”

LV reasoned Pretty Sure earned a 95.5% and Could be was very open to interpretation, perhaps a 51%—dependent upon tone of voice and inflection.

LV was going on and on with this theoretical rhetoric, until she concluded that all the words are ambiguous and confusing. All this while I’m side-kicking my husband for snoring and shoving my earplugs into what had to be my eardrums.

In the television series House, during one episode, this genius-type male patient is deathly ill, and the reason for his sickness turns out to be cough syrup. He had been drinking (and hiding) a large amount of cough syrup to stop himself from having complex and profound thoughts. Primarily, he wanted to stop the thoughts, so he could stay with his hot babe of a wife (who was clueless-brained) without being bored to death.

LV is reminding me of this episode and encouraging grape-flavored cough syrup. Like that’s even a feasible idea? Like I said, LV is not the type of friend one chooses. No offense LV.

I had another thought, but I can’t remember now—probably, because LV is upset.

I did want to share that I realized something about music and my relationship to music. A song was playing on the radio this morning, and immediately I became lost in my mind. Which makes me wonder, if I should be driving.

The experience was similar to stepping into a music video, only without all the sexy clothes and makeup, and weird body movements that ooze of I’m cheap, (or maybe drunk).

While I was one with the song, (Ommmmm), I was still me, but had Santa Claus powers enabling me to magically stop time. In the musical experience I visited everyone in the entire world who was sad and lonely. I saw myself stepping into strangers’ homes and staring into their eyes. I saw myself releasing mass amounts of pain and misgivings, and lifting many in spirit, so they could recognize their inner beauty. It was amazing! In moments like that, when my brain enables me to be in the music, I forgive him/her for all transgressions.

One more thing, before I head out to pick up my son and take him to Thai food… Can you hear my tummy cheering! Thai food! Thai food! He (tummy) is wearing a cheerleading skirt and looks completely (avoiding totally) dorky.  Oh no, I think my tummy is forming a personality, too.  Shootness, I just realized all my internal organs have genders! Please Google that and tell me if that’s another neurological disorder. No, don’t.

I better stop myself now, before I make this the longest post in blog history. (Thinking of the end of the Rudolph song: You’ll go down in history.) Have a good one. I’ll be chowing down on Pad Thai and assigning Sir Names to all my internal organs. I’m thinking the most of me is masculine internally. What’s that mean?

Day Nineteen: Return to Planet Earth

| Aspergers Girls

 

I believe, without a doubt, I have Aspergers. And I believe Aspergers affects me on multiple levels. I believe I am handicapped in ways, because of this syndrome. I uphold that what my diagnosis means to anyone, beyond myself, is inconsequential. While I love and care about others unconditionally, I am aware that when I care how others’ perceive me, and let their opinions affect my esteem, then ego is stepping in. Thusly, I have been actively releasing ego-attachments associated with the title of Asperger’s Syndrome. And  I’ve been actively telling myself to not use the diagnosis as an excuse, such as a reason to not leave the house, to escape into isolation, to fixate more, etc. I forgive myself for partaking in this natural process of swinging to one extreme on the pendulum of attachment and emotional-response to the other, before finding a restful state of equilibrium.

Yes, the Aspergers title has enabled me to understand myself at a very profound level. And I support others who are seeking a diagnosis and/or self-understanding. But I no longer choose to let the diagnosis define my personhood. 

 Sam Craft’s Expedition Journal (February 2012) Semi-Fictional

Day One: Upon receiving my official diagnosis of Asperger’s Syndrome, I have subsequently clung onto the title. Beginning to understand the implications of diagnosis.

Day Two: My diagnosis now qualifies as a life preserver, as the term Aspergers appears to be keeping me afloat, as I relive aspects of my past and evaluate my perception of reality. Mental connections observed. Huge relief in finding semblance of answers, preponderance of flashbacks. Mild-degree of depression. Reality shifting.

Day Three: Uncertain if clinging is beneficial. Is this need to grasp onto a title indeed part of my Asperger’s brain or part of my soul’s journey? Many questions emerging.

Day Four: If Aspergers is a man-made diagnosis, does it exist? Still clinging to title.

Day Five: I’ve met others who recognize me and validate my experience. I have found my people. I am proud to have Aspergers! I no longer care if I am clinging. Neurotypicals of planet earth do not understand me.

Day Six: Preparing for trip to Planet Aspie. Confirmation received: I am of alien decent. Leaving behind all prior diagnosis, roles, and identities, in hopes of forging ahead to new frontier. I have reclaimed my spaceship. Excited. Final goodbyes to cruel earth.

Day Seven: Take Off! Less and less grounded, but filled with hope.

Day Eight: Assimilated successfully with my kin. Partying, connecting. Don’t miss earth one bit, or anything I left behind.

Day Nine: Trouble breathing. Don’t know how much longer I can survive here. I fear if I depart I will lose clarity of self and multiple connections in new community. Gasping for air. Disappointed and discouraged by predicament.

Day Ten: Breathing remains labored. Beginning to reconsider options. I miss earth. I miss who I was. Understanding my identity, views, and reasoning have become obstructed and marred by the mere act of defining myself as an alien from Planet Aspie. Forgotten who I was.

Day Eleven: I’ve been forced to make preparations to leave planet, after a radio signal I picked up from earth, on a social network frequency:

“Isn’t it strange how folks pigeon holed by their ‘labels’ want to be recognized for their ‘labels’, yet don’t want to be pigeon holed by labels?” ~ K

Day Thirteen: Ego wounded on planet. A fellow alien wrote the following message on the  side of my spacecraft:

“I’ve never considered it a disability. You take the good with the bad. Asperger’s gives one good analytical thinking and attention to detail, useful traits wouldn’t you say?

Social skills aren’t hard to learn if you work at it…How could you compare a social impediment with…? That’s being perhaps a little bit whiny and self-obsessed.

If- perchance- you’re offended, I don’t blame my asperger’s. I blame myself. If I’ve crossed the line here, I’m sorry and it’s my fault.” ~ J

Resulting consequence: I became self-absorbed and remained (momentarily) in a feeble-state of wounded-ego. I understand now, the message was not a direct attack upon my personhood, and that I only felt attacked because I’ve wrapped my identity in a spacesuit of Aspergers. Though I disagree with aspects of the message and tone, these words carry nothing but ego-bullets. To avoid further injury, I am returning to planet earth where I can better control ego, (and breathe).

Day Fourteen: Ego-attachment to Aspergers identity is still very strong, as I buckle in and prepare for departure.

Day Fifteen: Touched down on Planet Earth. Immediately reunited with vital parts of self. Ego in balance. Collecting parts of personhood that I left behind. Mourning loss of identity. Breathing still labored.

Day Sixteen: Planting a new garden of identity that hosts a multitude of vegetation. Seeds in place. Breathing normal. Earthlings are loving, indeed. Aliens no longer exist. All beings on same journey.

Day Seventeen: Successfully integrated all Aspergers’ traits back into the whole of my personhood. Ego at bay. Nolonger in need of a self-definition to exist. Breathing is divine.

Day Eighteen: Flowers are in full bloom in garden. Welcoming beauty. Anchored in awareness. Seeing others as a reflection of my perceptions. Continue to learn.

Day Nineteen: Accepting and loving all parts of self. Witnessed another earthling blast off to Planet Aspie. Will remain in garden waiting for her to return. Sending her love and light.

 

Day Eight: Oh Crap! (And by the way…I Love the Number Eight)

| Aspergers Girls

 

 

Today I promised myself that I was not going to go on the computer. So here I am! (I’ll give you a second to process that statement.)

I crave writing. When I find a healthy and stimulating venue to pour out my thoughts, I long to return to that place. This is nothing new; I’ve been processing through writing since I learned to hold a writing utensil. My favorites were the scented markers: writing and sweet surprising smells – now that was magical.  Today, as an anxious-ridden adult (living in a fear-based society, I might add), I’d probably worry about the toxins in the ink. Go figure. I miss the innocence of my youth, when I truly believed, without an inkling (how funny; no pun intended!) of doubt, that the world was safe.

In committing to write everyday for a year, (and sometimes two times a day—God love me), I’ve found some added comfort in scanning through other blogs about Aspergers Syndrome. This morning, I came across the word dyspraxia on someone’s page. This word isn’t new to me. As a teacher and former advocate for children with special needs, I’ve come across the term a time or two. However, since I hadn’t been diagnosed myself, until recently, I never took the time to stop and understand what dyspraxia meant. I figured it was something to do with dyslexia or word order.

Now that I have done grueling detective work on the subject; just kidding I goggled Wikipedia, and the process took thirty seconds.

Okay, I have to stop here, because I can’t believe as a human species we now have a word called googled. I can imagine the futuristic race studying this word in the generations to come, much like scholars study Latin phrases now, like ab absurdo (absurd).  And here I take a detour with my mind wondering if googled is in the dictionary, yet; when it will be in the dictionary, and who are these supreme beings that get to decide what is a word and what isn’t? Okay. What was I saying?

Oh yes. In examining the definition of dyspraxia, I scanned down to the Whole Body Movement, Coordination, and Body Image section. And I tell you, if you were a mind reader, you would have heard my young-sounding voice shout: “Oh Crap!”

Now, I’m not collecting labels to define myself—I did the label collecting years ago—and I don’t mean Box Tops for the schools. I’ve been known as a: victim of child abuse, codependent, woman who loves too much, Adult Child, etc. etc. While it is suffice to say, there was a time period in our history where to be understood and function in societal circles amongst women, having a bunch of self-created titles was useful in terms of cackling like the other hens; now, in retrospect, I wonder what the heck I was doing. Again, the brain is to blame. The mechanism that constantly needs to categorize and sort, to make claim to something that makes sense out of the ambiguousness of this illusion named life. (Oops, I digress.) I wonder who thought of the word life and who decided it got a stamp of approval for the dictionary. Who was that man?

Is there a song called: Rambling Woman? I can hear the lyrics in my head.

If anyone is still reading, I will attempt to backup, re-circle the driveway, and return to my starting point. In reading the description of dyspraxia, I’m forced to spill out, and spit out of my mind, the fact that yes indeed I do in fact appear to have dyspraxia. Pin the ribbon on me!

Without risking the act of plagiarizing Wikipedia, let me say in relation to dyspraxia markers that my timing sucks, my balance sucks—yes, I trip over my own feet, I suck at sequencing movements, spatial awareness….sucks,  I drop things all the time, I knock into people, can’t tell the difference between left and right, and I have trouble determining the distance between objects. If you suck at these things, too, then congratulations, you have dyspraxia!

Oh, and in reading on, let me also point out the problems associated with short-term memory, increased propensity to lose things, difficulty following sequence, and sensory processing disorder. Oh boy!

I’m actually very happy at the moment. In my vivid imagination I’m dancing around on stage pushing my arms up and down with my palms facing the ceiling and doing a happy dance. (And I’m twenty pounds lighter) You know why? Because despite these challenges, I taught myself to write, I completed college with honors, and I continue to achieve my goals. I rock!

Now the funny thing is (in an odd, remarkable, and sad kind of way), I was cheerleader for over two years in high school. And I never could figure out how everyone picked up the moves for the cheer routines so quickly and effortlessly, while I had to practice for hours on end, and was still typically going the wrong direction. Cheerleading? You ask. Yes, as I’ve said before, I could perfect any role. Give me a role and I would become that role. When I was a cheerleader that was my identity. I memorized cheers over and over; I wrote cheers; Xeroxed cheers; taught cheers; read about cheers; it was my obsession—I loved touching my megaphone, organizing my trophies, fluffing my pom-poms, and practicing my high jumps and kicks. I just didn’t look up at the bleachers and pretended I was one of those spunky characters from a soap opera or afterschool special, while cheering. It was actually easier being a cheerleader, than being me. Heck, I didn’t know who me was.

I even became captain of the squad my third year—for or a very short while, until the other three girls of the team told lies about me and had me forced out of my position; and having not the tools of conversation or knowhow to defend myself, I quit and cried myself to sleep for a month. Identity lost. Deeper depression set in.

Luckily the meanies, (I didn’t know that was a word. Cool beans!), weren’t my friends to begin with, because I only kept one best girlfriend and one best boyfriend all through high school. I played my part during the schooldays, and then, later, in the safety of the front cab of my boyfriend’s truck, I’d retreat in fear, crying in his arms, terrified of the world and my existence. My sweet boyfriend’s response was always the same: “I love you but I don’t understand you.” I realize to the highest degree humanly and spiritually possible how fortunate I was to have this young lad for emotional support. Believe me. Still, the process of losing an identity and not understanding your own mind, with or without a boyfriend, was terrifying beyond belief.

I’m done. Processing complete. I like this post. Mainly because the writing is a valid example of how my mind streams off in different directions from the main river of thought. I like this post because the voice reflects me, this identity I’ve been uncovering for the entirety of my existence. I like this post.

(I had to write I like this post three times. I truly had to.)

Now I’m going to go sit in my far infrared sauna and purge out all the toxins in my body, while reading a book by Yalom on overcoming death anxiety, and contemplating the best avenue to pursue for my son with Aspergers, who is experiencing extreme anxiety about school, which his therapist calls a phobia, in which I differ in opinion and do not call a phobia, and… Isn’t my life Fabulous!

Day Six: Invisible

| Aspergers Girls

Day Six: Invisible

I had a hard time writing today. I spent two hours writing and then deleted the entire post.  I knew if I was bored and confused by my ramblings and repetitive prose, you certainly would be. So instead, I offer out this excerpt from my prior writings. This scene explores the sense I had most of my life of not truly being seen. I imagine all people can relate to not being seen at some point or another in their lives.

“Sensing I needed help, I sought out a stranger, someone who could make sense of my world, someone who was not close to me, someone I did not have to risk losing.  Before graduating high school, I would be deemed to have an inferiority complex, a diagnosis that led to little more than four weeks straight of listening to a dull realization tape made by the very same middle-aged therapist who’d so dubiously named my title.  His was a tape where a deep methodical voice played out a fifteen-minute narrative of an imaginary creek scene.

Each night before bed, I was to place myself by the bubbling brook and healing sun and relax.  That was my only task—to relax.  I tried my best.  I truly did; though I remained obliquely cynical throughout the process, thinking, in someway, I was at least getting something out of the one hundred and twenty-dollars Father had been forced by Mother to pay out in therapy fees.

For the red-bearded psychologist there were no readily available reasons for my inferiority.  I was an intriguing case indeed—a pretty girl, somewhat charming, and well accomplished.   Sitting there, in the stately office that gave off an awful stench of new carpet and furniture polish; I began to wonder why I had insisted on seeing someone in the first place.  In all honesty, I knew what this man was thinking; as he sat there in his comfy leather high-back chair swiveling from side-to-side with one finger tapping his lip. He was seeing what they all had seen. The only difference being, he was receiving payment. This stranger behind the tidy walnut desk was no different than the rest.  He was easy to fool.  He hadn’t the slightest idea of where to begin looking or what to uncover, and I knew just the right words and phrases to lead him in the wrong direction.  He would notice my nice clothes, my youthful face.  He would note my kind mannerisms and make a list of all my accomplishments.  He’d probably highlight a few catch phrases.  And then he’d be done with me, done like the rest, having seen only what they had wanted to see, and not trying to see anymore.

He looked at me in the same quizzical doubting manner that my friend’s therapist had years ago. Though his doubtful expression was masked, I saw the essence of a smirk behind his steady pale eyes.  And in the same way, I recognized by the way he nervously fidgeted with his ballpoint pen and wheeled his high chair, he hadn’t found the answers he’d been seeking.

Perhaps he was aware of my time limitations, of the lack of funds, and the urgency of my situation.  Seeing how Mother worked just across the street from him and had more than likely had a lunch date once or twice with this man; he was bound to know some of the happenings, at least Mother’s view of it.

Quick and easy is how I saw the entire therapeutic experience.  Roll her in, figure it out, and roll her back out—even if she’s still broken.  Just make sure she can make it down the street on her own accord without breaking down.

With my new diagnosis in hand, granted after a brief multiple choice test and short interview, I now believed my emotional issues rested in my own inferiority complex and resulting inability to love myself.  However, stepping out on my own, beyond the therapist’s office, one vital question remained:  If I was somehow internally flawed by a faulty infrastructure, then how could I feasibly begin to rebuild myself? After careful contemplation and finding no solution to my troubles, I supposed, this therapeutic experience and the resulting diagnosis, was the world’s wicked way of placating and failing me all at once.”

Day Four: Identity Alien

| Aspergers Girls

Powerful dreams last night. According to Jungian theory, my shadow side was showing me what my true obstacles and fears are through the subconscious process of dreaming. Quite a fruition.

Basically, I am beginning to understand the workings of my mind somewhat to a greater degree. Nothing outstanding, but definitely enlightening. Much of my processing as of late has been focused around my recent diagnosis of Asperger’s Syndrome. While I knew I had all of the traits for several years, and had studied profusely on the subject matter, (as my son has Asperger’s), I’d yet to truly come to terms with the diagnosis for myself. I was actually quite surprised at the reaction I had after I’d heard of my diagnosis. My mental health counselor said something to the effect of: “You? Yes, you definitely have it.” That wasn’t the sole basis of the determination of my diagnosis of course, but that’s what sticks out like the proverbial thorn in my memories.

Beyond the major Aha that lit up every cavern of my brain, what surprised me, upon hearing the diagnosis, was my immediate reaction. I went into a precarious tailspin of depression accompanied by rapid thinking. I wrote and wrote, journalling out all of my feelings. And then I charged to the next step, something I always do, this charging. For instance, I’ll have anxiety about some sort of news, realization, event, or upcoming event, and I move quickly from anxiety to organizing and fixing.

With this Aspergers diagnosis, I went from an emotional state of depression to the act of barging straight into the logical: “What do I do with this information?” For me, whenever there is a “what”–a loose end so to speak, something that has yet to be solved or promptly closed–I cannot rest until the “what” is answered. On the Myers-Briggs Test I’m and INFJ — major piece of INFJ is needing closure. I could get into my zodiac sign, too, but I won’t go there.

Back up, girlfriend! So I have this irresistible urge to put things in order, whether in the physical sense (e.g., books, dvds, furniture) or in the mental sense. Being that I received this diagnosis of Aspergers, which resulted in this need to figure out what to do with the information, I started spinning possibilities. Perhaps I could run groups for females with invisible disabilities when I am a mental health practitioner; perhaps I could query a literary agent and write a book, (I’ve read the ones out there about females with ASD–it’s a start, though very limited): perhaps I could be a subject in a study by contacting Judith Gould in the UK; maybe I could write a letter to Tony Attwood; perhaps I could go onto get my doctorate and ultimately change the diagnosis for females with ASD; maybe… you see the point. And truth be told, the could’s that I listed in all of those statements, were loud should’s in my mind..

I’m trying to paint a picture here, however lacking in clarity. Trying to explain that beneath this lump of a diagnosis, that literally feels like a weight on my chest, I’m pushing up and out, searching for a way to make sense of it all. While at the same instant, I’m stepping back and watching my silly self, and recognizing that the reason I’m trying to make sense of it all at such high-speed and in direct measures is a result of me having this condition to begin with. I’m trapped in those mirrors, the type that face one another, so the viewer sees herself multiplied into infinity. Except, I’m the viewer, examining the viewer, examining the viewer, and psychoanalyzing myself. It’s a blizzard in my brain.

Through the processing in my dreams last night, I came to recognize this journey, as of late, is all about my identity. I’m trying to figure out how this new diagnosis defines me as an individual. It’s all about ego, a Tibetan Monk would inform. But in this society, where I currently live in Northwest America, for me, it’s all about settling my brain.

I’m currently compartmentalize my traits and attributes, in a similar way as I box up everything else in my life. The human brain instinctively categorizes and organizes in an attempt to classify and understand what it is taking in through the five senses. My brain, an aspie brain in overdrive, is likewise trying to categorize and organize by scaffolding off of past experience and knowledge bases. But then my brain gets stuck and doesn’t know where to store all of this new information. I’ve run out of boxes, or they’re misplaced, or mislabeled, something to that degree. What it comes down to is I’m not sure how to classify this condition, and therefor not sure how to classify my identity.  I’m not sure the effects, the consequences, the outcomes, not sure at all about where to place this on the shelves of my subconscious.

I’ve tried to figure this aspie diagnosis out repeatedly, tried to connect the diagnosis with something similar in another’s life. Is this like finding out you have diabetes? No. How about that your father was another ethnic race than you first thought? No, but closer. What about someone telling you that the whole entire way you understood and processed your life, which you believed to be typical, was in fact entirely different than much of the mainstream. That in truth your brain was wired differently? Oh, much closer, but not quite there. Okay, then what if the person said you are an alien dropped down from another planet, trying to figure out the ways of the world, with a brain that doesn’t work the same way as most people around you? Now that, the alien business, makes the most sense.

So, there it is: I’m an alien. And that’s what this feels like essentially.

I didn’t plan on that. The alien business. All I had the intention of sharing was how, throughout my whole life, I’ve latched on to identities to define my place in this society; I analyze and study the identity and then try my best to perfect said identity. Whether I am copying an actress , a best friend, or a teacher, I am doing what I know best: perfecting a role.

Now, with this diagnosis, this Aspergers gig, I wonder, if in truth, I’m not clinging on to the Asperger’s role, my new identity so to say, and then trying my best to play the part. To be the best Aspie Alien out there. And if so, am I driving my self to extremes of the condition in the process?

Back to the dream. Interestingly, my dream was about starting over at a new school with a new identity, and I had the freedom and choice to create myself anyway I wanted to.

Only I didn’t know what I wanted. And I didn’t know who I was.

I wonder, if in fact, we aren’t each wondering in our own way what we want and who we are.