Day Seven: Aspergers and the Sixth Sense


Sometimes I can see the future. I’ll explain more in a bit.

When I’m partaking in some deep thinking; which let’s face it, is pretty much every waking hour of my life, I hypothesize about the creation of this Asperger’s Syndrome. I’m beginning to wonder, if in fact, Aspergers is not a syndrome at all, but a result of a lack of a particular sense (as in the five senses). Being born with Aspergers might be compared to someone who is born without the ability to hear or see. For example, if social skills were considered a sixth sense of sorts, then could we not theorize that instead of a syndrome (a clinically recognized collection of features, signs, and characteristics) that Aspergers was a result of not having acquired a sixth sense: A deficiency in being able to subconsciously navigate the social arena without assistance?

It is true, that like a person who has challenges with vision or hearing, that a person who has challenges with social skills can be taught said skills to increase his or her aptitude. A person with Aspergers will arguably never truly see socializing from the exact neurotypical viewpoint, but he or she can learn to improve his or her social skills, similarly to the way a man with limited sight would learn to navigate in a seeing world.

(Stay with me here, as I remind you that I’m merely processing aloud, and not discounting any of the scientific studies that are pointing to other biological and environmental causes.)

If we were to consider the prospect of a sixth sense, that of being social skills, and to postulate a child with Aspergers is born with a deficiency in this sense, then would it not be a logical conclusion that other senses would develop more acutely–just as the person who cannot see develops a stronger sense of tactile experience or smell? If this is the case, that a person with Aspergers compensates for a lack in the social skills’ sense, by having a heightened awareness in other senses, then perhaps this explains sensory overload.

In my own experience, I wonder, too, if another sense, that of the ability to see into the hidden worlds, those of the quantum physic and collective unconscious worlds, is not a sense also capable of increasing. In my case, I have been hyper-sensitive in my dream state since I can recall. I began having precognitive dreams at the age of three about my animals and other people. I would tell my mother about my dream, and then parts of the dream would come true.

Here is an example of how my precognitive sense works:

In what I believe was early December (as I did not record the date), as I stood in the living room talking to my husband, suddenly I saw a scene before my eyes. A waking “knowing” that is difficult to explain. The process was similar to watching a sped up movie before my eyes, while at the same instant knowing a “truth” was being conveyed from a higher source.

That late day in December, overcome but what I saw in the vision, I uttered words close to the following to my husband: “Honey, in the early part of next year Carmen will be calling you with news about her health. It will be a serious illness, one requiring a lot of your attention, and a time when you will be asked to fly down and see her. This is partially happening at this time because there is such a physical distance between you for the first time in her life.”  I don’t know how I knew this, but I just did; as if someone had just phoned me and told me the news, and I was conveying what I knew to my husband.

I went on to explain in more detail what I meant by this to my husband. It is important for me to communicate that at the time of the event there had never been any indication of serious health concerns, or indicators that Carmen’s health would be compromised in the near future. In the many years I have known Carmen, there has never once been a serious health concern that required my husband’s full attention.

This news came to a great surprise to my husband, and he responded by saying: “Don’t say things like that.” He then shook it off, fearing the superstition that I might be creating this by speaking it, and thinking I was wrongly informed. I, myself, too hoped that the vision I saw was wrong, but I could not put the image of my husband flying on a plane to go see Carmen out of my mind.

In early January I had a profound dream, one that stirred me so greatly that I was drawn to write the details of the dream down in my journal; this was a significant act, as it remains the only dream I wrote down in the last nine months, and the only dream I wrote since moving to the state of Washington. (I have been encouraged to record all my dreams, and hope to develop this dedicated habit soon.)

Thirty days after I recorded the dream, we received news of Carmen’s health. At that time, I was immediately able to retrieve my dream journal and show the page to my husband. He was much surprised at the words he read, as was I; even with the ability I have carried of prophetic dreams since I was a child, the process of the dreams coming true still affects me to a great degree.

I will not write the exact words found in my journal, but summarize with some detail. First, this is the only dream I ever recall about Carmen and her daughter that I have had in my entire life. I clearly remember my dreams each morning I wake, without fail. Usually I remember at least three or more dreams.

This dream began with Carmen’s daughter at a home similar to ours. In the dream there were palm trees in a storm—a symbolism I took to mean calm turning into a stormy situation, or storms ahead. I asked (telepathically) Carmen’s daughter to tell me why she was at our house without Carmen. She then took me back in time, as if painting a story. I was removed from the events she unfolded, like a bystander walking alongside the characters without them seeing me.

In the dream Carmen was in a world I did not recognize, surrounded by a golden field of what looked to be high grass or wheat. She seemed at peace, though I noted in my dream journal she had lost a lot of weight, and had undergone much emotional change. Around her were most of her grandchildren, circling in the field and carefree in spirit. Carmen’s daughter indicated to me (telepathically and through symbolism) that Carmen’s weight loss was due to severe stomach pain. She showed me this by leaning over, clutching her stomach, and acting like she was throwing up. I noted in my dream journal that this meant chemotherapy as a result of cancer.

Carmen’s hair was mostly gone or hidden and she wore a bandana around her head. Her pants were long and purple, which signified a spiritual transformation or passing on from this world. Carmen’s daughter indicated by pointing to a hospital sign and again using telepathy that there was “no help in this place.” A child (*), liken to my youngest son, began to swell and be sickly; Carmen lifted this child and was trying to take him to a hospital for help. None could be found. I suddenly was seen by Carmen, and began to apply healing light to this child. The child and Carmen were pleased.

When I wrote this dream the following morning, I felt in my heart that Carmen would be discovering an incurable cancer in her body, and be undergoing chemotherapy. I did not share this dream with my husband. I did not want to upset him, and a part of me hoped that the dream had only been symbolic of my friend’s mother, who I learned the next day, following my dream, had just recently died of cancer.

Another part of this experience involved my physical body. For some reason, call it my empathic ability, I some times experience symptoms and discomfort in the same body location as someone I know, usually before I actually know of their diagnosis. For instance, recently I was unable to move off the couch all day from severe back pain. I told my mother I believed I was feeling sympathy pain for my stepmother undergoing back surgery; though it turned out that on that same exact day my cousin had broken his back. On the day my son’s teacher fell and injured her tailbone requiring hospitalization, I also had a freak accident where I bruised my tailbone. When a good friend was undergoing breast surgery, I developed a cyst on my breast (never has happened since or before that). These could be considered coincidence; and I tend to lean that way myself, except that these “coincidences” continue to manifest themselves in my body.

Concerning Carmen, the entire month before we were informed of her condition, I developed an unusual circular rash on my chest. It was “scary” for me, to the point I went to the doctor twice. Right before we learned of Carmen’s health concerns, the circular rash began to fade. For thirty days straight I was convinced I had cancer in that location of my body, to the point that I bothered my husband repeatedly, having him examine the spot. With news of Carmen, I knew where the cancer was: indeed it resides on the exact same side of her chest (inside her lung). I also soon started to have a discomfort, like a knife pain, in my back; Carmen confirmed this to be the same area where she was feeling discomfort.

Approximately a week or two before we received news of Carmen, I had another dream, one which I told my friend about the morning after the dream occurred. In the dream, my father phoned me to say he had cancer. During the dream, there was a period of trying to acquire more information, and wondering about the severity of the condition. The time period seemed to last several days in the dream. My father then phoned back in the dream, to tell me that his state was incurable and serious but that he wasn’t planning on going anywhere anytime soon.

The morning following the dream, I confided in my friend that I did not think this person represented my father, and that I believed (as had happened in the past) that he was a messenger of sorts in the dream, indicating that someone else in the family was going to be calling with news of their health.

It was in early February that Carmen called us late in the evening to tell us of her health news . That same morning I had a strong feeling to send her a present. Something I have never thought to do before (except Christmas time). I told my friend that I wanted to send Carmen a special and significant token with a note that read: I love you unconditionally. In my mind I was picturing my rose quartz necklace, and imagining purchasing something similar to the necklace, so that a healing stone could rest in the area near her heart. I had no idea why I was getting this indication.

Then, during breakfast that same morning, with the same friend, I had a very odd experience; the first of this sort. As I was eating, I kept looking over my friend’s shoulder at a metal coat rack that rested in the corner. There were some jackets, a bag and some other objects hanging from the curved bars of the rack. For approximately thirty-minutes, I repeatedly kept saying to my friend, “This is so strange, but the coat rack behind you keeps appearing to be an executioner; the type from years ago that had a sack over their head as they oversaw the gallows.” This was very disturbing, as I usually do not have visions of such sort, in the broad daylight in public nonetheless. My friend was very patient, as I kept repeating the apparition I saw behind her. I was a bit worried for my friend, as well. I felt at this time that this was an omen of news soon to come regarding death or the like. Again, I repeat, this was the same day Carmen called us.

In summary, the five signs were as follows:

1: The waking vision in early December involving news of Carmen’s health and my husband’s attention.

2: The dream 30 days before the news, that outlined the process Carmen would experience with her health.

3: The dream a couple weeks leading up to the eventual phone call, involving my father and his news of cancer.

4: The odd rash on my chest and the knife pain in my back, as well as the need to mail something to heal the heart region to Carmen.

5: The apparition of an executioner for a half-hour the same day we heard the news.


* Soon following the news of Carmen, I had to rush my son to the emergency from a severe medication reaction, which caused his body to swell in hives. The experience was was very similar to the rushing for help in the dream.




Day Six: Invisible

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.”

116 Reasons I Know I Have Aspergers

116 Reasons I Know I have Asperger’s Syndrome

1.  Writing this list.

2.  Enjoying writing this list.

3.  Love, love, love animals and bugs.

4.  Do I have to leave the house?

5.  Nature is heavenly as long as I can stay clean.

6. Collector

7. Toys are objects to be organized, stacked, categorized, or cleaned.

8. Friday the 13th in 3-D three times because I think the number 3 is awesome!

9. Red fluffy socks with high-heels

10. Sweater on inside out, again.

11. Memorized how to spell and sing supercalifragilisticexpialidocious in an attempt to qualify for speech class.

12. I was Jacqueline Smith; never Farah.

13. Every stuffed animal named, categorized by birth, and kept until after college.

14. Snoopy in a chair looking out the back of the window of my first car.

15.  Seven days straight perfecting my penmanship before I began teaching.

16. Clever Clyde was a famous humanistic caterpillar in the stories I wrote.

17. Buddy One was my imaginary ghost friend.

18. Entering poetry (scam) contests.

19. Hamsters aren’t stuffed animals.

20.  Goldfish do die when left under the hot sun in a small bowl of water.

21. Childhood friends were students, the members of my club, customers, or placed in another subordinate position.

22. Backgammon pro by age nine. Cribbage pro by age fifteen.

23. Perfected Pac Man and Space Invaders while watching every episode of Three’s Company.

24. Called dumb blonde, in regards to getting jokes; I’m a brunette.

25. You do not sit with your legs spread while wearing a cheerleading skirt.

26. If I’m her best friend, why does she need more friends than me?

27. I have a confession to make, I was thinking about lying, but I didn’t.

28. Naïve, sweet, gullible, unique, hyper, interesting, odd…

29. I have 120 flaws; should I list them?

30. Don’t answer the phone!!!

31. Note to self: Read the birthday card before grabbing the money and jumping up and down.

32. Hello? Your toenails do need to be cleaned occasionally.

33. “Snob! You always look away.”

34. Victim, with her head down.

35. Statistically speaking your chances of dying from that are slim; I researched it for five days.

36. Website built, 100 pages total, in 5 weeks. Go baby.

37. Months and months on freebie websites equals toothbrushes, baskets, lotions, and much more.

38. I had the coolest property on Farmville.

39. Why do fantastic ideas the night before, not seem so fantastic in the morning?

40. Don’t answer the door!

41. I don’t want to go…It’s too much work for me to put on a bra.

42. Monopolize a conversation? Who me?

43. Depression, Anxiety, blah…blah….blah

44. Verbal processing

45. Can you say manuscript?

46. What exactly is a guilty pleasure? And why would people do something that makes them feel guilty?

47. I don’t understand, it’s old wives’ tales? Not old wise tale?

48.  Just Relax. Not comprehending. What does it feel like to relax?

49. Non-fiction galore.

50. Twitching and jumping because it’s museum time!

51. Oh no! You did not just change the plan.

52. Carpet, dirt, germs, clutter, blemishes, lips, breath….Yuck!

53. Don’t hug me right now.

54. Okay, you can hug me, but not too tight, that hurts.

55. Are my shoes on the right feet?

56. I wish I hadn’t sent them that garage sale crystal for their wedding present; what was I thinking?

57. Do you think she’ll like these earrings I never wore or a gift certificate?

58. What do you mean this letter might offend my professor?

59. Here’s a bruise, and another one. Look at this one.

60. Let’s drive around the block again and look for a spot. I can’t parallel park.

61. Group sports? Swinging a bat? Dressing for PE? Run in fear!

62. All the fun is in the planning. The party itself is terrifying.

63. Why do people bully and tease?

64. Give me a role or a part, and I’ll perfect it.

65. Should I dress like my best friend, my spiritual counselor, or the lady on my favorite soap opera?

66. I love having friends my mom’s age.

67. Monthly Bunco with the Episcopalian Retirement Group? Why not?

68. After-social-event debrief time: When I said this, do you think it was offensive? Why did she look at me that way? Should I have kept my mouth closed? Was that appropriate. I’m quitting Bunco; it’s too stressful.

69. My only friends in second grade, two twin boys, Chris and Jimmy.

70. My only friend in kindergarten, Keith. He moved to Hawaii.

71. Sure, I can write for ten hours straight. Can’t you?

72. Doesn’t everyone have a voice reminding them what to do during a conversation: make more eye contact, step closer, nod your head, smile, but not too big, insert giggle, let them talk more.

73.  Give me a passion and give me a week to learn everything there is to know about it.

74. Hypochondriac

75. Stop talking; you’re hurting my ears.

76. You smell funny.

77. Is that your natural hair color and how old are you?

78. Camping sucks.

79. Criteria for boyfriends? Criteria for friends? What?

80. Name an object. I can tell you 100 uses for it.

81. Let me fix the situation.

82. Just because the thought is in my head doesn’t mean it needs to get out. Or does it?

83. Crossing the street, so I don’t have to pass the stranger on the sidewalk.

84. How do you turn around at the halfway point of a walk without looking silly?

85. No events in college. One friend in college – before she stopped answering my calls.

86. ADHD, PTSD….blah, blah, blah

87. Therapists, psychologists, priests, reverends, psychiatrists, hypnotists, and the like are kind of clueless about recognizing Asperger’s in females.

88. I’ll just hang out in this closet until the party is over.

89. I’ll be in the backroom writing until the party is over.

90. I’ll be reading in the bathroom until the party is over.

91. Why do you ask me how I am when you don’t want to hear the answer?

92. IBS

93. Funerals are confusing.

94. Let’s practice small talk; the ritual is intriguing.

95. Queen of evaluation

96. Stopped eating lamb at age four, pork at age eleven.

97. Words are beautiful or painful.

98. Fixations, obsessions…blah, blah, blah

99. Let me organize your pantry.

100. I should have asked before buying a puppy?

101. What can I eat that doesn’t have pesticides, hormones, mutations, cancer-

causing ingredients, sugar, sugar-substitutes, dairy, preservatives, chemicals,

bleach…..I’m watching too many documentaries

102. Time for another organic juice fast. Time for more organic chocolate.

103. Either no one has ever flirted with me in my entire life or I don’t recognize


104. Give me a visual, a guideline, a rule, and stop all the jabber.

105. I can tell you exactly where anything is on my kitchen shelves; but don’t ask me where my keys are.

106. Imaginary play is confusing unless there is a script.

107. I like to analyze the sentence structure and grammar in fictional books.

108. It’s hard to recognize faces.

109. Do you want to hear this record for the fiftieth time?

110. I’m the one reading the Buddhist book at my son’s baseball game.

111. Listen to what I wrote. I edited it.

112. Grownups shouldn’t lie about Santa or that the government is looking out for our best interest.

113. I trust you.

114. I over-share.

115. I would be happy to eat the same meal everyday.

116.That fixation to write this list is gone. I don’t know why, it just is. (It really bugs me this isn’t number 113.)

I invite you to take a look inside of my book Everyday Aspergers.

Take a look here.

(I just deleted an entire paragraph explaining why I am uncomfortable with self-promotion. I’ll spare you the details!)

My publisher, Your Stories Matter, took great care to provide this ‘book-to-look’ version of the second edition of Everyday Aspergers.

(I’ve truly failed at promoting my own book. I usually promote Steve Silberman’s book in my travels and teachings. Typical me!)

Over a year ago, I decided to move my memoir from one agency to another. I made this decision to ensure the paperback was available outside of the USA. Here are ten facts you might not know about E.A.

The second edition of Everyday Aspergers : A Journey on the Autism Spectrum can be purchased on Amazon in several countries. It makes a great gift!

The new book cover is by a talented autistic author and writer. The pages, of the new edition, have photos and images from my childhood. I added a new end chapter. The layout, pages, and style are different. It’s the same story in an enhanced casing.

(I know. This is only MY story. Not yours.)

© 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.

Hello All.

I hope you are well during these challenging times.

I am writing to provide a few updates (2020) for anyone who happens upon this homepage.

My third blog is a bit hard to find, since I changed the domain name. Here is the direct link to Everyday Autistic. My artist’s blog is Belly of a Star.

Here is the Autistic Trait’s List.

Here is my company website Spectrum Suite LLC, which includes 100s of resources and our services page.

Here is a link to one of my Linkedin Articles that will bring you to my profile and some articles there!

My new works include much advocacy for Universal Design in the Workplace, which equates to true inclusivity, where all employees are given opportunity to the same support measures and community engagement, such as the same best-practices interviews, job coaches, support team; not just one marginalized minority, e.g., autistic individuals.

I am working on a book on empowerment on the autism spectrum.

I am my waving from afar, and wishing you so very well! I cannot believe it’s been 8 YEARS!

I now call myself a ‘neuro-minoriy’ (coined by Judy Singer) and consider myself a neurodivergent-blend (coined by me!). I am neurodivergent-blend because of my autistic profile, gifted-intellect diagnosis, dyslexia, dyspraxia, OCD, etc. etc. etc.

Feel free to connect on twitter or Facebook.

I’m on the bottom right, in the photo below, speaking at the Stanford Neurodiversity Summit. You can find out what we’ve been up to on the website. Here is a 10 hr.+ video of Day 2 at the Summit!

My book is now available around the world in paperback! Check out Barnes and Noble or Amazon.

Everyday Aspergers is an unusual and powerful exploration of one woman’s marvelously lived life. Reminiscent of the best of Anne Lamott, Everyday Aspergers jumps back and forth in time through a series of interlocking vignettes that give insight and context to her lived experience as an autistic woman. The humor and light touch is disarming, because underneath light observations and quirky moments are buried deep truths about the human experience and about her own work as an autistic woman discerning how to live her best life. From learning how to make eye contact to finding ways to communicate her needs to being a dyslexic cheerleader and a fraught mother of also-autistic son, Samantha Craft gives us a marvelous spectrum of experiences. Highly recommended for everyone to read — especially those who love people who are just a little different.”~ Ned Hayes, bestselling author of The Eagle Tree

Day Five: Swimming in Uncharted Waters

Day Five

Okay. So it’s technically still Day Four, but according to this blog site clock, it’s the next day somewhere. I just got off of two phone calls in a row with two of my closest friends. Yes, I said close friends; I do have them.

Poor gals. I verbally processed them to near death. I’m learning that the more I talk and write, the more I am able to relieve my anxiety, especially about particular discomforting events. Unfortunately, my path has been paved with repeated discomforts as of late. And nothing like I could have predicted.

I’ve come out, in a sense, with my Asperger’s Syndrome, for the first time in my life. (Put into perspective, not that big of a deal, because I was just recently diagnosed; but from a different perspective, a very, very big deal, as it’s new, unfrequented territory for me = vulnerability.) One of my college professors would call the subject of my Asperger’s diagnosis a door number three. Not a door number one, which is the no big deal stuff in life, conversational light-hearted jargon regurgitated at cocktail parties. Door number two is a little more sensitive–things you’ve dealt with maybe in therapy or another form of processing but that are still personal and touching. Door three, oh boy, that’s the deep, deep wounded junk, the place where the scars get ripped open and you bleed all over the place–again. Well, for me, my fresh Asperger’s diagnosis is a door number three.

And I did bleed, let me tell you.

I tried to do right. I truly tried. I know enough from life and learning that to share, I ought to first evaluate the situation. I’m referring to the safety of the place and person, even the situation, and the whole trust issue. Trust in general is what us Aspies tend to have a hard time evaluating. I’m way over-trusting. I figure everyone will support everyone, will tell the truth, will be there when you need them, won’t back stab you, or let you down intentionally. That’s one of the many qualities I think is super-fabulous about Aspies. We’re not only super trusting but you can trust us. It works both ways, you know.

I’m still learning that whole thingamajig (hey that’s a real word, and I spelled it right) associated around building trust. For the most part, in my later adult years, I’ve been very fortunate with building friendships and working with professional people who are trustworthy. I believe as a general rule that you reap what you sow and you attract what you put out there. Basically, if you act like a boob, don’t be surprised when there are a bunch of boobs about you. And no, I don’t mean that literarily!

Lately, it’s been all boobs. In fact, I’m beginning to wonder if all the manure I put out there to sow my fields isn’t being flung straight at me. Seriously, this University, I’m paying the equivalent to my entire retirement savings to attend, sure is surprising me. I mean, I’m thinking, that of all the places on the planet, that a counseling university program taught by practicing therapists, should be the ideal place to be vulnerable–to spill the beans–to be myself–to show all my cards. Not! Nada! No way in double-hockey sticks!

Gosh Darn it, she strikes again. Without going into obnoxious, over-revealing details, let me say that my experience in sharing that I had just been diagnosed with Asperger’s, (which I did in private, at two separate times, to two separate professors), went over as well as yelling timber at the top of my lungs at a depth hoar, (a very dangerous snow condition that leads to avalanches–and you thought you weren’t going to learn anything).

First off, after my mini-sharing of my condition, my  santa-claus-jolly professor side-swipes me with a full on family-system theory muscle fist (emphasis on theory), about how under the umbrella of family system my son and I would be classified as having broken brains created by our family dynamics, and that it was likely I was self-creating my diagnosis to be close to my son. This wasn’t said all in one breath, but dragged on and on in the longest five minutes of my life. Me? I did what I do when I feel assaulted, I fumbled for words, trying to defend myself. The story doesn’t end well. Let’s just say after I left in shock, I experienced a lot of tears, and way too much verbal processing, letter writing and editing. Then the topper was a confrontational meeting (where I yet wept again). End result, I dropped his class, agreed to disagree about how we saw the discussion, and ended up spending a few days questioning my place in this entire world! Oh, did I mention, (as I bite my lip) that he’s the head of the whole dang department. Enough said.



Day Four: Identity Alien

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.