memories

Twenty-Nine: Blue By You

| Aspergers Girls

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

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

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

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

 

 

Day Eighteen: A Sports Bar Induced Stroll Down Memory Lane —

| Aspergers Girls

 

Oh boy! Did you luck out! I ranted on and on about fake cheese, before I forced my finger to hit delete. Little voice protested, but I prevailed.

Thank you for being there. I pictured you listening to my witty prose. Fortunately for you, I erased the massive mess that oozed out of my brain. If I’d typed on a typewriter for an hour, and used whiteout to correct all my spelling errors, I’d be phoning you, and reciting the entire post. Like I said, you totally (born and raised in California) lucked out! Seriously! Wipe the sweat off of your forehead and shout Amen!

I have to be fair and offer out that not all my posts are going to be Bambi-Little-April-Shower-happy. The song I would jump up and down on my bed to, when I was five. I’m listening to the song as I type.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=168kHWL-GXw

Okay, it’s hard to type to this beat!

Boy, talk about a repetitive song.

Memories flowing back.

So lovely….

Wait.

Scary music? Haunted house, theme-park ride music?

Okay, bad analogy: Little April Shower is not as chipper as I remember.

I didn’t sleep well, and blame the tossing and turning on the fake cheese. I went to a bar yesterday—that’s where the fake cheese came in. (This was written on Thursday, so it was actually the day before yesterday. Not that it matters, but I’ve got that whole honesty thing going on.)

I had some quesadillas that probably wouldn’t have qualified as food.

A bar? Are you crazy? Perhaps. (I’m serious. No smiling!)

A group of classmates at the university, that studious-me attends, were headed out for a celebration. (I just deleted an entire paragraph about my theories of why people drink. Another Amen.) This was my first invite to a bar in eons. My little voice (inside my head) was excited, and she said: “OH, this could be a fun experiment! We could blog about it!”

She was all sweet and convincing, and giving me all these facts, like I need to be brave and bond with my peer group. We had a little argument, little voice and I, as I stood in the elevator, stuck and not going anywhere with four of my classmates. After a good four minutes, I said, “Hey. Did anyone press the number one?” We all had a good laugh, and little voice used that as further nectar for her warped plan.

When I arrived at the noisy, crowded sports bar, the only place left to perch was in the far corner; which would have been tolerable, maybe even preferred, except I had to sit by two gentlemen from class. And my least favorite social thing to do in the whole entire of all the universe, both discovered and undiscovered, is to engage in small chat with men, particularly men I hardly know. In retrospect this situation easily merited me ordering a glass of wine.

But, nooooo! little voice was adamant that I had to be the real me, and not compromise my normal behavior in order to attempt to fit in. (She’s on some trip with that lately. It’s rather annoying. Years of functioning without recourse through role-playing and pretend, and now she has to go and be all real.) Thusly, against my really-wanting-booze judgment, I ordered a Shirley Temple. And then, to torture little voice, I ate two, very-bad-for-me cherries. While little voice was going on about the red dye health hazards of cherries, I ignored her and pictured myself cuddled up at home watching the series Breaking Bad.

But soon, I was interrupted with the same old tapes playing in my head, (or cd’s or Blu-Ray discs): What to say? How to say it? When to say it? How to sit? Where to look? When to smile? Blah, blah, blah.

I did receive a table-full of laughs when I mistook the miniature trivia, game-playing contraption (one of seven the waitress plopped on our table) for an ATM machine. I kept asking, while holding my little blue machine up high, “How does the machine know what I ordered for dinner? What buttons do I press? How does it know me?” Before looking for the slot to put my debit card in.

It’s nice to know that the whole over-my-head quality I had in high school, hasn’t changed. (Sorry…I know I do this a lot. But what does over my head mean, literally? Is it facts flying over me? Am I ducking? If I stood up taller or jumped, would I reach the adequate information?)

I ordered a Shirley Temple, instead of my standard water (usually bottled or sparkling, but bars usually don’t have that. I think it’s a conspiracy to make me order alcohol). I ordered a S. Temple, because in first grade, I lived right around the block from Shirley Temple Black. I used to walk up to her wrought iron gate, daydreaming about getting her autograph for my spy notebook, and try to figure out why she changed her name. I ordered the soda, for the sole purpose of saying: Shirley Temple. But no one knew that. Just like no one knew I can’t stand soda.

The bar visit wasn’t as terrible as it could have been. I managed the small talk, okay. Overall, I’m pretty darn proud of me, and even thankful to little voice, (just don’t tell her), because I faced a huge fear without a best friend, or even a friend, by my side.

As I was sharing with you, just now, I was reminded of my love of Shirley Temple’s: On the Good Ship Lollipop. I can still feel my feet pressing into the golden fibers of our shag carpet. And visualize my dog, Justice, a black mutt, dancing around with me. The way dogs dance.

I was obsessed with the Pledge of Allegiance back then, and would recite the entire pledge, just to get to the line: And Justice for All! That’s when Justice would come running to me. It was a game I played several times a day. It wasn’t until years and years later, when I was in my early twenties, that I realized And Justice for All was the last line of the pledge. For some reason I thought the line came earlier. I made my friends and relatives say the entire pledge, too. That’s how things worked at my house. We pledged to my dog. That’s saying something; now isn’t it?

While dancing with Justice, I had a difficult time picturing Shirley Temple’s Lollipop Ship, and trouble understanding how a ship was good.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1r4bbgv1If8

I think, if I’d had an inner-Blu-Ray-disc playing back then, I would have seen the ship as a cross between the Love Boat and the S.S. Minnow (Gilligan’s Island.)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H2XfQo1YguY (copy and paste for Gilligan’s Island)

Every chance I had, I would watch Gilligan’s Island. The show was great exercise for my brain. I thought: Why did they pack all those things on a tiny ship for a three-hour trip? How did all those clothes and furniture fit on the tiny ship? Why wasn’t my favorite Mary Ann in the opening scene? And why didn’t Gilligan get to be the leader of the gang? I mean, he was a mighty sailor man and fearless. And the entire island was named after him!

I guess since I’ve provided this whole telling about my childhood music and television show fixation, I might as well include the lyrics/song I would scribe in pencil on my desk, every single day as a freshman in Massachusetts. Everyday I wrote, then erased. I desperately missed California. At home, I would play the song over and over on my record player and later in my head. Even with my dyspraxia and dyslexia, I memorized the song to perfection. Little voice sang the lyrics all the time. Oh, listening to the words now brings me back. Makes me want to cry for that little girl in a strange state (as in Massachusetts).

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NUbTW928sMU

In the end, my short trip to the sports bar paid off, after all. I was able to share some of my favorites and take a trip down memory lane. Thanks for taking the trip with me, and for packing lightly.

Day Sixteen: The Bus Stop

| Aspergers Girls


 I pulled this out of my journals. We had to say goodbye to our beloved dog, today. And this prose reminded me of another place and time. I imagine our dog with many friends and family now, including dear Catherine.

A week before I met Catherine and was greeted by her four little ones—their faces a blush and small mouths encircled with remnants of the faded pink of popsicles—I’d dreamt of a dark-haired lady guiding me from one room to the next of a colonial-style home.  There we had walked together, with the glee-filled echoes of children’s giggles fluting down the staircase… (This is available in the book Everyday Aspergers)

Rest in everlasting peace, Sweet Scooby. Look for my friend Catherine. She’s waiting for you.

Day Nine: For All the Times You Wouldn’t Hold Me (Undiagnosed Father with Aspergers)

| Aspergers Girls

Day Nine: For All the Times You Didn’t Hold Me  (Undiagnosed Father with Aspergers)

I first wrote this excerpt several years ago, when I was not yet diagnosed with Asperger’s Syndrome, and had no reason to look for traits in my father. The short vignette shows remarkably well the earmarks of Aspergers: the lack of affection, emotional distance, need for order, obsessive hobbies, and self-interest. I am thankful I documented my personal experience with an innocent perception. In rereading and sharing this truth, I am further healed and graced with a deep understanding of my father navigating through life the best he knew how.

For all the times you couldn’t say it: I love you, Dad.

And for all the times you wouldn’t t hold me: I forgive you.

Father

Though I was deemed a full-fledged adult by all societal standards, the late summer day I strolled into my father’s house hauling a large plastic sack of weathered stuffed animals and my plastic piggybanks, I was still very much a child.  In the previous years, had I been afforded ample time with my father, I might very well have exuded a glowing aura of self-confidence and formidable strength, instead of the bubble of palpable vulnerability I steadily emanated…

(available in the book Everyday Aspergers)