Fixation on another person is an ego attachment that represents no true or stable emotions of affection. It is my attempt to connect to source through hyper-focusing all of my energy like a laser beam onto one entity. All thoughts of the reality of the person and my own personhood are lost. I long to own the individual, per chance I might feel the love of God and fill the emptiness and void of being here on earth. For me the object of my attention can be anyone—marvelous or messed up. I am blind to the reality of the situation until the fixation passes. My brain needs a puzzle, something to solve, something to fixate on. This temporary ‘one’ becomes a portal that sucks up self and pulls my mind into a different realm or fantasy. The process is both a form of escapism and the relief that comes through the act of rearranging aspects of a puzzle; the intensity is insurmountable in moments, akin to an underwater tunnel pulling me under into a vortex. When I resurface, I am amazed at the way in which I have imprisoned my being.
~ Sam, Everyday Aspergers
Sometimes my fixation is an attempt to be seen. For most of the time I walk in this world, I feel utterly invisible.
Here is how I currently view communication:
I see two lines, two vibrations, almost like sound waves. (The two lines are parallel and horizontal.) And the top line, the top wave, is what is coming out of a person’s mouth, and the bottom wave is what I am feeling, what is underneath what he is saying: his insecurity, his fear, the reasons why he is forming the words he is forming, the sentences he is forming based on his own insecurities and needing me to fulfill a part of him. Since he is always focused on his fear and the outcome, he is not focused on connection, he is not focused on me. I don’t need him to be focused on me for ego-needs, I need him to be focused on me so I can feel him. As long as there is a discrepancy I can see in the two vibrations, there is no connection.
In being that there is no connection, I am constantly looking at two conversations at once. I am looking into what is coming out of his mouth, but I am also simultaneously listening to what is at his heart-center, what is at his core, all of the things he is not saying and that he wants to say. Often I can pick those up, and I can tell the person exactly what I am thinking and feeling, and this frustrates him, because I am more than likely correct. This creates this constant communication barrier in which I am listening and knowing what is being said is not ‘true.’
When I talk to someone with Aspergers that discrepancy between the two wave lines is not there. It is also such an intense communication that if one of the other participants fluctuates and he/she tries to hide something, the other person will point out the discrepancy in communication, no matter the distance. Whether the two be in different states or countries. From a distance, she might say, “That doesn’t match what you are feeling. What happened? How did your energy shift?”
When I am with a person with Aspergers, I am no longer alone. I am seen. I am not invisible. To most of the world I am invisible, and it’s terrifying. It’s terrifying being a person who can look at people and see entirely inside of them, and see their fears, and see their blockages, and listen to them talk and know most of what they are saying is just an imaginary game. And to realize I am not really connected at all, but rather some free-formed ghost waiting to be seen.
Somewhere out there you are lonely. I see you. I feel you.
You have this compassionate void within, a great abyss, massive in girth and depth.
There is no end to it: your beacon home.
You grasp at straws, at significant concrete ideas, thoughts, and concepts, even people, in an attempt to understand this absence, this missing, this grand emptiness.
So grand is your space of void that you long to fill it with whatever comes.
Sometimes the comings are tragic, sometimes wild, sometimes fulfilling, sometimes long-lasting, but they always dissipate.
You are left with memories slathered in pain, no matter the causation. You are left abandoned to yourself and your doings, in a state of query and mishap, shaken and made awake. Further awake.
This happens again and again, this searching out with your great capacity, an opening of self to what is there.
You take into you this, this substance, whatever the measure.
And you embrace it there, in your deepest self, twisting and turning the angles, figuring out in your limitation what could be, and forgetting what is.
There is a dichotomy inside of you, in which you love yourself, the innate you, yet also punish yourself for false failings.
You long to be someone else, as you embrace who you are.
Deep within you honor and respect your light, your goodness.
But beyond that you become confused in this world, isolated, alone, burdened.
This is your journey, and my journey, lost in a way, and found just the same.
There exists an ache so substantial that you live to alleviate the agony.
Day in and day out such intense longing.
We mistake this longing for love, for future hope, for him or her, for this or that.
The craving is the loving search for source, for truth, for light.
And in here we bathe.
Reach not for what is there, but for what is within, and your answers remain, as always, readily attainable.
Turn not to another, for the other is not the way.
You are this ‘way’ in your effervescent glow.
I cannot remove such suffering, even as I try ten-fold to release myself.
The suffering stays, and only grows greater.
What I can do is speak my voice, my truth, and seek harbor in the safety of awakened awareness.
I can go to the core of self and bring up what is there beyond the mask.
This is your calling, too. This is the void.
To embrace yourself fully in all your perceived failings. To love yourself in completion, and in turn give to the world what you have found within your being.
Purge, die, renew your essence, and give back your true light.
I wait for you on the other side, my burden heavy, my heart pierced, my enemy awake.
I wait and wait and wait, until a thousand deaths fall upon me.
And then I shall rise, with us in the horizon, with us in the rising sun.
You are my answer and I am yours.
We must awaken to the dream that is us, and begin to live the dream that is now.
I am feeling very isolated tonight. Probably, being sick for most of a month is contributing to my sense of discontentment. I have done a lot of soul searching in the last days—nothing new and nothing finished—and I have made some headway into an increased awareness of my behavior and events and stimuli that affect my behavior. Nonetheless, this prevailing underlining of isolation remains. Certainly, some is an environmental causation, that of being alone in the house too much, in recovery, and there is a likelihood because of the fact that my body is out of equilibrium, e.g., increased pulse with decreased blood pressure, that my mood is altered. Yet, even at my best, this interlocking chain of impossible refuge binds me. Increasingly pulling back to the truth of what I am: the fact that most of what I experience has nothing to do with me, and I am some player made to watch the world around me.
Tonight I felt dropped down into the center of a short film, the semi-cute brunette in the dark corner at the table with other ladies ranging in ages, amid a noisy collaboration of loud music, numerous conversations, and clanging dinner wear. I was the girl with the hollowed eyes, appearing lost in herself and far away, never quite sure of her own place, her own whereabouts, or even her own needs. My facial expressions varied to remembering to wear my forced smile to catching myself with expression relaxed staring off into space with furrowed brow and scowl. The act of remaining in a state of appearing semi-interested was effort in itself. The company was kind enough, sweet enough, and nothing to complain about; it wasn’t anything to do with anything else, but me.
The fact that I can be somewhere and be so separated from all that surrounds me is something that has prevailed my life since a small child. I have moments, cherished moments of gleefulness and carefreeness, but there is always, always a price. I lose myself if happiness enters me. It is a type of giddiness unfamiliar to most, a place of childhood like giggles and extreme silliness, a place of over-zealous eager sharing, wherein my actions resemble those of a kid let loose at summer camp about to splash into the pool.
I jump into people or I hide from them as far as I can. I escape entirely in thought or imaginings or I collide with that which is adjacent to me. I am these two variables, and it is painful. To be me in equilibrium is to be connected to my source, to my God, to that which is the All, but to do this requires elements that are not always readily available and a continual focus on love and light that in itself can deplete me. It is akin to holding up a suit of heavy armor all day to push out that which is attempting to invade me.
In the middle state I am content; I am essentially free. I am calm. I am quiet. I am mild and at peace. However, each and everything has the potential to affect my state, anything from a person to the phase of the moon. I become that which is a part of the collective, subjected to a constant wave of transitioning, whilst stepping back and watching this someone I recognize as self carry on through that which is not real. I cannot explain where I go then, except to perhaps a watchtower of sorts, high up above what is happening down below. I am myself but I am not. I am aware but I am not. And I am entirely uncertain if the person who is processing and thinking is the exact personality I am or if I will shift at any minute.
I can be for two hours the constant traveler with rosary partaking in walking meditation around the lake and think that this representation of self is truly me. But then, in the next phase of the day, I am no longer this person at all, and worse I no longer identify with the one I was moments before. It is as if I put on coats of identity all day long. At one moment the quiet librarian-type reading in the quaint cafe, preoccupied by her aging reflection in the window. Another moment, a younger version of myself, perhaps twelve, over-inflated and elated over the prospect of something discovered or overheard. I fluctuate like the weather; moving clouds I am, transitioning in shape and identity; at times in true form blending across sky, at other moments found in the dew drops of daisy’s eyes.
I cannot find myself, because no self exists, and this frightens me. I am what others are around me. I reflect what others project upon me. I become their feelings, their desires, their interests, even their wishes, transforming myself to fit into the groves of their energy. I cannot help this. I become what is in front of me, what I am facing and processing. If one be smart and an elitist, I become this form. If one be cynical and begrudged, I transition to this state as well. Some ways of being are easier than others. Some I want to be, especially those states of unconditional love and acceptance. Other states are hard for me; challenging the most is the waves and vibrations brought on by distrust and anger. Essentially those elements don’t exist inside of me. None of it does, say the love I try to transmit. Yet, I am constantly contaminated. Constantly bombarded with elements of who I am not, even as I know not who I am.
Sitting at the table and playing the part of a fellow human being interested in the talk of the evening is beyond difficult. Difficult I could handle. I am strong. I am wise. I persevere. What is worse than the challenges of communication and presenting myself as part of the crowd, is the continued sense of being not where I am, but projected backwards and away from the situation, analyzing what is there instead of experiencing life. I am pulled backed, in my thoughts yes, but more so out of the arena about me, put somewhere else, or rather I was never there to begin with.
I can watch the people and know things, see things, observe and wonder. There isn’t judgment, not even discernment, just a detecting of varying misgivings, emotions, insecurities, wants and needs. The desire to be heard and seen. The desire to prove one’s self and to reflect back kindness. The desire to get along, establish connection, to share. None of it need be bad, or weighed as this or that. It is at is is, but I am not. I am not this way, and in not being this way I feel rather invisible and unmoved, untouched and extremely isolated. I know that every word out of my mouth is a collection of something or another that is not me; other’s theories, other’s views, a temporary truth spawned from a collection of my previous life times of living. I know that in one way it is only ego sitting there sharing and deliberating. I feel the motivation behind words. I feel the effort, the burden and the heaviness. There doesn’t seem a point to being where I am. What am I learning? What am I doing? Where am I going? Aren’t I supposed to be just enjoying myself leisurely and taking in the scenery? But how does one do that? I have never been able to do that. Nor will I ever.
I am not a casual participant in life, streaming through the river of discourse. I am the observer above, once removed, cautiously aware that every move I make is a representation of someone I am not. I am not comfortable in my own skin, in my own ways, or in whatever I choose to do, least I be out of equilibrium, that giddy opened-up child, who is too often ridiculed, put in her place, and told how to act. The little one who overwhelms new friends and pushes them away. For who am I to invade the space and privacy of another? Who am I, indeed.
There is a fracturing of self I have come so familiar with that I spend my days watching myself transform and transform again. Waiting to see who I will seemingly be next. Wanting to hold on to one state longer than it lasts, and wanting to rid myself of a state sooner than it expires. I am the person who longs to be a person, but who also longs to be somewhere else amongst people who only reflect back to me a currency of truth and trust and unbridled love and acceptance. That is the only place I wish to be.
The tears come, but they are not the batter of depression; they are instead the tears of remembering. The tears of knowing that though I travel decades I remain very much the same wandering child, still adrift in an ocean of nowhere, watching life pass me by, and wondering if ever I will taste what is before me.
Takes a lot to leave house. The dressing alone is difficult; the contemplation about showering. The cold and hot extremes of cleaning. The irritation of today’s clothes. Nothing fits right, again. Why does it fit one day and not the next? Why does it bother me today, more than yesterday? I need to eat better. I need to… stop with the ‘I needs.’ You are enough. Yes, I am enough. Begin self-talk. I am enough. I am enough. Should I do my hair or put it up? It’s cold enough for a hat. Is this a hat event? What about the mess when I take the hat off? No, matter. It is of no matter. Yes. I am fine. I will put my hair up. My ears turn red when I am shy. I will wear my hair down; no hat. No risk of mess. A few curls. Not too many. If it’s cold and hats make me happy, why am I basing my comfort and pleasure over possible messy hair? Plus I look good in hats. So what. Wear a hat. Which one? Try on three. This one. I can’t believe I wore this headband the wrong way all day yesterday. I can’t believe I haven’t worn a headband until now. Burettes, I am still afraid to wear them. I am afraid of inanimate objects. Oh, brother! I can never put them in the right place. I don’t want to look like I am trying to look good. But I don’t want to look bad. What is good? What is too much trying? I am thinking so much. Breathe. I don’t want to be judged. But I will be. Sigh. I will be. It’s okay. It’s okay. This is the world you live in. You don’t have to judge others, but they will judge you; well, most of them will. You judge a little, too. You just let it go and recognize it. I am so much older than everyone that will be there. Some old lady mother joining in. It’s okay; this is good for me. Should I eat? That will make my breath stink. I just brushed my teeth. We need toothpaste again. I am too tired to go to the store. What store can I go to? That one is so small. So many people. So close. And that one. Yes, it’s on the way. I will go. Maybe I won’t. We have enough to last a couple more days. I can’t go to the store, today. I don’t have to plan now! I don’t have to think ahead. Focus on the present….the present… the present… OMMmmmmm. I would benefit from listening to my meditation music again. Most definitely. Why so many thoughts today? Is this my Aspergers or am I being empathic again? Are these my thoughts? Yesterday, I picked up exactly what my neighbor was concerned about. I knew it wasn’t me. Such random thoughts they were. I wonder if this nervousness about going is me? Maybe. Yes, likely my brain. Why am I nervous? Over and over nervous. It’s biological. It’s biological. Hyper-joint-mobility syndrome is documented to activate the fight-flight mechanism, and in the event of applied behavioral therapy, no improvement met. This is my body. I need to surrender; let the process happen. Heart rate fast. Breathe. What shall I bring? Where is my purse? I can’t remember where I put it. Why don’t I learn to put it in the same spot everyday? As hard as I try, I misplace things. Sigh. So hard. At least, I found my jacket. I wonder where my makeup case is. I don’t wear much. Do I wear too much? By whose standards? Whose standards matter beyond mine? I want a tattoo. I need to make a drastic change in my appearance. I am so plain and ordinary, fearful of standing out. I like hats. Hats are a good starting point. Accessories. Avoided them my whole life; didn’t want to make a statement of who I was. Or better, yet, didn’t know who I was. I know, now. At least right at this moment I know. But tomorrow I will feel differently. Shit! In a few minutes I will have likely changed my mind about the tattoo. I wonder how many people will be there? I wonder if I can figure out the social norms? Who else thinks these things before going out? I really want to just stay on the computer. I feel safe there. Well, usually I do. At least I don’t have to go through all of this. And no one cares. They expect me to be me and awkward. And I don’t have to explain myself, unless I want to. Is that weird? Who gets to decide what is normal to do on a Friday night? What if going out was not normal and staying in was normal? What if that becomes the new norm? Are we socially shifting? It sure seems that way. Crap, I need to take salt and water for my health condition. Maybe I can grab a coconut water and take it with me. Will that be odd? Are beverages allowed? Well, it will keep in the car. It will be okay. What am I missing? I have purse, jacket, water…my phone. Where is it? The ringer is on mute. How will I find it? I am running out of time. Is it charged? Where did I leave my phone charger? I am always losing things. I wonder if it is in my son’s car. I can’t believe he is driving. I hope he is okay in the snowy weather. He is a good driver. I am lucky to have three boys. I wonder if this is okay for me to go out, like this. Should I stay at home? I don’t do enough around the house. Stop beating yourself up. You are fine. You are beautiful. Stop the thoughts. Breathe. You have more thoughts because you are nervous and transitioning to a new activity. Just like Joseph. He does this. You watch him. You love him unconditionally. Love yourself the same. Breathe. This is somewhat out of your control. Remember to leave a note. Okay. Note done. Where are my keys? Man, I am running out of time. Why do I do this? Why can’t I remember to put my keys in the same spot? Each day panic attack. Keys missing. Wallet missing. Shoes hiding. Sigh. This is exhausting. Do I have my sweater on backwards? Yes. Okay, fixed. These jeans have stains on them. Oh, well. I will wash them with water when I get there. These socks are uncomfortable. I don’t want to wear these shoes. I am running out of time. Fine, these shoes. There are my keys. Focus. Lock top lock only. Put dog in crate! Almost forgot. Reopen door. Okay dog in crate. Door relocked. Balancing all this down the stairs. Don’t trip. Check phone. Time is good. Calculating eight minute drive. I will arrive five minutes before event. Perfect time to park and walk into building. Arrive right on time. Even with traffic I have a few minutes to spare. And I can be late. This is an event, not work or school. When will I need gas again? Soon. Gas goes fast. When will we run out of fuel in the world? I never have tried public transportation here. I wonder if it’s as good as everyone says it is. Probably. Does it smell. Probably. Is that stereotyping? I hope not. Oh, well, it’s just a thought, just a contemplation. Breathe. Drive. Drive. Focus. Focus. Focus. It’s almost over. You’re almost there. I am so tired.
I like to be with people; I am lonely without them.
People exhaust me.
I enjoy time alone, resting in peace and quiet.
I miss companionship.
I love who I am, my mind, my thoughts, my deep, deep depth.
I dislike the depth of my thoughts.
I want to share my story. I have to share my story.
I wish I’d kept more secrets to myself.
I long to pour all my love into the universe and to serve and give.
I often shove an excess of my love into a singular one.
I feel an increased sense of worth when I accomplish a lot of tasks. The simplest accomplishments satisfy me.
I am exhausted in my attempts to accomplish anything.
I love, love, love the moment. I am happy. I am content.
I dread, dread, dread the moment that the happy moment ends.
I understand the complexities of the universe, of philosophy, of love, of spirituality.
I cannot understand the various tides of my own being.
I am a giver. I give, give, give, unconditionally, without a trace of wanting to receive the same. I just live to give.
When I give, I become depleted and wonder why I have given so much.
I am honest. I am over honest.
I know how to be a very effective liar, and it scares me.
I am myself in completion.
My self changes every minute.
I want to be held and loved and protected.
I want to not want anything from anyone, and be self-sufficient.
I crave to be understood. I understand others.
I don’t understand myself.
I can see through the rules and games of society. The falsehoods and created truths and statements of how I should be.
I struggle with how to live without a playing board; where to move the pawn of me, if beneath there is no foundation, and beyond no playbook.
I hear from a source unknown, and trust in this truth and heart-mind wisdom.
I crumble into myself wondering why I am forsaken.
I embrace all aspects of myself, the good, the bad, the ugly. The powerful, the weak, the incredibly feisty and the incredibly shy.
I recognize none of these elements of self exist, once I dwell outside the realm of classification and judgment.
I respect the freedom for others to think and live their own thoughts and lives.
I get cluttered inside my own mind on whether or not I have the right to be the way I am.
I understand the process and action of letting go, releasing control, trusting and having faith.
I understand that I go to a place in which none of the tools previously gathered are effective or tolerated by an aspect of self that I know neither as shadow nor angel, but merely lost.
I am confident, empowered, worthy, and remarkably brilliant.
I am like everyone else; in truth, nothing about me is unique beyond the thoughts I gather as my accepted reality.
I love to release, stay in the present, be at peace in the moment, live in the space of now.
I find comfort in structured times of routine and order.
I am in a battle with myself in which I often win.
I wonder where the loser goes to cry.
Everyday Asperger's 