thoughts

Post 240: The Wow Factor

| Aspergers Girls

Wow! I’ve really found myself again.

Transformations and transitions have been powerful.

I looked through some photo albums this early morning and I actually remember joy and happiness and love. I see the person I was and am. I see what a wonderful, nurturing mother I was and am. I see how beautiful I was and am.

I spent so much of my life doubting my exterior and internal beauty.

I’m realizing I am beauty.

I have energy. I’m motivated. I’m excited for life. I’m hopeful.

I recognize my challenges, but carry a hope that all will be okay.

I’m counting my blessings and recognizing what a glorious life I’ve had.

All in all, every wish I’ve had as a child has come true. And every goal I had as a young adult has been met. I know if I died today, I would be content.

I have helped people through my various vocations and writings.

I have reached out.

I have been caring and thoughtful.

I have placed others first, but also learned to pamper and love myself.

It really is quite glorious.

I’m at a time in my life where I am learning to appreciate my uniqueness and also recognize my commonalities with other people.

I am less rigid and structured, more able to relax and understand my thought processes. More able to accept who I am and what I am.

I am even able to look in the mirror and like what I see.

So much growth.

I am very pleased

view from my home in the early mornings

I’ve spent the last two weeks reawakening and cleansing the energy in my house through the practice of feng shui. And I’ve reveled in the process, spending some nine to ten-hours straight some days working on the house. (Can you say “fixation” ?) The inspiration and motivation to clean and organize my home came after more than five weeks of being couch-bound and sick from a series of infections, the longest standing being viral bronchitis.

Symbolically and energetically, while facing physical health challenges, I cleared out much stagnant energy within my body through my constant coughing and removal of chunks of phlegm. (Pardon that visual image.)

Now that my interior being has had a good scrub through, I am setting about to clear out the gunk from the exterior of my life.

Everyday I cleanse my home, I feel lighter and happier in spirit. I have more clarity than I have experienced in years and have been welcoming many gifts through this energetic cleansing process.

I feel reconnected to a part of me I haven’t felt in years. I am reawakened myself in my ability to recognize the effective and beneficial parent and homemaker, friend, and spirit I am.

*as a side note, both days I cleaned my study, the feng shui area for prosperity and money, I was rewarded within hours with unexpected monetary awards.

Observations:

Removal of dog’s crate, his winter jacket, and blanket from the house. (Scooby passed away in February, shortly after starting this blog.)

Release of grief and sadness.

Welcoming of acceptance, love, and peace.

Bagged and boxed up items I’ve been saving for years, incase I ever need them.

Release of thoughts of scarcity and not enough.

Welcoming of trust and abundance.

Removed dirty plunger, stagnant water, scissors, dirt and debris, and clutter from heart-center of house in utility room.

Release of death, destruction, and stagnant emotion.

Welcoming of clarity, newness, and beneficial flow of energy.

Balanced water elements of bathrooms with earth elements such as floral design, stripes, blue and green, and pottery.

Release of flood of emotions and drowning in worries.

Welcoming of nurturing, calmness, and grounding.

Bedroom cleaned and stripped of clutter and most décor.

Release of cluttered mind and unrest.

Welcoming of deep breaths, deep relaxation, and sanctuary.

Children’s bedrooms cleaned and unneeded items given away.

Release of attachment to greed, distraction, and confusion.

Welcoming of having enough, freedom to move and create, and satisfaction in simplicity.

Underneath kitchen sink cleaned of scum and cleaning supplies removed and placed elsewhere.

Release of need to hide the whole of me. Release of burden of poisonous thoughts.

Welcoming of safety, love of self, and emptying of garbage.

Storage closets organized and cleaned out.

Release of past regrets and the need to hold on to the past. Release of cluttered emotions.

Welcoming of order, structure, and ease.

Front entry cleaned and organized.

Release of fear of people and rejection.

Welcoming of friendship and happiness.

Expired supplements and medications discarded.

Release of pain and suffering.

Welcoming of health and wealth of energy.

Cooking pots and pans, canned and boxed food organized.

Release of dread and confusion.

Welcoming of nutrition, clarity, and fortification.

Décor and gifts I kept out of guilt.

Release of pressure to please, fear of hurting others, and retention of unhealthy relationships.

Welcoming of beauty, joy, and pleasure.

Mementos taken off shelves and out of closet, and then boxed.

Release of fear of losing past happiness and hope.

Welcoming of present happiness and merriment.

Sorting through photo albums and photos.

Removal of past untruths.

Welcoming the beauty I was and am. Welcoming the wonderful memories of the family I have helped lift and raise.

Post 236: I BE RED!

| Aspergers Girls

I BE RED!

Yes, me!

I’m telling myself this, again:

For you Little Sam.

For no one else.

Post whatever you want.

Write whatever you want.

This is for you.

Stop doing everything for the world.

Stop thinking about the observer, the outsider, the watcher.

The only person looking

Is YOU!

So, post your hair if you want to!

Materialistic

Stupid

Silly

Waste of people’s time….

Seriously.

For someone who tries so dang hard not to judge others

You sure judge yourself harshly

all the time.

Let’s stop that.

Okay?

Just Be.

Stop worrying about results

About thoughts

Yours and theirs.

The key is to unlock the inner critic

Then you can unlock the outer

Love yourself like you love your dearest friend

Be gentle

Be kind

And most of all

Live

My dear heart

Live!

Post 235: Halo Gone

| Aspergers Girls

I had a halo this morning:

I wrote a short post about it.

And received wonderful, wonderful comments.

Then logic set in.

At first I thought a bug flew around my head really fast before I took the photo of me with my I-Phone.

Nope.

A couple of hours later, after some reflection, I got the keen idea to go take some photos without me in the bathroom.

Would the pink light still be there?

Yep!

It has to do with the way my bathroom light bulbs reflect in the room.

Sigh. No halo.

No angels.

So panic set in.

I couldn’t be presenting myself as having a halo or little pink angels, when in actuality they were light bulb filaments reflecting in my bathroom.

I had to delete the post ASAP.

That’s how my mind works…and body responds. Any form of dishonesty, even unintentional or accidental, or not really even dishonesty to begin with but a mistake, and I FREAK and go into repair/fix mode.

So I deleted the original post for 235 of my tiny pink angels.

Sigh.

Deep breath.

Shaking off unneeded guilt and fret.

Then I had more time to think.

I may not have a halo that I can visibly catch on camera.

But it doesn’t mean I don’t have one.

And it doesn’t mean those little lights weren’t a message of sorts.

For a couple of hours, I was a believer again.

For a couple of hours, I thought I was protected and loved.

For a couple of hours, I thought I was special.

And then I realized…..

It wasn’t for a couple of hours

It’s been a lifetime

With or without proof

 

 

My mother used to work for Virginia Satir. This old plaque hangs in my kitchen. 

(My husband says: “Maybe that halo is yours. It just stays there in that spot!”—hopeful soul.)

Post 234: Demons, Darkness and the Light

| Aspergers Girls

Demons, Darkness and the Light

You know those days, or time periods, when a bunch of crap just starts to happen, kind of like you’ve dropped an explosive device down the deep stench of the outhouse and a volcano of poop is erupting?

Do you know too that moment when you can step back away from the ego-self and observe your own being, while distancing yourself from the mess that in reality is an illusion? How you can then, with decisive and heartfelt action, breathe in what appears to be filth and smell only succulent roses?

I’m stepping back. And I’m admiring the wonders of this experience labeled life.

I gather I’m under attack of some sort. Whenever I am entirely honest and come from a place of pure truth, as I did in my latest writings, something always counters me.

I don’t mean to sound “far out there” or “super spiritual,” but truth be told, I’ve been countered since I was a young child. And I’ve been placed in events that have directly challenged my strength of will.

By the age of nine, I’d undergone losses of grand proportion, including the loss of two fathers, one through my mother’s second divorce, a man I’d never see again, but once when I was almost an adult, and the emotional loss of my biological father, whom, for the majority of my childhood, I only saw a few days a year. I suffered the loss of my kindergarten teacher when she died of cancer. I suffered the loss of my best friend in kindergarten, Keith, who moved to Hawaii. I suffered the loss of my step-sisters and step-brothers, when our family broke apart; they being the only siblings I ever had. I suffered the loss of my best buddy of three years, who was more liken to a sister, because she was the daughter of my mother’s boyfriend, and I spent most nights and weekends in the same bedroom as her—lost her when her mother “kidnapped” her one day; the last day I ever saw her. I suffered the loss of pets that I would foretell dying in my dreams. I suffered the loss of childhood with the complexity of my thoughts, and an understanding of the vastness of the universe and consequences of social norms, that far surpassed the thinking of most adults. Suffer I did. And all before the first decade of my life reached completion.

I teeter not upon the other violations I experienced, choosing not to go into detail, but instead say that along with the losses, predators found me, and made me victim.

At the age of ten, life didn’t get easier, in fact the trials continued, one after the other, without pause for retreat, without rest, without rescue.

I grew into a woman matured in an untimely fashion by the pangs of this world. I grew into a child, who born sensitive and hyper aware of the spiritual world, became hyper afraid of the earthly world. My fear manifested itself into a grandiose, potentially explosive, bang of illusion associated with death and illness. Everything imaginable was out to destroy me. Who implanted this seed, I do not know, but it remains to this day my greatest internal weed, with thoughts of my demise recycling and winding through my mind sometimes emotionally choking me up to a few hundred times hourly. How to stop this fear has been my quest since I was nine. I have truly died a thousand and one deaths, each minute reminded of my mortality and fragility.

The only thing that stops the thoughts is being immersed in a fixation or passion. The issue then becomes that I am escaping the present to avoid my thoughts, and in fact not really here at all.

I have grown tired of this battle. So very weary.

In truth, I have traveled a tiresome path of challenge after challenge, emotionally, physically, mentally and spiritually. I have been persecuted at all levels.

At age elven, I would awake to demons dragging me down my bed or to the hell fires roasting my body. I’ve been visited by spirits I would call “evil.”

My father had told me as a teenager, when I’d undergo the extreme nightmares, the visitations, the precognitive dreams, and such, that I was a beacon on a hill and that my bright light would attract the good, but with this, I would also attract the bad. I believed him. I still do.

My outer-body experiences started when I was very young. I would wake up trapped in my own body, able to see everything about me and hear, but unable to open my eyes. My father could leave his dream state and body, travel to another room in the house, and upon awakening tell all of what he saw and heard.

For me, I have visions, I see what will happen, or what might happen. I see car accidents, deaths, tragedies, sufferings, and sometimes, though rare, cause for celebration.

There was a time, I sat alone in a room with my father, and when he asked, “Can you tell me what you see when looking at me? And I responded, “Yes, to your right, there is a demon there, sitting and trying to control you.” And my father answered, “Yes,” pointing to the exact spot I mentioned.

Again, another time, my father said to look in a mirror at the end of his hallway and tell him what I saw. I told him a green like lizard-like alien with yellow-orange eyes, and he again responded “Yes; that is what I see.”

My father is quite sane. With the whole of my heart, I believe he was not inventing things. He is above all else extremely honest, blunt, and direct. I fear, though, he still has that demon sitting at his side.

In his house I was never safe. When I lived with him during my college years, I was always frightened to sleep under his roof. I would hear “get out” when I entered his bedroom, though no one was home. And strange events happened, like the television turning on by itself and flicking channels or a spirit holding me at night using the exact same words to speak to me as she did to my father.

“Oh her. Yes, I know her. She comes to me at night in the same way,” my father would say.

Once a well-known and established religious sect tried to recruit my father, based on his connection to the spiritual world. “Quickly, come here,” father would hear, before stealthy escaping the waiting area. “We found one of them!” Them referring to psychic and able to astral project.

With all the challenges and arguably unusual (and sometimes unspeakable) occurrences in my life, I’m growing tired of what I see as servitude through sacrifice. I definitely feel as if I have the soul of a martyr. I say this with no pride.

I tried for many years to heal my soul, to fill some gap or hole, so to undergo a life of simplicity and easiness.

I’m quite the expert in mankind’s current way to better one’s self, and quite the expert on the shortcomings of such solutions.

I’ve come to the conclusion that my soul and personhood does not need fixing.

I am realizing that the most advantageous action for me to take is to continue to be authentic and shine my light. To continue, regardless of the consequence, to be truthful in my personal experience.

I am listening to my angels.

I’ve been called since I was little to help. First with animals, later with the elderly, homeless, non-English speaking immigrants, and children, and now female adults.

Being called to help and shine my light for no other intention but to help is just who I am.

I think, no I know, I scare some people. They just don’t get me.

They don’t understand why I do what I do.

Why I write or have this drive to reach people.

They don’t understand honesty.

They don’t understand goodness.

Day 232: My Inner Bitch

| Aspergers Girls

A rose from my front yard that blossomed in late September.

I woke up this morning and came to the conclusion that alongside the yoke-like phlegm I’ve been coughing up for three-plus weeks that I’ve also hacked up some major  baggage.

I woke up thinking: I want to find my inner bitch.

Which is so unlike me, as I don’t even like to say the word Bitch, unless teasing my dog, and to type bitch (bitch, bitch, bitch), well that’s just plain out of character!

Much of the thoughts of finding my inner bitch erupted from my dreams last night, the repetitive type of nightmare where I face a parental figure or face a professor and act cowardly and then rage. Seems my inner bitch has found her way into my dream state. Still no sight of her out in this world, though.

Now my mother would likely claim that my inner bitch came out in the fall of 1981, but I would have to disagree. True, at the time I was a very angry teenager, but I raged because I’d held so much inside for so long that with the help of hormones I  just plain exploded…and screamed, and threatened to runaway from home, and barricaded myself in my room….

Fact is, up to that point in my years, and after that point too, I hadn’t really been dealt the best childhood experience; and I had a right (as I see it) and need (to not implode) to be a bit of a bitch. Plus, my teen-bitchiness was so very short-lived—doused out by guilt-laden lectures, scolding, and insults, and the move to the east coast. I was in the bitch zone three months, tops.

That is honestly about the only time Bitchy Me ever surfaced. That and when my boyfriend of several years had a pregnant teenage mistress that showed up at his apartment door.  But I felt guilty after I screamed in shock and hit him with my open hand in the chest. So not sure if that counts.

And I had another bitchy moment, I suppose, when a best friend called me (again) in the early hours of the morning to tell me her much-older-than-her, drunkard and big time loser of a boyfriend had once again abandoned her. I’d had enough, and told her to get some help, and that I could no longer support her in regards to her relationship with said jerk. I was kind of mean, I guess. We were never close again, after that. Boundary setting verses Bitch—seems to be a fine line.

Sometimes I think I might be lacking the bitch gene. Sure, certainly at moments I  look like a bitch, but that’s generally my lack of recognizing and controlling my facial expressions. I could be thinking intently about dark chocolate, and my intense facial expression could be mistaken for bitch. It’s just the way my face is made; it contorts and twists so that most onlookers haven’t a clue to what I’m truly feeling or thinking. That’s why pasted-on-smile helps, often, when dealing with outsiders.

You can ask my husband. I’m not a bitch. I really am not. Sure, I have a dry and sometimes biting wit (blame it on my intelligence) and sure I get frustrated like all human folk, but my degree of anger and expression of my anger is liken to the temperament of a well nurtured and cuddled kitten.

My anger zone generally consists of rolling of the eyes, a sigh, and raising my voice slightly; and if you’re my husband, a mini-lecture about my need to express my emotions and be accepted as a human being with feelings. (That’s what happens when you marry a man like Spock from Star Trek.)

When my anger climaxes, I retire to my bedroom to mope, fret, and catastrophize the situation. Generally then, I am forlorn, curse my circumstance, and want to expel everyone from my life so I can die in isolation.  Where anger goes, who knows. I seem to skip over that square in the hopscotch of emotions. I have no trouble leaping into the hopscotch square of self-pity and depression, but anger, it’s like the chalk in the square has been erased, and anger just doesn’t exist. Even if I purposely jump two-footed into the anger box and try to feel rage, it’s very much lacking in luster and flame, kind of a dull spark of nothing.

I gather, part of this anger repression comes from the times I was often guilted out of my emotions.

“Be thankful for what you have.” “I do my best.” “Things could always be worse.” “Count your blessings.” We’re all common phrases in my youth, bombarding me each and every time I showed the slightest indication of sadness or upset. I grew up believing that my feelings were wrong and out of proportion. That I was over reacting and ungrateful.

Missing from my world were words like: “I’m sorry.”  “It will be okay.”  “That must be so tough and hard on you.”  “I can’t imagine.”  “Let me hold you.”  “I am here for you.” Missing so much, that as I grew older and heard those loving statements, I didn’t know what to feel, and as a result would start to cry uncontrollably.

If I dared to feel anger, I was to blame for not being appreciative, understanding, patient, or forgiving.

So much of my energy was spent stuffing emotions to appease.  I learned to evaluate others’ expressions and adapt my own body language to survive. If I could figure out what others wanted, I could feasibly avoid deflating remarks. If I acted happy and carefree, I was more likely to be praised. My happy expressions were seen and acknowledged; and whether genuinely expressing myself or not, when I appeared happy, at least I wasn’t invisible or wrong.

Anger, I gather, if anger ever existed, got lost in the shuffle of pretending. I was the good girl. The sweet girl. The kind, the giving, the loving. I was unbreakable, brave, and dependable. I was everything I could be to make another happy.

Interestingly, this year, during the month of May, I had a major breakthrough physically, energetically, emotionally, and spiritually. Starting in the late spring, I felt transported back in time to around the age of thirteen, when all feelings of love-sick, passion, creation, freedom, strong will, and justice were erupting.

Strangely enough, I first had bronchitis (due to living in a damp ocean town with mold and in a house with smokers) when I was a teenager and haven’t had bronchitis since. Until now. I seem to be revisiting my later youth on multiple levels, including visiting bronchitis.

Lately, I feel as if there is this sticky residue inside of me.

It’s been said 2012 is a year of purging out the “negative” emotions and coming to terms with all the garbage inside (I paraphrase with much liberty.)

Apparently, my bronchitis is symbolic of all the residue still located at my heart and throat center, where my ability to love and express my true self is located. I’m purging…going on week four now of purging (bronchitis).  And still stuff is coming up.

Today I am acknowledging some current realities. I am delving into the residue and coughing up the phlegm of the past. I am rediscovering that there are people in my life that I simply don’t like. As hard as I try, I don’t like them. I don’t like their behavior, their choices, their self-focus, their belief that their view is the right view, their tendency to think the world revolves around them, their ability to blame others, the anger they harvest and spew, their arrogance and their ignorance, and especially their lack of self-awareness and self-accountability.

I’m wondering if it’s not time to let my inner bitch blossom, if only for a bit, long enough to mop up the remains, to stand up and shout: Enough! Enough already!