yucky stuff

404: The Space In Between

| Aspergers Girls

This morning a man skipped out in front of me, where I was sitting in my vehicle. I watched as he went on his merry-way. I thought that is joyful to see such glee; a man become little child free. And then his trousers, too loose, slipped down to expose a buttocks covered end to end in huge red boils. I didn’t know what to think then.

I feel a dreamer awoken from a dream she thought she’d understood.

I keep visualizing this huge bubble, a vast space encompassing the whole of my world. And I have floated up, much like a giant balloon, air-filled and light to touch, with open palms penetrating the top of the bubble. At least what appears to be the top. I look down to see the everything that was. I look up to see the everything beyond. I linger, my hands pressing.

Today I awoke with great angst. I feel emptied of much of what I used to be, but still entirely me in my making. I have this great capacity for bliss, and then, in turn, the greater degree for pain. I can delve into the pain so thick and rich, it is almost like a buttery-sugar sauce poured on grandest dessert; only it hurts, and burns, and penetrates a part I knew not existed.

I know things; and I hesitate to tell, because all these rules of telling circulate in my mind. My heart knows, but she sleeps when the mind is awake. And when heart awakes, the mind seems so distant and unconcerned. There is a balancing I find difficult, almost unmanageable. How to be me and not to be me. How to be in this pain-body ripe with thought and idea, and still recognize my ideas are nothing. I am only an assumption, an accumulation, a dream herself: a dreamer that is the dream, the dream that is the dreamer.

I don’t like this in between place; how I can feel so entirely divine and one with All and then shift back to this emptiness that ponders the empty beyond empty. I don’t like the pain of discipline. The pain of experiencing the now. The pain of avoiding the fear and agony. But equally in degree, is the turbulence of letting the thoughts enter. I be either gatekeeper in mental pain controlling the switchboard or vastly unburdened and free in my tormenting fear. I have no other way to be. Unless in bliss or in the spell of hearing the lessons—but even that must end.

The lessons fill me entirely. I hear the truth, or what appears the truth, over and over, in these huge gigantic sweepings of knowing. But then heart knows not what to do. How to be. How to share. Or if to shut her mouth and dare not speak. For I recognize my insignificance.

Still I be this mind, and still I be this body. I feel more phantom than ever, wandering about and wishing for the same limbs and eyes; so at least all else, the people and forlorn view, still seemed to witness same. Instead all seems a strange land, and I a strange woman undone and brought forward into the nothing.

I am spectator now. Victim before. Victim no more except onto myself.

And here the responsibility comes: the demon thoughts of how to be no longer and yet to be. The rules enter, as before, but now at different levels: the ways of this new found world.

Such intensity, such newness, such wonderment, that I grow speechless in my speech. And still there is this pulse, this heart, this want to be. Who am I that can breathe and feel, but still see beyond what is?

I am imploded in sadness here within the making of rules; watching the dictator fear slip through as guise of the rules of how to be outside the rules. There are layers upon layers of rigidness, in which I slice; yet, upon slicing, the other boundary emerges, two-fold, gigantic in appearance, a big-brother to the last, the roar ferocious, with a truth so unbearable in its light that I know not whether to glide into and drink or run away in terror.

I have slayed the master of you—the one I put upon throne and made my judge and personhood. But now I must face the jury—the many pawns I be, scurrying about as if to not fall off the checkered board. And still they fall, one by one, into some abyss. And still I be.

It is mind-boggling and dangerous, and I know not how to stop and how to proceed. I cry out for direction and there is always the knowing, the answer, the gift of love and understanding. But even this has become like too much sugar, too much goodness, too much to see in a place of such blindness.

I can write, and then open book of one form, and find what I have written. I can see, and then awake from the seeing, and turn to see the happening. Sometimes the time seems to be naught, and the naught seems to be wrapped in multiple-parallel happenings. What was there becomes not there, and what was not there, becomes there. I can’t understand it, nor do I try, but still it comes.

At moments I feel forlorn and un-chosen by my own self, granted much with no basket for carrying and no foundation for relief.

I can’t be this or that. So I must be nothing. But there is no guidebook for nothing. For even latching onto nothing is latching onto something. There are vast contradictions and complexities; the very uncertainty itself as truth. I see, but to tell another I see is at once defaming my own seeing. Announcing I am something in the mere wanting to share the thought of nothing.

Before I allowed myself to be judged and formed and reformed. I was still a part. I was the puppet in a play. I belonged even in my thoughts of un-belonging. Now I don’t even un-belong.

Yesterday, I felt the spike of isolation. In my new finding of naught, I allowed myself to venture on a walk around the lake. I took in the nature; I took in the guiding voice; I took in the pulsing love; I saw about me beauty. I tried, in this state to reach out, but I remained entirely invisible. The harder I smiled, the more I tried to be seen, the less I was seen. Each passerby, say one, paid passing glance, and many frowned. I couldn’t penetrate whatever I was in. I couldn’t be witnessed. I couldn’t be formed. I couldn’t be made into another’s thought and interpretation. I was nothing I could see, and none that could see me. I was lost in my own finding of nothing.

I became attached to the un-attachment. I became attached to the bliss of not being, and in so doing, became the misery of aloneness.

And so this morning, I wept deeply inside. I woke up not knowing how to be in a world so undone to me, inside a woman so invisible.

Again, I walked the same path; now the sun had been dismissed and the clouds awoke the gulls. The birds sang overhead and I cried in silence below. I wore a black hood, a black jacket, dark trousers, and a gloomy expression. The tears welled up. But still I walked. And this time people saw me; they made effort to smile. They made effort to say hello. They waved. They saw my pain and in my pain could be.

And so I am left in wonderment of how to walk in this world. Shall I be the merrymaker unseen and isolated in a world of games? Or shall I be the miserable one embraced with open arms by the invisible phantoms I long to call home?

And what of the space in between?

379: I am very saddened by the state of the world

| Aspergers Girls

shaman

I am very saddened by the state of the world. While I can only speak of the nation I occupy, I gather enough from others that similar events are happening globally.

No matter how long I live on this earth, I am continually confused by many people’s behaviors and actions. Manipulations, lies, and false-intentions aside, I am dumbfounded by the angry-hearts and finger-pointing souls.

It seems so obvious to me: don’t judge another until you have entirely looked at your complete self and accepted who you are, learned to love yourself, and made a vow to be the best person you can be.

And hopefully, by the way of nature, having been through that process, the ability to judge simply ceases. Therefore, I find myself in a quandary, as what I feel within borders much on judgment, though I hope it resembles in form more of a heartfelt discernment.

I watch all around, in this place I find myself a part of, and see people acting out of spite and bitterness. To me, this seems as children at play, individuals who have somehow never gained what some of us were naturally born with. So many walking blindly, a victim of their self-created unbridled passion, set upon a path of feeding the darkness more dark.

I am at a crossroad of self, in many ways looking back at where I have been, without harboring much thought or even intention. Neither am I looking forward. I have tossed away the childish ways of dwelling anywhere other than I am, but still the present lingers here and penetrates my being, reminding me of why, in the past, I so often chose the route of escape over living. And I cannot help but think that the gentle souls of the world continue to choose the same, to slip back into a part of self, where the light is pure and the surroundings safe.

My hope lies in the minority. For in them I see this endless river of kindness, acceptance, and genuineness. And there is where I choose to see my own reflection, in the soul inhabiting this lost planet, which continues to shine despite the glaring dark broadcasted by the deceitful and righteous ones.

I am by no means a religious scholar, but I have had my share of studies in theology. What strikes me as evident is that many religions and spiritual paths have the answers; they speak of not judging, not lying, not cheating, not stealing; they speak of detachment, release of the desire for material ways, and unconditional love. Yet, it seems, that still most of society is buzzing all around, hounded by some beasts, corralled in like sleeping sheep, and made to behave in ways that may not be notorious but are as equally damaging.

It seems I am made, as I be, to walk in this world half-blinded to the ways of the majority, left outside of the fenced-in and blinded, and watching from a hilltop wishing for my brothers and sisters to join me and step out of the illusion of hatred. I am made this forever minority, for separation seems the only prize over entrapment of soul.

Today, I do not choose to celebrate tragedy or turn a disaster into a false idol. I will not choose to share grotesque images, nor to splatter hearsay and falsehoods. I see no benefit.

Have we become a united people whom can only feel close when disaster strikes? If so, what then will keep the disaster from repeatedly happening? What if there was silence upon disaster? What if there was just support, love, protection and safety; and the rest, the disastrous aftershock of tragedy, the spawned pods of evil, were left behind—just dropped, just forgotten, or at minimum ignored. What would the dark broadcast then, and what would we hold onto?

There is a part of me that knows I would be better to release this, to let go of this pain, as I do the rest, to detach from the horrors before my eyes—the dark aftermath of disaster. To close my eyes as the wolves circle in tighter and tighter, the false prophets, of modern day, spinning their webs of deceit; our neighbors joining in the game of hatred and rebel, or perhaps shedding their own tears in the spotlight. See me—notice me—love me. Why not just claim you need attention without the façade of displaying a tragedy to bring you forward? And why spread images of hope or horror based on tragedy with your name stamped upon the photo; how obvious that this is a way of profiting from suffering, whether for self-attention or material gains.

I don’t understand how people can be blinded to their own motives and own intentions. How they cannot feel what they are doing. See how they are acting. And if they are aware, how they can continue forward. Who are these people, as I do not belong to them?

And for the ones gently retreating, doing their part to help in silent fashion, without want of recognition, without need to scream, what of their dear, dear hearts? Who are these ones who humbly serve? How I wish to join you in prayer or meditation, and walk in the light at your side.

I do not understand this world or my place in it. Existing here seems like living on a giant stage of fools, with everyone rushing to be seen and be recognized, everyone in this giant game of Monopoly.

I am deeply saddened, today. I am not sad entirely because of the events of the original disaster—I hurt for the families and the loved ones—but at the same time I recognize disasters happen all over the world. People die in horrific ways all the time. People suffer. People are beaten, tortured, enslaved, persecuted, starving, and so on. There is no shock to me when disaster comes—the only shock is when I see what should by now be familiar, the clamoring for attention, resurfacing of the dark feeding upon the dark, ways and means that remind me of how far we’ve yet to come.

I am sad mostly because I live in a society that has been in essence brainwashed, a place where people are bombarded with negativity and bred to believe in lacking, and behave as if in desperate need. If the world were a spinning top, and I were still child, I would halt the toy entirely, and just let the earth breathe, let the people step out of self and watch. How I wish people could see they are love, they are light, and not these false illusions they have claimed.

I sit here very much isolated, unable and unwilling to share in the masses way of being, unable to take part in a celebration of the darkness. It is like being made to sit in the coliseum of ancient Rome, whilst crying, when all about people are cheering. It is like, this agonizing grief, a singular one watching from a singular window, waiting for the world to stop.

352: Here Comes the Mud

| Aspergers Girls

Last night I dreamt two boys, my son and a friend’s son, had painted my stairs with clay-colored shit. On close examination, it wasn’t shit at all, but mud they’d dug out of the water-creek area centered at the heart of our house, the outside elements inside, below the stairs. There were shovels there; they’d been digging for water in fun, until they were scolded by my friend, the one boy’s mother, for spreading shit inside the house. She had climbed down and brought up a clump in her hand, smelled it and insisted it was crap. I, then, knowing this to be false, proceeded to the site of the wet muddy bank and scooped up my own lump. I held it to my face, with only a touch of doubt, and inhaled deeply. It was dirt. I was certain. Wet dirt. “It’s not shit,” I insisted, a bit irritated, but thankful feces were not smeared across my carpeted steps; but my friend, the son’s mother, she insisted it was shit. And that was that. The last words spoken: Shit.

I think my angels are telling me something. It’s actually quite clear. Where I am at right now, currently, feels like shit, looks like shit, and even, quite frankly, when I first wake up, tastes like shit; but a part of me, the analytical and hope-filled part, she knows it is just all mud, and like all mud, this too will be swept up in the rain, cleansed and removed.

This is all coming about, this feeling of “shit” because of my hormones and that “time of the month,” aka
“Hell.”

I have gained weight. The weight gain could be the result of the reduction of thyroid pill, or my binge eating from PMS, or reduced walking…… or just the cold winter season. Regardless, bodily changes freak me out. Really do, to the point I don’t want to wear nice clothes and I don’t want to leave the house.

Unless of course I deem the changes positive.

And it makes no difference how often someone reassures me I am still pretty or enough, or beautiful on the inside. It just doesn’t. I get comfortable when I weigh less. Not super skinny, just enough skinny so the fat doesn’t disgust me.

Now, other people, like my friends, if they gain a little weight, I don’t care! It’s so unfair. I really don’t care if they are ten pounds heavier or one hundred, as long as they are healthy and happy. They are lovely no matter what. (sidebar: In all honesty, I have to say with boyfriends in the past and in considering my husband’s weight gain or weight loss, I can be bothered, because I see that person daily and….clearing throat….naked.) And I mean that. Some people even look better with a little more weight. Especially as the female face ages and grows more gaunt. But for me I have a double-standard. I must be a certain weight or I am deemed “not enough.”

Truth be told, last I prayed, I wished to go head-to-head with my bodily issues and with my hang ups on appearance. To face the demons. So here it is! The shit, at least appearance of shit, being dug up and hitting not only the fan, but the stairs leading to advancement and a higher place…hmmmmmm Tricky angels I have.

I must be careful what I pray for. I must. I must!.

When I gain weight, I wig. I spazzzzz. I obsess. My “fatness” becomes my fixation.

For me, it feels like my weight is one of the few things in this world I can find familiarity in; something that doesn’t shift and vary with each ticking second.

I hate being me right now.. I would pay someone to take me ahead five years, preferably un-aged, to menopause. Don’t age my children though; I don’t want to miss out. I just can’t stand these spikes in emotions.

I blame some of this on the changes of hormones since I stopped the natural pig hormone for thyroid issues. The pig hormone, I concluded after much research, was causing peaks of progesterone and then rapid drops which lead to the muscles in my tongue responding while I slept, which led to waking up with sore throats, which led to a head cold every month for two days before my period. And cystic acne (which I never had before) caused by the imbalance of other hormones.

Even though I quoted 50 other people whom had cited cystic acne after starting thyroid meds, my natural path didn’t believe me; however, my gynecologist did. And I have been doing this ping-pong battle of rights and wrongs in my head for seven weeks. “Stop the thyroid pill for six months, and then get retested” ……words served by gynecologist. “Cut the pill in half”… words served by natural path doctor.
I stopped. All symptoms seized. Weight came on quicker.

Well I have grown not to trust my natural path doctor. Even though I adore her and have trusted her for the last two years.

She had me at thyroid levels well enough left alone and then upped the dose in August to decrease my levels more. And as a result I was in a state of hyper-thyroid behavior for months, e.g., hair falling out, heart beating fast, rapid thoughts, increased OCD and need to process, and not gaining weight, no matter what I ate.

Now, my body is confused, as I’ve stopped, or not so much confused, but readjusting, and the equilibrium they are finding is not to my liking. I hate feeling tightness around my waist. And I hate disliking my image, an image I already was uncomfortable with, but slowly getting used to before I began to change…again.

I do not like the uncertainty of the world. I can’t deal with it at times. I can’t deal with anything right now: no noise, no decisions, no nothing; and this is likely why I have been housebound for three days, entirely on the couch or at my dining room table, fixated on organizing my blog and talking to others, fixating on escaping who I am.

I don’t get it, and I don’t get me; and I don’t like how hormones happenings can change ME. I dislike health issues; they are my major tipping point, my trigger, a fear-based swampland. I don’t do well with anything related to sickness. But even in the fowl, muddy-mood I am in, I do recognize my fear of health issues has in the last two months decreased ten-fold…a miracle in itself.

Which leads me to my angels. I can feel them still, sitting back and watching me go through this mucky mud. I know they are there. I know this is necessary for whatever reason. But it doesn’t stop me from wanting to turn them into visible, little fairies that I can stomp on for pleasure.

They get that. They do. And I think I can hear them laughing at the joke, and even giggling in relief they don’t have to be human. But I do. And it sucks. It stinks like shit even though I know it “ain’t.” And that’s the hell of it: Knowing it’s passing mud, but feeling and believing it’s shit that sticks.

I don’t know what to do except to write it out, to pound it out, and hope that someone out there is touched and healed, or at least relieved in some way. Perhaps in the knowing that as hard as I try, as much as I do, as strong as my faith is, that sometimes through it all, all I see is shit.

329: Oops! I did it again! Who the Beep Am I?

| Aspergers Girls

This little girl who lives inside me was crying today.

431748_4791619038475_505716849_n-1

And through the tears, I started punishing myself saying, “This is ego; don’t go feeling sorry for yourself.”

Until I remembered that by focusing on ego, I simultaneous give ego power!

One of the things weighing heavy on my mind is this chameleon presto-chango act I do.

As chameleon, I have perfected several degrees of metamorphosis. I do this by mimicking someone else (real), a character (tv), or the stereotypical characteristics of a specific role (detective/when I was 8).

I’m quite good at imitation; I can pretty much take on any role to perfection.

It’s like a hidden talent. A type of hidden talent that seems like it would come in handy, like double-agent-Jacquelyn-Smith-from-Charlie’s-Angels handy. But it doesn’t. It just pretty much sucks.

Case in point, when I first moved to the state of Washington, two and a half years ago, I meet a spiritual teacher I admired.

Bingo! Bingo! Bingo! Some part of my subconscious brain screamed, upon the acquaintance of this lady; and then, without telling me, some part of me set about to transform. Not to be her exactly. I mean I didn’t want to live in her house or steal her husband; that’s kind of loony, fatal-attraction-psycho-scary. But a piece of me did mean to clone her using my body. Hmmmmm.

In regards to this one woman, I learned how to mimic her voice, how to dress like her, and then studied to become a spiritual counselor, just like her! Surprise. Turns out I make a pretty good spiritual counselor. And, even after I tossed her persona out, I kept her cool, mellow voice. Bonus!

I think this self-discovery of self acting out a role that is not actually true self, has to be one of the oddest sensations known to mankind. And you can't really debate me, unless you've experienced this; and if you have experienced this taking on of roles without your conscious knowledge, then I am certain you would agree with me about the oddness factor, anyhow.

For all you non-chameleon types, the presto-chango experience is akin to being possessed by another life form or like being in a drunken spell for several months, and wondering what you did during those black out moments. Only you never black out completely, just a part of your awareness does. Maybe it's like waking up and finding out you have had a third hand for a few months but didn't even see it or know you were using it.

How, with my keen observation and analytical skills, I could not see my very own self doing something so obvious confuses me.

I imagine, beyond my ability to see, somewhere inside of me is a tug-of-war, where the participants are fighting: This way; be like her, be like her! No this way; be like her, be like that!

Which leads me to today.

Lately,I have been having a lot of spiritual experiences.

I am woken about three in the morning to vivid spiritual lessons. I am still half-asleep, but very aware that the lessons are occurring. But before I awake fully, most of everything is erased. Sometimes it’s poetry, other times images, sometimes Biblical verse. Also, I have been having powerful prose just pour out of me. And I have felt grand moments of serenity, peace, and healing. All of this is divine, in and of itself; the only trouble is that a part of me, that subconscious part, has been latching on to a new role; that of guru, or seer, or prophet, or even martyr. And it doesn’t help that my mom, who is always overly proud of me, bless her heart, is sending me links to saints!

And it all kind of sucks big time. Because that role of a seer, unlike suburban bimbo bunko player, is super serious and frankly no fun at all. And yes, I did the suburban bimbo bunko player part well, until I realized the acting had just about crushed the whole of me.

Oh, poo poo, crap, yuck-o!I so don’t want to drive down another road of roles again! “No way!” she exclaims. She being me, and flipping off ego, to boot.

To get sucked down the hairy drainpipe of yet another role will kill me. And this one role of the perfect seer is just too much.

I was already too serious (INFJ, Idealist, Cancerian, Only child, Aspie)…label Queen I be. How could I get more serious?

Crap! Where am I?

Damn it! (ahhhhhhh)

I’m tired of this role playing. I’m just plain tired. I’m turning in my costumes for good. I don’t care if the rest of me protests. I just can’t live anymore pretending. And if my brain won’t listen to me, then I’ll just have to take measures into my own hands.

Today was a step in the right direction. I figured out what I’d been doing, again. And then did something to symbolically stake my claim for change. I am happy. I am relieved. And I am excited… Unless, of course I am a seer channeling Shirley Temple and perfecting the role of a twelve-year-old, which is pretty darn possible.

And just to think two days ago, I was wondering if since I’ve been married and had kids, if I could still join a nunnery, and if my kids could live there, too, and my husband could have those special type of visits. I figured, likely not.

Here’s what I did today! So twelve and so loving it!

Hugs and big juicy kisses ~ Sam

image_1360644159805554

*
image_1360644247277482
*

image_1360644187465012
*
image_1360644212141553
*
image_1360644278801193
*
539732_10200528389602331_1189849_n

310: I Ran from the Bully

| Aspergers Girls

Last time I checked I received something like 2,000 comments; but don’t quote me on that, as I’m not certain, and don’t know where to look to find the answer.

And I think that sums up what happened to me with this blog: I didn’t know where to look to find the answers.

Basically, I don’t know how to respond to people who come across as defensive, mean, and pointing blame. I take the comments so seriously that I change my entire self. Case in point, as I mentioned I have received over 2,000 plus comments on this blog, and I have answered almost all of them. In doing so, I have been able to make contact with many beautiful open-minded and loving people. And guess what, besides the teenager that was “trolling” and harassing me at the beginning of my blogging time, an action that really freaked me out, I have only had three what I would call “negative” or “non-supportive” comments.

But that’s all it took: a few comments to cause a rippling effect. I did the math. There were mainly two comments that pierced me—Two out of 2,000—0.1 %. It took 0.1% for me to throw out in my mind all of the positive of my truth and absorb the negative.

I received the comments two days ago, and I ran, and I ran fast.

I then internalized the people’s words. Took it all in, though poison it seemed.

With the internalizing, I altered myself. In a way, I cut myself open for analysis, not a fun feeling, and then, in an attempt to mend my inherent “flaws,” I rearranged me, and attempted to sew myself back together.

All because of two comments. But mainly one. I was told by someone that I was a bully and ego-centered, and that everything was about me. That overall, in summary, I was so self-focused that I didn’t even know how to validate someone else’s hurt or to own my own actions.

This is so far from the truth of who I am that I don’t understand why I would even accept this as even a glimmer of truism. But I know the words against me carried the haunting echos of what I was told as a child.

Regardless, I ran.

A day before this comment, I asked God for a sign. I’d prayed deeply for humility, for release of control, for release of want; and thought that the recent negativity was His way of showing me to stop blogging, to stop exposing myself. I thought He was hinting that I was too sensitive and not cut out for this task at hand. I believed I was indirectly self-punishing and hurting myself.

In retrospect, I know my God. I know those were false conclusions. As I know I am complete and whole in my creator’s eyes, and that in truth that my extreme sensitivity is my attribute, my way of reaching others.

What happened next, was interesting, in my opinion, and entirely gut-wrenchingly painful.

Upon reading what I consider “spiteful” words, I over-analyzed, and submerged myself in a puzzle of truisms and falsehoods, mainly in an attempt to see who I was.

Was I indeed ego-centered? Was I indeed essentially lying for 300 posts and presenting a false self? Maybe… I pondered this.

Was I a fraud, having fooled my deepest self, innately a liar of sorts?

This was the first loop I went through.

Afterall, if this one or two human beings thought so, of course they must be RIGHT!

You see this is the mind of this Aspie woman; this is what it is like to be me. This is why I hate, and I rarely use that word, but hate being in the spotlight, because of course eventually someone will be mean, retaliate, or disclaim who I present myself to be.

And to some, who can’t understand this, they will take this as weakness and silliness, or maybe even an outcry for attention, but it is not. If I wanted attention I would have used my real name; I would have self-promoted… I have the brains and know-how to self-publisize and gain a wider audience. It is not hard. But that was not my intention, and anyone who reads my blog with open-mind and a open-heart will see that.

What amazed me most, and still does, through this processing, as I have clearly and openly stated who I am over and over for months upon months; I have essentially bled myself out to the world; I have been nothing but open and honest and filled with best intention, but like vultures, some people be, just waiting to strike at my slightest interpreted “failing,” “flaw,” or “unappealing action.”

And this has been my ache since childhood: the ache of knowing I am good. Knowing I am filled with good intention and love. Knowing I am sincere and only wanting to make the world better. Yet, continually being viewed by someone as flawed and wrong. or worse fraudulent and false.

And this seemingly seems to be egotistical. At least that is a good argument for those wanting and wishing to point blame. Why not? Here is a woman (girl) pointing out her flaws, sharing her woes and hurts, so of course she is doing this to receive support and love. But that couldn’t be further from the truth. As I have stated before, here and in my support group, I cannot feel compliments; I cannot feel pride. I just cannot. If even a hint of pride enters me, I pray. And maybe that is prideful to admit even that, but how can I share it if not through words?

I get excited by someone connecting with me, when someone see that I can write well, with someone recognizing the real me. But to me that is not ego-centered. To me that is being seen and appreciated. I can absorb that. But only for a fleeting moment. Only for a glimpse. And then I am back to wondering how I can do more to help.

Where in it is hard for me to take in kind words, I do feel insult to the hundredth degree. Because innately I want to be perfect, even though I know this isn’t humanly possible, perfect in the sense that I want to walk the path of Holy people. I don’t want to be seen as a Holy person, or have that title, I just want to be that way. I see no reason to live unless I am loving more than hurting, giving more than taking, and reaching out more than receiving. This is how I am wired. This is me. Again, I can’t help if this sounds ego-based. Maybe it is. But it doesn’t feel that way to me.

And so I looped more, thinking well psychologically one would analyze me with daddy-issues and having to prove my worth to feel worthy or replace some broken piece inside of me. But I know that is not it.

I know I am worthy. I really do.

Inside I know so strongly that I am filled with Christ-love, or whatever love one is comfortable calling my love. I see this in the friends I have. They are so lovely. So beautiful. I can’t help but see myself in them.

I know so well I have light inside of me, as I have felt love most, if not all of my life.

I was a sensitive, joy-filled child, endowed with love and a depth of knowledge beyond my years. I was so sweet and essentially happy, until I began to uncover the ways of this world.

And that is when I changed. That is when my eyes became sad and my heart burdened. It wasn’t my father. It isn’t a perfectionistic personality; it is my heart, though so huge it be.

I looped again, further in intensity, thinking I wasn’t meant to be this way; I wasn’t meant to be a giver; I wasn’t meant to help people. I wasn’t built for it. If I was built for it why would I take so much to heart? It must be I am flawed. It must be I am ego-centered.

And round and round I went.

I wanted to explain myself…. but would that be ego-based.
I wanted to let it go…. but would that be denying a part I am that is so typical of a person with Aspergers.
I wanted to get angry, to curse, to yell, to scream… but would that be losing control.
I wanted to copy and paste the unkind comment to this blog for analysis and help with interpretation…but indeed I knew the social customs did not deem that appropriate at all.
I wanted to cry out my horrible pain, as I shed tears for hours… but wouldn’t that just push me further into a light of seemingly wanting attention? Poor me, love me please. Tell me I’m special. Look at me.

But YUCK. I don’t want that. I despise that to some degree. No amount of reassurance or words will build my worth. Yet, for some odd reason, any amount of negative-energy pulls me down. Humbles me further.

And I think, in reflection, that I am still at the exact same level of sensitivity and vulnerability as when I began this blogging journey. I don’t think my skin is any thicker. I don’t think that is spiritually possible for me to grow thicker.

I processed so much about this ONE comment that I became immobile in action; and then I did what I needed to do to make the loops stop!

I changed.

Like I have done in the past, I adapted who I was to fit the eyes of a stranger I wanted to please. Knowing I didn’t really want to please them, that ultimately I wanted to make sure I’d taken out all that could be deemed “non-beneficial” out of me. I wanted to destroy my humanness. I wanted to purge not my frailties, but anything that might stand in the way of me misrepresenting myself.

I believe I am not longing for acceptance, I am still longing to be seen.

And then I began to think of all the spiritual readings I’ve done. All the rules of right and wrong. All that somewhat point to the same thing: Your enemy is a reflection of you.

And so I self-persectued more.

I told myself well then I am this person; I am this spiteful person.

Though I knew inside she wasn’t spiteful. I knew she was just seeing what she chose to see.

And I saw all of my past learnings. Logically I knew it all. I even knew cognitively what I was supposed to do, but I couldn’t.

I just kept thinking what if she is right? What if I have done all this for no other reason than ego. What a terrible, awful person I be.

And I twisted and turned, and did what I know to do. I took her (their) words and reformed me.

If I was ego-based then I needed to deplete ego more. It wasn’t enough that I prayed all day for humility, wasn’t enough that I exposed myself, wasn’t enough that I spent hours helping others, expecting nothing in return, (even writing this feels so wrong but I will to prove a point), but I had to crush all aspects of self that symbolized I wasn’t representing who I was.

So I deleted almost every single one of my photos on this blog. I took tons of images of myself in an attempt to understand what I looked like. But saw this could be seen as ego-based.

I then deleted the about me page… because “about me” seemed ego-based just in the name.

I deactivated my like page (which I will bring back, maybe) because I’d only started it to reach more people. I never used it to self-promote. Like I said, it would have been so easy to do. Here’s a cute photo and a cute quote from my blog, read it, share it, and bring me the higher numbers— so not who I am at the core! But I erased the like-page, just to be certain.

Then I deactivated Sam Craft, because she somehow seemed to be the ego-centered one, because me, this woman, this spirit, this one with another “legal” name other than my penname, isn’t Sam in completion. Sam is my spokesperson.

I did all these actions to stop the loops, to stop the replaying of the negative message in my head.

And then, I thought I HAD to stop blogging. How could I share about myself and not be ego-based? It was an impossible riddle to solve.

Then I convinced myself this was for the best: More time with family. More time to focus on me. More time to just enjoy life and live.

But really, who was I fooling?

I have to write. I have to. There just is no way around it. Spirit has opened something in me and I am filled with thoughts and images all day long. Whole posts recited to me as I awake.

There is nothing I want to do more than helping others: that is my joy that is my happiness that is how I live. And if admitting that seems ego-based, I cannot help this. I cannot help if I am human, and part of me is still with ego.

Yes, in blogging there is huge fear of exposure. Yes, there are enemies out there, but what better way of defeating fear and enemy than announcing to the world: Here is my enemy.

And then realizing I am the only enemy to my own self.

Yes, I ran from the bully. I ran and ran and ran with my tail between my legs. But more so I ran from my self.

Why?

Because I don’t know who I be in flesh. I don’t know my role, my place; I only know who I be inside my heart.

I am fragile in spirit. But I am a tower of strength within my truth and light.

So why am I posting again? The thoughts come… as I risk comments such as: The only reason you said you were stopping was for attention.

I am posting because I am not done risking. That is why. I am not done risking, because I know in risk I can at last face the demons in my mind that speak that I am not enough.

I am posting because I can at last face the enemy that has persecuted me throughout my life telling me I was wrong or false.

I am posting because I am choosing not to run anymore.

This is where I stand.

I write for those that see me for me. Who see beyond judgment and labeling. Who know the pain of rejection. Who have been afflicted time and time again. I write to give them strength too. I write to say I am still here. I am still loving you and seeing you and your inherent good and worth.

I will not judge you. And if I do, my judgment shall not last.

I write for those that see their self in me. Who see that we are one in our struggle, that we are not alone. I write because the fire to know you within my own self burns so high that I cannot lessen the flame unless I reach out to find you.

I don’t know why all of this happened like this. I don’t know why I have to feel so much pain. But I know something, I will continue to be humbled. I will continue to be exposed and hurt. But there will come a time when I love you so much that I cannot help to see my own beauty. There will come a time when I can finally stand my ground and stick my tongue out at the bully and know that is okay. That the bully doesn’t exist. And that standing my own ground is okay.

To just stand there and shout: You are wrong! I am filled with light, and if you cannot see that then that is the darkness in you.

To the person out there: Your opinion is not a reflection of me. Your opinion is in constant motion, ever-changing based on some composition of rights and wrongs instilled inside your head. And though I may have felt wronged, I release this energy, and I embrace you for all that you have taught me, whether it be through the illusion of spite or not, because you are my teacher; I have called upon you as you have called upon me. And whatever I choose to do with the lesson is my choice. Just as whatever you choose to do with your perception of me be your choice. I give you that freedom, not that you need the granting, only because I need the granting. I need the freedom to release you. For you are not my maker and equally not my breaker. I choose all to be my teacher. I choose however you choose to respond to be another lesson learned. Your words will no longer create me, transform me, or make me into someone I am not. They will only serve as fuel for my passion to love others. So feed me all that you want. But know I shall not run. I shall stand here and shout, if not for me, than for all the others who have been hurt by you.
~~
~~
I dream of getting to the point where I can say: Your opinion of me is none of my business.

At least I used to dream of that day. But I don’t think I’m built that way. I think I am meant to be continually chiseled and brought back to my knees. I think that is my deepest wish. I see no other way to be. I think I am meant to be hurt, until I am tired of being hurt. Until I can look at someone and know, with every inch of me, and with total acceptance, that their pain and fear is not a reflection of me, because I have released my pain and fear. I think that is my journey, to hurt and hurt, until I am beyond hurt. Until I see how beautiful this world really is beyond the limited scope of my perception.

And so I release myself today. And I embrace my son’s words, my son with Aspergers: “Why did you stop blogging, Mom? You are so close to completion? If you give up you are letting the bully win. There are a lot of people who want you to keep coming back here. The only reason the bullies talk is because they are the ones that have spite. The other people are completely content.”

And so I write. For you. For me. To calm the burning passion. And to be able to look at my glorious son, and say, you are right. You are so very right.

Blessings and Light and Love. And here is to a life filled with so many unexpected turns that I might as well just let go.

In much love,

“Sam”
P.S. I guess I found some answers
Always and forever a learner.