yucky stuff

Post 294: I Wish It Was Really Tuesday

| Aspergers Girls

Phone call at 8:30 a.m. to husband:

“I had a rush of fear that you are cheating on me. You aren’t cheating on me, right? It’s just my brain, right? You love me?”

Text message (paraphrased) to both husband and good friend, around 11:00 a.m.:

“I have a scratchy throat and feel achy. I am worried that the cold I had is trying to come back. Other people have colds that come back, right? It doesn’t mean my immune system is bad and I’m dying, does it?”

Phone call at 12:15 a.m. to husband:

“Honey, I’m not losing my mind,am I? How has my memory been? Have I been forgetful? Do I seem like my brain is degenerating?”

Seems I’ve had coffee today….Racing thoughts and borderline paranoia about health and relationships.

I tried to not have coffee for two days, and quickly slipped into a state of increased pain, fatigue, and melancholy. With coffee (spiked with organic hot chocolate) my energy is tripled, my esteem increased, and my mood one of mostly happy, (when I’m not obsessing about my health or abandonment issues).

I got a lot done this morning, with the help of aforementioned caffeine and sugar combo. I feel satisfied when I get things done. I feel guilty when I’m a couch spud—which I am when my pain and fatigue is at its peak.

I’ve been working to find a balance, a careful ratio of just enough caffeine and not too much. I’ve been trying combinations of green tea and coffee and chocolate.

coffee

Everything in my life seems to be dependent upon balance and ratio. I’m often at one extreme or another of something, some experience, or some thought.

Everything and everyone affects me at some level.

A new day is never easy. The act of waking and moving takes enormous energy. Not the opening my eyes part, but the actually being alive part.

I’m not depressed, not normall,y and I’m not lacking esteem or joy for the day ahead. In fact, I like my life. I love my family. And I find great happiness in the world I’ve created for myself.

Waking up isn’t hard because of what is ahead of me or what’s on my proverbial plate of opportunity. What is difficult about rising to a new day is the fact that I have to move, I have to think, and I have to make decisions.

Someone I know recently said, “Let’s face it. We won the lottery in life when considering where we live and the comforts we have.”

Those words have been ricocheting around in my brain for quite some time. I’ve come to the conclusion that I don’t agree. I think the lottery of life is based on one’s mindset and on the way one handles and forms his or her thoughts. Yes, fresh water, food, shelter, clothing, and love are important, but just because one has all those basic comforts does not mean he or she is at peace. A mind can produce a living hell regardless of one’s physical comforts.

I think, more important than any outside factors in one’s life, like what exists in the physical world, are the inside factors of what exists inside the mind.

For me, peace of mind, circles back to my intelligence. I think too much and therefore I suffer.

My thoughts exhaust and cripple me.

Some days, as my husband can testify, I am immobilized for hours on the couch, because the thought of having to make one more decision is too overwhelming.

Upon awaking, right away, thoughts bombard me.

For example: What is the best way to approach my day? What is the meaning of the best? Who established the best? Why are the establishers right? When will the best approach change? What are truisms and what are lies? What is the base of reality? Who am I? Should I relax? Where is the balance between giving and taking? When am I taking too much? Am I present enough, available enough, loving enough? I need to let go. I need to relax. I need to just be. But how do I turn off my mind? What should I create? What should I do first? Should I shower? Should I move across the bed, around the bed? Straight to the bathroom? Am I too loud? Should I rest more? Did I get enough sleep? And on and on and on.

I awake to my thoughts, and my thoughts exhaust me.

I have managed to weed out most of the self-doubt and negative thoughts about myself. This is a great accomplishment. I have managed to interweave positive self-talk and positive affirmations into my day. This is helpful, indeed. I have managed to find release through creation of art and writing. This is a comfort. I have managed to understand myself in great depth. This is useful.

Yet, I have not managed to decrease my intelligence, my ideas, the bombardment of what is, what isn’t, and what is mystery to be uncovered.

And with so much going on in my head, somehow my brain has forgotten to dissect and digest the basics. Perhaps this is the executive functioning part of the frontal lobe of the brain misfiring or being disconnected at some level. As the basics, the what would seem easy aspects of thought, become lost to me. The fact that the day of the week is Tuesday slips away. The capacity to memorize times, dates, faces, places, names, and the like, simply isn’t there.

And so I have complex thoughts. I have the slipping out of common facts and knowledge, and then too, I have the classifying/organizing need. Numbers are constantly on my mind; how they add up, where they show up, what they signify, how they can be shuffled and ordered. With the numbers is previous data I’ve collected of the supposed rights and wrongs of how to be: the rights and wrongs of how to be a community member, a friend, a mother, a neighbor, a daughter, a lover, a wife, a cook, a writer, a shopper, a driver, and so on.

I have this ongoing list of how I am supposed to be alongside an ongoing voice of how no one really knows how anything or anyone is supposed to be because everything is self-created, perceived, and rejected and/or accepted.

Simple things aren’t simple. The task of buying shoes for myself can be excruciating. I have the guilt of being able to buy boots when others cannot afford them. I have the questioning of whether or not the boots are saying too much about me or too little, e.g., Does it appear I am trying to look young or am I looking foolish? Am I represented by this boot? Or is this a false projection of who I am? And who am I?

And then I am sad, as I stand there alone looking in the mirror, wondering why I can’t just see boots. Why I have to see so much more.

Today, bombarded with thoughts, I forgot the day of the week. I went to my acupuncturist and he wasn’t there. I called him and said, “I have written on the calendar that my appointment time is Tuesday at eleven. I think I might have made a mistake. I’m here and you are not. Please call me.”

He was quick to call me back, and very polite. He said, “Yes, I have you written down your appointment is at eleven on Tuesday.” Then he inserted a long pause, ample time for me to process. In response I digested his words, and soon a light-bulb of recognition went off. Yes, indeed it was not Tuesday, it was Monday. I was quick to respond then: “Oh (giggle) I thought it was Tuesday. That’s what’s wrong. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I hung up convinced I was going senile or out of my mind. How could I know so much and think so much but not know what day of the week it is? And then the guilt, the embarrassment. Followed by the positive self-talk and forgiveness of self. Followed by the analysis of self-talk and praise. Followed by the wondering if I did the self-talk right. Followed by the thinking about thinking about thinking.

My husband told me today that I am amazing. That he is so blessed to be married to me. He praised my intelligence, my genius.

I am happy he sees me as so. But there are times, like today, I just wish it was really Tuesday.

~~~~~

monday

261: Triple Barf!

| Aspergers Girls

Uhhhhhggggggg! More to process. In prayer, I understood I’d be processing through a lot this month. But really? Who does my higher power or universe or tall cedar tree named Fred think I am? There is only so much a girl can take.

Thoughts are intertwined with emotions and are purging through me at high-speed. I’m on the log water-ride about to hit the slippery slope and crash! I need to row backwards, or jump out and swim, or just scream. But regardless, I’m still in the water.

I feel depleted and wiped clean and then refreshed, only to be depleted and wiped clean moments later. There is so much gunk and junk bubbling up inside me that I am in utter fascination, while clutching my stomach and wanting to barf everything out of my very existence. How I long for a fresh spring of plenitude and serenity.

People who say to relax and let go, really don’t get my mind; nor do they understand the concept of what I believe to be my empathic abilities, a skill which allows me to pick up on others’ energy and the truth or falsehood behind their words.

I am struggling with feelings of great apathy and dislike towards someone and know not what to do, or where to put this. I try my very best to be the very best person I can be, and there is not a moment of my day this is not on the top of my mind. Even when I dream, I am speaking my truth and living my intention.

So much of my confusion stems from the feeling I get, if it can be called a feeling, when someone says something and it is sugar-coated to sound well-meaningful and loving, but in truth the underlying wave is one of “ let me tell you how to be, how to fix you, how you can be better.”

I don’t need to be told how to improve myself; it is all I do all day long, focus on being a good person, and teaching myself how to do so through prayer, listening to higher guidance, talking to friends, reading, silence, processing, and writing. That is my soul’s intention.

However when someone judges me, especially when it is done in a round about “I’m so wonderful and perfect, let me tell you how to be way” I want to physically vomit. I don’t need anyone’s tips or help. I don’t!

My entire childhood my feelings were not validated. If I complained or was sad, I was told one of two things: Things could be worse or I’m trying my best.

Now that I speak my truth, at last, I do not need nor desire to be told how to be better. My feelings were pushed down, and I was only seen and validated when I was happy and joyful. I was put upon a pedestal for my looks and accomplishments, and made to be the trophy for others. I will not be that anymore. I will not have those same energy ties.

There is something about ingenuity and underlying unspoken intentions that eats at the heart of me. Something about the self-centered, look-at-me attitude that gets under my very skin—tiny bugs circulating and pulsating beneath my surface. I can feel this and it hurts and terrifies all at once.

I recognize that each person will create who I am in their own mind. From stranger to foe, people will perceive me based on their limited senses. I know this. But I sense people at a deeper level. I can see dishonesty. I can see the truth of how someone sees me; how they might bend me into a wrong-doer to make themselves feel better.

The fixers….they are the hardest for me.  I used to be that way. I try not to, as I know how it feels to be at the other end. Anyone who feels the need to fix another and reaches out to do so, is in essence not looking at the truth of who they are, and what they still need to fix in themselves. Not that we are broken. We are whatever we choose to be. But the fixers, I do think they are broken more often than they realize.

I have been dealing with a toxic energy for so long and do not want this energy in my life; yet society dictates it is the right and proper thing to do. To keep this person in my life. How does one handle a sick mind? A desperate spirit that clings and tampers with my very peace? Someone who is blind to their own self, actions, and the pain they cause others. Someone who turns blame always to others, who twists reality and truth, to make themselves appear and feel better. Someone who their truth is more important than others? How do I deal with the selfish human, who I recognize as a lonely spirit weeping for love and attention, but who scratches out my eyes so I cannot see my own beauty.

The last thing I want to be is righteous or prideful. I pray over and over for humility. I cannot heal myself or help others if I am ego-based, or if my writing has an unseen and unspoken motive. I believe that the intention behind words and thought does carry energy. If I write something that says one thing but I am feeling another, to me that is an untruth.

I think people with Aspergers, and some others, will get this. There are true words, straight from the heart that flow out of the whole of me. There are words that are not true, that have a hidden agenda…those words I cannot write, and when they are tossed upon me by one blinded by their own ego-based perception, I want to scream.

But then I question my own self. Why has this affected me so? Why do I again judge? Why do I allow this person to harm me in any way, once again? Why have I not learned to protect myself, yet? And I spin out of control into self-doubt and wonderment of my world.

Had I not just said I wanted to love all unconditionally , to see the supposed “flaws” as a reflection of me. So what is it inside of me that needs to be cleansed and seen? What is it in me that is attracting this, all of this, into my life right now?

I am so confused and tired. And that is okay. I am so lost in my mind. And that is okay. I am okay.

And I guess that is the main growth that has occurred; for as I go through this, dragging myself through the muck, I can still see my light, my truth, my beauty, and rejoice that I am still learning, growing, and journeying onward.

255: The Fig

| Aspergers Girls

A lovely blogging friend commented that she can see both peace and sadness in my eyes.  I think I was born with the sadness. I don’t know from when or where, but it seems to have always been in the depths of me.  As far as the peace is concerned, that is something that has taken extreme dedication, focus, and prayer to acquire.

This is a short story from the many writings I did in efforts to heal myself. I believe I shared this piece before but cannot remember. I spent a period of four years writing. I collected some 265 typed pages in the form of a manuscript, much of which I have shared on this blog. People have inquired about the idea of me writing a book. I used to be hyper-focused on becoming a published author, so much that it became my goal and identity. With time, I came to a deep inner peace about my works; I understood that the passion for writing a book, though a necessary passion at the time, came from a place of ego and self-want. I am not attached to publishing any longer, especially not attached to gaining monies or recognition. I pray continually for humility and what is best for my higher good and those of others.  I maintain an energy of release when I write: the release of stagnant energy, the release of want, of validation, of need. I write purely in hopes of being a light and answering my calling. I put intention and healing vibration behind every word. In most of my writing there is a distinct rhythm. This rhythm is intentional, and filled with my love. If I heal along the way, that is a wonderful bonus. What is more important to me, at this point in my journey, is giving to the world. That is what life means to me.

The Fig (Based on True Events)

By Samantha Craft

In some ways, during the first year at our duplex, our home served as a transitional stopping point for strangers:  a person would arrive and rent out our spare bedroom and then, as if they’d landed on the jail space on the board game of Monopoly, after a few rolls of the dice, they’d move on.

Our first roommate, kindly Jeff, a man in his early twenties, arrived a few months after Mother and I had moved in.  Sprouting a fantastic full head of cherry-red clown hair, Jeff was entirely intriguing—from his gigantic gold-rimmed glasses to the smooth glass eye with an iris-blue center he’d pop out from time to time and let me examine up close in my hand.  Jeff had a puttering V.W. Bug that jerked and spat and carried us to fancy places like the local Taco Bell and the red-boxed television booth at the corner Lucky grocery store where I could watch Woody Woodpecker cartoons.  Sometimes, my favorite sometimes, Jeff carried home his work case laden with the grocery store price numbers, each type housed in its own tiny pull out drawer.  They were a hard flexible-plastic, nothing I’d seen or touched before.  These clear drawers and the miniature treasures inside each drawer out rated any old doll house in my book.

For a very short while, Ruth, an eccentric plump puppeteer with wiry-white hair, lived in our home.  She also had a case, but a much more impressive wooden one which housed her enormous stringed-puppets. Though the puppeteer wasn’t with us long, I fondly recall her performing puppet shows with her life-sized floppy marionettes out on our front patio.

 

The rest is in my book 🙂

 

Post 252: Dear Father

| Aspergers Girls

I am processing so much, so fast; it is quite overwhelming. Please understand this post is healing for me. I am not reaching out for support or love. In writing this and sharing this truth, I am healing my own self. Your presence and eyes are enough. I do not need or expect words of comfort. I do not need anyone to tell me that I am enough. Innately, I know I am enough, that I am beauty, that I am good. But this little girl needed to be heard, so I could heal further. I am okay. I am better than okay. I am facing my demons head on and surviving. Not only surviving, but smiling through tears. So please know I am okay. I am okay in me and with me. I like me. I love me enough to be who God intended me to be. And I love you enough to trust in your love. ~ Sam

 

Dear Father,

You don’t love me, and you never have. If you do, it’s limiting and conditional. I am made into a person who is judged and evaluated, or worse not seen or spoken to. You have been my everything since I was born. My superman. My rescuer. My hope. The man created to love and hold me, to cherish and lift. And yet you have done none of this.

I am left hollowed from the inside out, a forgotten child, who has had to find her own way, whilst left alone without you. You came out of obligation, if you ever came at all, out of guilt or need. Never out of connection or thought for my betterment. Life has been about you from the start, and continues to be about you: your hobbies, your interests, your wives.

You have said to me once I am beautiful. Only once. On my wedding day, and I hold on to that word as if it were the last sound of my life. How I have longed to be held and told I am lovely and worthy; how I have missed the embrace of a father, and thusly sought out the embrace wherever I could.

Through torment I wept for you. Through miserable relationships and false dreams. I created fantasies and idols with men, in hopes of finding you again.

Yet, still I weep and walk alone. No one is you. No one is my father. Not even you.

You live but you are dead; in the sense of being and not existing. You choose each day to reject or worse forget. Your silence and aloofness my hellfire.

Some child in me still believes I can find you in someone else, find the love and approval. I imagine them as you. I place your face on them. I replay the words over and over, with your voice and your heart. But, still I know this is not you.

I hunt down people in hopes of them being you. Have from the start—a small child searching for her father in playmates and strangers. I have exposed myself to countless hurts, hoping to appease and please a someone who was not you, but that I believed to be you. Every time I am rejected, again by you.

Why? Why can you not see my beauty and love? Why is your view of me not what the world sees? Why do many love me, when the one I need the most to love me, does not? What have I done wrong? What is innately wrong with me that you would refuse the gift I am? Why am I left unopened, still on this shelf of pain waiting to be taken? To be taken and held. To feel a father’s arms around me. A hug. An embrace. To see your eyes. To look in your eyes and see adoration. What is that like? What does it feel like to be held by a father? To be loved by a father? What does it feel like! I need to know. I need to know. Just once, before I die, I need you to hold me.

I have wept for you since my hands were tiny and fragile. I have wept for you endlessly. I walk in silence but the tears cut through my soul. They eat at me and destroy my truth. They huddle me into a corner and persecute me. I cannot be in this world when I know my own creator detests his creation. My own God I set into your mold. And I am left shattered, broken, while still untouched and waiting.

Please love me, so I can stop my search. I am so tired. So weary. So alone without you.

Please see me. Please see my beauty. Please release me from my torment.

I beg for your love. I cry out for your love. Across the universe I reach for you. This child I am.

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.