Day Fifteen: Rules and Other Ramblings


Masseuse just phoned to report, in a crackling-croaky voice, that she is sick.  My little inside voice immediately whispered loudly: Glad it’s not me! Then the little voice reminds me I ought to have empathy, while little voice is still whisper-singing, “Glad it’s not me…glad it’s not me…glad it’s not me.”

Changes my schedule for this morning. But I’m not in a hectic state. No panic pansy here.  I’m not. It’s just a little glitch, a little change, and I’ve already adjusted my written schedule for the day. Scratched out relaxing, take-me-away massage, and replaced with the word blog. Blog isn’t a nice sounding word, is it?

Anyhow, thankful I’m not a faucet-nose hacking up snot-colored blobs today.

I’m thinking I don’t have to put “other ramblings” in the title of anything I write. It’s seriously a given. But I’ll leave the words there, for those first timers, as kind of a warning for what’s ahead, like those hazard signs on the road. Danger. Proceed with Caution: Unpredictable Conditions Ahead. I was thinking (big surprise there) that could be the title of my entire blog. But then I was thinking (at a deeper level) that could be the sign for life.

Truthfully, don’t bottlefeed me the shows Love Boat and Fantasy Island, and then wean me with The Brady Bunch. Just start me with the strong stuff. Give me Jaws and Friday the 13th Part Three in 3-D, from day one. ‘Cause that’s what life’s about, isn’t it—watching out for the sharks and whose behind the mask!

You think that’s what life is? You might ask.

I know, I know, I’ve read all those spiritual, feel-good, do-good books. It was a grand fixation last year. I read 100 books in roughly eight months time; give or take a day. So, yeah, I’m experienced with creating your own reality and all that jargon. And I respect and gravitate toward the Buddhist take on here and now, compassion and forgiveness, and uphold the values of Jesus. Delete. Backspace. Delete. Excuse me for a moment, I just rambled on and on about how Jesus is not a bad word and that the religious right-wingers are to blame….and that took us way, way off track. Suffice to say: Delete. Return.

Where was I? Backup. Before Jesus, books, movies, ramblings, snot and schedules, what was my main point? Oh Crap! (My little voice’s favorite saying.) I never wrote a topic sentence! Hail Mary full of grace. Quick sign of the cross. And by now I’ve chased away any devil-worshipers and Jesus-freaks. No offense Jesus, for hyphenating your name with freaks. Amazing the power of words.

Caution. If a person can’t take a joke, he or she probably isn’t going to like this blog. Having Asperger’s and a long string of comorbid conditions that resembles one of those Cheerio cereal necklaces, I laugh to survive. Especially at myself….and you (just kidding).

No topic sentence. No great lead in. No contests. No promises. I’ve probably lost half my blog followers by now. Weep. Weep. Just curious: Do you ever ask yourself why you are following a thing called a blog? I keep thinking of the Blob (‘cause it rhymes, and that’s what’s probably coming out of my masseuse’s nose)—the horror—the fear. I’m so utterly grateful I was raised primarily in the 70’s, with all the access to horror—especially glad my mom dragged me to see Dawn of the Living Dead, when I was all of ten. Yep. I’ll post that recollection sometime. For now, just type terrifying, highlight it; scan up with your mouse to Tools, and then Thesaurus, look under Synonyms (which I can’t spell, but makes me think of toasted bread) and that will just about cover it. And I’m only referring to the disgusting sticky floor where I was huddled in fear. The movie?

Oh dang it! This post was supposed to be about rules and how having a blog when I’m self-imposing a bunch of rules on myself, like only one post a day, and don’t miss a day, blah, blah, blah, is so stressful and draining. And now I’ve typed this whole prose without mentioning rules at all. What is my life coming to?

Oh, and just one more thought, I have to squeeze in, really quick, since you wasted all this time on my babble anyhow. When I typed the word Thesaurus earlier, it reminded me of the word dinosaur, which reminded me of this funny standing joke. (Ouch, that hurts my brain. I don’t understand how a joke can stand.) Well years back, when I was pregnant with my first born, my hubby and I would sit up in bed late at night talking and joking, while trying to come up with a perfect name for our firstborn son. Anyhow, my husband’s grandpa’s name was Ottis and my Nano’s name was Horace. And together we arrived at: Ottis Horace, a new breed of dinosaur! Say it. Just try it. It rolls of the tongue and can’t help but make you smile. And truthfully, that’s what life is really about—connections and smiles.

Time to wrap it up folks. I’ve got a self-imposed schedule to follow. Namaste or whatever rocks your boat! (What does whatever rocks your boat mean?……)

A Dog’s Poem

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A Dog’s Poem (Valentines 2012)

The Reasons I Loved My Life

My luxurious golden coat of fur; everyone commented; everyone petted

Playing keep away, and never ever giving up my fluffy toy, ball, rope, or underwear

My handsome mug; some say I resemble the actor Richard Gere

Deep brown bedroom eyes—for the ladies—and long lashes

Eau de Toilette Water

Quick leg lift, to mark my territory, even when running on empty

The rustling sound of plastic bags and the jingling of my leash, before the spelling of W-A-L-K

Steak

Pawing humans on the knee to receive free all-over-body-massage

Big, manly hugs

Wrestling with little humans on the plush carpet

Rubbing my butt across plush carpet

Ignoring cat

Reaching that itch

Ear rubs

Rolling in the green, green grass

Running crazy all over the house, after a bath

Shaking bathwater all over the humans

The scrumptious word: Treat

Learning the meaning of sit, wait, leave it, down, and good boy

The one, and only time, Violet, my miniature black-Labradoodle-lady, was in heat {Maybe move that one to the top of list}

Those many times I appeared sleeping, and humans would walk by, and I’d lift my one leg in the air super stiff and high, and keep it there, until someone rubbed my underbelly

(Sigh)

Reiki

Dog sitters

Dog sitters leaving an entire peach pie on the kitchen counter

Visitors

When my hair grew back after the groomers

When Violet had to wear those dorky purple bows in her hair because the groomer glued them to her ears; and I’ll I had to do was yank of my dorky bandana—Ha, ha

Letting Violet eat my treats, sometimes

Strange ladies on the road with doggy treats in their pockets

The sand and the sea

The tree-lined trails

Sneaking up the steps to the trampoline

The one time, by chance, I figured out if I reached up just right with my paw I could get the water dispenser on the fridge to squirt out

Opening glass sliding doors with my nose

When the humans were trapped outside because I accidentally locked the sliding door with my nose

Doggy doors

Charging full force and knocking over the littlest human into the grass ten times in a row, everyday, for a good twelve months

Little humans

Blankets and pillows

The expensive chair that I adopted upon my arrival

Grabbing a rope-toy super hard with my teeth and shaking it to death

Rapidly torpedoing around the backyard in circles

Dog-surfing—the van window down, wind in my fluffy face, big, teethy-smile!

That people could tell I was smiling

Jumping over that old dog, back and forth, because it was the only way he could play with me

My tail

Being brave

Slurping water from the hose

Squirrels!

Butts

Off-leashing at the canine park

When I was brave enough to venture into the backyard on my very own

Standing on my hind legs and dancing with humans

Standing on my hind legs, reaching over the stovetop, and eating the entire pan of barbecue chicken

Standing on my hind legs and licking the dishes in the sink

That one chocolate Santa I found in the bedroom

Remember?

Lounging on the first step of our swimming pool during the hot summers

Our old backyard

Running at the side of my male human

Drinking out of water bottles

Parading around the lake

People’s smiles

People’s love

Steak (again)

Hearing my name

Big spoonful of peanut butter

Knocks at the door

Doorbells

Birds on the roof

Footsteps

Barking

People

The oddity of lamas and deer

Protecting

The last embrace felt as you kissed me goodbye

Your faces

Your voices

Your touch

Your farewell

Your wishes

Your promises

Your laughter

Your tears

And mostly just you

Your love

And everything about you

My beloved family

Forever walking at your side

Scoob

Our beautiful Scoob departed this world in February of 2012. I love you, angel face.

Day Thirteen: The Jokes on Me

 

It’s well known that people with Asperger’s are sometimes a bit gullible, especially when it comes to jokes. Here’s a special story for Day Thirteen…my absolutely favorite number in all the universes! Good to balance the deep and profound with some light-hearted laughter, every now and again. Enjoy.

I was a bit naïve when I was a young adult, very gullible, and easily confused by jokes. Those were my vulnerable-gentle years, where I feared life more than explored, and often hid in the house afraid of the stream of emotions I experienced when I was around others. This isn’t to say I didn’t appear normal. I was a good actress, after all.

While walking one summer day on the sidewalks of my suburban town with my dear college friend Jodie, my gullibility shined bright. We were newly friends then (soon to be best friends), with so much to learn about one another. I remember the exact place we were on our path, when Jodie fooled me. I remember because, even now, I still chuckle about the event.

During our stroll Jodie informed me that she was from Washington. On hearing her pronounce the word Washington, with a tongue-rolling r-sound (Warshington), I laughed. Jodie guffawed, raising her brow, as if I’d done something entirely incorrect and worth admonishing. “Why are you laughing?” she asked.

“Well,” I stammered. Not sure what to think of this inquiry. “I just thought it was funny the way you said Washington. How you made it sound like it has the letter r—there’s no r in Washington.”

Jodie was unmoved in her expression, if anything she appeared more stern. “What do you mean?” she asked. She hit her thigh slightly, and the crease of a grin edged upward on one side of her face. I watched with curiosity. Jodie continued: “Oh, you think I meant Washington D.C. No. No. No. I’m talking about the state of Washington. The one up north. You know there is a difference, don’t you?” Jodie faced me with a full smile, reading me with her green eyes.

I shrugged my slight shoulders, and debated about what to say. Before I could speak, Jodie continued. “Don’t you know the state of Washington is spelled with an r?” She spelled it out slowly and surly: W-a-r-s-h-i-n-g-t-o-n. And she said it again, but this time super slowly: “Warsh-ing-ton!”

I blinked quickly. “What? No, it isn’t,” I answered, with my trademark nervous giggle.

Jodie continued, stating her case in a matter-of-fact way. She was so sure of herself. So confident. So…..so…..experienced! I reasoned I’d always been a bad speller, mixing up letters, omitting consonants and vowels, why not now? And here Jodie stood, from the state of Washington; she’d had to know what she was talking about. Didn’t she?

Jodie continued. “A lot of people get the two Washingtons mixed up.” She winked.

“Oh, wow!” I said, feeling a bit relieved that I wasn’t the only one who’d mistaken the spelling. “I never realized that.” I breathed in, evaluating Jodie’s expression. She seemed pleased with herself, but there was this awful silence. I quickly added, trying to save face, “Good thing to know, since I’m going to be a school teacher.” With my last words, I settled back into the walk, glad to be corrected, and thinking more on my tanned legs than anything that had verbally transpired. It was nice having an intelligent friend.

Jodie nodded her head in agreement, and picked up the pace of our walk. She held her silence for some time, at least a few blocks, before, after a brief moment of noise that sounded like a toad caught in her throat, Jodie broke out in a husky, rip-roaring laughter. “Oh, Honey,” she said. “I can’t make you go on thinking that.”  She laughed some more, trying to catch her breath. “It was a joke. You were right before.  There is no r.  It’s just the way I pronounce it.”  She laughed some more. Her face equally as red as mine.

I took a second to evaluate the situation, before busting up myself and shaking my head in disbelief.

Day Twelve: Behind the Curtain

 

This is an excerpt from a previous journal entry in 2009. I wrote Behind the Curtain before I realized that I had traits of Asperger’s Syndrome. As I reflect back to this time period of my life, I now recognize that I was searching  for any explanation, in order to attempt to sort out the disorder in my mind.

Behind the Curtain

I made a decision a long time ago, when I was old enough to venture across the street on my own and play in the open field, that I would try to be a good person.  I already knew more than I ought to have known about the world, I suppose.

I remember years back looking up at the wide-open sky and wondering where the universe ended and more so where I began.  I recognized I wasn’t just my flesh and skin, was so overly aware of the inner core of my being that I felt as if I were walking a narrow line between this realm and the next.  There was turmoil at home, which left me with a general uneasiness, but there was another more defining uneasiness building inside of me, piling one atop the other, an unsettling recognition that there was so much more than the grownups could explain, and more so, ever venture to understand themselves.

Such knowing, at a young age, carries with it insecurity and reckoning of the uncertainties of the world, an acknowledging that reality isn’t what one’s peer group believes.   There was a stepping out of sorts, a separating at this point of my life, a kindling of new insight that propelled me onto the other side of the street, so to say.  As if, I was standing alone, isolated and curious, observing my playmates across the way.  I could hear them, I could even speak and they would acknowledge my presence, but I couldn’t join them.  My thoughts were a deep canvas, a three-dimensional painting I could step into and live.  From my side of the road, I would watch with wonder and interest, recognizing my own separation from humanity, without understanding what in actuality I was experiencing.  It was then, about the time most kids were discovering the wonderment of above-ground pools and slip and slides, I was discovering simultaneously the limit of my mind and the un-limitness of the universe.  I had wanted desperately to understand where I belonged and where I fit in, for I wasn’t as the birds left to fly in the sky; I wasn’t an adult with the freedoms; and to me, I wasn’t a child.  The others were all different than me.  It was as if I had been given an alternate pair of lenses in the way I interpreted the happenings around me, in the way I analyzed the truth behind words, and the actions behind truths.

I knew too well already about death and dying, as I knew too well about living.   I knew when I slept my dreams would come like torrent winds and tear me from where I slept and carry me forward into another realm of consciousness.   And I knew well the dreams would sometimes speak to me and give me glimpses into the future.   I could tell my mother things, speak to her about the dreams, and then we would watch together to see if the  essence of my dreams was true, if in fact the dream had revealed an element of an event to come.   And often the dreams did.

Knowing a dream can speak, can whisper some form of truth, and can open a door and allow one to peek into another universe is most unsettling to say the least.  But then, as a child, when I stopped to analyze the happenings, to grasp why I knew things before they occurred, I felt a shudder of confusion, and further uncertainty about where I stood, where I breathed, where I actually dwelled on the planet.

And I knew things about people, I felt certain I shouldn’t ought to feel.   I could tell things about people, understand their intention, feel a part of their spirit. From early on in my life, certain people left me feeling heavy and invaded, while others, though nothing on the outside was perceivable peculiar or different, left me with a flowing sense of calmness and general well being.  Some people felt like gifts, a present I wanted to play with and keep close to heart, while others I wanted to return from whence they came.  I wondered what was in people that made them thus so.  Why some seemed so light and airy, and others weighed down by an invisible ghost of woes.  I wished to speak, to find out, and became increasingly inquisitive and interested in adults, for I secretly hoped one of them would have an answer for me.  I searched out a guide, even though I knew not what I was searching for, or even that I was searching, and I am certain they came to me at different intervals in my life as needed, though I did not recognize them.

As I grew older, the feelings inside of me also grew, filling up every inch of new space.  I was so abundantly filled with emotions that at times I often felt as if I were drowning inside my own being.  I could hear things by then, too.  See things.  See things no one else I had encountered could.  I continually felt more isolated and lonely, though I had people around me, I nonetheless remained isolated in thought and spirit.  It seemed to me that no one understood me.  For years I longed to be like my classmates.  I came to see them as narrower and straighter than me, like the letter “x,”so that nothing could fill them and leave them gasping for air; wherein I perceived myself as wide and curved, like the letter “o,” so that everything and anything could use me as a vessel.

The later years were painfully difficult.  When the teenage trials came, I felt bombarded and stampeded with emotions.  If there was ever a time I believed I was from another universe, it was then.  I played a game—that is how I saw it.  I pretended to be someone.  I was lost, lost on some stage, trying to find where I’d hidden my true self.

I still feel as if a part of me is hiding somewhere, afraid to come out entirely, for fear of misunderstanding and judgment.  The tender part of me, the piece of myself that doesn’t understand in the smallest bit the cruelty and harshness of this world, remains divided and alone, always hidden behind the curtain.

Aspergers Traits (Women, Females, Girls)


Hello All.

I hope you are well during these challenging times.

I am writing to provide a few updates (2020) for anyone who happens upon this homepage.

My third blog is a bit hard to find, since I changed the domain name. Here is the direct link to Everyday Autistic. My artist’s blog is Belly of a Star.

Here is the Autistic Trait’s List.

Here is my company website Spectrum Suite LLC, which includes 100s of resources and our services page.

Here is a link to one of my Linkedin Articles that will bring you to my profile and some articles there!

My new works include much advocacy for Universal Design in the Workplace, which equates to true inclusivity, where all employees are given opportunity to the same support measures and community engagement, such as the same best-practices interviews, job coaches, support team; not just one marginalized minority, e.g., autistic individuals.

I am working on a book on empowerment on the autism spectrum.

I am my waving from afar, and wishing you so very well! I cannot believe it’s been 8 YEARS!

Feel free to connect on twitter or Facebook.

I’m on the bottom right, in the photo below, speaking at the Stanford Neurodiversity Summit. You can find out what we’ve been up to on the website. Here is a 10 hr.+ video of Day 2 at the Summit!

My book is now available around the world in paperback! Check out Barnes and Noble or Amazon.

Everyday Aspergers is an unusual and powerful exploration of one woman’s marvelously lived life. Reminiscent of the best of Anne Lamott, Everyday Aspergers jumps back and forth in time through a series of interlocking vignettes that give insight and context to her lived experience as an autistic woman. The humor and light touch is disarming, because underneath light observations and quirky moments are buried deep truths about the human experience and about her own work as an autistic woman discerning how to live her best life. From learning how to make eye contact to finding ways to communicate her needs to being a dyslexic cheerleader and a fraught mother of also-autistic son, Samantha Craft gives us a marvelous spectrum of experiences. Highly recommended for everyone to read — especially those who love people who are just a little different.”~ Ned Hayes, bestselling author of The Eagle Tree

https://www.book2look.com/book/KRksrIxTxr

Ten Traits

1) We are deep philosophical thinkers and writers; gifted in the sense of our level of thinking. Perhaps poets, professors, authors, or avid readers of nonfictional genre. I don’t believe you can have Aspergers without being highly-intelligent by mainstream standards. Perhaps that is part of the issue at hand, the extreme intelligence leading to an over-active mind and high anxiety. We see things at multiple levels, including our own place in the world and our own thinking processes. We analyze our existence, the meaning of life, the meaning of everything continually. We are serious and matter-of-fact. Nothing is taken for granted, simplified, or easy. Everything is complex.

2) We are innocent, naive, and honest. Do we lie? Yes. Do we like to lie? No. Things that are hard for us to understand: manipulation, disloyalty, vindictive behavior, and retaliation. Are we easily fooled and conned, particularly before we grow wiser to the ways of the world? Absolutely, yes. Confusion, feeling misplaced, isolated, overwhelmed, and simply plopped down on the wrong universe, are all parts of the Aspie experience. Can we learn to adapt? Yes. Is it always hard to fit in at some level? Yes. Can we out grow our character traits? No.

3) We are escape artists. We know how to escape. It’s the way we survive this place. We escape through our fixations, obsessions, over-interest in a subject, our imaginings, and even made up reality. We escape and make sense of our world through mental processing, in spoken or written form. We escape in the rhythm of words. We escape in our philosophizing.  As children, we had pretend friends or animals, maybe witches or spirit friends, even extraterrestrial buddies. We escaped in our play, imitating what we’d seen on television or in walking life, taking on the role of a teacher, actress in a play, movie star. If we had friends, we were either their instructor or boss, telling them what to do, where to stand, and how to talk, or we were the “baby,” blindly following our friends wherever they went. We saw friends as “pawn” like; similar to a chess game, we moved them into the best position for us. We escaped our own identity by taking on one friend’s identity. We dressed like her, spoke like her, adapted our own self to her (or his) likes and dislikes. We became masters at imitation, without recognizing what we were doing. We escaped through music. Through the repeated lyrics or rhythm of a song–through everything that song stirred in us. We escaped into fantasies, what could be, projections, dreams, and fairy-tale-endings. We obsessed over collecting objects, maybe stickers, mystical unicorns, or books. We may have escaped through a relationship with a lover. We delve into an alternate state of mind, so we could breathe, maybe momentarily taking on another dialect, personality, or view of the world. Numbers brought ease. Counting, categorizing, organizing, rearranging. At parties, if we went, we might have escaped into a closet, the outskirts, outdoors, or at the side of our best friend. We may have escaped through substance abuse, including food, or through hiding in our homes. What did it mean to relax? To rest? To play without structure or goal? Nothing was for fun, everything had to have purpose. When we resurfaced, we became confused. What had we missed? What had we left behind? What would we cling to next?

4) We have comorbid attributes of other syndromes/disorders/conditions. We often have OCD tendencies (Obsessive Compulsive Disorder), sensory issues (with sight, sound, texture, smells, taste), generalized anxiety and/or a sense we are always unsafe or in pending danger, particularly in crowded public places. We may have been labeled with seemingly polar extremes: depressed/over-joyed, lazy/over-active, inconsiderate/over-sensitive, lacking awareness/attention to detail, low-focus/high-focus. We may have poor muscle tone, be double-jointed, and lack in our motor-skills. We may hold our pencil “incorrectly.” We may have eating disorders, food obsessions, and struggles with diet. We may have irritable bowel, Fibromyalgia, chronic fatigue, and other immune-challenges. We may have sought out answers to why we seemed to see the world differently than others we knew, only to be told we were attention seekers, paranoid, hypochondriacs, or too focused on diagnoses and labels. Our personhood was challenged on the sole basis that we “knew” we were different but couldn’t prove it to the world and/or our personhood was oppressed as we attempted to be and act like someone we were not. We still question our place in the world, who we are, who we are expected to be, searching for the “rights” and “wrongs;” and then, as we grow and realize there are no true answers, that everything is theory-based and limited, we wonder where to search.

5) We learn that to fit in we have to “fake” it. Through trial and error we lost friends. We over-shared, spilling out intimate details to strangers; we raised our hand too much in class, or didn’t raise our hand at all; we had little impulse control with our speaking, monopolizing conversations and bringing the subject back to ourselves. We aren’t narcissistic and controlling–we know we are not, but we come across that way. We bring the subject back to ourselves because that is how we make sense of our world, that is how we believe we connect. We use our grasp of the world as our foundation, our way of making sense of another. We share our feelings and understandings in order to reach out. We don’t mean to sound ego-centered or over zealous. It’s all we know. We can’t change how we see the world. But we do change what we say. We hold a lot inside. A lot of what we see going on about us, a lot of what our bodies feel, what our minds conjecture. We hold so much inside, as we attempt to communicate correctly. We push back the conversational difficulties we experience, e.g., the concepts of acceptable and accurate eye contact, tone of voice, proximity of body, stance, posture–push it all back, and try to focus on what someone is saying with all the do’s and don’ts hammering in our mind. We come out of a conversation exhausted, questioning if we “acted” the socially acceptable way, wondering if we have offended, contradicted, hurt, or embarrassed others or ourselves. We learn that people aren’t as open or trusting as we are. That others hold back and filter their thoughts. We learn that our brains are different. We learn to survive means we must pretend.

6) We seek refuge at home or at a safe place. The days we know we don’t have to be anywhere, talk to anyone, answer any calls, or leave the house, are the days we take a deep breath and relax. If one person will be visiting, we perceive the visit as a threat; knowing logically the threat isn’t real, doesn’t relieve a drop of the anxiety. We have feelings of dread about even one event on the calendar. Even something as simple as a self-imposed obligation, such as leaving the house to walk the dog, can cause extreme anxiety. It’s more than going out into society; it’s all the steps that are involved in leaving–all the rules, routines, and norms. Choices can be overwhelming: what to wear, to shower or not, what to eat, what time to be back, how to organize time, how to act outside the house….all these thoughts can pop up. Sensory processing can go into overload; the shirt might be scratchy, the bra pokey, the shoes too tight. Even the steps to getting ready can seem boggled with choices–should I brush my teeth or shower first, should I finish that email, should I call her back now or when I return, should I go at all? Maybe staying home feels better, but by adulthood we know it is socially “healthier” to get out of the house, to interact, to take in fresh air, to exercise, to share. But going out doesn’t feel healthy to us, because it doesn’t feel safe. For those of us that have tried CBT (Cognitive Behavior Therapy), we try to tell ourselves all the “right” words, to convince ourselves our thought patterns are simply wired incorrectly, to reassure ourself we are safe…the problem then becomes this other layer of rules we should apply, that of the cognitive-behavior set of rules. So even the supposed therapeutic self-talk becomes yet another set of hoops to jump through before stepping foot out of the house. To curl up on the couch with a clean pet, a cotton blanket, a warm cup of tea, and a movie or good book may become our refuge. At least for the moment, we can stop the thoughts associated with having to make decisions and having to face the world. A simple task has simple rules.

7) We are sensitive. We are sensitive when we sleep, maybe needing a certain mattress, pillow, and earplugs, and particularly comfortable clothing. Some need long-sleaves, some short. Temperature needs to be just so. No air blowing from the heater vent, no traffic noise, no noise period. We are sensitive even in our dream state, perhaps having intense and colorful dreams, anxiety-ridden dreams, or maybe precognitive dreams. Our sensitivity might expand to being highly-intuitive of others’ feelings, which is a paradox, considering the limitations of our social communication skills. We seek out information in written or verbally spoken form, sometimes over-thinking something someone said and reliving the ways we ought to have responded. We take criticism to heart, not necessarily longing for perfection, but for the opportunity to be understood and accepted. It seems we have inferiority complexes, but with careful analysis, we don’t feel inferior, but rather unseen, unheard, and misunderstood. Definitely misunderstood. At one point or another, we question if in fact we are genetic hybrids, mutations, aliens, or  displaced spirits–as we simply feel like we’ve landed on the wrong planet. We are highly susceptible to outsiders’ view points and opinions. If someone tells us this or that, we may adapt our view of life to this or that, continually in search of the “right” and “correct” way. We may jump from one religious realm to another, in search of the “right” path or may run away from aspects of religion because of all the questions that arise in theorizing. As we grow older, we understand more of how our minds work, which makes living sometimes even more difficult; because now we can step outside ourselves and see what we are doing, know how we our feeling, yet still recognize our limitations.  We work hard and produce a lot in a small amount of time. When others question our works, we may become hurt, as our work we perceive as an extension of ourselves. Isn’t everything an extension of ourselves–at least our perception and illusion of reality? Sometimes we stop sharing our work in hopes of avoiding opinions, criticism, and judgment. We dislike words and events that hurt others and hurt animals. We may have collected insects, saved a fallen bird, or rescued pets. We have a huge compassion for suffering, as we have experienced deep levels of suffering. We are very sensitive to substances, such as foods, caffeine, alcohol, medications, environmental toxins, and perfumes; a little amount of one substance can have extreme effects on our emotional and/or physical state.

8) We are ourselves and we aren’t ourselves. Between imitating others and copying the ways of the world, and trying to be honest, and having no choice but to be “real,” we find ourselves trapped between pretending to be normal and showing all our cards. It’s a difficult state. Sometimes we don’t realize when we are imitating someone else or taking on their interests, or when we are suppressing our true wishes in order to avoid ridicule. We have an odd sense of self. We know we are an individual with unique traits and attributes, with uniques feelings, desires, passions, goals, and interests, but at the same time we recognize we so desperately want to fit in that we might have adapted or conformed many aspects about ourselves. Some of us might reject societal norms and expectations all together, embracing their oddities and individuality, only to find themselves extremely isolated. There is an in between place where an aspie girl can be herself and fit in, but finding that place and staying in that place takes a lot of work and processing. Some of us have a hard time recognizing facial features and memorize people by their clothes, tone of voice and hairstyle. Some of us have a hard time understanding what we physically look like. We might switch our preference in hairstyles, clothes, interests, and hobbies frequently, as we attempt to manage to keep up with our changing sense of self and our place. We can gain the ability to love ourselves, accept ourselves, and be happy with our lives, but this usually takes much inner-work and self-analysis. Part of self-acceptance comes with the recognition that everyone is unique, everyone has challenges, and everyone is struggling to find this invented norm. When we recognize there are no rules, and no guide map to life, we may be able to breathe easier, and finally explore what makes us happy.

9) Feelings and other people’s actions are confusing. Others’ feelings and our own feelings are confusing to the extent there are no set rules to feelings. We think logically, and even though we are (despite what others think) sensitive, compassionate, intuitive, and understanding, many emotions remain illogical and unpredictable. We may expect that by acting a certain way we can achieve a certain result, but in dealing with emotions, we find the intended results don’t manifest. We speak frankly and literally. In our youth, jokes go over our heads; we are the last to laugh, if we laugh at all, and sometimes ourselves the subject of the joke. We are confused when others make fun of us, ostracize us, decide they don’t want to be our friend, shun us, belittle us, trick us, and especially betray us. We may have trouble identifying feelings unless they are extremes. We might have trouble with the emotion of hate and dislike. We may hold grudges and feel pain from a situation years later, but at the same time find it easier to forgive than hold a grudge. We might feel sorry for someone who has persecuted or hurt us. Personal feelings of anger, outrage, deep love, fear, giddiness, and anticipation seem to be easier to identify than emotions of joy, satisfaction, calmness, and serenity. Sometimes situations, conversations, or events are perceived as black or white, one way or another, and the middle spectrum is overlooked or misunderstood. A small fight might signal the end of a relationship and collapse of one’s world, where a small compliment might boost us into a state of bliss.

10) We have difficulty with executive functioning. The way we process the world is different. Tasks that others take for granted, can cause us extreme hardship. Learning to drive a car, to tuck in the sheets of a bed, to even round the corner of a hallway, can be troublesome. Our spacial awareness and depth-awareness seems off. Some will never drive on a freeway, never parallel park, and/or never drive. Others will panic following directions while driving. New places offer their own set of challenges. Elevators, turning on and off faucets, unlocking doors, finding our car in a parking lot, (even our keys in our purse), and managing computers, electronic devices, or anything that requires a reasonable amount of steps, dexterity, or know-how can rouse in us a sense of panic. While we might be grand organizers, as organizing brings us a sense of comfort, the thought of repairing, fixing, or locating something causes distress. Doing the bills, cleaning the house, sorting through school papers, scheduling appointments, keeping track of times on the calendar, and preparing for a party can cause anxiety. Tasks may be avoided. Cleaning may seem insurmountable. Where to begin? How long should I do something? Is this the right way? Are all questions that might come to mind. Sometimes we step outside of ourselves and imagine a stranger entering our home, and question what they would do if they were in our shoes. We reach out to others’ rules of what is right, even in isolation, even to do the simplest of things. Sometimes we reorganize in an attempt to make things right or to make things easier. Only life doesn’t seem to get easier. Some of us are affected in the way we calculate numbers or in reading. We may have dyslexia or other learning disabilities. We may solve problems and sort out situations much differently than most others. We like to categorize in our mind and find patterns, and when ideas don’t fit, we don’t know where to put them. Putting on shoes, zipping or buttoning clothes, carrying or packing groceries, all of these actions can pose trouble. We might leave the house with mismatched socks, our shirt buttoned incorrectly, and our sweater inside out. We find the simple act of going grocery shopping hard: getting dressed, making a list, leaving the house, driving to the store, and choosing objects on the shelves is overwhelming.

EVERYDAY ASPERGERS THE BOOK WILL BE AVAILABLE IN EARLY 2016!

This list is based on workshops, videos, literature, personal accounts, and my own experience. Females with Asperger’s Syndrome present themselves very differently than males. This is not an all-encompassing list. It’s not a criteria. It’s limiting and bias-based, as it’s only my view. It is my current truth. I don’t claim to be an expert or professional….but I do know an awful lot about the subject. I hold a Masters Degree in Education, have Aspergers, one of my sons has Aspergers, and I have several graduate-level classes in counseling psychology…I guess I am sort of an expert, after all. ~ Sam Craft

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