360: The Ashes of Discovery

Photo on 3-31-13 at 12.07 PM

I pulled myself into church, today.

I have been searching within about where to take my next steps, in regards to my calling and passion for service. I believe spirit planted in my heart a connection that will lead me through.

Just yesterday, I was able to slip out of a depression brought on by PMDD, a condition I believe to be common with women on the autistic spectrum, and a condition that quadrupled my pain and quadrupled my thoughts of unworthiness.

I am recognizing that the first twenty-days, following my cycle, I have energy, renewed hope, an abundance of radiating light, and confidence in my journey. Interestingly, when sorting through my blog posts, I noticed a definite trend. Through my words, I can readily see how I become sad following a cycle of hope.

It is very surreal for me to step back and become the observer of self, to see what has transpired in the last thirteen months, and to reflect in the place and places I stood. The experience teaches me that indeed I am continually transitioning and continue to be increased in my faith and vocation, despite the set backs and the challenges, all which derive from my own self (ego, self-form, lack in faith.)

In recognizing this PMDD and how it affects my moods, and thusly my ability to remain steadfast in hope and courage, I am understanding I would benefit from putting support in place. As the last ten days of the cycle following ovulation, (I follow the exact cycle of the full moon.), I seep day-by-day into a greater degree of pain and disheartenment. I have found, though, through review, if I am surrounded by family and/or friends, I am pulled out of isolation, and therefore the depression is lifted and I am filled with love.

In seeing this, it makes sense for me to put into place a support system, in which my friends and family understand what is happening to me at a biological level. I am working on creating this space for me, of love and nourishment of soul, in the next weeks, while I am in a “good” place, not yet exhausted or immobile from the various “syndromes” I am healing from.

This has brought me much clarity, the recognition of the PMDD and how in effect I am not governed by my mind and/or spirit when the hormones shift rapidly. Knowing I am a part of the percent who feels an actual sensitivity to my hormones makes complete sense. And to a lesser degree has, much like the discovering of Aspergers, led me to several ah!-ha! moments, in which I review the past in flash backs and recognize that though I struggled repeatedly for answers to my pain and suffering, and dedicated my efforts to “controlling” my moods and pain through faith, that in fact, some things were beyond my control.

I see this as a direct parallel in how I searched for decades for answers about why I felt different from the majority (Aspergers), and wearily came up with few answers. In the past, increasingly, as I dedicated myself to finding solutions, increasingly I was disappointed, and sometimes shunned and criticized. My strength in self faltered in stability, as my hormones shifted, and I can see this in photographs of myself where I am bloated, discouraged, and have a sadness in my eyes that radiates lost and abandoned.

I now understand that why for some thirty years I have struggled monthly with a feeling of being lost to myself. To a degree I have been. For during these ten days, I develop a skewered view of my physical body: I believe that I am extremely fat, ugly, disproportionately put together wrong, and unworthy of recognition. I essentially hide from the world and the fear of judgment, becoming immobile and unable to leave my house, even to step into the yard. This confusion of my appearance is a trait of PMDD, and possibly a result of a variant enzyme in my body. This makes sense.

However, for so long, with both Aspergers and my mood “swings,” I blamed myself and my inability to rise and conquer my own mind and weeping spirit. How funny to think I was my worst judge and worst enemy, believing if I only tried harder and hard enough I would create the person I wished to be.

In truth it was the process of surrender and exposure of self that led to the underlying waves of causation, e.g., admitting weakness and loss of control led to answers. This recent last week of self-discovery was patched with confusion and doubt. Yet, I am thankful I gave up long enough to find the answers. Too, this past week, was filled with fear, which I am certain affected my pain-threshold and outlook.

The fear arose from illusion: that of death, illness, and surprise. I have carried with me, since a small child, the inevitable feeling that death will surprise me. Perhaps this dread surfaced from the dreams of prophecy I had in my youth wherein I predicted the death of my beloved pets. Perhaps the fear was constructed from the experience of continual change and loss of people in my life. Maybe, the fear took root when my kindergarten teacher died. Or just maybe the distrust and feelings of doom are genetically or spiritually a part of who I am at this moment.

Regardless, fear of death is a constant battle, an aspect of my life I am releasing continually. I have learned to recognize this fear before both feet are through my threshold. I acknowledge this existence of up most illusion.

“Fear,” I whisper.
“Fear,” I say.

And then I retreat back, a gentler part of self, and watch with much release as the messages spin and play, some forgotten record moved again by some forgotten will. In this way I survive. In this way I live.

Recently, in observing this fear all week, revved-up by the revelation of an inherent physical “flaw,”—that of PMDD—I was able to again and again surrender to my higher power and wrap my heart around the concept of submission. I feared, certainly, as the illusion came knocking again and again. But something remarkable has happened in the last months. In essence, I am so highly aware of fear’s calling that at first knock I am already removed, letting only a part of self dance and the rest set about to learn, as if placed in classroom by something beyond chance.

This is a level of transition from where I was before; and though I tremble and weep inside, experiencing moments of extreme bouts of forsaken soul, the rest of me, a greater mass, retreats into the echoes of truth, beckoning the light at the end of the bleakness to move forward and touch me before I step to touch light.

And this is glorious. For as I am in the mold of shadows, I also dwell in the light of goodness. And I know, with this flicker of hope, I will be alright. I am learning, slowly and steadily, to hold onto the glimmer, the slimness of glory, and learning in time, with the passing of days, I will return.

Is this still frightening, this purging of fear?

Yes, extremely so.

But am I growing and reaping benefit?

Yes, I am.

In all ways I am the embers in the fire pierced in pain, releasing to the cold black of coal, and then being rectified, removed from the flame ash, and brought back to the earth of goodness. And this is what I hold onto: The ability to continually rise from the ashes.

In saying all of this, I will release my fear, as I have been taught in vision that beyond fear is where I find love’s adobe.

When I abide in love, I am free. And so I tell you, my listener, what I fear.

I fear that I am creating a book and that in this book will be a history that is all of me, and that is to me frightening in varying degrees.

First is the judgment that will be set upon me, as writer, as woman, but beyond that as spirit. But this I can conquer, this fear is limiting and unsubstantial in its potency. For I know I am love and light, as I know you are.

The second fear is found in the process of building a foundation of support. I will be led, and have been led, in direction in regards to this journey; a journey which I now hesitate to call mine, as so many of you reading are affectively part of this journey now. In being led, I know I will hit walls and ditches and even waterfalls; I will tumble and fall; I am human and shall not be perfect. And in this fear, too, I am ready to breathe. I can breathe here, in this illusion of failure and wrong turns, possible deceit, and survive. I see this as only shadows and a necessary part of my path, much faced already and much climbed. So, yes, this fear I can release, too.

Thirdly, and perhaps the biggest fear, is found in the potentiality of being separated from others.

I am fearful I will non-intentionally create a path that others interpret as rigid, narrow, and religious. And that is not my intention. I welcome all walks of faith and walks of life. I have been shown in vision the discrepancies of spirit filtered through the falsehood of judgment and pride. I have been shown that my path is never the right path and never the right way. That my perception and my very comfort and haven of safety, have been self-created based on circumstance and what I choose to see and make my foundation and truth. In essence my truth can never be anyone else’s truth unless the all of us are one.

And in this way, I hesitate, in the way of a one wanting to be a helper to all and not a select group. I want to be a gift to all who need refuge and retreat, and not a one who would by appearance, and appearance alone, be an illusion of someone who segregates and isolates.

Thusly, in connecting any of my works to a title or an establishment, I also at the same time connect myself to a “label,” and to the judgment of others based on that label.

And it is in this judgment my fear lives. Here in the heart of me who weeps knowing that by choosing anything at anytime, others are automatically left out by their own doing.

But left out of what? Left out of what? Is what I ask.

In truth, I imagine, they are actually left out of nothing, beyond my own journey.

And so is this my fear: The fear of being separated by my perceived actions?

Is this fear not once again the same fear that is the irrigation and fertilization system of Aspergers?

The fear of being left out by another from his or her perceived judgment of my action. That of his energy shifting, his thoughts, his opinion, his view of me, in fact the existence of me (as I only exist in interpretation), being altered without my control.

Yes. This is the deepest fear. The loss of control.

In reviewing this with audience, I see that in stepping out and making choice in the direction for my book, I am at the same time creating a space for my deepest fear of separation based on others’ views. And thusly, I recognize that this, too, this journey to create my story into book form, like my genetic makeup, like my view of the world, like the way I communicate–literally crying and shaking in my boots—is yet another mirror exposing fear bred from the beast of longing to control.

And today, on this day of resurrection, I release, I let go of this part of self, who so longs to unite and join, but still hovers under the illusion and want of control.

I let go of this self who wishes to dislodge judgment and rigidness from her own being, yet still formulates and categorizes in hopes of solution.

I release this frightened child who thinks that like before the rest of the world will rebel against her way of existence. And I give to myself the gift of removal of control.

With deep breath and settling awareness, I set about to create a place for my mission that is not predicated by fear, not paved by intention beyond love; a path that circumvents all thoughts of separation.

In doing this, in proclaiming my truth, I again dismiss fear to the outer barriers, where he waits to teach me more. And I celebrate his fire, his flame, his ability to mold me again and again into the ashes of discovery.

I know not who I be anymore than another. I know nothing more than my brother. I know only that I am called, and in so doing will no longer hide in the shadows of fear.

Because I know by faith I walk, and in this way of the child with passion, I continue forward to meet the next imagined stranger who is already friend.

343: How I long to be the sun


How I long to be the sun…

I am such a dichotomy of prisms, multi-faceted in a way that confuses me, the observer.

I keep looking into myself and finding only tunnels, web-like hallways leading in all directions. There is such mystery here, and clutter. I am an open book, but not to myself. I am an open book to only that which I let out and that which I allow in. Even as I share so much, I hold eternity inside. I worry, when I have all the reasonings harvested of why not to worry. I fear, when I have all the reasonings set out of why not to fear.

I am this pendulum; this constant pendulum. I know not what moves me, but I am continually moved. At times I feel I become the person you are. At times, so many times, I lose the person I am. I absorb the world, all of the ingredients brought into me; and then I am left, in my loneliness, both awe-inspired and drowning in pain of recognition.

I see too much. I feel too much. I know too much. And there is no remedy.

I am the heap of pain that one carries on his shoulders. I am the sorrow of the mistress. I am the angst and guilt of the destroyer. I am the pillager weeping at the joyful bounty. I am the child in the glee-filled park. I am the mountaineer on highest peak. I am the widow crying at the grave. I am the tie tightened around my very neck, chocking me from the outside, to match the fury of pain within.

I am enveloped in need and then enveloped in release. I am tortured by thoughts and misery, and then let free by understanding and the depth of beauty. I am unstable, yet stable in my instability. I am consistent in my varying degrees of emotions. A spit-fire of desire brought to tender knees by only the touch of your words.

I am affected by all and none. This silence speaks to me. And the loudness hurts. I am the fury in your eyes. I am the heartache in your bosom. I am that raw pain that eats away at you. Time and again I rise, some mercenary to the many; unable to stop my vengeance; my need to take revenge, to beat the rhythms of my own soul down.

I am anger. I am rectification. I am renewal. I am lust. I am all this and more. And they merge and spin inside of me, claiming their take, and taking more than was offered. I eat of myself, devouring the agony.

If only I could find a way to balance the esteem of you with the esteem of my own being. If only I could find a way to stop the pain you feed me. Your naked trembling fear. To unchain the leash that takes me to the dark side of my own moon.

How I long to be the sun, the perfect sun shining overhead; and then with one touch, without consequence, to set free with flame this yearning for rescue.

~ Sam 3/20/13

331: Just Art (An art idea)

I took my original charcoal piece and painted over it; then I washed it clean with water and paper towel; then I outlined all the shapes I could still see with marker; then I rubbed on different watercolor paints.

The original was all abstract except for the face in the center. And likely I drew the hearts consciously. When I look at the charcoal photo, I see Jesus above me and his hands (left of me) wrapping around. I see a Holy Spirit above, hovering to the right.

I’m a bit sad I painted over the charcoal, but the experience was interesting.

Apparently I love turtles and fish and crosses.

This might be a worthwhile project for someone who wants to take a peek at their subconscious. If you do this, I’d love to see your final image. I thought of this idea on my own, through trial and error.

1) Purchase Canvas, watercolor (tubes), permanent marker, brush, and charcoal
2) Draw random lines and doodles with charcoal (one hour)
3) Paint over with multiple watercolors (one hour)
4) Rub off most with wet paper towel (five minutes)
5) Outline all in permanent marker(one hour)
6) Paint sections and smear with paper towel (half hour)


^original charcoal piece





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

This little girl who lives inside me was crying today.


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




324: A quiet thump of faith

Something very interesting is happening: Every time I share something spiritual I feel as if I need to turn around and share something more Asperger-y or logical.

I am afraid to ostracize or hurt someone based on my own spiritual beliefs.

And I am afraid to offend.

I have reached a place, as of late, (a very recent as of late), in wherein I am less and less inclined to want to explain or justify my actions; not because I am angry or righteous, or think I have all the answers, but simply because I have gained a greater acceptance of self and my path.

Still, there remains a definite part of self that wishes to compile a list of reasons why I am spiritual and why I choose to share my spirituality.

It doesn’t feel ego-based, this need to explain, but more spirit-based, like a deeper region wanting to pour out.

I quarrel inside my own mind, because I don’t want my writings here (on this blog) to turn into a means of spiritual prophecy and discussion, while at the same time I do not want to deny any parts of emerging self.

I quarrel inside my own mind, because I know there is a sector of the world that still doubts there is a source or higher-self, and that when one mentions such a truth (individualized truth as it be), that walls and barriers are immediately shot up.

My intention is not to inject religious banter or rhetoric into anyone, but to express a part of my self, or soul, as you will. My intention is not to ever push my beliefs on anyone, as I know the harm this type of action can cause, and the hypocrisy involving aspects of judgment that occurs.

I am, for the most part, not a judgmental person, and thusly, I think it is improbable I could ever be a Thumper for Jesus; but quite frankly, I think that Jesus never meant for souls to be reached through blatant and oppressive means, and that He himself would be saddened and ill-stricken by the greed and want that oozes out of those that once call themselves “ordained by God.”

Of course, when it comes to certain topics, say: religion, politics, and life-philosophy, and heck, even autism, some people become adamantly vigilant and judgmental.

I think this is where there is a definite barrier between how I think and view life, and how others think and view life. Well, at least mainstream others.

For instance, I can be watching a show where terrible abuse or violence is happening, and even though I feel empathy for the victim, I do not feel judgment towards the persecutor.

I have tried. I cannot.

And it’s not that I haven’t been a victim of others’ hands myself. If I feel anything at all towards the one deemed the “wrong doer,” whether in fictional television or my own real life, it is a strong compassion for the “wrong doer” and state of affairs in his or her life that lead to this person to do said acts.

Of course, I recognize injustice and cruelty, and will make a stand in the best way I can to protect those in harm. In fact, cruelty is the reason I don’t eat meat. However, in finding the exact place to point the finger at the wrong doer is where I stray.

Take the meat industry for instance. Do I blame the breeder, the butcher, the grocery store, the restaurant, the consumer? Who is more to blame or less to blame? And how do I draw the line or hold the scale? And whose job is it to judge and determine the degree of right or wrong? For I certainly don’t think it’s mine.

This can get me into trouble sometimes, even in my marriage. Just tonight we were watching a show that depicted a country that still treats women as subordinates. My husband voiced his opinion. I could not concur. I explained that I don’t feel judgment, at least not the adamant-I-am-right type of judgment. I see too many variables, too many strings leading to other strings of theory and plausible cause. I see all the suffering in the world, in our own community and country, and I think: How do I even begin to choose which suffering is to a greater or lesser degree

And I think: How can one be blamed for something that he is taught since birth? Or another blamed for a deficit of mind or strangling of spirit?

Again, this isn’t to say I am heartless; I feel deeply for the suffering of all, and wish to lift this pain, and take it upon myself to make a difference in a way that feels natural to me. And it isn’t to say I don’t see the necessity of some having a burning, hot passion for change, for without such temperaments, change would be slow to come, if at all. I am saying I don’t have this in me, whatever this THIS be.

Whether I am right or wrong in my making, I stake no claims. But I know I am built for passive resistance of harmful intention and built to embrace and spread love. I am not built to hate.

To me life is a question without complete answers; and I have found that piling partial answers upon partial answers buries the soul. For me it is easier to give in and give up my quest to the hands of my higher power, than to search for a semblance of justice through the inevitable persecution of some.

In regards to my spirituality, my faith is my rock.

Within my faith, I know I am divine energy.

Through my faith I have been able to remedy much of my past insecurities, and likewise render myself valuable and worthy.

I cannot help but to love myself, for I am the very vessel that love pours through.

This is not to say I love the substance of me, or to indicate a prideful relationship with ego; this is merely to say I love the vessel I be; the holder of the cup, He is someone other than self, as is the substance. So it is not that I love the whole of me, but that I love the part endowed by my maker to be held and poured through.

This has brought me great peace, this acceptance of a part of self touched by divine, for I have suffered with bouts of pride over self, and have begged repeatedly for mercy and relief of self.

Once I determined I wasn’t self-incarnate, but indeed vessel for a higher-purpose, I was able to accept a part of me with adoration, while retaining what I think to be a semblance of humility. Thusly to me, my faith is my slayer of pride, at least the part of pride I am able to release and no longer hold onto.

In addition my faith, explains to me, at least to a vast part of self, that who I am is okay and what is happening is okay.

I believe things happen as they are meant to be. This does not meant if an infant is sick and passes away that I stand and proclaim that all is meant to be, for there is still a degree of suffering that occurs that feels unjust and painfully cruel. Life can be cruel, just as life can be powerfully divine.

But I do agree with the Eastern ancient messages found in the proverbs and folk tales that explain that nothing can be deemed beneficial or bad, because with the passing of time all perceptions of events change.

I am a cup half-full kind of gal; always have been, always will be. There is no way around this. And this, too, to a lesser degree, is why I seek out a higher purpose. For there has to be a higher purpose to substantiate all the suffering in the world, or I simply could not exist one more moment.

I believe, too, in miracles.

I hold onto miracles, like I hold onto destiny, and in turn hold onto faith. I have these three as not my crutches, but my strongholds: the sails that never fade and never tear and move me through the sea of my days.

So where I would like to have my writings, at times, not describe the elements of my faith and belief systems, I think with my extreme, say “pathological,” honesty, that this absence of an aspect of me would be an impossibility.

However, I repeat, I would rather no one think I am trying to push my belief systems onto him or her, as I know the harm and drudgery that such self-serving and righteous indoctrination can hinder.

Yes, I hold Jesus in my heart, but my heart is big and there is room for a lot more company. My Jesus likes company. He likes compassionate souls of all race and creed.

It is mankind that put Jesus asunder and twisted His truth through profiteering, slander, misconduct, greed, and mistranslation of His word. I know this with every bone in my body, and often become disheartened that I live in a time where man has the means to turn the very representation and embodiment of forgiveness and sacrifice into sin, or at least the common understanding of “sin,” as even this word at root has not been accurately transcribed and translated.

And so it is, I share a piece, though a small piece it be, of my thoughts. Not so much to help the reader, but to dispel some my own whispers of mind, the old whispers from long ago, reminding me to be careful and to watch where I step, as the wolves are about. The whispers that would rather me hush than rush to share my truth.

For you see, it isn’t really that I have a choice. I have never had a choice but to be me. The only main difference now is that if and when the whispers resurface I know and recognize that I have a legion of angels at my side.

310: I Ran from the Bully

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.


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,

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

Seasons Greetings



Josh Groban 

From the album “Noel”


Somedays we forget

To look around us

Somedays we can’t see
The joy that surrounds us
So caught up inside ourselves
We take when we should give.

So for tonight we pray for
What we know can be.
And on this day we hope for
What we still can’t see.
It’s up to us to be the change
And even though we all can still do more
There’s so much to be thankful for.

Look beyond ourselves
There’s so much sorrow
It’s way too late to say
I’ll cry tomorrow
Each of us must find our truth
It’s so long overdue

So for tonight we pray for
What we know can be
And every day we hope for
What we still can’t see
It’s up to us to be the change
And even though we all can still do more
There’s so much to be thankful for.

Even with our differences
There is a place we’re all connected
Each of us can find each other’s light

So for tonight we pray for
What we know can be
And on this day we hope for 
What we still can’t see
It’s up to us to be the change
And even though this world needs so much more

There’s so much to be thankful for

Merry Christmas from Violet and Sam. See you soon. 🙂

Post 246: Inside of Me

Sometimes I set rules upon myself. Rules that have stuck to me from a time before.  Perhaps a word, a saying, a post, a telling, an insult, or advice. Perhaps the news, a reading, an article, or a thought. Rules that materialize and become real, and have a life of their own. They live. They breathe. And they wallow in me. They make me cry or weep or scream.

Sometimes the rules feel thick and deep: muck and mire and all things fire. Sometimes the rules feel light and airy, with a consistency of jello—something to bounce off of and expand into. I get trapped and confused and mingle in the ever-changing texture.

Sometimes the rules feel bleak and non-purposeful, not necessary, silly, or even stupid; as much as I despise the word stupid, the rules feel that way. All contorted, sorted, and placed out to trap and confuse. To leave downtrodden and in misery.

Sometimes the rules feel abstract and unreal. Like an invention to appease the masses or control, or mask what rests beneath.

There are rules to everything and everyone, as if we are part of some gigantic game. Move forward this way and in that direction, but not too fast or too slow, or too willingly, or too purposely. Step back and allow space, but not that much space or that much emptiness. Fill up this area. Not so high, though, and not so narrow. Go wider. Go denser. Go more to this side. Not there. There. Over there!

You see? You see the rules, how they sway and mix and mingle and disperse? How one builds atop the other and then just vanishes like the light of day; when all along the sun remains. The rules remain. They are like a haunting, a ghost with an endless appetite that eats away, dismembering thoughts and peace. Taking the peace of mind with the pieces.

I am not a woman of rules. I am a woman of being, of breathing, of living, of feeling, of experiencing, of accepting, of loving.

If you do not have rules then you cannot set me in a box, place me where you think I belong, where you think I dwell. If you do not have rules, you cannot see me with eyes of judgment and distaste, cannot build me up, only to knock me down and watch as I bleed.

If you do not have rules, you cannot make me bleed.

Rules. What are they? What do they be? And how do I stop the rules inside of me?