I was standing in front of a variety of buckets of paint. I dipped myself in paint after paint.
I was in search of answers.
Soon I was multi-colored and dripping in knowledge.
I dipped and dipped more and a brilliant rainbow blossomed.
I dipped and dipped, covering every inch of me, until the colors all merged.
Then, and only then, I was the color of black.
But it did not bother me, this guise, this dark, this black.
For I knew all the other colors were still there, still with me, and now in me.
But then the “experts” and “professionals” entered the room, where I stood dripping black. And they observed. Their clipboards and furrowed brows moving in an unwanted rhythm. The dance of them entering my mind and hurting my being.
And they looked and looked where I stood—noting this black shroud upon me.
And I knew then that they were blind, that they could not see all the colors.
They only saw black.
They were quick to form theories about this black. And they were quick to find words, and labels, and meaning.
They assumed since I was garbed in black that I liked black, and only black. They assumed what they saw was the truth.
They couldn’t see.
They couldn’t see that just as black was my companion, so was every other color. Colors they had never imagined.
I couldn’t explain the colors to them. I couldn’t go back and show them where I’d been. I didn’t know how.
I didn’t know the words.
I was blind to their words, as they were blind to my colors.
To them I needed black.
To them I was black.
To them this end product of black was their everything.
They didn’t know that black was merely the mixing of everywhere I’d searched and everything I’d questioned.
They didn’t know that black was not the end product. There were still more colors to find. Still more colors to be.
But when they looked, they saw black.
They gathered their boxes next.
They needed boxes like I needed colors.
I understood that we both craved things that the other did not see or comprehend.
But somehow I was supposed to accept and understand their boxes. Even though they do not attempt to see my colors.
This made me cry inside. This disconnection. And the black grew darker, thick and coated. A darkness that stopped the colors from seeping through. And stopped me from dipping and dripping. Stopped me from being.
And as I was black to them, I was placed in their box of black.
And from there, in the box, I watched them write the words of who I am.
I could not tell them how these words made me feel. I was too busy crying for the lost colors.
How I longed for them to see my colors. To see me in completion. How I longed for them to dip.
For then I knew they would see.
They would see what I see.
And through their dipping and dripping
They would soon discover
That their boxes never existed.
challenges
301: Manwife Needed
(Warning: There is adult language in this post that some may find offensive.)
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And while you are at it, there is a c—– (insert vulgarity beeps) that needs cleaning…. This is how I wanted to end this post. But I found it overly offensive. So I put it in the front of the post, in order to confuse you more, and in hopes you might forget about it by the time you maneuver through the Nyquil mess below. I’m not calling my husband this time to check if it’s too inappropriate. I figure if people read Shades of some color or another, they can handle a bit of Crotch.
I am writing because I need help. The house is a mess. I need a housecleaner. And no offense, but I’d much rather stare at a man doing my dishes than a female.
I’ve been guilting myself up lately, as in telling myself those negative messages such as: I’m a lousy housekeeper, I hate cooking, I’m clumsy, I’m lazy, and I must be losing my fricken mind, as I can’t remember a darn thing.
It’s a good thing God (or that purple-green alien guy) birthed me with a sense of humor. I’m the type of person who turns on the oven, and when the oven timer goes off, I wonder what the noise is. Worse, is, I’ll start to cook a meal, and then soon afterwards smell something yummy, and think to myself: What is that smell and where is it coming from? A while back I was yapping on my cellular phone, the palm of my hand pressing the phone into my ear, and then suddenly I panicked and starting searching the house, as I wondered where I last left my cellular phone.
It’s ridiculous. I’m ridiculous. And I’ve decided I need help.
I am a danger in the kitchen. I’ll start to boil soup, leave the room, and forget until the upstairs is filled with smoke. I come dangerously close to losing a finger every time I meet up with a knife, and following a recipe is like reading a very difficult language—like Japanese converted into brail and then into sign-language. I have to reread, and reread, and recheck, and then double check. Still, I usually mess up on some portion. Unless it’s just: add eggs and milk and stir. Then I forget where to look on the fridge shelf, or leave the fridge door open, or break the measuring glass, or if I get distracted before I begin cooking, I forget all together I preheated the oven and wonder why there is a mixing bowl on the counter. Or I get distracted by memories of the recent documentaries describing cage free hens that really aren’t cage free and the cruel treatment of cows and wonder if indeed the eggs are cage free and if the milk is happy milk, and not some milk tainted in cow sorrow.
Sometimes I think there is something terribly wrong with me or that I am going senile; until I realize I’ve been this forgetful my whole life, and haven’t progressed in weirdness, just perhaps recognition of said peculiarity.
I am so forgetful, and my short term memory is so lacking, that even grasping the spelling of a word that describes much of my condition (dyspraxia) is merely impossible to remember. Of course that critter of trouble, lovely dyslexia, doesn’t add to my ability to spell.
It wasn’t until I was in college that a professor actually took the time to tell me to think in patterns and visual images when attempting to memorize spelling. She noticed my high-intelligence and thought it didn’t match my atrocious spelling. (You know what I love about Google? I can type in a wrong word and find the right word! I just typed: How do you spell atroshish. And voila, now I know; at least for ten more seconds I do.) My professor said to look at the word separate and notice the letter r was separated by two letter a’s. From then on I could spell separate.
Since my spelling is already naturally atroshish, I kind of wish I messed up on easy words, too. Just for the phone of it. (< not intended to spell that way; total mistake.)
I’d like to regularly misspell the word as as ass and but as butt. But I can already spell little words correctly. I guess that is what texting is for: a place where a but can be a butt and an as an ass. Is that redundant? Oh, the freedom. Only text-ville and Kindergarten classrooms have an excuse to misspell.
Which reminds me…My husband used to squeeze my son’s naked butt cheeks together, and make the cheeks move like a mouth talking, (all our sons actually) and say, “Let me asssssk you a question.” And HE has never undergone psychic evaluation. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?
This is part of the reason, the butt jokes, that my eldest son is certain he was born into the wrong family; that and the fact that he is confident beyond measure, secure, a social butterfly, and life comes easy to him.
He is what seer told me is called “Earth Bound.” I am not. I am “Mars Bound.” The planet, not the chocolate candy. Though now that I think about it, anything is possible.
Now as I’m trying to force out of my mind the image of Mars bars looking like alien turds, I am squeezing my brain super hard trying to remember what I was laughing about earlier that had to do with a conversation with my oldest. The labor of thinking. Or the constipation of thinking. They are about the same.
This isn’t what I was trying to remember, but this thought is first in line. So I will share:
When I was delivering my eldest son, the labor and delivery team told me I was really good at pushing.
My response: “I know; I’ve been constipated my whole life, so this is quite easy.”
I’m just now remembering this; and thinking this might have been an aspie moment.
Now I can remember.
The conversation with my eldest yesterday went something like this:
“Mom, you and Dad should get drunk once in a while. I never see you drink.”
“We drink son, just in small amounts. I was actually tipsy the other night, because I had two glasses of wine.”
“You need to loosen up, go have some drinks with Dad and come home drunk.”
“Son, I have been tipsy before, you just don’t see it, as you don’t spend a lot of time hanging around with us when we have a drink or two.”
“No, Mom, you need to get drunk like Dave’s dad did the other night. He was fun!”
“What? Your friend’s dad got drunk while you were there?” Eyes shift sideways and eyebrow springs up.
“Oh, Mom, just a little. I wish you and Dad were more like that. His dad was so funny when he was talking to us.”
“Okay, let me get this straight: You want me to get drunk and hang out with your friends?”
Son’s face blushes red. “No way! Yuck. That’s not what I’m saying at all.”
“Yes it is!” Huge smile. “That’s exactly what you just said.”
Silence, and then I’m pretty sure: FEAR.
~~~~~~~~~
I woke up this morning still laughing at the conclusion of our drinking conversation. I was still in a playful mood, as I sat on the couch at noon and teased my son.
“Thanks for giving me your cold, again. Chills followed by fever and body aches and sore throat, right?”
Big smiling, fifteen-year-old says: “Yep. That’s it exactly. Tomorrow expect a runny nose. And you’ll sweat a lot at night. Oh, and you won’t be comfortable in your clothes.”
“Well. If you see me running around the house naked, you know why.”
Yes, this is how I communicate with my NT (neurotypical) son. We tease and joke, and laugh at life a lot. It’s how we connect. He gets me that way, and I get him.
Sometimes though, I think he sucked all the social-skills out of me and middle son. Although, I often tease him, my Leo-star, that it is my fault he has so much confidence. When he was sound asleep, I used to sit at the edge of his bed every night and whisper: “You are handsome. You are smart. You are loved.” I read somewhere in a book about subliminal messages, and assuring my eldest’s self-esteem kind of became a little bit of an obsession.
I wish someone would lean into my ear at night, and whisper sweetness. Depending on my mood, I think if someone is already whispering, they are saying this: You are endowed with supernatural healing powers and your natural, nutrient-giving fuel is chocolate. Dark if available. But any will do.
I think it gets lost in translation though, shifted by unforgiving dyslexia into emboweled. Thusly the Mars Candybar Turd visions.
I can’t even remember the focus of this post as I had a nighttime Nyquil in the daytime. This is my life. I do things backwards to survive. Nyquil gives me insomnia, just as non-drowsy Claritin makes me sleepy. I’ve learned not to trust lables.
I know I wanted to talk about the need for a manwife, and that at the start of the post I was upset that no such word as manwife exists. It ought to be a word, women’s movement and all. Earlier, I was taken aback into a parade of delight as I made up new compound words with wife, such as casstlewife, trailer wife, tentwife, Yurkwife, motorhomewife, couchwife. I think the last one suits me. Now if I can use my magical mind powers to convince the rest of the world of the worthiness of couchness.
Couchness reminds me of what we sometimes call my dog. Are you following my train of thought still? I used to call my miniature labradoodle Violet, after the character in A Series of Unfortunate Events, then I transitioned her to Spastic Colon, as she is a hyper-spastic dog and I suffered with IBS for years, and the name suited her and my journey in life. But in the late summer, I noticed after a week of no bath she has this awful smell. I really can’t stand it. It’s a female smell of some sort, and just plain nasty. So as a result, of her doggy stench, I started, in secret and in a soft silly voice, calling her Crotch. Well the name kind of stuck and caught on. So if you are at our house and you hear someone say: Hello, Spastic Colon or Come Here Crotch. Don’t get the wrong impression. We’re still a PG-13 rated house. We just call our dog after private parts.
Originally, a hundred-thoughts ago, I was motivated to write this post based on an article on dyspraxia that a friend Sarah Sparkle of our support group shared. http://www.dyspraxiafoundation.org.uk/services/ad_symptoms.php
I remembered reading about dyspraxia at the start of my blogging journey, last spring, and recognizing myself and my son clearly in the symptoms. And I thought, today, as I was reminded of our struggles, I ought to send the article to my husband. Mainly because he will be home soon and our kitchen looks like a giant hamster turned the area into its habitat.
Also I want to remind him of why I can’t remember simple things, like the name of a movie I am watching. The review of the article describing aspects of dyspraxia really got me thinking that I do need a manwife; preferably foreign and dark, or from China. As an aside, I’ve been oddly attracted to Chinese foreign films lately, and fallen in love with some of the leading characters. Yes, I know it is make believe, but this is my current fixation. So flow with me on this one. Next week my manwife will be from Spain.
I can picture him, the man I pay, in tight jeans and topless. I know it’s freezing here, and that most of the morning I had on a wool hat and the heat lamp singing my face, but this manwife is endowed with super powers; he is extremely self-motivated, energetic, and warm-blooded. And he’s not afraid of the camera, so I can post photos on Facebook and this blog, and you can drool. Unless you are a hetero-sexual man… then I can. Pause. Delete. I had typed some reference to my dog again. Enough of that already.
Okay, so back to the focus of this post, which is basically: See How Goofy Sam is on Nyquil and somewhere layered beneath the challenges of dyspraxia.
Dear Husband,
The reasons I need a Manwife, based on dyspraxia:
I can’t balance well, have a clumsy gait, and have poor hand-eye coordination. You totally know I drop things all the time! I have extreme difficulty standing for a long time and this challenge makes it hard to cook or do the dishes (and clean toilets). Also, I have difficulty starting actions and cleaning is a definite action. Therefore, logically, I have difficulty cleaning. This is basic logic. I have a tendency to bump into things. You know this. You see the bruises. The more I have to clean, the more chances I have of bumping into objects, and the more chances of booboos. I have difficulty using knifes. Remember when I sliced my finger? Remember how you look at me whenever I have a knife in my hand? Plus the website I linked above specifically lists difficulty with: “cutlery, cleaning, cooking, ironing.” That pretty much covers housework. I have tracking difficulty and this means I lose my place when reading. This makes recipes super hard to follow. I am over-sensitive to light; it’s good we live in gloomy skied Washington, but we do have those skylights and fluorescent fixtures in our kitchen. I am over-sensitive to noise, too. So the sound of the vacuum and even the fridge, while doing its humming thing, hurts my ears. I am also sensitive to smell, which makes cooking difficult. I am sensitive to temperature; this makes cooking over a hot stove gruesome. I have a poor sense of direction. Our house is big. I could get lost. I exhibit difficulty in planning and arranging my thoughts, which has nothing to do with cleaning, but is quite accurately displayed as one of my hidden talents in this post. I forget things. I could burn your shirt while ironing, if I ever took up ironing. And of course, since this pretty much describe me: “Slow to finish a task. May daydream and wander about aimlessly,” I think you should consider I am inept entirely at focusing on something that does not motivate me. I tend to get stressed and anxious easily, and housework triggers these things in me. No one ever told me how boys pee. And frankly, the mis-aiming thing…too much to handle.
Sincerely,
Your Wife
(In all seriousness dyspraxia is a difficult condition to live with. I find it interesting how many traits of ASD and dyspraxia overlap.)
If you are wondering how I will pay for the manwife, I’ve taken up a collection. Just Google Manwife for Sam or if you are a man put on this apron when you get home, take off your shirt, and get moving.
_________________________________________
* I did just call my husband and read him the first paragraph. He okayed it. So if you are offended, blame him.
** thank you to my friend Sarah Sparkle for sharing the article on dyspraxia with me today
*** Sometimes this is my sense of humor.
298: The Weight of Me
I don’t understand my body, what it looks like, what others see me as, how I am supposed to look, what is expected, what is healthy, what is normal, what is standard, what is right.
There is a layering of problems associated with my body image.
1) No Norm Exists
No norms exist related to body image except what society, or more so the media and advertisement companies and other corporations want me to buy into. There is a belief system that varies from year to year, dangled in front of me. I don’t want to be a fish: a hungry guppy rising up to take hold of some enticing treat that will likely gorge me, stab me, break me, or result in me being sliced open, gutted, and fried to a crisp. Nor do I want to see the bait. But everywhere this bait floats about, the hook hidden and waiting to damage.
2) I Have a Degree of Body Blindness
It is hard for me to see myself as a whole, and to see others as a whole. I can see when someone has some extra padding, a few extra pounds beyond this societal standard of ideal weight, but I can’t hold the whole of someone’s image in my mind. If I was asked to sketch a body, I could not. Everything would be out of proportion, including the length of the arms and legs, the scale of the neck, and the angles of the face. Everything I take in is somehow mutated and rearranged, so that what I recall in my mind’s eye could likely be a Vincent Van Gogh painting. I cannot see my own body, clearly, as well. I rely too heavily on the eye of a camera, only to have discovered as of late that the camera is not an adequate portrayal of my weight, as the aspects of my clothing, the way I am standing, the angle of the camera, the type of camera, the lighting, and even my mood, posture, and expression, affect the end result (the photo image).
I’ve studied myself in photos for months, and still am baffled by what I look like; and how I look to myself, changes each and every time I glance at my reflection. And even the reflections are deceiving; how I appear in the rearview mirror, the glass of a window, or from one bathroom mirror to the next, always shifts, and I find a new person staring back at me, reversed and bewildered. I am left to wonder where the real me exists. In front of the full length mirror I stand, turning and processing, in awe of the stranger standing there. Photos will generally depress me, as they do not seem to represent who I see myself as. And worse, I can’t really see myself at all in form. I am like an unformed mass, shifting as the flowers and plants vary with the seasons. I cannot find myself, as hard as I seek, at least my outside self; for I seem as mysterious as the birth of the universe, as infinite, and as ever-changing.
3) I latch on to rules and examples of beauty even though the societal norm of perfection is unattainable
I have been brainwashed. I have been bombarded with images of what I should look like. I have been told, in the form of photos, movies, sitcoms, commercials, advertisements, magazine covers, billboards, department store displays, peers’ behavior, and various fix-yourself-now articles, that I am somehow wrong and in need of repair. In addition, I have been informed that if I go through various steps, I will then be adequate, and once adequate I shall be accepted, loved, and adored. I have seen this “beauty” scenario unfold and be reinforced when I was a teenager; seen how the people around me responded and took note of me if I was dressed the “right” way, if my hair was “good,” if my makeup enhancing, my body shapely. I have seen the attention that the socially accepted “beauty” brings. I have also seen and felt how empty the experience of acceptance based on exterior beauty alone can be, seen how fickle and cruel the shallow admiration is. I have felt like a tree adorned for the holidays, sparkly and the center of attention, only to be later tossed to the side of the road waiting my fate. But still, I have this brain, some type of organizational system working inside of me that searches for the “rules” the standards, the way to exist on this planet and in this society. I think, deep within, that if I can find the right path, I will fit in. Yet, I am faced with an unhealthy path; one that leads to imperfection after imperfection, and demands my money, and worse my soul.
4) I exist at one extreme or another
The place of middle ground in all areas of my existence is foreign to me; as hard as I study and try to get there, I cannot. My mind works in extremes. I am generally high or low, calm or hyper, still or moving, cautious or daring, charming or a pain in the butt, loving or stand-offish. The in between space baffles me, and analysis of the concept of middle ground leaves me stranded in thought, wondering why I cannot be “that way,” the way of the masses, the way of the easy life.
Though I try hard to find balance, I continually find myself swinging on the spectrum of intensity, the volume of my every minute, high or low; the intensity affected by the tides, the planets, the food I take in, the music surrounding, the sounds, the energy of other people, the thoughts roaming within, the expectations placed on myself, the voice that rises and interrupts my doing, the inconsistency of trying to be, and the varying degrees of living in the moment.
I am unsettled. Every inch of me unsettled. And like the shifting of my body image in my mind’s eye, my state of being shifts. My efforts are circumvented by the infectious factors all about me. In being this way, I take on tasks with a high degree of interest or I give a task no regard whatsoever. This, this taking on of tasks, applies to the way I manage the weight of my physical body. I can be extreme for months with a diet, avoiding certain fattening and bloating foods, avoiding sugar, avoiding all junk food, avoiding grains, etc. But I can only exist in the state of extreme for so long, and then I break, and where I had felt to be in a constant state of fathom, I now emerge into a state of feast, starving and deprived. My weight fluctuates depending upon where my pendulum of intensity exists. I am at the mercy of my passion or lack of interest.
5) I feel better at my ideal weight, but the definition of my ideal weight varies depending on source.
I would like to say that I am comfortable in my own skin, but I am not. I have latched onto an ideal number for my weight based on how my clothes fit and how I appear in some photos. Not all photos, because even my ideal weight looks odd in most images. To me, when observing myself, I can appear obese and bloated, even though I am told I am skinny. Ideal weight is listed and available on medical charts. But this weight standard is obsolete. I have always been much heavier in scale number than I appear in form. I was stick-skinny in high school, skinnier than most everyone, but I was heavier on the scale. I am 5’ 4” and in the last several months average about 139 pounds. This is a high weight for some people, but for me I can fit into size 4 or size 6 pants. For me this is thin. At 137 I start to appear gaunt and unhealthy. I know that I appear best at 139 pounds even though this amount weight is repeatedly reinforced in movies, magazine articles, and charts as “heavy.”
I am confused by contradictory data, and contradictory data is everywhere. There are sources that say it is good to go into menopause with weight around the belly, and some fat on the bones, as this decreases your chances of bone loss. I have read it is natural and healthy to have some excess body weight as one approaches their fifties; yet so many studies warn of various diseases and fatalities if the weight is not monitored and controlled. I look back at paintings from the centuries before, and think the voluptuous women look lovely. I look at the stick-skinny, starving-themselves women, and think they look stern and unhappy, rigid and angry. I look at myself and don’t know what I think, beyond a woman struggling to find the “norm” and what is “right,” in a world with variables and contradictions.
I latch onto numbers. So I latch onto 139 pounds as my standard, as my ideal, as my place to be. But I have a slow metabolism. I can eat one meal a day and gain weight. Is my esteem wrapped up in my weight? I don’t think so. I think my esteem is wrapped up in the unattainable image I think I am supposed to attain: an image I cannot see in my mind’s eye, an image that is deceptive, contradictory, and unachievable. I am not wrapped up in looking skinny or attractive enough, I am wrapped up in trying to figure out what I look like to begin with, how to keep a number on the scale from fluctuating so I feel stable in a very non-stagnant world.
I just want to fit in, or more so blend in. I don’t want to stand out for a perceived “negative” attribute; I don’t want to be unhealthy; I don’t what to exhibit gluttony; I don’t want to appear “wrong.” All these “norms” and expectations I set upon myself. And I don’t know how to turn the voice of expectation off. How to just be with me. How to just love me. How to see I am not this vessel that ages daily, slowly deteriorating towards death.
6) I set different standards on myself than other people.
I logically can tell myself that I do not care what others look like, and this is the truth. My dearest friends can be any weight, and they are just as lovely and beautiful to me. I don’t take notice of people’s weight as much as their eyes or their kindness. I love all shapes and sizes, and find attributes that are unique and different to be interesting and attractive. I like a woman with a little fat on her, personally. And if I were a man, or a person attracted to women in a physical way, I would choose someone for their inner beauty and character, not for their weight. Weight would not be a factor at all. And as a female attracted to men, I am not attracted to the weight or fitness-level of a man. At this point in my life, I could be in a romantic relationship (if I wasn’t married, of course) with any shape or size, any ethnicity, and any age (within reason).
The outside exterior of another, male or female, friend or stranger, no longer affects me like it did in previous years. I see the collective person: their soul, energy, purpose, drive, love, heart, etc. all interwoven to produce a beauty. Yet, I cannot do this with my own self. Make myself see my collective beauty.
I know I am lovely inside. I know I have a huge heart, massive amounts of sensitivity, compassion, integrity, honor, and love, but yet, when I evaluate my own beauty I go back to this fictitious number on the scale.
7) I don’t know where to turn for help.
If I let go of my rigid goal of maintaining a certain weight, I would gain weight. While I might be able to learn to feel comfortable in my own skin when I am heavier than now, I face other complications as I gain weight. When I add on pounds my chronic fatigue and chronic pain increases, exercise becomes harder, and just moving in general is burdensome. When I gain weight I do not recognize myself, or rather I recognize myself even less, and I am confused when I see my image.
However, while striving to maintain my weight, I put unyielding pressure on myself of what to eat and what not to eat. I punish myself for cheating. And for me cheating is having organic cheese puffs instead of organic red peppers with my humus. I tell myself terrible messages, such as I don’t have willpower, I am going to gain weight and no one will love me if I am not attractive, I will forever be alone, and on and on.
In addition, food affects me drastically. I cannot eat anything, beyond pure protein, without having instant pain and fatigue. So, I often go most of the day without eating, because as soon as I eat I have a reaction, in that extreme fatigue sets in coupled with pain in my muscles and joints. I have tried many different diets, food combinations, etc. for many years, to no avail. I have come to the conclusion that I am allergic to earth food, and that’s just the way it goes. For me eating fruits, nuts, and vegetables all day is the best, but I crave more.
There aren’t any answers out there. I’ve searched and searched; I’ve waited. I’ve dug deep inside. I’ve meditated, medicated, supplemented, detoxed, etc. I finally reached the point where I believe the best thing for me to do is to stop analyzing my diet and being so extreme. But that’s what scares me; for when I let go, the weight comes back, and so does the resulting painful effects. I’m searching for that state of limbo, where I can just exist without effort, without constantly trying to rebalance, where I can just be. But even the searching hurts.
8) I find my security in the number on the scale.
You could tell me I’m lovely. For a short while I would bask in your compliment. But then, the words you gave to me would fade away, and within a day, or sometimes hours, I would no longer feel your compliment. Instead I would wonder once again if I was truly too ugly for this world. I know this sounds absurd, but this is the untruth that plays out in my mind. I do not understand what I look like, and thusly do not understand how you perceive me. And everyone perceives me differently based on their own life experience and developed tastes and biases. Everywhere I go, I know if someone takes note of me, I am being evaluated. And I dislike that invasion and aspect of being in society.
I want to be seen as the interior me, but am forced to be first presented dressed in this physical essence. In some ways my weight is the only thing that I can control about my appearance, the only thing I can keep the same when all about me is shifting. The rest of me, beyond the finite number on a scale, I cannot see or determine. I cannot find the truth of what I am on the exterior, and so the only security and constant I can return to is the number on a scale. I have a lot of dependence on the number.
It’s not that I want to control my weight; it’s that I want to control some semblance of my existence. I want to understand my physical being, even if it’s only one small aspect, one three digit number.
Everything changes so much in my world from moment to moment, from thought to thought, and event to event, that numbers have been my security blanket for years. So, yes, the number on the scale is my enemy or friend. As it climbs I fear the future, and as it decreases towards the “ideal” I know I am moving forward towards a part of who I was or am. The further I am away from the number on the scale that I have decided is “the number,” the further I am away from my own sense of self.
I long to find my security for my physical self somewhere beyond a number and beyond an image. But I often wonder, if I cannot view this illusion of self, then how can I be secure. Rather it is acceptance I seek. Acceptance of the unknown and the release of my dependence on outsiders to quantify who I am. An acceptance in the knowing that although I am invisible in regards to my appearance to physical self, I am solid in my understanding of spirit.
296: The Star of My Post
I panicked this morning. I pulled my husband out of the bathroom. He was stripped down to his boxers. And I was mean.
I don’t like to be mean. I hate it, in fact. At the core of me, I am nice. But this mean, panicky part of me surfaces at times.
She especially appears when I am feeling bombarded with change and sensory overload. When my normal routine is drastically altered I get a bit crazed and then my scale of unpredictable outcries is undeniably both potent and dramatic.
This morning, the birthday sleepover for my youngest boy was almost over. There had been much noise and upheaval as the boys celebrated together and tore the daylight basement apart with their slathering of snacks and soda. I’d not fallen asleep until nearly two am, and I’d cleaned and organized and shopped and prepared the entire day before.
My husband had been a great support, as much as any human could be who didn’t possess super powers, but by morning, he, like me, was exhausted. And unlike me, he was ready to get out of the house and start a course of errands. He headed downstairs to shower, as I was wrapping the party up, and awaiting the arrival of the two last guardians to pick up the children.
After twenty-minutes of feeling a kneading, unidentifiable discomfort inside, suddenly a shock of revelation hit me. Two strangers were about to appear at my door. As I thought about this fact, I was bombarded with what ifs, and what to say, and how to stand, and how to smile, and how to be, and how to stop my own very self-consuming fear of being seen by another being.
As I processed, and my anxiety grew, I realized I wanted to duck under a blankie, to escape, and to not face anyone.
Suddenly, and without warning, an all-encompassing fear bit at me like a disobedient hound leaping to snatch food from an innocent bystander.
I logically processed. I figured this biting and uncontrollable fear was part of my Aspergers, part of how my brain worked, part of who I was and had always been. The feelings weren’t unfamiliar, not even more intense; but I was more aware.
Still, even with the understanding, I could do little or nothing to calm myself down. At any moment the door would knock and a stranger would appear.
I talked to myself in silence. I reasoned. I tried to logically stop the worries and concern. I knew there was nothing to fear, but yet I feared. I knew there was no threat, but I felt threatened. I wanted to run.
The doorbell rang. It was the first stranger. She was kind and courteous, and we didn’t have opportunity for small talk, as her nephew gathered his things and left quickly enough.
I shut the door, wishing them well, and sighed in relief. I felt half of the anxiety leave. Only one to go. Only one to go, I told myself. I attempted to self-soothe, to talk myself into the fact that I was safe. But I couldn’t. Though half the anxiety had left, the remaining panic was newly fresh and alarming, clawing at me from the inside out. I just couldn’t do it. Not alone. Not by myself. Not with all the uncertainties.
I rushed then. I darted down the stairs in a state of meltdown. I was imploding and exploding all at the same time. The outside me, the observer that sometimes watches, and takes note of my behavior, and who is often able to laugh or offer sound advice, she’d been swallowed up in the confusion of my emotions.
I had to find my husband, make sure he was dressed, and get him upstairs, right away. There was no time to wait. My soul was on fire!
I found my husband in his boxers, doing something in front of the mirror. I don’t remember what. Everything was a jolted blur of rush and chaos. “Please hurry, he will be here any moment, and you know how I am,” I whined.
I looked my husband over and realized he hadn’t showered yet. It had been twenty minutes, and he still hadn’t showered!
“What have you been doing?” I queried rudely. “This whole time you could have showered, and you didn’t. Why didn’t you? Why did you leave me up there alone? Why? You don’t get me. You don’t know me. What do you not understand about Aspergers? What do I fear the most? What do I fear the most!”
My husband stammered with his eyes and braced himself against the bathroom door. I could see he was processing my emotional state. I could sense the familiarity of his experience: how he knew I was on the verge of freaking out and that his next move would either create a domino effect of me collapsing into hysteria or serve to bring me out somewhat from my spinning panic.
He stepped closer, and waited for me to finish my thoughts, waited in a way and with a skill I have not yet learned, and fathom I shall never learn. I felt a reckoning of sadness, a knowing I was different, odd, and displaced on a planet where my skillset had never been completed, where my tool box of communication skills was vastly depleted.
I wept inside, until the fear rose. I went on fast then, and with an unrelenting urgency. I knew what I was doing and what I was feeling, and it all felt so ridiculous and unnecessary and unfounded and just plain stupid, but I couldn’t help myself. I was trapped in a prison of jumbled thought and worry.
I said more, my words not chosen carefully, my panic taking the wheel. “You abandoned me. You abandoned me. You say to me ‘You take it from here; I’m going to shower,’ and you leave me to face the strangers. You know how I am? How could you do this?” My eyes were welling with a mixture of tears and rage.
I was on the verge of flipping my husband off. About to mount the stairs, and with a quick turn of my back, turn and give him the finger. I was so confused. My emotions all jumbled and twisted into a crisis.
I stood my ground, even as I saw another path of what I might have done, how I might have taken off as I told him off. I stared past him, fighting back the urge to yell, “I hate you!”
He didn’t move or even flinch, but looked at me with such profound and unattainable patience. I knew I was being childish. I knew at that moment he was the only adult in the house.
“Your worst fears are talking to strangers, especially at the door, and to men,” he replied. He then said, with a sigh, “I’ll wait to shower. I’m coming upstairs. Be right there.”
Within two minutes, I was back on the couch, hiding behind my laptop and my husband was in the leather chair twiddling his fingers and playing with his cellular phone.
I said, “Stop picking at your lip. That bugs me.”
I said, “I don’t understand. Don’t you care? Why did you do this to me?”
He looked at me blankly, and replied. “I didn’t shower. I came up here for you because I love you.”
I waited for him to be triggered or upset or to show emotion. I needed him to be emotional. I needed him to take me out of my emotional state, by means of his emotional state. For me to be able to focus on his wavering feelings, and to blame him, so I could escape self-blame. I punched at him with my words.
He didn’t care. He didn’t. He didn’t know how to show me love, is all I could think.
“Our problem is the Language of Love. You show love in service and duty; I show love through emotion and affection. I really need a hug right now and compassion.”
He got off of the couch and came to my side and held me. But I didn’t feel release. I’d wanted to blame him and make him act a certain way, thinking his behavior would relieve me. But it didn’t.
He stayed at my side and looked over at me as I maneuvered through the stream of my Facebook wall. He was watching the posts, watching me, and in my space. I looked at him and said, “Thanks for the hug. Can you go away now? I don’t want you near me. Please leave.”
I recognized the cruelness and impatience in my voice. I sensed my selfishness and sporadic ways. But I couldn’t help myself. I was in the middle of a breakdown, and nothing my husband did or said or offered could help me.
My husband rolled his eyes and shook his head. And I offered some half-apology for my behavior, knowing I’d been terrible. I tried to make him laugh. “Well at least you might be the star of my post,” I offered.
I don’t think he smiled.
Post 294: I Wish It Was Really Tuesday
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.
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.
~~~~~
Everyday Asperger's 