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.



269: Thursday’s Pee


I always have to pee at the least desirable times. Like right now, as I sit here in this coffee shop, dressed rather cute with my new white jacket that was initially supposed to accompany the dress I never wore—the panty-free dress that made its proud debut in the blogging world.


I’m all dolled up. And why? Why is my hair curled, my lashes too, and my lips a sweet watermelon-color?

Because it’s Thursday, of course.

As I sit here typing, I have a full panoramic view of the room. I can see the fireplace, and unfortunately the man who set up camp right in front of my leather couch, across the coffee table. I’ve been battling his come-hither stares and energy since his prompt arrival, and wondering what’s a girl to do?

I have to pee because I had a huge cup of coffee mixed with organic hot chocolate mix. Can you say double-yum? I had that to-die-for beverage, earlier, when at home.

Arriving at the coffee house, with all my perky-self, I said to the lady behind the counter, a sweet young thing: “I’d like a decaffeinated soy Chai Latte, please!” I flashed a big grin. I liked the sound of my order.

And plus, my jacket said it all: I am sexy, I am cute, and I am fabulous. See the bow in the back of my coat?

My face said the rest: See my big grin. I am so extremely comfortable here. Let me lift my brows to decrease my wrinkles, and set my head so delicately to the right. Am I approachable, yet? Am I fitting in, blending in with the other humans?

The tall bearded man, near the young lady behind the counter, strikingly thin, likely a vegan extremist, eyed me fine and good. He spoke to me without words for a millisecond. Processing. Then he breathed out his thoughts, quick and easy like. With a smirkish clear of his throat, he said: “We don’t have decaf Chai.” He then rolled his eyes and scooted his frailness out of my line of vision. Though he kept watching me with his I-know-more-about-beverages-than-you stare down.

Deflated, I panicked and slid my thoughts to the right, examined, and tried to grasp my next step. Catching an idea, I said, as smoothly as possible, despite the nervous giggle: “Oh, yes, of course Chai is caffeinated.”

Then I felt doubly-incorrect, remembering there is decaf Chai tea in the stores, and for a moment I was in the grocery market, away from the frightful man.

I was quite beside myself with embarrassment, realizing that I’d once again over reacted to the slight poopiness of a stranger.

What to do?

After the boob of a man (Rather Zen of me, don’t you think?) slapped down the tea menu in front of me, I had the keen impression he was fed up with my query-filled eyes.  Sucking in my breath, I said, “Ginger tea,” delicately and tried to fluff up my sweetness.

Can’t you see that I’m nice?

With tea in hand, I retreated with imaginary tail between legs to my wall, and then struggled to figure out proper etiquette for placing down my items. Where to put my scarf, keep jacket on (looks cute, keeps me warm, hides my boobs) or take jacket off (keeps jacket clean, might be more comfy), Put laptop on lap, put laptop on table? Cross legs?

And so on.

Endless it is.

Problem is right when I got settled that’s when the stranger arrived. With some fifty other feasible places to sit, he chose to sit directly in front of me, in a position where his line of vision crashes and smacks mine. I can’t even hide behind my laptop.

The stare down begins.

So far, in the last hour, I’ve noted his outdated sneakers (I mean 1980’s black checkered Vans) and his need to pull his hat over his head and nap. I’ve taken random glances when he wasn’t looking, but really wished I had a note on the back of my laptop that read:

This is an experiment—I have Aspergers. Don’t expect me to look you in the eyes or respond to your existence, unless you are a woman my age or very old and safe looking. Or a child. Or a dog. Or even a bird. But if you are a man, beware. You’re invisible. Kind of…..

I really have to pee, now.

I have a laptop, and thusly, in order to vacate my spot, I will have the task of stuffing the laptop in my computer case. That in and of itself, is difficult. I am not very coordinated. Stuffing things inside other things is not my forte. In fact, trying to fit anything inside anything is hard. (I’m embarrassed now, as this someone how once again seems sexual. Like I said, I’m twelve inside.)

Think folding chairs into folding chair’s bag….panic attack. I don’t know which side goes in first. And then I get all bothered with everything that sticks and snags and acts stubborn. I often carry my portable lawn chair in one hand and the designated bag for said chair in the other hand. It’s just how my life is.

I have to figure out if I am going to ask the very, very kind looking woman at the table diagonal to me if she would watch my laptop. However she is deep in conversation, and though her friendly eyes beckon me, I cannot help but visualize her running away with my laptop, all the while smiling in her delight, and screaming: “Ha, ha!  You are over-trusting!”

I am now starting to run through in my brain the very feasible scenario of what will happen if I do in fact piddle in my pants.

I really want to keep my place, my cozy spot on the couch; so I am setting my book on the coffee table alongside my scarf, and letting the thoughts of new book and pretty purple ruffled scarf being stolen saturate and then spill out of my brain. I take in a deep breath, wondering if the bow in the back of my coat is in actuality cute or just plain silly for my age.

Deep sigh, stepping forward, while balancing laptop. Glancing back to reassure myself that my spot is still marked and claimed. Thoughts of a dog peeing on a bush to claim his territory enter briefly. Wondering if anyone is in the bathroom and hoping I can reach the sanctuary of the porcelain pot in time.

Passing people.

Standing upright, trying to look confident. Knowing when I stand too upright that my body is bendy-like and I look like a stretchy doll. Smiling, knowing I don’t feel natural when I smile and that likely my eyes are super wide, eyebrows raised, and I look freakishly over-caffeinated.

“Squirrel. Squirrel!” The dog barked in full elation: That sums up my expression, surely.

And so the first threshold is reached:


Back stepping. Where is the dishes window? WHAT is a dishes window. Holding legs closer together. Calculating if I feasibly have enough time left.


Which one do I take. “Excuse me Ms. Is this the right key?” Holding any random key up. Wondering how many bathroom doors there will be.


Go through door to find long hallways and more doors and more signs!!!


Indeed. More directions. Lovely.


Staring this image down. What if someone is already inside? I hear water running. Do I wait?

How do I scan this fricken plastic card?

A lovely young man arrives, and smiles. “Do you need help? Are you having trouble figuring out what to do?”

“Ummmm,” I say meekly with goofy teenage-grin. “What if someone is inside? Do I enter?”

He is smiling, I think, but I can’t tell, because I am staring at my boots. He offers: “You can just….”

And POOF, the door magically opens as the other female patron exits, and I slip inside, red-faced and flustered and scolding my cute little kidneys.

Mission accomplished.

Quick photo snap of a relieved woman, looking, (not surprisingly), drunk and haggard.

As I’m summing up the last details of my excursion in typed print, the friendly looking gentlemen to my left (lots of men in this coffee shop) he pauses, and glances my way, and asks, “Would you mind keeping an eye on my laptop for a minute?”

Overly zealously, I accept.

I must look trustworthy, I think. Or remind him of his mother.

The irony of the handsome lad’s question settles.

I spend the next five nervous minutes wondering what I would actually do if someone snatched up his laptop. Would I chase them? Would I scream?

I panic.

So much for designating Thursdays as my public outing days…..

Post 241: Brain Pain

Sometimes I have a good laugh at myself, like when I think back to the other day, (actually it was several days in a row), when I told myself I didn’t need to verbally process anymore; that after 240 days of blogging, I was good to go; that everything had been cleared and cleaned out of my head.

I actually believed I was no longer troubled with thoughts and logical reasoning and cluttered ideas and inspiration and nonstop jibber-jabber of the brain. I was a housewife, a mother, a cleaner of all things grime and cooker of all things organic. I wasn’t this complex person requiring repetitive time of deep processing.

HA! I shout HA!

I actually thought I am entirely NT (neurotypical) and I’ve created all this Asperger’s mumbo-jumbo in my head. I actually thought and thought and thought…until I realized I was thinking an awful lot! So much so, that I likely had Aspergers.

And I got all twisted in my thoughts, again analyzing that perhaps I was trying on the persona of an Asperger’s person for size, actually inhaling and emulating Asperger’s traits because I needed an identity to function in life. That in truth, I was perfecting said Aspergers, as Aspergers was my new inspirational role.

Yes, I’d garbed the facade of an Aspie woman to the state of complete life-like amazement.

And if this be true, if in fact I was a woman convincing herself she had Aspergers, so she knew who to be and how to act (role) in order to function, was that insanity?

And what is insane? And who isn’t insane? Or more so, who is sane?

Then, after hamping (think of my thoughts as a mad, bad ass hamster on a wheel), I concluded, like I have done more than a trillion-dozen times throughout this blogging endeavor, that if indeed I was once again taking on the persona of Aspergers to feel safe in the world, as I need a role to feel safe, then indeed I had Aspergers. Brain Pain!


So last night, I’m thinking, at the late hour of eleven o’clock as I’m watching reruns of the show Glee, and getting all tingly like I get when I hear good music, that I ought not have coffee after the noon hour because then I can’t sleep and my thoughts speed up like Sheldon on The Big Bang Theory.

Then I’m thinking, I relate way too much to characters on television, and how much more superb and brainiac-ish if I related to characters in books. But I don’t. So I’m stuck as a character on television.

So as I’m processing, basically alone, as the rest of the household is sound asleep, including Spastic Colon, aka: my labradoodle Violet, I’m starting to get stomach pangs of growing anxiety, dread, and fear. I’m telling myself it’s the dang coffee, as well as my binge into the wheat-zone. (I try to avoid gluten as it increases thoughts of impending doom….like dying of toe fungus or a nose pimple).

I keep reassuring myself all is okay. That much of what I’m experiencing is bio-chemical, while cursing to the star-fairies: Why do I have to be so fricken sensitive to everything on this planet! But the reassuring (and cursing) isn’t working, because the episode of Glee happens to be about the adorable school counselor having OCD and taking  medication to ease her symptoms.

And I get so tangled up on tiny-amounts-of-anger when I hear the overdone generic fallback, over used by psychiatrists (when speaking of medication) for over a decade now, that hums to the tune of: “If you had diabetes, you’d need insulin. This is no different.” And in my mind, I’m screaming, “Dang straight it’s different. Diabetes is proven and shown on blood tests. It’s in black and white. Plain as day. Mental challenges (issues, trouble, illness, etc.) are not that black and white. It’s not so simple!

And that got me thinking, do I need medication? My husband would shout an adamant NO, as the last time, some six years ago, I was on low dose anti-depressant I ended up with suicidal thoughts. My natural path doctor would concur, and advice continuing my strict diet of healthy eating and supplements/herbs.  But beyond that, what would other professionals think? And what are the professionals’ experiences? And how do they know what’s best for me? And who knows what’s best for me anyhow……  And all these thoughts spun off a minute-long section of a comedy/singing/drama show I’m watching on the boob-tube.

At this point I’m exhausted, but too awake to sleep.

Next came the wave of panic that ensued after I opened an envelope—an envelope from the university I attended for one semester when I was stuck on working towards a second master’s degree; until I was humiliated and discriminated against by the professor(s), and high-tailed it out of the university on my own therapist’s advice, and my inability to stop my crying and my trembling-fear of returning.

Months later, in reflection, I realized, if the terror at the college hadn’t occurred, likely this blog would not exist….so alas, I understand.

The panic I felt upon opening the envelope was energy related to the university.  The university had sent me another bill; a bill that is likely a mistake on their part; which means, once again, I’ll have to play phone tag to try to clear up the financial issue. And this sets me into coffee-plus-wheat induced terror state.

Impending thoughts:

1) What if they are right and I owe that money?

2) What if they are wrong but don’t figure it out and it goes to a collection agency and their error ruins my credit?

3) Boy was I rude when I left that message on the phone to the finance department tonight. Is it okay to get mad? I rarely get mad? What type of example am I setting? That’s not me. Should I apologize when they call? Why should I apologize? Everyone gets mad once in a while. His Holiness the Dalai Lama even says so.

4) The last time they said I owed thousands of dollars, I took them on their word and wrote a check, and then they sent the same amount back to me. What is their problem.

5) Wow, I still have lots of unresolved issues around the university. Maybe I should have sued them. No. That’s not right. That doesn’t feel right. I wonder how much money I might have gotten. Hmmmm?

6) Why is this bugging me so much? I have Aspergers, so the envelope was unexpected…surprise equals panic and fear. Answer: Unresolved financial matters makes me nervous. It is hard to relax until the situation is resolved. I  feel wrongly misjudged and like I did something bad when I haven’t done anything wrong. I am looping on the word “Collection Agency” if not paid by October 21,2012. How could I pay that fast when I just got the envelope?

And now my brain spins on numbers. Months. Days of the week. And back to the money numbers. Round and round with digits and doubts.

7) Deep breaths. Maybe I do need to still verbally process through writing. Maybe.