depression

Day Thirty-Six: Sea Turtle Style

| Aspergers Girls

 

I’m once again on the verge of tears. Which, for me, isn’t that unusual. Though, in totality, I’ve likely cried 100 times more in these last two months than in the last few years. I’m upset and have gnawing-tummy pain.

The feeling stems from having had just left another message for the Dean of the College of Education at the university I am (I was?) attending. I’ve yet to be withdrawn from the class, even though I have decided to stop my course work. This leaves me in an unsettling position, without closure, and without finality. I’m an INFJ on the Myers Briggs test and an Idealist. What these personality traits boil down to is that I need !fricken! closure.

I’m so nervous inside. I’ve been waiting for the Dean’s phone call for over ten days. I was very social-rule-conscious about not calling her too much, after I received a slap in my self-esteem from one professor who told me my two (count them: two) emails stretched over the time of one week—seven days apart—we’re too frequent and urgent. ?? As loony as I think the professor’s judgment was, no matter, I’m hyper-sensitive about contacting anyone at the university.

I’m thinking it’s getting to the point that I ought to share what’s going on with you, only there’s a little part of me, probably Sir Brain, (as he is the push-over, and the token naïveté of my geek posse), who wants to not burn any bridges, not lay blame, and not rouse attention to the situation. LV is secretly hoping that we might attend a summer session at the university. Little Me, I’d like to magically transform into a sea turtle and swim off the coast of Maui.

No such luck.

I struggle with what I can share, what action constitutes grounds for taking care of myself and sharing MY story, and what is best kept in private. The dilemma in what to write in this blog all comes down to my tendency to over-share, and then eventually regret what came out. The hard part is not knowing if this Dean is going to be another authority-figure whose actions I interpret as inconsiderate, non-empathetic, and downright mean. I’m worried she won’t call, yet again, or that when she does call, I’ll be heartbroken. If you see two posts today, in your email inbox, consider me heartbroken.

I’m hoping for one post. I’m hoping the Dean’s call will be productive and positive. But in order to get my tuition back, I have to file a complaint. Or I could walk away silently (without expressing my concerns), withdraw, and be out the money.

Speaking my truth means putting other people in a bad light—which I dislike with a passion. I’ve always had a hard time disliking people, even people who might be considered as having done me wrong. I have trouble with understanding hate and retaliation. I understand extreme disappointment, agonizing humiliation, anger for circumstances, embarrassment, grief, and a host of other not-so-comfy emotions, but I don’t understand vengeance. If I had a little dab of vengeance in me, I figure I’d probably not have much trouble hanging out the truth of the situation.

Once, when I had to be a witness to a man standing trial, I couldn’t muster up any anger. Instead I felt sorry for him: the potential loss of his business, his embarrassment. And he was a man being accused by six women for misconduct, me being one of the victims. Still, I couldn’t feel anything but deep sadness for everyone involved.

I don’t consider this inability to have vengeful feelings a negative aspect of myself; I wish though, at times like these, I carried more of a warrior quality, and less of a wounded healer spirit.

Sometimes people say to let go, relax, give your worries to a higher power, take life day-by-day; sometimes I say those words to myself. The challenge is in having this brain. As I’ve shared, LV just doesn’t work like that. I choose not to medicate myself. I choose not to drink myself to oblivion. I choose not to partake in illegal substances. My body is too sensitive for most mainstream fixes. I can’t even have chocolate without zits or a full glass of wine without gastric pains.

I’ve tried (and still partake) in many alternative treatment plans—from acupuncture to supplements. Still, LV is always about. What works best for my mind (and body and spirit) is a good hot shower, keeping up with the house cleaning, exercise, yoga, sauna treatments, spiritual readings, solitude, uplifting music, healthy eating, getting out of the house and writing—those actions keep me running efficiently, without as much thought-clutter.

Only problem is, with university loose ends hanging over my head, I’ve had the motivation of a slug.

My husband is even worried. Which is stating a lot. He is that Spock-like type from Star Trek who deals with emotions about as often as I deal with revenge. For him to come out and tell me that he’s concerned about me, is saying something fairly vital.

So, as I’ve today, I’ve given myself a few ground rules. I know by putting the words in written form, smack in front of my face (and yours), I’ll hold myself accountable.

To Do:

  1. Start writing no sooner than 9:00 am.
  2. To do absolutely before I write: shower, morning chores, green-tea (shower and tea cuts down on physical pain)
  3. Check blog once in morning and once in evening, only.
  4. Partake in at least one of these each day: sauna, yoga, walk, or swimming.
  5. Take pool aerobics at least once a week. (Be a sea turtle!)
  6. Read spiritual books once a day.
  7. Call someone other than husband a few times a week.
  8. Partake in what I enjoyed before my diagnosis: coffee shop, second-hand stores, nature walks, educational classes, matinée, etc.
  9. Re-explore all the writings I scribed as a spiritual counselor.
  10. Be present and avoid sugar.

Right at the time I wrote number seven, one of my very best buddies called me from California, and she is booking a flight for a visit with me in April! I love how the universe works. Going to follow my rule number three right now. Look forward to touching base soon. Time to crawl out of my shell and face the world again—sea turtle style.

Sea Otter Taken on a Recent Boat Trip

Day Twenty-Five: A Prophet in My Pocket

| Aspergers Girls

 

I have a prophet in my pocket.

Ever since I identified my little voice inside my head as LV, and labeled the gray squishy world-ball as my heterogeneous Brain, The Prophet in my Pocket has been speaking to me in rhyme and rhythm.

The Prophet part makes sense to me. All through my life I’ve had precognitive dreams, premonitions, and those “feelings.” I can recount the events in detail. They are numerous. Grand in scale, like the time I predicted an influx of people would be traveling to the small town of Colfax, California to see a spiritual manifestation. Or smaller in scale, but just as potent, like when I saw my mother’s friend die in a VW Bug exploding on Homan’s Highway in Carmel, California, days before my mother’s friend’s death.

I’ve had strange encounters, strange coincidences, and a plethora of people tell me that they know me from somewhere. I’ve also been sensitive to physical pain, since I can remember, starting with terrible intestinal pains and rashes.

I’m officially deemed handicapped, even have that nifty handicapped plaque, that comes in handy when my pain threshold is registering low on the scale. By all definitions, if I wasn’t such a poop-head at times, in theory I’d qualify as a Shaman in some cultures. The thing that sucks about being a Shaman, or anyone born with distinct spiritual abilities, is that the healers always seem able to help most everyone, except themselves.

I think that’s why I have a prophet in my pocket. I think he’s there to guide me through the proverbial mire of life—the sensitivities, the pains.

Looking back at my writings, sometimes I’m amazed I’m still here. I remember an intake psychologist telling me, years ago: “And you’re sure you’ve never been addicted to drugs or had any form of substance abuse? It’s hard to believe you could survive all that, and not turn to something.”

I turned to something. I turned to my faith. And fortunately the powers that be provided me with distinct mentors and supporters along my path.

Which leads me to the current problem I face, that has resulted in my current funk. Recently I’ve lost many of my supporters. Some have disappeared through the engulfment phase of a new love interest and others through moving to a new physical location—some thousands of miles away.

I’m understanding this dissipating funk more clearly. In the last ten months alone many of my supporters have disappeared, my beloved dog passed unexpectedly, a professional used callous words about Asperger’s Syndrome, my mother-in-law and my mother were diagnosed with cancer, my son had a serious reaction to medication, a homeless person ran his bike into my moving van… this on top of the everyday stresses of raising three boys, with one on the spectrum, keeping a household running while disabled, and dealing with my sensitivities, coupled with my recent diagnosis of Aspergers. Deep breath! No wonder I’m sad.

This prophet of mine, if he does indeed exist, I fancy the idea of him residing in my right pocket. I can picture him there, rather small and distinguished looking, like a little cartoon stereotypical university professor. He has the type of beard that’s good for running fingers through, and spectacles that are speckled with dust. He doesn’t brush his wiry white hair. His appearance is not even secondary. His appearance doesn’t matter to him one bit. He speaks in rhyme or rhythm, or very fast in a combination of visuals and streams of words. He uses symbols lots, and has a glorious sense of humor.

The Prophet in My Pocket is the one I pull out often in my sacred hours of writing. He whispers to me through my interior voice (LV), sometimes for the stretch on an hour, and then he gently recedes, returning from whence he came. Here’s a poem he is whispering to me now:

There’s a Prophet in My Pocket

There’s a prophet in my pocket,

And he’s always standing near,

Listening to my stories,

And then whispering in my ear,

He doesn’t long for fame,

Or simplicity of life,

He reaches for the stars,

And lends them through my strife,

His answers are so clever,

Though sometimes rather thick,

With philosophy and prose,

That pours out rather quick,

I think he’s standing near,

When I dream of what’s to be,

I think he hears me cry,

When I’m scared of what I see,

He tells me I am loved,

And that all will be all right,

He tells me to just trust,

And embrace my inner light,

I’m a beacon on a hill, he tells,

And my glow is rather bright,

And you see, he says to me,

“Because of this you fight,

The shadows that draw near,

The games they try to play,

The gifts you carry with,

They try to take away,

Be gentle with yourself,

Your challenges are grace,

Humbled in your walking,

Humbled in your pace,

Remember I stand strong,

As the shadows linger in,

Standing at the doorstep,

Readying to win,

All their twisted dealings,

All their twisted means,

They are nothing to you, Darling,

Even though it seems,

Just call on me, your prophet,

Whenever you’re in fear,

Just reach into your pocket,

And know I’m always here.”

~ Sam Craft (2012)

Much Love ~ Sam

Day Twenty-Four: Life is Like a Roller Rink (and a letter from LV)

| Aspergers Girls

 

February 22, 2012

My Dearest Samantha,

Here are a few things you need to get straight. You are a loving being, and humble enough. Don’t pray for any more humility, please, because you already know where that gets you. Take your husband’s advice, and ask for more pride, for goodness sake!

And don’t eat frozen carrot cake by the fork-full when you’re stressed out; it’s not good for the system, or that spare tire you’ve got going around your waist. Thanks to you, we’ve got this non-stop, hacking cough, because YOU shoveled the cake so fast a nut scratched your throat. Thirty minutes later, after a cough suppressant, Benadryl, and cough drop, you’re still coughing. And so loudly, you’ve concerned the youngest lad. And you don’t even like carrot cake. You only like the frosting. What’s up with that?

What’s going on, anyhow? You know what I’m talking about. Where’s that go-getter who wouldn’t let the world stop her? The lady, who taught, counseled, advocated, and even woke up early to meditate? Where is she?

Somehow, when I wasn’t looking, you’ve latched on to this Aspergers gig like there’s no tomorrow.  By the way, I read your post from a few days ago, and I don’t talk that much during most movies, just the boring romantic comedies with no plot worth following.

Come on Girl, I’m dying in here watching you beat yourself all up. And who cares about the professor not recognizing your writing ability and knocking you down points, because you didn’t follow her rules to the exact. That’s life.

You can’t always earn full points in life. Isn’t that what you always tell Joe—to not let what others’ think bother him. But here you are worrying all the time that you’re not enough. Get with it, already. You are already enough, and so much more.

Pull out the prayers and poetry you use for inspiration. Reread some of the plethora of spiritual and religious books you’ve collected. Stop focusing on only one genre: That of poor little old Sam and Aspergers. You’re creating more clutter in that brain of yours than you need.

Yes, you can write a post like this. Who fricken cares? If this is the only post they read, and they think your nuts, so be it. I might wear those tight sweaters with the LV monogram, but I’ve got enough of Brain for the both of us. So let me take the lead awhile, would you?

Stop trying to control life and just ease up and relax. Just because you don’t think you can, doesn’t mean you can’t. You aren’t even trying. You’ve got all you need around you, and more, but still you wallow in self-pity. This isn’t thirty years ago. You don’t need to be sad anymore. This is life—right now, this day, this moment, seize it.

Get that pedicure! See that movie. Have that tea with a friend. Stop hiding in your house. Blast the music. Open the windows. Let the fresh air in. Bang pots and pans. Light incense. Scream. Shout. Cheer. Do whatever it takes to break out of this funk.

Yes, Scooby’s dead. Yes, you have to retrieve his ashes. Yes, sometimes college totally sucks, and your fixations seemingly suck you dry. But you know what, you are the one who has a choice. You always have the glorious choice. Continue to sit on your rump and feel sorry for yourself, or get up and get moving. I don’t care how far or where. Just take a step in any direction.

I know this is harsh, but harsh is what you need right now. I know what’s best, and I see what you’ve been doing. Enough already. Get back to where you were. Nothing has changed that drastically. If you must, keep mourning the loss of Scoob. But please stop mourning the loss of you! You’re still here. You’re still you. Even when others don’t see, you’ll always be you.

Here’s a poem to keep handy. Now get of your butt and start skating! The world’s waiting.

Your Friend for Life,

LV (the Little Voice inside my head)

Life is Like a Roller Rink      (February 2012)

Life is like a roller rink.

We each groove and glide to our own beat.

We slow down, speed up, and then slow down again, taking the turns as they come.

Though others may knock us down, run us over, or push us out-of-the-way, we get back up eventually, and keep moving.

We glide forward and sideways, and every once in a while find ourselves going backwards.

After twirling too fast for too long, we laugh; we cry.

We hold hands to keep our balance.

In moments of bravery, we speed out to the inner circle, keeping our pace in the fast lane.

In moments of caution, we remain on the outer circle, gripping the wall for dear life.

Sometimes another gently pulls us off the wall.

We get blisters and bruises.

We ram into others, stop and apologize, and then lend a hand.

We tangle up our feet and fall on our butts.  Some of us have more grace, some of us more padding.

If we aren’t careful, when we try to pull others up, we fall down right with them.

From the sideline, we observe those gliding by, wondering how they do the things they do, or questioning if we might, someday, do the same thing.

We sweat.  We stink.

Sometimes we trade in the skates that served us well, in hopes of discovering a better fit or style.

There are speeders who don’t pay attention to anyone else, until they collide into someone, or collapse from exhaustion.

Racing ahead, we partake in games, in hopes of a prize.

Some are left behind.

While many never seem to catch up.

We feel the wind in our faces and the rush of adrenaline.

We are surrounded by lights that illuminate our way.

Some spin and do tricks, in hopes of gaining attention.

Somewhere, up high in a box is a person in charge.  We may make a request or keep moving without second thought.

We don’t take much notice that we are going round and round, only to end up right back where we started.

When we rest, regroup, and nurse our injuries, there is nothing that can stop us from getting back on our feet, and starting the circular journey, all over again.

And in the end, when the music inevitably stops, we all must leave.

By Everyday Asperger’s Blog author, Samantha Craft