I just have to say, if you read the title for this post, and are still interested enough to read, I think You are Totally Awesome! But just remember the source of the compliment. Always remember the source!
Premenopausal-Aspie-Freak-Prophet—that’s how I felt yesterday. Not sure if you picked up on that energy, or not.
No one told me there’d be days like these.
Click to see where image was found
Yes, I figured out a lot by watching my own parents and people on television, but didn’t know the heart of mood swings, until my early forties. I feel like I’m back in the pubescent period of discovering aspects of myself that would be better off buried one hundred feet underground, beneath a thousand-pound golden statue of a fierce, scary creature that everyone believes is possessed, but in actuality is a Greek God that turns into a handsome mortal warrior and visits me with passionate kisses at night…I digress.
Today is a dip-cubes-of-dark-chocolate-into-a-mug-of-hot-chocolate day. Yum! Gone are the past few days of dieting. Dieting at certain times of the month is just plain stupidity.
Yesterday, I detoxed something terrible—emotionally and physically. The rings of sweat under the pits of my shirt were simply frightening. (That’s that whole over-sharing Asperger’s part of me that you will either find endearing or offensive.) One time, a couple years ago, I shared on Twitter that I stunk so badly my dog was licking my armpits. It was true.
No animal licked my armpits yesterday, but if given the right circumstances, who knows.
Yesterday, tears came out of me from nowhere, and I was immobilized with dread and fear. I thought for certain my time had come—that time we all as mortals must face. I thought the Gods were escorting me out of here. Yet, here I am! Still blogging. Aren’t you relieved?
Yesterday was not a good writing day. Maybe it had something to do with my literal stinky mood. My first post didn’t resonate with me, and left me all antsy and misunderstood. I do this weird thing, where if my home page of my blog doesn’t vibrate with beneficial energy, I can’t stand it, and I obsess. Dirty D’s, Don’t You Weep, didn’t do anything for me. Think of a creep of a boyfriend/girlfriend latched to your arm that you want to shake off.
Thus, I took away the title of Day 58 from the post. Then, OF COURSE, I felt guilty, like I was hurting the post’s feelings. Got that whole personification thing going on big time. I fretted about the letter D’s feelings. Felt like I’d honored him, put him in the spotlight, and then yanked away his stardom. Bad, me! And then I worried about what my blog readers would interpret by my rash behavior. Worries which led me to write another post; only Melancholic Little Me was back, and coming off of a much-needed chocolate high, and Little Me shared about a God experience, ‘cause that’s what she does when she is sad.
But sharing about God experiences in the past has always, without fail, scared people out of my life. Unless God is used in the context of OMG! Which is a highly, socially acceptable saying that has no actual connection to a higher power source: kind of like a nightlight with a broken bulb plugged into a socket. It’s there—that OMG!—but doesn’t light up or call attention to itself.
It’s so fun being ME! (Gagging myself with my finger.)
I got all wigged-out last night, about taking the title of Day 58 off of one post and applying it to another, that I delved into Escape-Ville. That’s a far away land I plunge into feet first to escape myself.
In Escape-Ville, I did what all citizens of Escape-Ville do: I researched.
Click to see source of image
No one can figure me out, professionals and spouse included, so I rely on Google-God for the answers. He is the King of Escape-Ville. His Queen is a collaboration of non-fiction books, in all forms. And I imagine the court and prince and princesses are documentaries, newspapers, blogs, websites, videos, and the like.
While in the faraway village, ruled by Google, I discovered incarnated angels, indigochildren, and other life forms. I’m officially no longer from this earth—Sir Brain has decided. LV wants to remain an earthling. Crazy Frog—he doesn’t care as long as there are hot toads on the planet where he lands. Hot as in frog legs that sizzle. Wink, wink!
Little Me is convinced Sir Brain is borrowed from someone else. I figure there is some brainless creature on a distant planet wanting to curse me, but lacking the mind to do so. Either that or I’ve been possessed by some demi-god whose sole purpose is to blog and get to know you. It’s a toss up.
Yesterday’s funk—got me thinking…
I was contemplating why I felt drained of all my beneficial energy and spunk. Essentially why spunk had transformed to funk. Hormones and lack of sunlight came up first. Then my iron and vitamin deficiency came up second. There are always my disabilities to consider.
But primarily, what came to mind, were all these school events I’ve had to attend of late. There’s been a bundle: violin concerts, choir, plays, etc. Events with crowds are hard on me. Which is sort of funny, because and event without a crowd would likely be a big flop or burnout, a no-show.
But a room full of people is not my cup of tea (said with a British accent/or should I say UK accent?).
I am overly affected by others’ energy—in person, online, or across the states. Who knows, I’m probably affected by energy across the nations, planets, and quantum physic’s multiple dimensions. That would be just like me, to be affected by another dimension’s being, like some balding barber in Transylvania fretting over an infestation of cockroaches.
A wise friend of mine said it is best to try to raise the energy of another person who is vibrating at a low level. I have tried this by using positive words, support, asking about positive events in someone’s life. But certain types—I’m not pointing any fingers—but certain types of folk, they will continually try to pull me down.
With those types, I find it is best to bolt away at high speed!
I’m pulling this list out of my head as I type. It’s how I’m feeling at the moment. Please don’t hold me accountable. Blame the list on some brainless alien on a distant planet or the whole possession thing. I do hope, if I have to be possessed, it’s a beneficial source of light, and gorgeous, too. Here is my list, straight out of another life form’s mind-source.
People-Types (Sometimes referred to as Energy Vampires)
Lonely Lillys: These are people who lack proper nourishment of the soul. They haven’t acquired all the love needed in life to flourish. They are seekers of others’ light because they are lacking their own light. They have yet to realize that what they seek is already inside of them. Lonely Lillys will cause a person to feel weak and helpless. A person will feel a need to want to help but want to run away at the same time.
Willow Droppers: These are enormous energy takers. They are so filled with others’ energy that they can’t distinguish their energy from others. They take and take without realizing they are doing so. They droop like the willow tree and partially block others’ paths. Much of the energy they collect is not beneficial, and is a combination of rage, anger, disrespect, eagerness, and injustice. They are protesting against something or someone all the time, unable to love themselves, and equally unable to love others. They have stopped realizing they have something beneficial to offer the world beyond their feelings of anger. There is a disproportionate amount of non-beneficial power that causes another person who comes in contact with a Willow Dropper to feel overwhelmed, frightened, and nervous.
Angel Bears: These are people who act like angels but have raging bears inside. They pretend by saying what the other person probably wants to hear, but have a hidden motive at all times. They are not self-conscious and worried; they are not over-compensating; they are not in contact with their inner essence enough to know that they can be themselves and not a model or idea of what others want them to be. The energy of an angel bear is not threatening but odd. There is something amiss and not quite right that one cannot put their finger on. Angel Bears need love and take love, but they do not mean to take. They see themselves as givers.
Juggling Jacks: The energy of a juggler is always changing because the juggler is involved in too much. He or she has too much on their plate and is constantly trying to empty some of their load onto another. The juggler is an energy stealer because the juggler takes the beneficial energy from one and leaves instead a heavy residue of what another does not want or need energy-wise.
Dramatic Diva: Dramatic Divas did not get enough love. They are still seeking love through every action and word. They are very defensive and subjective. They analyze what others say, and wonder if it is directed at them. They are in the spotlight, and if someone else steps in, they drain the person so they cannot shine. Dramatic Divas offer unsolicited advice to make themselves feel better, create drama, and believe their problems are everyone else’s problems. Dramatic Divas are the hardest energy to deal with because they are so busy focusing on themselves and zapping others’ energy they cannot hear what you are saying.
Rapid Rovers: Rapid Rovers steamroll over people, and they enjoy doing it. They know exactly what they are doing and they set out to hurt others and steal their light. Rapid Rovers have been hurt repeatedly in their lives and believe they have no other recourse but to hurt others. They think because they are different that they have a right to be themselves no matter the consequence to others’ feelings. They hide behind titles and names, believing they have a right to do what they please. They do not understand rules and context because they choose not to understand. They are the first to blame others for their wrong doings and the first to lash out. Their energy causes others to want to run, hide, or charge forward and fight. You will know you have been caught in a Rapid Rover’s energy if you find yourself saying or doing things that go against your character and belief system.
People Peezer: These people piss on you. They come across at first as someone who wants to be your best friend, comrade, or buddy. They appear trustworthy, sound-minded, honest, and sincere. But they have a history of backstabbing and serving their own best interest. They will surprise you with their charm, and equally surprise you with their ability to turn against you and throw you to the wolves. Their energy feels comfortable with a strange tinge of discomfort. They have an energy that makes one say: There is just something about them I’m unsure about.
Moody Mac: This person’s energy makes one feel like that ate one too many hamburgers (or veggie burgers). They are heavy in energy, over-compensate, over-eat, over-worry, over-obsess, over-state, over-step, and do pretty much anything you can add over to. They are out of balance and typically without direction or goals. They are seeking help and direction. They are energy takers. They suck up the beneficial moods of others through their actions, words, and presence. They are confused, baffled, and sometimes boring. A Moody Mac needs a hobby or something that enables him/her to shine. If they aren’t shining, they are doom and gloom, coming down on another’s parade. They may appear crazy or out of their mind.
Cinderella Cindy/Charlie: Cinderella Cindy/Charlie is happy all the time. Nothing gets him/her down. She doesn’t understand when others are sad or disheartened, and is the first to say so. He says things like: Cheer up; Things will get better; Don’t worry about it; Focus on the positive. Cinderellas will refer back to a time when they had a rough patch, and explain how they got out of it just fine. Their energy feels heartless and self-centered. They take without meaning to do so. They have beneficial intention, but forget how to empathize. They find it easier to smooth things over than to deal with emotions.
Reactive Reapers: They pull everything apart, analyze, dissect, and worry that what they have discovered somehow affects them as a person. They are convinced someone or something is always out to get them, to find their flaws, to embarrass them, or to point them out of a crowd. They are hyper-defensive and hyperactive. Their energy wears a person down and makes one feel like they are gasping for air. Reactive Reapers can clear out a room. They don’t understand how they are not the center of the universe. They are closely related to Dramatic Divas, but don’t long for the spotlight. They are very much trapped in a cycle of looking for oppression and feeling oppressed as a result.
That’s all alien-brain wrote, folks. Tune into tomorrow for more adventures in Sam’s-Head!
By StrawberryIndigo “My Life In Color” Click on image
Sometimes I get afraid to write. I’m afraid I won’t write the correct message, won’t express myself in the right light, won’t use my words adequately to express the deeper meaning. That I will get prideful, that I will depend on others’ input too much, that I will weep at criticism, that I will offend or scare some away. Such fears keep me from shining. Such fears stop me from trusting.I know innately there is no right or correct way to communicate. I know ultimately there is no failure, and that my words’ power and energy are not dependent upon others’ opinions or reaction. What matters is being honest and true to myself. What matters is trusting who I am. What matters is moving forward with beneficial light and kindness.
I want to begin sharing another part of my journey, experiences that long to be shared to such a degree that an essence knocks at my inner door calling over and over to be opened.
Today I open the door.
The first experience I will share with you is what I would deem remarkable. It was a long time ago, but begs to be shared. Why now, at this exact moment and on this day, I do not know.
Angel and Mary
Written by Samantha Craft on March 27, 2012
Long ago, in the fall of 1990, during a time in my life when I was still training to be a teacher and trapped within the vice of a romantic relationship that left me tormented and lonely, I questioned my place in this world.
I remember vividly sitting up in bed, under my father’s roof, in my bedclothes. I remember staring at my own reflection in the mirrored-closet doors and wailing to God. I was begging, asking for forgiveness, demanding to see a sign, so I would know, without a doubt, that everything would be all right.
It was then, as I was screaming at the top of my lungs for mercy, I heard a voice. A small voice from somewhere, possibly from within, possibly from beyond. A still voice that was so very light and freeing. This would be the first night in my life that I would sleep soundly and free of nightmares. This would be the first night that before drifting into a deep slumber, I would be filled with a soothing energy, a wordless lullaby that moved my entire being in the shape of a figure eight, shifting my neck and back in a peaceful swaying motion.
The voice I heard before I drifted to sleep, whispered only one word—the word Colfax.
During this time, my last years in college, I’d found a friend in Angela, an open-minded, spirited gal who sat beside me in my teaching preparation classes. When I awoke the next morning after hearing the voice, I contacted Angela and explained to her the events of the night.
Trusting my experience, she said, that like me, she believed that something was going to happen with this word Colfax, something powerful. Angela anxiously set about researching the word Colfax in the library. I remember her telling me in class, the next day, that she’d found several places named Colfax in America, and that one such place was located about fifty miles north of us.
I began doodling the word Colfax on my notebook. Colfax was all I could think about. The lady sitting next to me in class, a fellow student named Maryanne, upon seeing my doodles, asked me quietly, “Is that where you are from? Because that’s where I live.”
I soon found out that Maryanne had lived in Colfax for quite some time. I explained to her that I had never heard of the town of Colfax before a few days ago, and that I had a distinct feeling that there was something having to do with Colfax that I was supposed to discover. Maryanne kindly invited me to drive up over the weekend and visit her.
On Saturday, Maryanne, as promised, drove me about the small country town of Colfax. We stopped at a restaurant, a park, and a few other places. All the while Maryanne asked: “Do you sense something?”
I left in the evening discouraged and saddened. I’d sensed nothing, felt foolish, and worried for my sanity and reputation.
These unsettling feelings stayed with me, until a few days later in class, the day Angela came bursting through the door of our classroom.
That day, Angela sat down at my side, caught her breath, and said to me: “I have something to tell you. Something you’re not going to believe!”
I waited.
She continued: “You know about Colfax? Well, it is all over the news this morning! People from all over, as far as Texas, are traveling to Colfax, near where Maryanne lives, to see a vision in St. Dominic’s Catholic Church, some reflection through the stained glass window which looks like the outline of the Virgin Mary.”
Angela scooted in closer. Streaks of her black hair reflected beneath the fluorescent lights. “You were right,” she whispered. “You were right.”
I shook my head and tried to smile, still processing all that Angela had reported.
“What are you going to do?” Angela asked. “Are you going to go back? You knew something important was going to happen there, and it did. It really did. Remember at first, you thought that Colfax was a person or a far away place? And here it is, right up the hill from us!” Angela shook her head. “Isn’t it strange that you’ve already been there, before all of these people? Are you going to go?”
“No,” was all I could think to answer. “I’ve already been.”
It wasn’t until some twenty years later, I realized a profound truth, the fact that the two people involved in my search of the meaning of Colfax, the only two people I confided in and trusted, were named Angela (Angel) and Maryanne (Mary).
Here’s the song, so you can have the tune in your head.
Replace the lyrics Dirty Deeds, Done Dirt Cheap with the words Dirty D’s, Don’t you Weep. And then you’ll know what the inside of Sir Brain sounds like!
Crazy Frog has a crush on Joan Jett. I like her nose. And she’s easier on my ears, than AC/DC. Thus the choice in videos.
I herby proclaim myself a defender of the letter D!
I’ve been thinking about the letter D for about a week now. Yes, this is an example of what I think about. Laugh now, or forever remain silent.What made the D-thinking worse, is having the D’s singing and dancing to the song of Dirty Deeds by AC/DC, inside my head. I knew there was no resting until I wrote about the letter D. My sanity takes precedence over what I write about. Hmmmm??? I have to wonder what that previous sentence actually means.
Did you know that the letter D has a bad rap? Think about it. The letters A, B, and C get all the credit in grade school and college; D is passing, but barely. It’s like the lowest of the lowest, before you fail. Not a very nice position to be in.
Poor lowly, D!
D is associated with words like dirt, ditch, demon and the ruler of the underworld. D is the beginning letter of dystopia, which means a place where all is as bad as possible! I can’t write that sentence without an explanation mark. It literally doesn’t get any worse than dystopia. (That’s humor.)
D starts the word dysteleology, a doctrine of purposelessness in nature, as in nonfunctional or nonessential parts. Yikes. And the letter D is found in one of the most debilitating phobias: dromophobia, the fear of crossing streets (sidewalks can be dangerous, too). Imagine that one! Thinking Aspergers and dromophobia would be an awful combo!
The more I ponder letter D, the more I realize I do a lot of avoiding of D-words. (Sorry, Letter D.)
In fact, I often write for the sole reason of avoiding D-words!
I wager you avoid D-words, too, without even knowing. Take a look at this list. How many D-words do you wish you didn’t dwell upon? How many of these words have the potential to drag you down or get the best of you?
Dirt
Discrimination
Desperation
Divisions
Doctrines
Duties
Deliveries
Dating
Debt/Dollars
Decisions
Disaster
Death
Dying
Depression
Dysphoria (uneasiness/general depression)
Darkness
Despair
Dimwits
Dilemmas
Dirty Duds
Dirty Dishes
Divorce
Dog Doo
Daylight (lack of in Washington state)
Diagnoses
Dumbasses
Dork heads
Disabilities
Diving (I just threw this in because the first time, which was my last time too, that I ever dived into a swimming pool, a honeybee landed on my arm and stung me, right as I was taking my plunge. I took this as a sign to never dive again.)
Dormition (death)
Dubiety (doubtfulness)
Doctors
Dentists
Disappearing
Danger
Driving
Dinner (preparation)
Doorbells, Door knocks (This is for those of us with Aspergers.)
More I thought of: Dieting, Deception, Dementia, Delusions, Dust, Dust-mites, Dander, Dank Days, Dictator, Diminishing Democracy, Digestion, Deficit, Dungeons, Doomsday, Drunks, Dirty Diapers…it’s endless…
I can’t formulate another list using only one beginning letter other than D that thoroughly explains things I dread or worry about, as well as this list. I know. I tried.
If you researchthe letter D, (laughing, thinking this is highly unlikely), you will notice that the letter D has one of the shortest list of positive words available. D is right in there with letters like x and z—limited number of positives. (But a letter that is much easier to use in the game of Scrabble than x and z.)
The letter D has had a HUGE responsibility of holding down a lot of the masses’ frets and worries. Including yours and mine. And the time has come to celebrate D’s uniqueness and positive attributes. To say: “Thank you D for doing the dirty work!”
You can consider me one of those types that gives birthday parties for dogs; just pretend D is a dog. So here’s to you Darling Letter D! We aDore you!
D words to Dig!
Dreams
Dog
Duck
Doves
Deer
Donkeys
Dimples
Disport (play or frolic)
Dance
Dynamic
Dads
Daffodil
Daffy Duck
Dinosaurs
Donuts
Danishes
Darling Dear
Decent
Delicate
Delectable
Desirable
Dreamy
Dazzling
Debonair
Diligent
Dinner
Determined
Divine
Daisy
Dutiful
Dandy
Dessert
Dumplings
And my favorite song when I was eight: Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah! (I’m counting this one.)
I Do!
Did it!
Deserving
Doritos Chips
Diamonds
Perhaps even Dreadlocks
Oh! And Dough, as in raw cookie dough!
And maybe Dark as in Dark Chocolate…am I digressing?
After digging up the D-words, maybe I will finally get that dang Dirty D’s, Don’t You Weepout of my head. (Nope. Still there.)
There is a very good chance, I am being haunted by a mob of classic-rock-loving letter D’s. I can see them with long dark hair head-banding and air-guitaring. Cute D’s but very annoying, they be!
Like my mother always says: Anything is possible.
Thinking I used the word think a lot in this post!
Now I’m realizing, if you primarily speak another language, this post is entirely a dud! Darn it!
Does anyone else have an inkling to want to color in the Big Letter D with the Count from Sesame Street atop the post? I’m thinking purple.
At any given time, from the age of fifteen to twenty-seven, I tried to have a best friend and a boyfriend. This pair of people anchored me: the best girl and the best boy. In some ways, people would consider me lucky, as I seemed to attract the handsome boys. But some handsome boys, and boys in general, I later discovered, could be bad boys, too.
Many people with Asperger’s Syndrome have reported that they didn’t have a romantic relationship for a long time, if ever. Me? I instinctively clung to boys starting at the age of five. Probably as a result of the gap I needed to fill based on the absence of my father and the busyness of my single mother. Being an only child in a world of ghosts, precognitive dreams, and extreme sensitivities to people, places, things, while having an acute sense of sight, sound, hearing, and touch, left me longing to cling to something, if only for balance and retreat.
As I reached my teenage years, I became liken to a high-quality, food storage, plastic cling wrap. I’d seal a male over with my entire essence, and remain stuck there, in full-grip mode. I remember thinking I was experienced with relationships. Keen on how they worked, what to do, and how to keep a “man.” But I wasn’t. I was weathered for certain: rusted around the outside like a metal pole set out in the rain one too many winters. But I definitely wasn’t experienced. I hadn’t the faintest idea of how to take care of my needs and wants, beyond lassoing a male to do things for me. I was quite pathetic, in an unintentional, hadn’t-meant-to-be, way.
By my early twenties, after graduating from college with honors and starting my first teaching job, I was deeply ashamed of the woman I’d become. And more times than not, I didn’t know the part of ME that I played in life—didn’t know my lines or even where to find the script. From one moment to the next I was changing. In one scene I played the role of the dedicated soon-to-be school teacher, and in the next a desperate crazy fool clinging to whatever man she could get her hands on. A fisherman in the game of love, I’d learned to bait my hook and cast my pole, but hadn’t known to catch and release.
As time passed, each man I met, no matter where or when, who showed the slightest interest in me, soon became my new love interest. I was fortunate in high school to have had two boyfriends (at different times) that treated me tenderly and with respect. However, later, I dated men from all walks of life, most of whom were extremely damaged in someway or another. And all who were addicted to something or someone.
The worst of being with a man came in not what they ever did, but what I let myself do. I made men my bed, and I slept in them while walking through life. And I fooled myself repeatedly into thinking I was content. It didn’t matter if the bed was too small, or too big, or if it had lumps. It didn’t matter if the mattress was missing all together and I was made to sleep on the cold hard floor. It only mattered I was in the bed, or at least what I’d thought to be a bed. My mind fooled me. My heart fooled me. My logic fooled me. While all along my spirit wept.
There has never been such a horrible part in my life as the years I walked half-blind to my own wanting. In essence I was a prisoner, unable to move forward, sideways, or even backwards without pushing, dragging, or tricking myself in any given direction. Best to stand still in one spot—best not to move an inch—if that was possible. But it wasn’t. I had to keep going. I had to keep stepping somewhere.
The highlight of my dating career had to be the season I spent with the habitual lying, sexually addicted Don—a man five years my senior, who behaved ten years my junior. At first glance I’d fallen head-over-sandals in love with Don. The summer day he confidently strode through the Catholic daycare where I worked, I’d tucked myself halfway behind a shelf of books and drooled over his perpetually sun-kissed skin. He was everything I’d wanted, dark and handsome, and tall enough to look down at me with his bedroom eyes.
The times Don and I were together weaved in and out sporadically through a span of half a decade. When I first met Don he was separated from wife number one; when I last reunited with Don, he was struggling to patch it up with wife number two. I was the in-between, but one Don swore up and down he intended to marry.
The majority of our relationship played out like an ill-plotted soap opera, with me as the dimwitted, star-struck mistress, and Don as the notorious villain. I can laugh now, find many lessons in the journey with Don, even thank him for the crash-course in what-not-to-do ever again; but back then, having no other models for beneficial love relationships and no avenue for escape, I was stuck in the mire of pain and misery, a self-invented trap that I had no idea of how to release. I cried daily. I wrote dark or needy poetry. My focus from morning to-night was Don. My life was Don. My reason for living was Don.
There was the time I dialed his number obsessively, about twenty times, just to hear his voice on the machine; the time his lover called me and said: “Just so you know I’ve been sleeping with Don every morning after he leaves your house. I’m those ‘business trips’ he’s been on.”; the time he totaled his uninsured truck out-of-town, and called me to come get him from the hospital, even though he’d been secretly rendezvousing with another that day; the time Don and I threw a Halloween party (which I obsessed and over planned about) and no one came (except a few of my teaching program college mates), because all of Don’s “friends” didn’t respect him; the time I drank an entire bottle of wine and slammed my finger in the closet, because I’d yet again been waiting for Don to show up.
He had a habit of just not showing up. Just not being there. I’d come to expect it. To recognize the raw acid-burning pain in my chest that signified the abandonment soon to come. There was pain continually lurking behind the wall of my psyche. I’d be in bed, the only one awake, and ritually would cry up to the heavens, begging for a way out, for understanding, but mostly for a way to make him love me.
I didn’t know any better. No one had taught me. And Mother, though I love her, hadn’t prepared me. Everything I’d learned from romance came from Mother or movies, or maybe from watching soap operas or another person. I didn’t have standards. I didn’t know what standards were. And I didn’t know why someone wouldn’t or couldn’t love me. I thought everyone was good, everyone just, everyone honest, everyone sorry.
Everyday Asperger's 