identity

469: A Circumstantial State

| Aspergers Girls

I sometimes have a strong creative urge that I try to suppress, an urge brought on by an out-and-out pure response to chaotic, gone-haywire emotions of devastation, inadequacy, and not-enough. I become this questioner of questions, a process that is, I find, both cumbersome and too deliriously complex to explain and/or express. Yet, I try, as I do now, for that knocking upon knocking of my withered soul continues.

The truth is, by tomorrow, or the next day, I will be back to equilibrium, my hormones returned to some state of balance, my outlook, previously dimmed, much lightened, and my heart’s endeavors reacquainted with the concepts of hope and inspiration. But, for today, at this moment of juncture, life hurts. And that’s the way it is, all in all, a painful circumstantial state.

I am my worst critic. I am a deviously keen observer of self. Devious in the sense, based on my mind’s delight and current disposition, I can project pretty much any circumstance onto myself. I can create me into anything, and quite convince myself of the truth.

I am a fabulous debater. So fabulous indeed that I can argue both sides of any argument presented, detaching all emotions and outcomes from my viewpoint. I can just see into infinity at times: this spiraling of truth upon truth, knowledge upon knowledge, shared and passed on wisdom and leakage from the collective unconscious. Anyone can. That is, anyone can see what I see, if he or she chooses. Thing is, I don’t choose. At least I don’t think I do. It just is. I was kind of born that way, I conjecture. As it seems my brain has always seen in a limitless fashion, where inherently the truths of truths stem out of some pool of knowledge deep down within the center of some agreed upon collective idea of real. It’s a crazy way to live, literally, to see the disentanglement of complexities simplified into a raw element of nothingness. It’s bound to leave me feeling buoyantly afloat in a world filled with deep heaviness.

I am adrift more often than not, inside some self-manifested escapism. When I am not escaping into the concept of trying not to escape, when I am not purposely trying to escape the effort of mindfulness and being present in a world that screams for me to run, then I am trying to understand what relief and alleviation arises in my conquest of leaving reality. If it weren’t for my mind’s ability to take me adrift, afar off from this land of man, then inevitably I’d be lost onto myself again and again in a torrential, destructive doomsday way—broken, penetrated, skinned, and left to die. Escapism is my safety net from the world of worlds, this place created by man as reality, when nothing exists outside the reasonings of the philosopher’s ways. Escapism is in actuality the very lifeboat that removes me from the sinking ship of knowing and seeing far too much, and returns me to the shores of tranquility. For how can a one, that I seemingly be, exist in a place so full of torturous ways, and yet smile at the image in the mirror she neither understands nor recognizes?

I am rebirthed moment upon moment, acutely aware of my inadequacies in awareness, and completely mesmerized by the makings of this being that I am. Indirectly I give and take upon myself, filling my being with reassurance and then taking down the walls of pride or exterior notions of excelling or succeeding. I am trapped in a way, inside two extremes of being. The one that is to the left which is bleak and dark and reminding me of the world I wish to not be a part of: the illusions, the lies, the schemes, the projections; and the one to the far right of nowhere that is bright, but too bright, a burning scorching idealism that leaves the adventurer worn out by her own doings. I fall back and forth between the lines, finding balance briefly in the state of not being, only to be returned to the merry-go-round of limiting attachment. Wherein I want to belong, to be a part, to be entirely present, the greater part wants to dive away from the teetering of this life, and be not part of something thats very essence is ego-bound and self-limiting.

I crave to belong, yet, I long for the reprieve of isolation. With my own-ness, this state of being individualized and in hiding, I am less likely to be circumvented and exposed to the dispositions of others—to their thoughts, their opinions, their energies. I am less likely to be evaluated and reevaluated by an outside self that predetermines who I am before I am even made fully aware of reality myself. I am less likely to be molded into this prefabrication of idea of who I should be based on some prefabricated gatherings of hankerings and inklings created by absolute strangers (to themselves). I am, in my awareness of others, made into this idea of what is and what to be, or better yet, how to be. In being outside of the state of isolation, I am knowingly put into a stream of realities that don’t fit, don’t feel good, and actually hurt. Here I am made to practice again and again the process of letting go, the interjection of forgiveness and understanding, the recourse of relying on a source beyond me for the release of the echoes of hatred, demise, and retribution. Here, in this spinning nonsense of man, I am made to practice again and again to be someone I see not, to be that which is above the circumstances of sorrow and suffering. And here I am exhausted in my efforts to be all that I can be, beyond these conceived ideas of what is.

What I am becomes lost to me. I cannot grasp reality. I have sunk myself into the vastness of nonexistence. And I become lost in the labyrinth of endless possibilities. I seem to seep out of this life into the places of other lives. To see the extremeness of being in the unlimited possibilities. How each choice affects outcome. How each decision determines the blueprint of further coursings. How every ripple leads to movement upon movement. My mind is a centipede of motion, leg upon leg churning the outcome. I cling to nothing and loop again down the rabbit hole of trying to comprehend the incomprehensible.

In the making of one word, I see a thousand opportunities. Life is set out for some in such simplicities. The delights of the palate. The makings of grand friendships. The works of fine art. The creation of something magnificent. From where I stand, I become twisted in the details, the analysis, the facts beneath facts. The origin of the word, and the founder of the origin. What is it that is simple? What is the definition of delight? How is grandness defined? What makes something fine? What makes something ‘works’? How is magnificence created?

What is truth, if every word is a window to a thousand more doors? What is communication, if what I am is defined by that which I am not? If every word is chained to a reaction based on a previous reaction by a unique individualized perception based on a collaboration of previous collections, then where is the connection? Where is the place where I reach out and blend with another? Is it not in constant isolation we exist, continually trying to break through the barrier of I to blanket over the concept of we? To cover us as two conjoined and to remain outside the shell of isolation, whilst all the world is a slumber?

458: Morphers Anonymous; What is ‘Self’

| Aspergers Girls

I am wondering if the female with Asperger’s Syndrome could also encompass a loss-of-identity-of-self element.

I have always had a hard time understanding my own interests, likes, wants, and needs. My desires become obscured and distorted based on my current love-interest. This could be a love of a person, as in friendship and/or romance.

I seem to morph in and out of existence based on my current lifestyle and interest. I can hold onto certain elements of self, primarily my special interests since childhood, e.g., writing, drawing, poetry, nature, animals, music, but other interests and ‘trademarks’ of my personality readily change without much effort and without me even knowing based on my interaction with another person.

Somethings that hold true and steadfast for my character and sense of self include:

Honesty
Integrity
Great Love and Passion
Processing
Lack of Manipulation
Lack of Game Playing
Intellectual in depth Processing
Tenderness
Kindness
Sensitivity
Intense Introspection
A Child-Like Heart and Spirit
Innocence
Hope
Trusting
Sharing
Giving
The Desire to Serve
The Desire to Make a Difference

The parts of my life that alter when I have an interest in another:

Spending less time on a past special interest or activity.
Focusing on new relationship, sometimes with nothing else seeming to matter, except pleasing the other person by becoming akin to their likes and interest.
Vast amounts of emotional energy spent on the person, in comparison to the amount previously spent on self or another.
Partaking in future planning regarding the person.
Over-analyzing and focusing on aspects of my appearance, habits, behaviors, and goals; effectually comparing myself to the other, and wondering in what ways my self could better reflect the other person.
Revamping of what I choose for entertainment, recreation, and sometimes food/drink, clothing, etc.
Taking on the likes and interests of the other person, including book, music, and movie genres, entertainment, social events and various activities.
Taking on mannerisms, dialect, ways of speech, or other unique characteristics of the person.
Taking on belief systems, philosophies and/or personality traits of the person.

This is usually not done at a conscious-level. Typically, I am blinded to my own behavior, justifying what I am doing with some mind-conditioning or logical sequencing, such as rationalization or total denial. This morphing differs in codependency, as I remain intact in my self-esteem and sense of worth. I do not enable. I have clear boundaries of what I will not tolerate or allow in my comfort zone. I maintain a sense of joy in my own life and accomplishments. But it is similar in codependency in my want to over-give, transform based on another, and my tendency to obsess, fantasize, and make the person more important in reality than he or she truly is. In some ways the person becomes like my god or sun, and I the dependent mortal or planet.

Even with all my growth and self-reflection, I still get caught in the pull-push state of wanting to be myself in completion and wanting to figure out how to be what another wants me to be. Even with this strong awareness, this morphing of who I am transpires without warning or clear indication, until I am in the transient state of a chameleon of my personhood.

This morphing is a common part of the female with Asperger’s condition; the female with Aspergers molds her own behaviors and mannerisms in a way that she believes will satisfy the need of her beloved.

The downfall in this behavior is foremost: losing self-identity.

The other issue at hand is the female with ASD cannot ever meet another’s expectations in completion, because the wants and needs of another individual (aka her ‘best friend’) are in constant transition.

It is important to note that this act of morphing is instinctual in nature to many females with ASD. She is seemingly programmed in the brain to morph based on attraction or interest in another human being.

I repeatedly try to transform my own ways and behaviors to meet the needs of another, without even realizing I am partaking in this behavior. Once I catch myself in this chameleon action, I pull back and wonder why I have once again fallen into the trap of losing self. From here I question the sense of self in all aspects, and become boggled by the concept of simply being.

During the morphing phase, I live my life through the eyes of one person. I see myself being watched by this someone at a distance. I see myself adapting, conforming, and molding in an attempt to fit some faraway expectation or goal, I have subconsciously created. I watch my own self through the eyes of someone else. I match my movements, choices, and even sometimes my thought processes to what I think this individual expects or desires from me. I do this without much awareness or analysis, much like a robot following a pre-instructed and installed program. There isn’t much thought to what I am doing or why I am doing it, beyond doing.

Usually this perspective, the way I interpret myself being ‘seen,’ and how I respond in word, thought, and action, shifts every year or so, depending on the duration of a relationship. Everything I do, I imagine and I believe is seen through the eyes of a human being beyond myself (boyfriend, lover, husband, best friend, boss). My movements, my words, my way of being, revolve around this someone beyond myself.

It is like constantly having an overseer observing me. I question would he/she behave like this? I ask, “Is this bringing me closer to his/her liking?” It isn’t as much a need for approval as wanting to match myself to this other. Interestingly, at the same time this morphing is transpiring, I still maintain my own self-esteem and self-love. I like who I am. I want to be me. But I somehow get lost in the process of befriending this high-interest person.

High-interest in the keyword and key point.

Without the high-interest, I am not drawn into the morphing and adjusting of self. With high-interest, my brain attaches, much like it does with a special hobby or activity, and I become a scientist dissecting the person, as if the person were a project. My brain’s natural ability to dissect, take apart, and rearrange pieces of a whole into a new whole takes over. I become a detective of self and other; again, not typically at a conscious level; though I have some awareness of what I am doing, a cloak to my full reality remains. This cloaking action resembles some sort of protective mechanism and functions the same way as in my high-interest projects, (aka: fixations). I cannot seem to pull myself out, or properly analyze and confront my own behavior, until the passionate interest has subsided; the stopping point/tilting point usually being a new special interest. I go from one to the other, a child on the monkey bars of a playground, not letting go of the one in hand, until the next in hand is firmly grasped.

Through this way of being, I lose track of who I am. Yet, I wonder if I ever was to begin with.

If I take time to process this sense of being, and the ‘whys’ of the way I respond in passion to another, I become confused in thoughts of ‘what is being?’ and ‘what is self?’ I have no idea of who I am, beyond space and matter, and a reflection of the universe. I am ever-changing and transitioning substance. I adhere to the string-theory, to ancient philosophies and belief systems—that of being nothing but the combined perception of others. In truth, I know a thousand others would have a thousand interpretations of this self I am, and in a year’s passing even these opinions would all transition. I am never stagnant, and awaken a new person not daily, but minute by minute. I have no general sense of self or of being. I am that I am. In essence I am nothing.

Perhaps because of the ‘no self’ theory, I transform without intention when fixated on another. Perhaps, like some spiritual teachers have professed, I am merely taking on the characteristics reflected in the person I am observing because I am only, and will always only be, a reflection. Perhaps, I am wired in a way, spiritually or biologically, in which I am not a solid form made to stay stagnant and unwavering; or perhaps I am more keenly alert and aware of the changes and transformations inside of me, to a point that the changes distract from me recognizing a fully forming personhood.

Regardless of my hypothesis, I get trapped in the cyclical repetition of morphing.

In the last season of inquiry, I have reached a new threshold, in which I have questioned: What do I want in another person? What makes me happy? What are my true needs?

The only answer I hear is: love

Beyond unconditional love and acceptance, (and beyond Maslow’s hierarchy of basic needs), I don’t understand needs.
Any needs, to me, seem obscure and border on self-based, ego-needs. Who am I to claim a need without at the same time delegating to another how I wish him/her to be or respond (change) in order to please and satisfy me? And what is it inside of myself that is not complete and satisfied in which I need another to fulfill me?

With these thoughts, I become entangled in trying to contemplate the very basic nature of self needs and self-identity.

452: Scarlet White

| Aspergers Girls

The agony is torture, pure fire to the soul—the way such solitude is split into ravenous venom, devouring me as leash to the chain, choking the breath of life.

I am that I am. And then I am not. Lost again in some unfathomable labyrinth of thought.

Where and why eludes and leaves a trail of dust dried blood. Help, I scream from somewhere else. Inaudible and out of direction. No path left. No place to go. But inward, where I already dive deeper in the vine of self.

Is it not this place again? The familiar place of no sunrise and no sunset. Where the cold dribbles down the walls of caves, and placates the answers with sweet soft denial. Is it not this somewhere found in the furrowed causeway of my mind’s nimble foresight? My meanderings all leading back to here. Some forgotten spot of eternity missed.

I am a vagrant, a vagabond, a ghost traveler to my own shadow. Unable to distinguish between in and out, what is penetrating and what is piercing, what is poking to release its plundering poison and what is slicing to divide where I begin.

I am invaded by darkness, the soul long forgotten in the night, the enemy out to demolish the light. I am what is not in the way I move without motion and touch without rhythm, stagnant in an air of dismal lies. Here I stand in the place I was, only the place no longer is. Here I stand in the place I was, only I no longer exist.

Wobbling is my fortitude. Swaying, ignited by the dreams unwound, the sword plunged further into the stream of mystery spat open. Coughing up the remnants of who had been. Torn down into oblivion, obliterated and left as carrion to the greedy hunger of naught.

They find me, these naysayers, and call out to the lost sheep I am, with doings undone in their torturous view. I am but what they wish, set asunder below them, and made to bleed about as the rabbit sunken in the snare of despair. My white coat diminished by the scarlet fever set upon me.

Who am I but this child undone, left in the valley of rivers, and blown into the sea of forgiveness? Chiseled and chiseled, as if stone were the heart of me. Made to blend in with misery, to melt in the doorway of pain. Charred to the bone with the starch black of misery.

And here, still, he comes. With his arrow strung across the shoulder of time. His answer seized in the windstorm. Here, still, he is. This gentle grace of knowing naught and knowing all in the splinter of thyme. He enters me as clear day. The light upon my forehead new. The pressing spot of hope spun open into the rebirthing. Come, my lady, he declares, pronouncing me the victorious one, the homecoming of his awaiting. Come, my lady, he mends, his words the golden thread of healing.

And I follow, as blind lady lost in his rapture, spread open by the seams to his glorious name. Come, I do, and trace out my destiny in his waters, dancing in the stream of desert turned dream. At last in the home of home. No longer chased down by the dark ones seeking to erase what has been brought to them as buried treasure uncharted. No longer stalked by the nightingale’s ghostly brother, who pecks out a song of bitter vengeance.

In only this way I am free. In only this way. When the darkness sets upon my soul and the bleeding ceases to flow without follow, and the voice comes, from the seeping of my chaliced tears. Only then I am home. Only then, in the making of self whole.

442: deep within myself

| Aspergers Girls

I want to please you. I want to be ‘normal.’ I want to come out of my shell and fit in. I want you to see me in all my glory and love me in my completion. I want to be all you ever wanted and needed.

I hear, from deep within myself.

I want to dance like no one is watching. Believe no one is watching, and spin and spin without a care in the world. I want to be free. Open to all without fear of over-exposure.

I cry, from deep within myself.

Why is it that my existence seems so different and locked up? A prisoner without a key? Why must I continue to pace, one corner to the next, chiseling away at invisible barriers?

I pound, from deep within myself.

I am tired of waking up to me. This sameness unaltered in every way—still tired. Still scared. Still this child who was dropped down into a misty nowhere.

I plead, from deep within myself.

I hate it here, inside this me. When the walls close in, and the voices of unreason come, the mind cycling through unwanted thoughts, over and over, some washing machine gone haywire, off-balance, loud, uncomfortable rocking.

I bang, from deep within myself.

I should know better by now, the world tells me so. The world dictates my wellness. How to be. What to say. Where to go. Whom to turn to. What to run away from. Bombarding me with their fragmented answers they hold as truths.

I watch, from deep within myself.

Back and forth the dreams go. One day full. The next moment empty. Unbridled towering emotions surging through me. An ocean, a river—the continual rapids of intake. Equilibrium broken. Eternally walking on the high wire above the crashing falls.

I breathe, from deep within myself.

Where am I today? Where did I go? I feel the eyes of judgment. Daunting glares they are. Again? Again? Again? Can she not learn? Can she not break her pattern? Hasn’t she had enough of this self she proclaims?

I wither, from deep within myself.

Tethered to the billion ideas lingering. A graveyard alive of circumstantial evidence. Dug up. Exposed to the rotted bone. And still empty solutions. A ghost alive, drifting away, as the shell collapses beneath the weight of the world.

I separate, from deep within myself.

Hold me, I proclaim. Touch me. I shout out. Not wanting to be moved in a human way. Not wanting the flesh. But what is beyond the flesh. The richness of soul to penetrate mine and make me into the woman less lost and lonely.

I shiver, from deep within myself.

Alone I am in this dance of mind. Brilliantly bright. Brilliantly kind. Tender. Deep. An open book turned asunder. The worn spine split upward into the heaven’s tears. Angel wings tarnished, bent, left for good.

I wait, from deep within myself.

Save me. Oh, someone, I do not know. Save me from my bitter-torn vision of life. This someone who was not made for this place of earth, this uproar of fanatical placating, this constant course of soothing gone wrong.

I stagger, from deep within myself.

Broken, I am, I speak. From the highest peak within. Standing on the ledge of tomorrow. Leaping into the unknown. Free fall. Tumbling into the newest unwanted.

I land, from deep within myself.

And here I am again. The same swollen woman filled with the forgotten pieces of beauty. Shattered and made whole in the misery of my making. Here I am again, swinging from the stars of my forgotten soul.

I shine, from deep within myself.

439: Exuberance Turned Sorrow

| Aspergers Girls

pinit ability

I have had a very stressful summer. Many of those items listed in publications as the top stressors in life happened to me, or almost happened, in the last four months. I have lost my equilibrium and suffered some serious health ‘flares.’ I also managed to lose sight of all I had gained in the last six months, in regards to my faith and ability to trust in all things working out.

I understand, even in these darker moments, all is unfolding for a higher purpose. This has been my belief since a small child, and whether or not I am accurate in my faith, makes no difference, as I must believe in something outside my realm of existence to continue onward. It has always been that way. I have always looked to the stars for reassurance and the acknowledgment that my pain, and my joy, serves a purpose. If I didn’t have purpose in living, I wouldn’t want to live.

Currently, and for a long time, my purpose has been in serving. With my physical limitations, I can now best serve through my words.

However, through this blogging journal, I have noticed that when I write I sometimes receive a jolt of what could best be described as glee. In producing a part of self into writing, I become wrapped up in ribbons of gold and a sense of celebration. The little girl I am shines and flies through the skies. But then, something else inevitably interrupts, in which I am pulled down, beyond the balancing point, and pressed deep within my soul. It is there I sit, in a dimly lit isolation, gathering the pieces of me I had released, and pulling in that string of joy.

It is an oddity and a familiarity that leaves me with a bitter-broken taste. In theory, I seem to have a naturally built in self-regulator for hubris and pride. I can only lift so far, until I find I am reeling myself back in—some flying fish, netted, hooked, and spun back down at full spinning-speed. I can feel it physically. I can witness it spiritually.

I used to believe this process, of exuberance turned sorrow, was a subconscious protective mechanism rigged in my early childhood in response to environmental influence. I see now, with much reflection, that I am indeed made with an internal thermostat, with a dial turned to the point where my self-based joy cannot rise too high without immediate departure to sub-zero levels. In moments, I feel leashed in, unable to charge outside of the confinements of my boundaries without the reminder of the chained-collar choking my neck. I do not think this is an affliction or a psychological response to my upbringing. I do not think this is biological. I do believe this is another part of how my brain functions. I believe in whatever way I was ‘programmed’ or ‘wired’ or put together, I was given an internal system that keeps my nature in check. I believe I have this same system in place for other parts of me as well.

I cannot stop it. I cannot choose to remain elated. Nor can I choose to remain sad. I am brought to the height, pulled back into the deep, and then set at balance, cleaned and reformed. Sometimes I wonder if I am not constantly shifting and readjusting, an entity truly in constant transition. And that perhaps I am keenly aware of this process. In remembering my childhood, I had the sensation of being just outside the realm of the reality of my peers, conceptualizing and processing at a faster and deeper rate than my playmates; in comparison, today, I can step back and see this existing outside of the arena of life, happening still, only the concepts and ponderings are substantially more complex.

As I continue to write, and share through my thoughts and words, I continue to observe myself and the transformations I make. Wherein I used to barely recognize myself in looking back in time, say some five or ten years ago, in the sense I seemed much changed and transformed. Now I can barely recognize the self I was just last month or last week. In some ways, I seem to be processing through more in a day than I had in previous years. And in other ways, I seem to slip out of one skin of being, into another. I do not know if this is because of my brain or because of my empathic abilities, or a combination of the two. What I do know is I find it harder and harder to hold on to who I am in this moment, knowing that what I think I am will be changing. I find it difficult to be stagnant and stern in my opinions, perception, and desires. Being I feel in a state of constant motion, I find safe harbor in the continual ability to connect and reach out, which ironically signifies the exact thing that brings me flying high and then flinging back down.