500: Unspun Love

Unspun Love

I am letting go of what was, of what I held on as truth, reality, this sense of REAL
There are webs upon webs inside of me, touching down in random places
With a stickiness of messiness, a buttercup of blood, daunting, unchanging, unforgiving
Had I been hurt, I could say so, but who is to say what causes the pain, whose action, whose way, whose plan
I can’t say that this is this because of this, as there is no definite answer, no exact knowing
No causation I can single out and assuredly point finger in proclamation
I do know there is pain; I know this well, and perhaps I know too, I blamed myself all of these years
Easier to blame self than another, I suppose, to take in what is poison than to spill out, making new suffering
There were numerous ways in which I taught myself falsehoods, temporary strings I weaved in hopes of categorizing my world
Into boxes I placed behaviors and actions, wishes and dreams, and watched the withering of my own undoing
I’d hoped that much would change without effort, in that I’d tried hard to keep trying, to keep going, to move
And prayers seemed increasingly unanswered or at minimum unheard
Mine was a dangerous labyrinth, the way in which my youthful days played out
Keeping time by the stars at night and the ringlets of towering trees, I danced
Always happy, I seemed, always light-filled and bright, Mother told it so
As did strangers and random passerbys; had I known to beware
One after one things left, disappeared, vanished, and were taken, gone before sunrise was woken
One after one I became teacher to the deepest soul-self, the tiny innocent creature named: me
And the lessons I gave were enough for the moment, as broken and rotten as they be
The world was a place of trickery and thievery; I’d remembered those men in Mama’s room
The town was a place of random violence, untruths, disbelief, and fizzled-out faith; I’d watched from my high-tower of soul
And everywhere, all about, the sense, I called ‘abandonment,’ erased a part of me
Built upon my cherished treasure, my beacon, my light, a bombardment stretched and pulled like dough into a gooey mess—rancid, undone falsehoods
I witnessed death; I witnessed children who vanished, family that dissolved, men and woman who made promises and then took sword to my delicate heart and severed
I didn’t understand laughter then, the type aimed at me; nor the glances of demise; nor the mannerisms masqueraded across the halls of scattered scholarly prisons
I didn’t understand what was outside, what seeped out of some and bleed into others
I knew enough to know that people weren’t to be trusted, that people caused harm, that people took what was pure and demolished it in the name of selfish ways
And yet, I knew, too, that I could not stop trusting and hoping, that I would forever be this someone locked in a cell of naïve-padded walls, unable to see beyond the rose-charm-pink that tinted my outlook
How I longed to be like the rest and learn, to take inventory, to observe happenings and conclude future meanderings through the mucky patch—my life
And still I wept in a prism of dichotomy, a blossomed keen awareness, lacking capacity to alter anything
Helpless was an understatement, a definition of warrior child turned fragile flower
For in the absence of assistance within, there would be no means in which to reclaim a foundation
Instead, I rather drifted in an open sea-sky of oblivion, blue into blue, not understanding the methods of instigators, nor where to house my love

497: Who Am I to Know

Newest post at Everyday Aspergers:

I was not built to be alone, especially not in this world. In talking to other aspie women, there seems to be a split, right down the middle—those that are more comfortable being alone and those that need a companion. I appear to be the latter.

However, I run into trouble with relationships, in my inability to understand what ‘love’ is, what ‘standards’ are, and what ‘boundaries’ are. Without these basic states of awareness, I do expose myself to danger and chaos. The chaos mostly found in the aftermath of a decision I made based on nothing but the heart, it seems.

I am fragile. I am naïve. I am not able to comprehend the simplest of what would be deemed ‘red flags.’ In truth, I don’t understand ‘red flags.’ I lack the ability to look into someone and see what is flawed, wrong, or an indication of posing a potential threat to my wellbeing.

The reason for my limitations is two-fold. First and foremost, no matter how many times I am hurting from an encounter with another, and feeling the repercussions based on something I interpreted from the other’s words or actions, I lack the capacity to hold onto this ‘lesson’ and learn from the experience. It is if I can be hurt repeatedly by exposure to circumstances, feel the deep penetrating pain and remorse, and oftentimes shame, but then this experience and recollection/evaluation is erased from my memory, and I am wiped clean with a definite innocence and renewed sense of hope.

It appears one person cannot diminish my light or my quest, that I cannot be knocked down, jaded, shaded with the scope of a negative outlook, or rewired to be more cautious. I just can’t.

The second factor involving my limitation is the process in which I measure words and definitions. Everything I think and say, even write, as is the case at this instance, is evaluated for clarity and accuracy. My life is truth. My cause is truth. My message, whether it be in written form or demonstrated in aspects of my daily living, is truth. If I falter at all it is in my inability to accurately express the truth within. Words are entirely limiting and mere factors of what is the whole of me. In this way, I believe, I would best serve myself and the world if I was gifted with telepathy, in that I could simply think, or even pre-think, and in the act of willing my experience the images and truth of my heart would seep out without the necessity of language. Had I been born into a world where words were non-existent, I might perchance better survive.

Everyway in which people evaluate and judge other people makes little sense to me. I love people. I understand that we are each ‘flawed’ human beings with ‘issues,’ ‘baggage,’ and that which is primarily observed as ‘positive’ and ‘negative’ attributes. I understand that most of the population in this society judges others based on their own made up collection of ‘rights’ and ‘wrongs.’ Therefore, I understand that upon meeting a person, most singular beings take out this imaginary scroll of collected experience, perception, and conclusions and utilize this list, scribed by self alone in the limited scope of how he or she understands and choses to interpret the world, and then sets about to fit others into a category, a box, and/or hierarchy. Individuals are made into this or that, labeled, and discarded into a place that one deems they belong. I see this. I get this. I know this. But I can’t do this. I haven’t the means or know how or skill set. Even as I see it as a gift I carry, I see it too as a curse, in that to not be able to evaluate is to not be able to avoid personal danger.

In my tendency to be over-forgiving, over-trusting, over-loving, and incapable of holding a grudge, I am made in one way weaker, yet in another way stronger. Still the weakness often prevails. And even as I cannot hold resentment, I still very much seep over in tears and confusion recalling a hurt I have experienced whilst with someone, and in this state of seeping with sorrow, my voice might shake and even sound angry. But inside, deep inside, where the me of me resides, I feel nothing but compassion and love. I do not know how to loathe, to hate, to want to set something right, as I do not understand wrongs.

Perhaps this is because inside of me I cannot find the aspect of wrongdoings. This is not to say I do not abide by a concept of ‘evil’ or ‘darkness.’ This I can see readily. Nor is it to say I do not harbor my own set of essential ‘flaws.’ It is to say, that in my perception, anyone deemed ‘monster’ or ‘insane’ has lost a bit of his or her soul, and in truth, the evil-doer is lost onto him or herself, and the spirit thusly in a distant land, the body taken over by something out of hand. And in this way I love the distant spirit that is asleep in a far away place, and behold the ‘wrong-doer’ as primarily innocent in his or her own unsolicited suffering and absence.

As I walk in this world, I do not know how to decipher the person in front of me into what he or she is, other than a human being and spirit, and feasibly a reflection of my own self and my collection of established and attached truths. I do not know how to feel angry towards someone, who like me, is suffering in the human condition. How can I be judge and/or jury, when I readily recognize the disjointedness of our society, and the suffering endured from the conjoined isolation and fear brought on by lack of love and understanding? How can I punish, with the act of my judgment and dismissiveness, a one that is merely trying to survive their own chaotic world? Are we not each and everyone starved animals, preying upon some source or another hoping for escape from the fear of loneliness?

I understand the concepts of fear and love, intensely. I know when there is pure love there is no fear. I know when there is fear there is no love. I also recognize that in the illusion and creation of fear, that love remains, even if only visible to the one that is clear at heart. I understand that fear is a manifestation and part of the human physical conditioning. And I understand that fear serves its purpose at one level as biological manifestations we be. But to a similar degree, I understand that there is no fear and that love resides beneath all.

These concepts are engraved into me. I am sketched by some unknown understanding with knowings of unconditional love. Therefore, when I meet someone, I love them instantly, or in rare cases, wherein I sense ‘evil’ or better yet and absence of wholeness of spirit, I am repelled. Yet, for the most part, those I meet I love. Despite whatever ‘flaws’ or ‘garbage’ they harbor, I might momentarily believe I sense.

In first encounters, I can logically gather a long list of pros and cons of someone, but then everything turns murky and gray, and what I thought was truth is just a collaboration of my preconceived notions. In actuality, each person I behold is not whom I think he or she is, and never will be. This doesn’t confuse me; it just is.

Confusion arises primarily when I am asked, by self, or encouraged by another, to evaluate a situation involving an individual and decide if a relationship with that person is indeed ‘healthy’ for me. I run into trouble foremost because I don’t understand how to do this. I can come up with endless lists and variables in regards to the aspects of another being. Considering most people have lived decades, the aspects of their lifetime and personhood are seemingly limitless. How am I to decide what is worthy for me? How am I to be judge another when my soul intention is to love?

Standards come into place, then, in the effort to evaluate another. What I have been taught, and what I have absorbed as ‘acceptable’ and ‘not acceptable.’ Some standards make sense, because they are biologically based—manifested and made evident at a physical level. In example, I feel harmed when I am in a situation of physical abuse. This I can recognize, because the action of physical harm is more concrete and evident than say another form of abuse, such as the more abstract condition of emotional harm. But there are very few standards that are black and white. There are a plentitude of means of evaluating that have endless outcomes and feasible ways to play out. There are many more that scream of a lost broken soul in search of home, and nothing more. I cannot understand how to seek out that which is perfection when I, whilst on this earth, lack perfection. Still, I recognize the greater good in me and the good in others.

So the dilemma becomes when is enough enough? When is someone not enough for me? Is it when I start to wither and die inside? Is it when life seems even more full of perils and deceitfulness? Is it when I feel worse about myself? Is it when my energy is zapped or my heart bleeding out? I do not know. And how am I to recognize in another something that is foreign in myself. If I be but a shade of blue and all I see is shade of blue, how is it I will decipher the ravaging scent of purple?

I do not know how to decide who is good for me, when I do not have the ability to choose what is ‘good’ and what is ‘bad.’ I see the infinity of reasoning, into the endless ways. Perhaps this is my brain. Perhaps this is my heart. Perhaps I am this soul, so entirely aware that the evidence becomes so grand in scope I have not the wherewithal to look upon the entire truth. And in so being, I behold only a subcategory, a sliver, a facet that dictates the rest, or attempts to highlight the truth. Yet, I recognize what is. I recognize what shrouds me in all my circumstance: this limiting truth, a bear minimum extracted from the whole of whole.

And who am I to know? Who am I to know? know?

496: When ‘Aspie’ isn’t You…

When “aspie” isn’t you….

I will never be like you. You can try to understand me, and you will see glimpses, but you will never get me, never. Trying to explain me is like trying to explain a color that doesn’t exist, a color I can readily see and am familiar with in all its shades and forms, but still a nonexistent color to you. It’s like trying to explain what a wish is to someone who doesn’t believe in magic. Or showing an alien artifact to a scientist and expecting him to interpret the unknown elements. It can’t be done. I can’t be done. I can’t be undone. I just am and you just are. And here we are: two distant stars.

You understand this planet, at least to a degree you do. I don’t. I never will. I don’t get the things some might call simple. I don’t get the things some may call average or familiar. I don’t understand lies. I don’t understand life without immense passion. I don’t understand why anyone would dare to hurt anyone or anything on purpose. But I do understand hurt. What is it other than the bleeding soul?

I long for you to understand me. To hear me. To see me. But so many, this you you are and the other you’s out there, they won’t. They just can’t. It’s not about lacking capacity or something that is better or worse, or something that is special or odd. There are no labels. Where I come from, wherever that be, the boxes, the names, the titles, or what have yous—these invented ways of deciphering and existing—they don’t exist. So it’s not about dividing or exacting. None of that matters.

What it is about is separation, the split, the way in which my mind and the heart connected cannot fathom the ways of the world, and how, in this separation, I am left isolated daily, walking outside the existence I lead, feeling more than any soul ought to, and knowing more than I recognize.

You can’t see me. You can’t truly see me. You can’t understand. And I hide behind this smile, though genuine it be, waiting and waiting for the time to come where the veil is lifted, and once again, I am here, no longer isolated in a land I don’t recognize.

Sam Craft, Everyday Aspergers
5

495: Hard

I have Aspergers. And it’s hard.

1. The constant search in my head for better words that define more accurately the truth I am feeling, even as I am so hyper-analytical I cannot pinpoint the truth.
2. The times I need to curl in a corner and cry with the imaginary arms of someone around me, and then sobbing uncontrollably, as I realize like all the times before, there is no one there.
3. The truth of my isolation and how no one will ever be able to slip into my mind and understand.
4. Limbo. Not knowing the fullness of a situation enough to let my mind rest and being an unwilling victim to the trickling thoughts of what if, and why, and when.
5. Counting the minutes until I can sleep, hoping the sleep will help me escape the increasing thoughts of fear.
6. Saying goodbye to a moment of safety, to that time, or place, or wonderful person who made me forget enough of the world and myself to actually feel free and alive. And in that moment of the leaving, of the end, how the panic of reality rushes in and seizes my heart, mind, and spirit—a torrential storm rising within and pushing at me from without.
7. Realizing again and again I am different in a world that seems riddled with sameness. Understanding that the depths of me are so deep that even I get lost with no hope of escape.
8. Wanting to be seen, truly seen, and held and loved fully, so that the last sliver of my soul is felt, every part of me seeped into another and opened, accepted, and adored.
9. The discomfort of watching myself slip from one persona to the next, and as much as I try never knowing who I am, what I am, or how to be.
10. The way in which the world watches me and thinks they know who I am, and how utterly and entirely wrong they are in their conclusions and attempts to claim me as one of them, to turn me into the image they wish me to be.
11. The long minutes of anticipation in which time stops and my mind cannot rest. And in not resting, my body collapse immobile for a day or more, unable to accomplish the slightest task until the answers are grasped or at minimum processed, understood, and accepted.
12. The agonizing pain of not knowing, and knowing there is no knowing, but still being unable to stop the angst of limbo of not knowing.
13. The way in which I cannot grasp one tool or person or reasoning to assist me in my struggle for truth and comfort. The way in which nothing I believe in seems to last and the understanding that reality is fleeting, subject to the invisible winds of an invisible storm.
14. Telling someone I am kind and real and genuine, and knowing I am, but also knowing they don’t believe me.
15. Feeling like an alien. Feeling like an alien. Feeling like an alien.
16. The way in which I step back as observer and watch myself freak out and wig out and create chaos out of nothing, but still being unable to stop myself.
17. Listening to myself talk and hearing the constant running inner dialogue of how I could have said what I wanted to say in a clearer way. Or thinking I shouldn’t have spoken because what I said wasn’t kind enough, gentle enough, or needed.
18. Thinking anything I say isn’t needed, is irrelevant, or will just bury me and leave me alone. Thinking I want to be quiet and keep everything inside but knowing I can’t.
19. Wondering what the other person thinks of me, even as I know I am a good person and their opinion isn’t me, whilst analyzing all the pros and cons of self, and trying to come out on top, but eventually finding proof or evidence in the way I could and perhaps ‘should’ better myself.
20. Wanting desperately, more than anything in the entire world, to be held by someone who sees me, knows me, gets me, feels me, and wants nothing more than to be there at my side forever.

492: I am Still

I am still fighting self-instilled rules in my head.
I still bounce back and forth in thinking I can change the essence of me.
I still guilt myself into thinking something is wrong that needs altering.
I am still me.

I am still hurting from simple words spoken by another.
And still wonder what words that I speak cause harm.
I over evaluate my utterances, my actions, my unspoken thoughts, still.
I am still me.

I am still processing the concept of love.
I am still processing the concept of anger.
I am still baffled and cornered by both: the romantic and the raging.
I am still me.

I am still trying to understand how to be in this world.
I am still desperately alone in my isolation.
I am trying and trying to move out into the place of union, still.
I am still me.

I am still within myself, lost and searching.
I am still in a rainbow of thoughts.
Still, still, still drowning in the avenues of constant awareness.
I am still me.

I am still battling the voices that are never spoken.
I am still listening to a scenario in my head that doesn’t exist.
I am still defending myself before the enemy arises.
I am still me.

I am still giving it my all to become that which I am not.
I am still following the rules blindly that cause disaccord.
I am still trying to please those whom can’t be pleased.
I am still me.

I am still longing for passion and magic.
I am still searching for a place to call home.
I am still a traveler starved.
I am still me.

I am still questioning how one lives asleep when she is awake.
I am still wondering where the other piece of me exists.
I am still reaching for the star inside of me.
I am still me.

I am still questioning the places people go to seek comfort.
I am still exploring my own mind’s temporary truths.
I am still watching as observer as the world seems all but illusion.
I am still me.

I am still hoping and hoping and hoping for something or someone.
I am still wondering where he or it or we are.
I am still twirling in a whirlwind of open confusion.
I am still me.

I am still to the crying voice in my seasons.
I am still to the pounding heart in my chest.
I am still. I am still. I am still.
I am forever still me.

~ Sam Craft, Everyday AspergersPhoto on 4-19-14 at 6.42 PM