Day 218: To Be Happy

August 26, 2012August 26, 2012 | Aspergers Girls

To Be Happy

Sometimes people remind others to tone down their joy more often than they remind others to boost up their sadness.

Sometimes people enjoy gossiping about others’ plights, misfortune, and perceived failures more than their successes.

Sometimes people analyze, judge, and label the glee-filled person.

Sometimes people make fun of smiles.

Sometimes there are more words spoken about sadness than of joy.

Sometimes people remind others to act more serious, but rarely do they caution to act more goofy.

Sometimes people think to get anything accomplished fun must be set aside.

Sometimes people hush the laughing child.

Sometimes people reflect upon the sad person’s dilemma more than the happy person’s celebration.

Sometimes fear and loss pulls people closer, while good news and abundance pulls people apart.

Sometimes more energy is spent on trying to relieve someone’s pain than on how to increase someone’s happiness.

Sometimes giddiness is perceived as immature.

Sometimes people don’t trust the funny person.

Sometimes a comic, joker and jester are made the bad guy.

Sometimes people run from circus clowns and punish the class clown.

Sometimes people mock someone’s laugh but never make fun of their cry.

Sometimes the sad news tops the happy news.

Sometimes brightly colored garb and shiny attire scare people.

Sometimes when passing a stranger, a frown feels safer than a grin.

Sometimes people gravitate towards the sad and are suspicious of the happy.

Sometimes people believe happiness is lost and to be found.

Sometimes to be happy we must smile through all the sometimes.

© Everyday Aspergers, 2012. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. https://aspergersgirls.wordpress.com

Day 216: Let the Grumpy Lady Pass

August 24, 2012April 4, 2013 | Aspergers Girls

Let the Grumpy Lady Pass

“Guess what happens if you eat a raw snail? They have a parasite that goes into your brain and eats it. And our brain is not prepared for snail parasite. And you can’t defend it. It’s pretty much if you eat a raw snail, it’s all up to the snail if you live or die. If the snail has the parasite, you die!”

I am looking at snails with new eyes now, since my son’s enlightening comment on parasites. I have also reassured myself over and over that the chances are null that I will accidentally eat a raw snail and die from parasites eating my brain away.

Words are powerful, how they can alter the way you once viewed a person, place, or thing….even snails. Words can change the course of a life, too. Certainly happened for me. Just yesterday, in fact.

It was early afternoon, and I was strolling down the aisle in my favorite grocery store, when I spotted a blonde mother with five children. The oldest of her children, a young girl, was carrying her plump baby sister. The other three youngsters were little tots, all boys, ranging in height by a couple of inches from the next.

I stared, because that’s what I do when I’m processing. And about a dozen thoughts traveled through my mind all at once. I examined the mom’s facial expression, and instantly wondered if she was happy or frustrated with the shopping excursion. I noticed two of the boys had little shopping carts and that as a collective clan the family had barely gathered any groceries—just a couple bags of snack food. I evaluated and reevaluated, concluding that the mother enjoyed the attention of onlookers watching her shop with her little crew of miniature hers. In fact, I am quite certain she liked the attention. There were several of us shoppers trying to maneuver around the cute little ones, a line of about five or six of us squeezing our way down the aisle.

I was still watching and evaluating as I crept my cart forward. When I was near the mom, she eyed me closely. Then she turned to her troop and said, “Wait,” putting her arms back in stern gesture, “Let the grumpy lady pass.”

Immediately my right eyebrow shot up. Had she meant me? I was fairly certain she had. I rolled my eyes up and gave a quizzical expression, and then moved onward. A few steps ahead, I stopped to retrieve a can off the shelf. I noticed another lady standing close behind me. Feeling extremely self-conscious, and a bit flustered, I said, “Oh, I am sorry, if I am in your way.” She said, “No problem at all. But maybe you can help me find the artichokes.” I did. We scanned together, and I pointed them out with my over extended finger, while smiling big and glancing the direction of the meanie mom, as if to say, “See, how cheerfully helpful I am!”

Five aisles later, and I couldn’t get the meanie mom out of my mind. Was my expression seriously that sour? For a moment, I wished I was an always-smiling golden retriever.

By the time I reached the last aisle, my thoughts were still wrapped around the incident. By then, I had rationalized that the meanie mom wasn’t a very patient woman, and certainly wasn’t showing an effective example of behavior to her children. But I also reckoned she likely was juggling a full plate and was having a tough day. I also decided, with a mischievous little smile, that her husband, if she still had one, probably didn’t like her.

At the checkout area, I found the safest checker I could—a round-faced, middle-aged woman with a friendly natural grin. At the end of any shopping excursion I don’t look for the shortest checkout lines, I look for the least-threatening face. Typically, I chat it up with the grocery checkers as they are scanning my items. Conversation helps the time go faster, and alleviates some of my anxiety. Not much makes me more self-conscious than a line of strangers watching me; especially when they are waiting with those daunting expressions, seemingly cursing my high-piled grocery cart and wishing they’d chosen another route.

“I hope I don’t look grumpy,” I said, as I approached the checker and eyed the nametag Marge on a purple blouse. (Interesting conversation starter, don’t you think?)

I then explained, with rapid fire, what had happened on the aisle with the meanie mother. Marge smiled and responded kindly, and we bagged the groceries together. I told her about my Aspergers, and the man at the park who gave me his number as a result of my practice smiling, and she told me about her grown son with Aspergers. Turns out she homeschooled her son. He is now twenty and doing very well. We exchanged a lot of information and support in only a few minutes. I dodged the evil glares from the people in line. We were packing up the groceries rather slowly.

As Marge was bagging up the last of the food, she looked up at me, and said, “The main reason I homeschooled my son was because when he went to school he had to become someone else. He couldn’t go to school and be himself and still be accepted. He had to let go of who he was. God made my son in perfection. I wanted my son to be able to be who God intended.”

A bell went off in my head right then. My middle son was struggling in middle school even though he was attending part-time. His anxiety was very high and depression was setting in.

I decided then and there to not send my son back to school and to instead homeschool him fulltime.

Later that day, as I calculated the probability of choosing the one checker out of a few dozen that so happened to have homeschooled a son with Aspergers, and as I processed that typically I would have not mentioned my Aspergers to a checker at a grocery store (had I not been upset), I smiled to myself about that mother and her five string of words that had changed the course of my life: Let the grumpy lady pass.

Day 215: Why You Don’t Want to Date Me

August 22, 2012April 4, 2013 | Aspergers Girls

Why you don’t want to date me…

1) Well first off I’m married, and that can get complicated; and my husband has a black belt in a particular branch of martial arts, which I can’t spell tonight. So it would be a surprise attack.

2) I used to sing a song about my grandmother’s boobs when I was younger. I taught the song to my younger cousin. We would stuff our shirts with socks, cup our hands over our chest, and sing together: “Grandma’s little boobies go boom, boom, boom, boom. Grandma’s little boobies go boom, boom, boom!” It was a favorite party song. I choreographed the whole thing. On the first line our hands would shoot out in front of us. On the second stanza, we’d drop our hands down with each boom, until they almost touched the floor. Grandma’s boobs weren’t little, still aren’t. Don’t know why I called them little to begin with. But sometimes I still sing the song. Only now I’m crying in the mirror. (Don’t ask me how this is related to dating. It just is. Boobs are always related to dating.)

3) I get super excited. Just ask anyone who has ever taken a walk with me. I like to process when I walk. I like to process even more when I am first getting to know someone. I always apologize for my rambling. And I always get the same half-smile and bewildered eyes, in response. People usually say, “It’s alright.” But I secretly want them to tell me they really enjoyed all my insights. That has yet to happen.

4) I am a very picky eater and will stress over where to go out to eat. Then when I finally decide where I want to eat, I will take forever to decide between the three things on the menu that I might like. I discuss the pros and cons of each particular appetizer. I analyze the menu and point out to the waitress misprints and errors. I question the authenticity of the food description. I try to remember is it farm raised salmon that’s better or wild. I interrupt patrons to ask what they have ordered, and if it is indeed any good. I will taste your food from your plate without asking, especially mashed potatoes. I try to help people. Once I interrupted a couple and said: “Based on your conversation, it sounds like your grandson might have Aspergers.” No worries, I introduced myself first. The grandpa wasn’t too thrilled. I heard him say: “Boy, that lady has got some big ears on her!” I didn’t take it personally because my ears weren’t showing.

5) I will ask you many questions, such as: Is there anything in my teeth? Do I look bloated? How much do you think this would cost to make at home? Do you like the food? Are you full? Did you get enough to eat? Do you want dessert? Do you know soda is bad for you? Are you having a second soda? How are you going to work off all that soda? Are the refills free? Did you leave enough for the tip? How much? Are you sure? What do you think of the waiter’s personality? Would you hire him? Can I have the rest of your potatoes? Want to guess what color I’m thinking of? Will you guess the number? Did you have a good time? Do you like me? Do you think I’m pretty? Why?

6) As a former teacher and mother of three energetic boys, I am programmed to play games for survival. While we are waiting for our food, I will likely engage you in a game of hangman, connect the dots, I-Spy, and guess the animal I’m thinking. Electronics are not allowed at the table, as I require your full attention. And it is important to follow all my rules. And don’t even try watching television. Before we sit down in a sport’s bar, I will make certain there are no televisions in your line of vision, as to not take away from our time together. Of course, I would question why you were taking me to a cheap sport’s bar to begin with.

7) I am not a meat eater, and haven’t been since 1984 (the year I was born). So, if you ask me to help you cut your meat, especially ribs, I will try to use a butter knife and the ribs will fly across the table and plop on the floor and people will stare. But you will likely cut your own ribs, and I will give a look of disgust and tell you that I hate meat breath. Then I might, depending on my mood, remind you of one of the many documentaries I have viewed. I might even write the name down for you on a napkin. I will then eat your mashed potatoes when you are not looking.

8) I will compliment you. I will tell you have nice eyes or a nice smile, and mean it. I will likely compliment the restaurant staff, as well. Then I will stare at parts of your body that don’t look perfectly to scale. I will point out the facial hair that needs to be shaved, the rouge eyebrow hair, the freckle that looks questionable, the blemish, the grey hair, the wrinkled shirt, the old shoes, the nostril hair, and whatever else catches my attention. Unless you are a stone statue perfectly carved, I will find something to wonder about. I will obsess that perhaps you have a terrible disease or are allergic to something, and that is why there is a pimple on your neck. I will point out the bug bites on your arm. I will try to memorize your face, close my eyes and reopen them, and see if I can remember your hairline and freckles. Most of this I will do in my head and not say aloud. So I will be sitting there preoccupied, with a weird expression on my face, and one eyebrow raised high, and not listening to a word you are saying.

9) I will have to guess the amount on the bill. I will say, “Wait, wait, wait, let me guess!” Then I will calculate everything we consumed and add the totals up in my head, including tax. Then I will proclaim my guess. If I am within a dollar, I will smile so proudly. If I am wrong, I will go back and justify my answer, figuring out something I forgot, like the price of your soda. I will blame you for my error. Then I will lean over your shoulder to make sure you leave a twenty percent tip or higher; unless the service was terrible, then I will insist you leave fifteen percent exactly. If the waiter is exceptional, I will ask to speak to the manager about the wonderful service. I will tell the waiter first how great he is. And ask you to agree and nod. Then I will double-check the tip. I will still be worrying about the tip by the time we reach the car, and ask you to verify we calculated correctly. I will then ask if you remembered the boxed leftovers on the table, and ask you to go back and get them. I will complain if you have to use the bathroom, as I am tired, and want to go home.

10) You will be in shock, because on the first and second date, I was on my best behavior.

Day 189: That Moment

July 26, 2012April 3, 2013 | Aspergers Girls

That Moment

I want to be that moment

in a black and white film

when man pulls woman into his arms

I want to be that passion

the lyrics in the love song

that leave you gasping

I want to be that instant

when mother sees newborn

and souls embrace

I want to be that sigh

as lost wanderer tracks

the sun dripping below ocean

I want to be that completion

the final missing piece

of the perfect puzzle

I want to be that reason

you sprint back home

to find what was forgotten

I want to be that breaking

the mile-marker when runner weeps

and then pushes onward, strengthened

I want to be that second

when one first beholds his beloved

and understands she is his answer

I want to be that ache

the final line of a love poem

photograph and words by Samantha Craft, July 2012

Day 182: The Muse and Me

July 20, 2012April 3, 2013 | Aspergers Girls

The Muse and Me

I spoke: “I will scribe a million pages, every word a testimony to your beauty: an endless story. Beguiled and enchanted, my fingers will embrace the keys, and paint the all-encompassing passion that stirs my soul. Recklessly, I will hold your hands strong, hear your voice deep, and in pages’ dreams you shall live.”

He spoke: “I am not this flesh, nor these eyes. My beauty cannot be quantified or qualified or held in possession or estimation. Do not weigh, judge or evaluate. I have already been made prisoner of selfish eyes. Do not watch me as the others. Know beauty is immeasurable and does not rot with this flesh and break with this bone. Appearance will fade. Let loose this withering illusion you grasp. See where beauty truly rests. Behind the gaze. Come hither, come follow the depths of me. I shall take you through the corridors of my secrets, my dreams, my fantasy. Here I stand naked, exposed, and vulnerable. Here is risk. Here is truth. And fear unveiled. Here is beauty.”

I spoke: “To the depth of me your eyes speak. You are beauty from my dreams, every facet, every groove a memory, a recollection that inspires and pulls me through. You brighten me. You lighten me. You fill me with a glow I’ve never known. Every part, every line I have traced before. And yet, I am made not to touch, not to reach, not to know. How my heart aches. How my every day is filled with misery and dismay. Though I walk enlightened and free, with new hope and dreams, I am ever brought back to the pool of cool springs, the freezing knowing that you are not mine to have.”

He spoke: “Choose what bathes you. What bathes your spirit, a gentle charm, almost silent, almost invisible. You are inherently lovely. You calm me. You complete me with your kindness. A mirror to me, your logic is sliced through with innocence and curiosity. Justice is carried where you step. Secrets upheld. Your sweetness equal to your sincerity; both leave me thirsting for more brightness. You are my humble adobe, and my spirit rests in you. Your abiding grace coupled with loyalty, I cherish, moment by moment. I await you, as one awaits the sunrise. Can you not see that you are the sun to me, the one that feeds my very vine. How wonderful that I hold your inherent goodness, and not a shadow existence, a hope, a distraction. I hold on to truth, while you hold on to fantasy. Can you not see my love is pure, while you are still child sitting under tall tree, waiting for the shade to part, and love to find you, when you are already found? You stand filled, but yet you weep for this illusion of emptiness.”

I spoke: “But what of my story, my every wish around you, my waiting, my yearning, my constant wanting. Are you not what I need? Desire? Crave? My thankfulness inside your silhouette. I stand here, at center purged of games, intention, and manipulation. I stand naked, as you proposed. I am vulnerable to the core. I am all I can be. And yet you reject.”

He spoke (with laughter): “Precious one. I don’t know who taught you of love. Who taught you of heart. But what you wait for, what you crave, what you long for intensely with every bit of you, I cannot provide. That is your journey to walk. Your journey to lead. Remember I am this flesh still. Always this blood that runs out in time. The heart that tires. The brain that dissipates. Hold onto what is me alone, and you will wither. See that beyond the dream is the reality of spirit, this wanting man, who longs to be seen from the inside, where the light abides. Embrace the inner me, and in turn you embrace yourself. I am but a mirror, and shall always be my friend, a mirror of where you stand. What you make of me, you make into yourself. What you think you lack, you make me lack. What you think I am, you become. Build me up from the foundation, from the soul-level; so that when all about I fall apart, what remains is strength in character and spirit. Love me there. Love me at the center. Please. Please love me there.”

I spoke: “I love you there. I do. I love you there, and will love you there entirely, if that is what you wish. But how does one un-paint the pages I already scribed…how do I bleed this pain out of me. How does the yearning cease, the thoughts stop?”

He spoke: “You just decide. That is all. You just decide. Decide that you are in completion, that I am in completion, and any thought of a human fixing or repairing you is false. I can be with you, but cannot be you. I can be with you, but cannot be your all. I am not your answer, nor your question. I am a man. I am all that man is. And you are all that woman is. And together we are no more complete than apart. This is a game you play in your mind. A mystery that has no solution. So release. Decide and release. And turn your focus and energy to the core of you. Here is where the love is. Not outside.”

I spoke: “Then I decide. I decide. I am enough. You are enough. We are already complete. And I release you, lovely bird from your cage. I release you without expectation, dream, or intention. I release what I have made you into. I release the power I have granted you. I release everything, and in doing so, without this attachment, I will love you fully, for no other purpose but for your essence.”