spiritual

482: The Greatest Casualty

| Aspergers Girls

sam

I woke up with three pages of information involving archetypes and symbolic representation, and the challenges I face of being keenly aware to the illusion of life; in so much that I am aware of the way I must choose icons in order to live and communicate in this dimension. This followed by the off balance of duality at my core level, if it be off, in that I am primarily feminine energy. Then I was conceptualizing the time space continuum, in regards to how I can’t think in simple format but instead in what is a visual expansive viewing in which, in a short amount of time, it seems I am viewing a series of variant options and pathways to conclusion.

It is impossible for me to think in a linear fashion.

I think in where some are persecuted and ostracized for perceived secrecy and aloofness the opposite occurs with me. As I am interpreted as smothering, over-sharing and clingy. But in truth I am at the same point as the latter, in so much that I am overwhelmed with thoughts and information, and my coping mechanism manifests itself as verbally processing likely to off set the feasibleness of insanity. Couple my intensity of thoughts and emotions with my capacity to remote view others emotional, say spiritual state, from a distance, and I become bombarded with such vast amounts of data I overload.

I struggle with being seen beneath what appears to be a constant shifting of perception and representation of what I am. I become that which I am observed by, and, in essence, I am reflected to that person through his limited capacity to view what is before him. In this sense, I remain entirely isolated and invisible, much lost to my own self with intense longing to be seen. Ironically unable to see myself as nothing more than fluidity.

The greatest casualty for me, in great contrast to some, is my advanced empathy and ability to tap into another’s emotional field, as this capability serves to intensify my awareness of suffering, isolation, and the tendency for most of the world to be asleep, if not lost somewhere trapped within what they perceive and what is. My greatest discomfort comes in craving to be seen as a true representation of love and compassion, vibrating at a frequency that is both beneficial and of comfort, but feeling the discrepancy between who I am and what the other is interpreting.

I am that I am, yet others in their closed ways turn me into their wishful dream. I long to break out of the isolation and this brings the fever to my writing. However, the more I try the more blinded I become to the rest of this existence; in essence, sinking into this self I neither know nor understand.

I cannot see faces in real life. I have no idea what I look like. Each moment I shift as do others. This makes the world very uncomfortable for me. Perhaps it is the eyes that are the only thing that remain constant. ~ Sam

481: Sit with Me

| Aspergers Girls

Photo on 3-3-14 at 1.59 PM

I don’t mean to scare you, but I know I do sometimes. Or maybe I don’t scare you, maybe I cause you concern or frustration. I don’t mean to do that either. I try to stay out of people’s way and just be me. But being me, well, that action tends to get in the way sometimes. Maybe you are numb to me entirely, kind of shut me off like you do the rest of the world; perhaps even more than the rest, because I am a bit different. That’s all okay, perfectly okay. I just wish you could sit with me long enough to see me. However long that might take. An eternity is fine, if you need that. You see I would stay with you that long. That’s the type of person I am: steadfast, loyal, loving. I am endless love. That is why at times I seem giddy and childlike, and I run loops around you, in conversation, in thought, in silly ways in which I move about. I cannot help who I am. In the sense, I cannot help but to be me. I can take measures, certainly, to provide you comfort, and if that means adjusting something in my approach towards you, I am open to listening to suggestions. But at my heart, at the core of my being, I cannot, nor do I wish to, change. I am who I am. And I rather adore myself. I love the way I see the world and accept the world and don’t focus on the pain of people. I focus on the heart. And in this way, everywhere I look is true beauty. That is why I got so very excited when I met you. To me, I had found yet another remarkable heart, another remarkable universe. And yours, my darling, had to have housed the biggest depths of them all. So enchanting, so filled with mystery and multi-dimensions. You see, I could jump into you right away. Straight into the depths of your very soul. I tend to grasp reality this way, by measuring life by the potency of souls. I cannot explain, nor feel the need to explain, but I know I can see you. Way down deep inside, in those places you hide, and in those places you shine. It’s bright in there, and I love you so. I see this and I want to celebrate. I want to shout: Look at you! And sometimes I do. Only it comes out in funny ways that perhaps aren’t so charming, and perhaps seem deliberately askew. Yet, I am trying. I am just trying to find a way to convey to you how much I love you all at once because I recognize your light. Because I know you. Because I see us as one in the same, in sharing so much distinction and awe. I peer inside of you, and I dance there. And here you show me images of before and after, and even of tomorrow. I learn of your heart-trials, of your passion, of your faith, and I learn of your devastating wounds. And I want to heal them, much like the mother to her pup. Only I can’t. There is nothing I can do but watch and take in you in all of your penetrating beauty. And I spin again, into someone you know not. Wanting to pull you into the all that is before me. Wanting you to see how much I love you.

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?

456: Osmosis

| Aspergers Girls

I am from a different dimension watching the happenings in awe, taking notes, mental calculations of everything about: the climate, the temperature, the ups and downs. But not just of the environment, but of the people. Mostly the people.

Everything is taken in, at both a conscious and subconscious level. There is a sense of no time, and a sense of too much time at other intervals. Much transpires in a quaint amount of minutes, and the mind becomes lost in some labyrinth of intricate and dynamically complex ponderings.

In viewing the situation, the actual being in a room with others, the actual processing of the brain, and the very real presence of self-observation, coupled and quadrupled with observation of others, there is a dutiful evaluation unfolding, a recollecting of past knowledge, gathering of nearby circumstantial evidence, and a preponderance of scaffolding—taking the old and making new form from prior existence.

Both the complexity of thoughts and complexity of creation of newness propel the observer forward into another space. Minute time spans get lost, placed somewhere else, as the mind interjects the mind, interrupting self; something akin to rapid thoughts, but far beyond even the concept of thoughts.

It’s as if the machine is oiling itself, feeding itself, spinning itself, dissecting itself, and spewing out product all at once. To say I am “adrift” is far from factual. To mention the words wondering or surmising, not even close to justifiable. The state of existence is beyond the scope of man. Far reaching, like a power still undiscovered; some creature hidden in the far region of a deep forest, not yet classified or identified, and in so being undiscovered, unable to place a face on his own face, a name to his own name. He just is. A living entity with a breath that is neither here nor there, but nonetheless existing evermore.

To say I enter a room untouched is foolishness. Everything reaches out to me, begging to be gathered. I am overwhelmed, spun, juxtaposed to self, and then brought back to reality, to the present; only to be spun out again—some exotic rare yarn undone and spread throughout the room, feeling and touching with my softness of inquiry my whereabouts, needling myself back through loops and holes, gathering the loose ends and reassembling substance into understanding. Making myself a shape to match the surroundings. Osmosis and inquiry warped in union.

I am what I am, here, in this state, some constant creature of transition. I am hyper aware that my existing affects my being. Hyper a tune to the ways of the world, in how the people move about: the motives, the causations, the wants the needs. Here, thoughts prick at me, trickle in, more like clinging vine than cool running stream. I am pinched and prodded by a foreign entity, and left to breathe in the unfamiliar and daunting. All about me is information—the exterior and interior of bystander intertwining and creating pictures in my mind.

I know not what to do with self, as self is transformed by the collected data; the shapes and forms, the meanderings of thoughts, trying to stumble through the input. A part of my engine made to live. A part that knows not how to sleep. All is alive and real, subscribing to me, as if I were the words expelled—the entities around me, whether forged with their own thoughts or merely spinning molecules of substance rock, connecting to me, reaching, collecting the avenue I be. I become to them what they are to me, some highway of transgression of thoughts.

We combine in a dormant way, hiding behind some wall, filtering our way about one another. Feeding and living in the backdrop. I know no other way to describe this, except that I dance with that which is all around me. To walk into a room is not to enter a space. To walk into a room is to transcend self, and to be returned forever changed.

454: Sometimes I am so very real

| Aspergers Girls

I believe this collection of random thoughts I have had over the past two weeks emphasizes both the tenderness and complexities of my heart-mind. Much love to you ~ Sam

Sometimes I am so very real in a world of falsehoods that I am mistaken as fake.

Listening to another’s words is telling. A truth seeps through. Inside the words there is restriction, beyond the words, too. Any self-based motivation and intention is detected. The ego’s ploys and plots. I can feel them. The way the one tries to place his image on another to validate his own truth of existence. The way another tries to categorize an experience through cloaking a person in his own garments. It feels heavy to me, to be around someone who is attached to his own sense of self, his own sense of what is right. I feel attacked with daggers. Penetrated with judgment. It is not that my own identity is so fragile and in need of repair from the demons of the world; it is because my soul is tender to the ways of people blinded by their thoughts of superiority. I see others as equivalent to self, as equal. And so many times another wants to define me as more or less. Both disrupt my energy flow and energy purpose. Both make me momentarily stagnant, slipped inside the seams of another’s perspective, and bent into the shape of their doing. This isn’t a defect or something I need to alter. This is. And I sit here wondering where these people go, so lost into themselves, that they can not find the truth of us.

I do not share my story to receive empathy. I do not share my journey with any intention at all, beyond love. And even this intention, I release. For love exists fully in freedom. I place no expectations on my readers, and no expectations on my self. My hope is abandoned, in the sense I choose not to hope for outcome based on my words. I don’t steer, nor do I drive my voice. I simply speak my truth. I am that I am, and whatever flows out of me, I bless with my authenticity and with our shared light. I do not seek approval or acceptance. No longer do those traps entice me. I seek only to shine as a representation of your own beauty. And in doing so I am placed ten-fold above my own interior pain. I am lifted beyond the seemingly endless singular journey and returned to the arms of All. You, me, we: traveling as one united.

Sometimes I want to pour myself out, like spillage from a sac. Plop myself right out there in completion. Everything from the biggest secrets to the biggest fears. And just say: Here I am. Take me or leave me. But if you’re going to leave, do it now. So you don’t take the good parts of me with you.

For me, the challenges with religious doctrine or any spiritual doctrine, is that more times than not a person will pull out a singular element of his interpreted truth from the literature, perhaps a quote or a philosophical idea, without having studied the whole: the works in completion in original voice and language, the history of the interpretations, the effects of man’s interpretation, and the effects of man’s darker virtues, those of greed, power, and control. In my current view, pulling out one singular element from a vast and complex teaching that has been made more complex through man’s influences and tainting, and claiming a singular truth, is the same as taking a body part off of a human to explain a being; in other words, I would not cut off my ankle, place it on the table, and say: Here I am. Here is my truth.

A true friend inspires you to shine your own light, expects that you prove nothing, and loves you in any condition. She neither takes away from who you are, or adds to your existence, but neutrally supports you with her own self-acceptance and self-love.

Too often I have been admired, and mistaken this admiration for love. Too often the admiration fades, and what is left is this empty shell of another’s perception of me. I long to be loved for me, but seem to get lost inside the busy-ways in which others build me up. It is lonely falling from a place that never was to a new place that is even less a reality. Back to this hole of somewhere, the gap in which people bury their disappointments.

It isn’t your opinions that bother me, or even your continual judgment and evaluation of who I am as a person. I don’t mind if you disagree with me, or that you believe you can fix and control me. I don’t even care if you find my ways repulsive and unsightly. I care that you don’t love yourself enough to see that you are already whole and complete, and instead take your illusion of a broken self and try to pound ‘broken’ into me.

Often I absorb the energy of someone that is around me. For example if she is angry and bitter, I feel this. If I am around the energy for a certain time interval, usually more than an hour, I begin to reflect back to that person what she wants and expects to see. I, in essence, shift, becoming an image of the other’s projection. If the person is in a state of contentment and bliss, free of judgment, and full of unconditional love, I can spend countless hours in the one’s company. If she is tormented by fear, which is often the case, I become wrapped up in her fear myself, transforming into something I do not find comforting. As hard as I try to maintain my sense of self, I slip into the evaluation energy field another has of her own self. I become who the other perceives me to be. I have heard other spiritual teachers speak of this phenomena. What amazes me is that no matter how much love I give out to another ‘seeing’ me, she will eventually make me into her truth, regardless of my love. I am beginning to understand more and more why silence in the presence of others is sometimes not only beneficial but necessary.

Some of my most far-reaching works were driven by an intense and utter sense of isolation, separation, and desperation. I cried out from the dark of my soul in a state of pure innocence and agonizing pain. Here, in these dark nights, the light came. The light of you. Many blessings.

No one, absolutely no one, is trying to escape. We are all trying to get back in. Back in touch. Back in bliss. Back to the place where we are whole and entirely connected. We aren’t stagnant beings trapped in a prison. We are pulsating light attempting to penetrate from the outside in, longing to return to the core of love.

Just because I appear to be at a loss right now, somehow fallen and maybe looking to you broken, doesn’t mean I won’t be back on my feet in a few minutes, entirely renewed and ready to start again. I recover quickly. Reentry into this world has become my habit.

My honesty runs deep. I am not just layers of honesty; I think I am built with bricks of it. Each comment I make is weighed for truth, and in turn each word out of another’s mouth is felt for accuracy. Not my way or their way. Not right or wrong. But whether or not the words spoken resonate with the underlying energy. If what is expressed coincides with the empathic pull I feel. Even the facial expressions, the body movements, the tone of voice—I wonder as observer of self and other—is this a truth? A true reflection of the state of being? I dig deeper and wonder what truth is; and thusly, the simplest actions for others, become rapid moving complexities to me. The sound of a ‘hello,’ the movement of a head shaking, the words ‘I love you.’ The daily norms aren’t easy for me. So much rests beneath everything. And yet everyone seems to be skating on the surface.

It is hard for me to be in balance. I want to. I try to. I study how to. I look in books. I look at others. I watch and observe. But it appears I wasn’t built the same way as the rest. It seems I move in extremes. I am either overly passionate and obsessed or I am shut off entirely. I am either running full speed ahead or dodging what is coming at me. I don’t know how to be the other way, the way people seem to be. I am a mess or I am pristine. I have all the answers or I have none. I am on cloud nine or I am in hell. And it isn’t anything that brings me out of balance, not a mood swing, not a chemical, not a drug.. it is this place, this world, the confusion it brings: the energy, the questions, the bombardment of rules that aren’t rules. All this makes me cling to one thing and then another in hopes of answer. The clinging elevates me to a place of momentary security. The obsessions trap me away from reality. But then the reality comes and I am swung back down to who I am in a place so unfamiliar. It is a constant game of pendulum dodging. I am at the bottom somewhere with the pendulum above. I hold on and swing, right to left, left to right. Hope to fear. Fear to hope. And then sometimes, I just give up, let go, and fall into a dark place of not wanting to hold on anymore.

I woke up raw this morning, bristle brush to the inner parts. Scraped, with my protective tarnish all but removed. It’s hard to find equilibrium when certain events are altered. When what I’d thought would be does not transpire. I find myself repeating teachings of letting go and trusting, living in the present, and having faith in the process. Only this lesson seems to be on a annoying feedback loop, some old record I can’t turn off. I am tired of trusting. I am tired of trying to let go. I just want to find that state of being where even the voices from the record are silenced. Where there aren’t any droning reminders and no need to pacify the feeble self I perceive. It’s a grand frustration when all the answers are there, are given, are ready for taking, but my body and mind seem to be frozen in a distant state of deafness.

I don’t understand why I fixate on another person. I am not what would be labeled co-dependent. I am not needy. I am not desperate. But certain people trigger a dire hunger in me, as if I found a lost piece of my own self. I wonder if at some spiritual level I recognize the person, if I know outside the limits of time what has already transpired. Perhaps my sensitivity stretches beyond this moment, and shows me in dream and waking-state my other part; and then, the earthbound self I am cannot handle this sensation without succumbing to passion. Perhaps I am recognizing where I used to be, whom I used to be, or what I am to become.

I hunger for a love I know not. A deep penetrating, enveloping love that never leaves and never enters. That blooms from within over and over, eternal in its giving. Depletion exists not, nor does retreat. Only constant renewal and rejuvenation. When I taste this love, from within the space of no space, in the light’s birthing and rebirthing, I am home. When I do not, I am perpetually lost and wondering where I was before I forgot.

The worst for me is loops.. looping.. spinning.. the cyclic thoughts that overtake me that feel much more biological/fight-flight than logical. I can be fine one moment, one hour, one large portion of the day, and then something triggers me, e.g., a strong emotion, an attachment, a hope, a disappointment, or various degrees of stimuli. And Boom! I am smack in the middle of some lost land, where I cannot catch my breath or my sanity. I am falling and wondering if I will ever touch down again, if ever I will ground myself in factual evidence and reassurance. The same thoughts move round and round me, a merry-go-round in my head. And I am not only dropping at high speed, but sinking inside too; shrinking in fact, become some diminished self: less worthy, less me. It takes all my strength to keep from drowning, all my reserves and energy. Then I am momentarily in a state of limbo that seems to last eternity, where time is stopped, and my whole existence preoccupied with whatever it is that is consuming me. It feels as if I swallowed something of substance, but then in turn it grew and began to devour me. I wish then I’d never taken hold of whatever it was: a person, place, thought, dream. I wish then I was someone different, someone more prepared for this world.

Sometimes I over explain myself and give a lot of details because I know from experience people are swift to form their own judgments and opinions about me the moment a word escapes my mouth. In many situations, I instantly feel misunderstood, before a complete sentence is even formed. I interrupt for the same reason. I can feel the person steering away from what I have tried to say. Words, they limit me. I feel and sense too much to explain in a paragraph, or even in an entire book. Mine is an endless stream of thoughts, and to speak for only a second, I am already lost to the world. There is an isolation that follows spoken communication and a reminder that peace is found in silence. An isolation in which I realize my way of communicating is often unheard by the masses, and only collected by the delicate few. Still, I rejoice in the few, in their endless compassion and love. Here I find my refuge and my true voice.

At this moment I agree that thoughts can lead to manifestations in life. I believe this because of the mystery of moving atoms and the mystery of water molecules, in how they respond to stimuli—the observer. Sometimes people will tell other people to think positive and to not fear. This is not beneficial. It only further perpetuates the conquest of fear. When anyone tells another how to be or how to find the way, he is implying he knows more than the receiver. The resulting energy exchange, the product of ‘telling,’ negates any power a message might have carried. The most benefit is gained when someone is loved unconditionally, when another shines his light in love with no expectation that the other person be any certain way or respond in any certain way. There is a confusion in the world, a deep confusion, in which people think they have the answers and are here to share the answers. The truth is we are the answer. Within us is the light. When someone feels the impulse to penetrate another with her truth, this is not love. This is fear disguised. This is believing that one has a secret the other does not possess. We have become a ‘How To’ generation, built with a million upon a million keys of separate generated ‘answers.’ Everyone is so busy telling everyone else what to do, that they forget to listen to their own heart. When others begin to open up their own soul, we will be a much quieter world.

I am awake in the sense I know myself. In knowing myself I know others. In knowing the all, I recognize the constant change and transitioning of life in everything and everyone. Yet, I exist in a world where people worship stagnation, confinement, and the boxing up of attributes. I understand nothing is as it seems, but all about me people try to declare what is and what is not. I used to listen to their echoes and believe. Now I listen to my own heart, and know.

My vulnerability and openness is not a reflection of my strength or weakness. I am not a degree of something or another someone sets upon me. Up on one scale of attributes, and down on another. I am whole and complete. Even in my perceived ‘low’ points and ‘failings,’ I am enough. I am that which is beyond this physical being, this limiting ego-state. I am that which is already entirely love and light. If one chooses to place upon me a definition of his or her truth, then this truth is also who the person believes his or her self to be. In choosing to see me as only light and love, never stagnant, and continually transforming, the other chooses to see self the same. What I am is what you are.

I will love you no matter what you say or do. I will forgive you no matter what you say or do. But this does not mean I will let you back into the circle where I keep my heart. If you hurt me, I close. A part of me surrenders from our relationship. And to trust again, seems infeasible. Yes, I will cherish you. Yes, I will support you. But to be connected again, may be an impossibility.

There is a difference between loving unconditionally and allowing anyone into your sacred space of self. It is not hypocritical to announce you love unconditionally but to still choose to limit access to certain people in your life. In fact, it is essential to have boundaries and self protect. In order to maintain unconditional love, one must love herself first and release self-judgment and self-expectations. In the process of self-love, one must maintain a freedom to nurture and uphold the self and balance this act with applying the wisdom to protect the self. In choosing to let go of certain individuals and to establish physical and spiritual distance, I am not announcing a degree of separation; instead, I am pronouncing a continuation of the honoring of my holy light and purpose. I won’t allow the capacity of a singular to diminish my light and counteract my energy resources and my ability to serve and love others. In truth, sometimes one must be set aside from the proximity of self, still held in light and love, still held in hope, but no longer set in a spectrum of space that can essentially snuff my light. Better that I focus on the circumference of the radiating love of all then on defending myself from one who is negating my efforts.

He came in with his opinions, and rearranged my life, sifting through what was right and wrong, and in need of alteration. I was dusted off, pulled out of my place of comfort, and turned upside down. Made to believe this title of faults were the end all, the cause of turmoil and disruption. Luckily, he couldn’t reach my heart, the cornerstone of my existence, my truth and my steadfast peace. For even in my disarray and utter sadness, singled-out on a weary shelf of ‘wrong’ and in need of ‘fixing,’ my heart cried out ‘false.’ And she sang, you are beautiful for always.

We (many people with Aspergers and others who are sensitive to the falsehoods) see through the illusion, even if we don’t know what we are seeing through. We feel this falsehood at our core and recognize it as poison and not real. We often don’t know why, but we do. When we are around like people who bring us comfort, it is because they resonate with our core. If our core is authentic, we resonate with authentic people; if our core is fear-based authentic, we resonate with fear-based-authentic; if our core is non-authentic fear-based we resonate with that. Regardless of a neurological condition or any type of label. Like attracts like

Sometimes I would prefer to meet someone in my perceived moments of ‘weakness,’ instead of my perceived moments of ‘strength.’ In that way, I am not set on a pedestal, and then watched until I falter. More so, I would prefer to connect with another who sees me as neither weak nor strong in any condition, but merely whole. There is a profound emptiness that flows through when one establishes one as something or another, labels experience as theirs with an unreasonable ownership, reckons they know and can figure out another soul. They can’t, unless they know their own soul. And even then, two get lost in the endlessness of no boundaries. I am neither longing to be admired for my strength nor longing to be forgiven for my weakness. I don’t exist in a stagnant state. I only exist as love and light. And all else is falsehood appearing real. I love you in your completeness, not for your moments.

I am supercalifragilisticexpialidocious. And awesome. And a bunch of other cool words. But if you are seeking perfection, you better find that in your self first.

It isn’t your opinions that bother me, or even your continual judgment and evaluation of who I am as a person. I don’t mind if you disagree with me, or that you believe you can fix and control me. I don’t even care if you find my ways repulsive and unsightly. I care that you don’t love yourself enough to see that you are already whole and complete, and instead take your illusion of a broken self and try to pound ‘broken’ into me.

I have this ongoing list of how I am supposed to be alongside an ongoing voice of how no one really knows how anything or anyone is supposed to be because everything is self-created, perceived, and rejected and/or accepted.

I don’t do well when someone I meet excites me. I am like a dog set free for the first time at a dog park. I frolic and pounce, over-sniff and over-lick. And then when I am back in the doghouse, I wonder what came over me.