It was an ordinary night for a child who had grown accustomed to the unordinary. My dog Justice trembled under the bed, while Led Zeppelin vibrated through the wall. Inside the sheets, all wrapped up in Mother’s essence of bath oil and sandalwood, I tossed and turned. Then I laid listless and awake—a lump of boredom. I could smell the funny smoke again and hear bottles clinking.
I pleaded with God, “Please make the people go away.”
All at once, a melodic voice called out, “Hello, Little Girl.”
But I knew the voice wasn’t God.
I was certain my God didn’t have a Jamaican accent and dreadlocks. “We didn’t know you were in here, Pretty Lady. I’m sorry if we woke you,” the stranger apologized, as he approached Mother’s bed.
I leaned over casually on my arm, wanting to seem mature and interesting enough to earn his attention. “You didn’t wake me,” I responded, with a fake yawn, tapping my little chin with my tiny fingers a few times. I was accustomed to seeing strangers in the house, but not at my bedside. Still, I wasn’t nervous in the slightest degree. I’d liked meeting Mother’s friends. They were all interesting in that odd way…
The rest of this story can be found in the book Everyday Aspergers
My husband took this photo and the other. He is gifted that way.
I was with a crowd of people the day I lost my butt. I searched everywhere for my butt. In desperate need of a butt, I clasped my two hands over a stranger’s butt, imitated pulling off her butt, and then I tried to fit her butt onto my butt. But her butt wouldn’t stay on me. When the stranger asked, “How does my butt fit?” I responded, “Too small.” And with a frown, I sighed, shrugged my shoulders, hung my head low, and gave her back her butt.
As I walked in embarrassment without at butt, I covered the place my butt had been with my hands. Sometimes I slid across the floor to hide my missing butt or I squatted down and walked low to the ground. When I sat, I placed my hands beneath me on the chair to protect the skin where my butt had been. Other times I sat on my knees.
Off and on for an hour, I searched for my butt. One time I asked the crowd, “Have you seen my butt?”
I looked under my chair for my butt. I looked in corners and underneath people’s legs for my butt. Later, in desperation, I found a microphone, and again asked, “Has anyone seen my butt?”
No one had seen my butt.
After we left the crowd, and returned home, for weeks my three sons, and sometimes my husband, would peer from around the corner, at random intervals, and ask, “Where’s your butt?” One day my family gathered together on the couch to view the recording of the day I lost my butt.
It didn’t matter where I went in our home. I could be sitting on the toilet, climbing the stairs, or cooking dinner, and someone in our house would ask, “Where’s your butt?”
I will always remember the day I lost my butt.
My butt is back now. My butt actually never disappeared. I only thought my butt had vanished. In reality I’d been hypnotized on stage to believe my butt was stolen.
I believe at times we all think we’ve lost our butts, or at least we believe we’ve lost a portion of ourselves. Many of us think an essential part of us is missing or lacking. We believe we aren’t worthy, aren’t enough, aren’t special, and aren’t lovable; when in actuality we came into the world fully equipped with everything we need. Our butts are firmly attached.
Nothing is missing and nothing has been taken away. We are worthy, we are enough, we are special, we are lovable, but we forget. When we think we are lacking that is like our mind tricking us into think we have no butt. When we think we are lacking, we walk the world like our butts are missing. We hang our heads low, we hide, we search, we ask, we fear and worry.
We trick ourselves. We hypnotize ourselves into thinking we are lacking when everything is right there where it is supposed to be. All we have to do is to reach down and grab our gifts. They are right there waiting.
So the next time you find yourself lacking, remember the story of the lady who lost her butt. Think of her standing on stage, speaking into a microphone and asking, “Has anyone seen my butt?” That is exactly what you are doing when you are searching for your worthiness.
Don’t ever think you’ve lost your butt.
Your worthiness is firmly attached to you.
Now get out there and shake your booty!
The answer for yesterday’s post was number 9. Number 9 was the fiction.
Number 9 was a little bit true. The object was a tampon that flew across the cafeteria and hit someone in the head, but I ducked, covered, and ran before anyone knew I was the culprit. No one picked it up and handed it to me.
Don’t feel bad, my husband guessed the wrong one.
For those that guessed number 7, you were close. I could have worded that fact more clearly. I did review 100 men, but I reviewed the recordings they left, then I called a couple dozen back. So, if you guessed that number, you get a free pass.
Everything else was true. Including Patty Hearst and the swimsuit model. Thanks for participating. I had a great time reading your lists.
On a Monday just past four in the afternoon, Mother, dressed in her secondhand dress and faux-leather heels, drove a little faster than normal—which was still relatively slow. I was seated in the front seat of Ben’s battered sedan. Every few minutes a piercing pain drove up my left side causing me to let out a muffled moan, which gave Mother a reason to pat her hand on my shoulder and offer out a sympathetic smile.
This was an unusual ride, given the fact I was headed for the hospital, and Mother’s live in lover, Ben, who was habitually attached to the front seat, was dutifully sulking in the back. I was so accustomed to seeing Ben’s broad back hunched over in the front that upon spotting him there, behind me, sprawled out in excess of half the seat with his socked feet propped up on Mother’s weather-beaten briefcase, I swore to myself I was dreaming. But if I was dreaming I thought, then surely when I had shut my eyes and then peered out again, Ben would have vanished…
This story can be found in the book Everyday Aspergers
The accident had happened fast. No one had expected it. I hadn’t meant to let go.
I had fallen headfirst, a good four feet, onto the unforgiving concrete. Riding atop my babysitter’s shoulders, I hadn’t thought not to bend my head back and look down. I was only having fun. No one had ever told me not to bend over. And I’d only had the chance to view my backyard upside down for a minute or two, before I lost my balance and fell.
Smack!
After the fall, the sitter screamed and rushed me indoors to the dining area. Her teenage friend was there, too—her screams equally loud and bothersome. For some time everything echoed and twisted and turned in the chambers of my ears. Blood rushed out of my head in every direction, staining all the bathroom towels. I was on the dining room table, up high, as everyone scurried about in nervous circles. I glanced down and spotted my Labrador Sugar. Through my tears, I saw she was panting and pacing, and whining some. My small hand met the warm oozing blood at the back of my head. So much blood.
I awoke, wet and hot, to discover myself trapped beneath a heavy blanket in some unknown place. Nothing looked familiar. I turned quickly and tried to rise up, but some force pushed me down. I was inside a nightmare… (The rest of the story is in the book Everyday Aspergers)
Everyday Asperger's 
