Ben stood up straight, his ears crimson, his voice hoarse. “Damn it! How dare you say that in front of a child! What are you thinking? Are you an idiot? What the hell is wrong with you?”
Now, although I was completely mortified and feeling the strong urge, despite my stomach cramping, to crawl under the hospital bed and never come out, I have to say, Ben impressed me. Not in the way a parent impresses you by throwing you a birthday party and inviting all of your friends over to stay the night, nor in the way a child feels proud when a parent attends the school’s career day and knocks the socks or your classmates. No, it wasn’t the type of impressive behavior that summons thoughts of coolness and grandiosity. Ben’s behavior more so brought images of a fearsome bear standing on her hind legs with claws erected to protect her cub. It was a scary image, quite terrifying actually—though none could deny that somewhere deep inside the man who was set upon a blind-rampage, huffing and puffing away at every hospital staff member within his path, that there was at least somewhere hidden a jewel of compassion.
It didn’t take long for Ben to pack up my things, usher Mother and me out of the building, and drive thirty miles across the state to another hospital. Sadly for Ben, by then hospital visiting hours had past and the nurses insisted Ben and Mother leave. And thus I was made to stay in a strange place, miles from home, without a soul I knew, replaying in my head all the horrific ways my death might play out…
This story can be found in the book Everyday Aspergers
I awoke with an awful anxiety. This I recognize as a pressure that cries to be released. Though there remains this fine line in what I truly want to pour out on these pages and what society expects, accepts, and wants.
In some ways I’ve turned this blog into another player in my game. This game I’ve played since I was old enough to know that if I was nice enough, funny enough, and interesting enough, people would pay attention to me. And in turn, if I exhibited too much honesty, was too revealing, or too straightforward, people would reject me, or worse, simply disappear.
A woman with Aspergers remains a constant actress. There is no escaping this. And to me this is the thorn of having Aspergers. I continually scope and evaluate. I look at others’ actions and responses, more so than many can phantom. Some of the observations breed questions, a continual whirlwind in my mind. I wonder the simplest of thoughts, such as what was the motivation behind that person’s comment to more complex thoughts of what is the motivation behind my writing.
My mind forms a tumble weed of sorts, spinning and rounding the field, pushing up dust and debris. The child in me watches in fascination, the driver, the one avoiding the tumbling of thoughts, tries best to steer away. Still in the distant, regardless of my view, the tumbleweed remains spinning.
Some might think: Write what you want. Who cares what people think.
If only I were so simple. If my mind worked in the aforementioned fashion, this blog wouldn’t be a blog about a woman with Aspergers. I guarantee that.
With Aspergers one of the biggest burdens is: Thinking about what you are thinking about me. It’s not narcissistic or selfish. It stems from wanting to be seen, be valued, be loved, and be recognized for who I am. It stems from not wanting to be misjudged, misinterpreted, misunderstood, ostracized, dejected, alienated, stabbed in the back and persecuted. It stems from a lifetime of recognizing I don’t quite fit in with the mainstream, and if I don’t learn the norms, the unspoken rules, and then pretend to a degree and assimilate, I never will fit in.
It comes down to the options of fake a little or break a little. And I’ve been broken. The little bit of faking leads to a little bit of guilt, and continued self-analysis and reasoning of how to be a better person.
In a lot of ways I am in a perpetual state of figuring out how to be a better person. I recognize I’m good enough. I recognize I’m beneficial. I love me. Those aren’t the issues. The issue at hand is trying to be seen by you in the same way I see myself. This barrier remains, this veil that divides us all, and how I long to merge with others and be entirely one.
At times, having Aspergers is a feeling liken to being an ugly duckling that transforms into the beauty of swan, only swan is wondering why ugly duckling was not good enough for the world. Why ugly duckling has to be swan to be loved.
I extrapolate there is much shame inside of me. This shame is a part of me. I don’t see shame as wrong or needing fixing. I don’t’ see any part of my life as wrong, wasted, or unnecessary, and certainly not bad.
The shame stems from wanting to be as authentic and real as humanly possible. Only in being human, I have a mind that wants to protect me.
I want to be a ship in the night that sails with all the other ships in a forging fleet across the ocean waters; I don’t want to be a lone ship. But if I am myself in total, I will likely be cast out to the rough waters, banished from the refuge of loving souls.
The fear arising today is a fear based on the future—a fear of not knowing which route to take, how to steer, where to go. I recognize this fear. I wave to it. I speak to it. And in so doing, I lessen fear. But the specks that remain speak volumes and still haunt me.
I have this spirit inside of me that both longs to share her soul and light but that also longs to retreat into a hovel where no one can penetrate my skin.
This fear rises in thought of where my writings are traveling. Who reads these words. And what is to become of these words.
My dream is to publish, whether through self-publishing or a literary agent. But this, I am certain is many writers’ dreams. I feel guilt in dreaming. A concept I don’t quite grasp.
Still I dream.
And in my dreaming I do find hope. In another reading these words, I find hope. And so I sail on; whether lone ship or in the company of masses, I sail on.
If I was to turn back the pages of my life, to the first calm months at my stepfather’s house, my days would appear wonderfully simple and sweet, and in truth they were. It was a time when a gentle thread of calm and security weaved through my days. A brief moment I fondly remember and continually reflect back upon, perhaps in an attempt to regain some semblance of normalcy or to remind myself there was some good.
There weren’t any worries about money. My stepfather Drake was an attorney and helped the city officials acquire land for approved projects, which sometimes meant property owners had to give up their homes. It was rumored much later, when I was an adult, that Drake’s firm was actually responsible for my great-grandmother having to abandon her house in Monterey, California for demolition, to make way for a multi-level parking garage for tourists…
The rest of this story is in the book Everyday Aspergers
I returned to the lab this morning to get my blood work done. Yesterday, I was turned away, because I’d not realized I needed to fast. Yesterday the lab’s waiting room had been crowded.
Today when I entered the room, there was no person in the waiting area but me.
Shortly after I sat down, a young lady escorted an elderly Chinese woman inside. I immediately noticed the elderly woman’s eyes. They were shut closed. The young woman led the blind woman to a chair, before she quickly exited to park the car.
For the time, it was only me and the blind woman. The woman was seated across from me about six-feet away. As I smiled out at her, I realized she did not know I was in the room.
I hesitated to speak. But I was compelled to make my presence known. Leaning forward in my chair, I offered the woman a gentle good morning. Then I wondered what had caused her blindness. Wondered why she had to have blood work done. And wondered, too, why her lids were so tightly sealed together.
There was only seconds between the time I said good morning and the time the woman took to respond. Upon hearing my words, she searched for me, her head slightly turning my direction. Again, I wondered.
“Good morning,” the old woman answered, with an inflection and spirit liken to a young person. And then, without pause, she continued. “I so, so, scared,” she said in broken English. “I so, so, scared,” she said again.
She placed her aged hand over her chest and flapped her hand repeatedly. “I no like when they put the point in me,” she confessed. She attempted a smile. Without the use of her eyes for expression, the rest of her—arms, mouth, head, wrinkles, shoulders—they all played their part.
She curled into herself and then used her hand to demonstrate a beating heart again. “I been here many times. No make difference. I still get so scared. I can’t help. I don’t like be here. So, so scared.”
I tried my best to offer her some comfort through my words. I don’t think she understood anything I said. But she smiled just the same. To be heard—she only needed to be heard.
Soon the young escort returned, and I was called in for my blood draw.
This blind woman was a wonderful gift.
In the few moments this woman had shared her truth, I had stood beside her in spirit. And as I stood by, I had recognized my own self in her. With my recognition, my own fears were temporarily lessened. In viewing our likeness, my own misgivings were decreased.
In being there, hearing her voice, and recognizing our shared humanity, I understood this:
In an often obscured world we are each, in our own way, waiting for our voice to be heard.
Alternate Title: What Accounts for a Good Day in my Book…assuming I had a book, which I don’t. That’s why I blog.
I seem to be big into the alternate titles. It would be fun to make a list of alternative titles for people, places, and things. I bet you can think of a few alternative titles you’d like to call some people! Of course, I mean this in friendly, Buddhist-minded terms—like the enlightened one and the gentle being.
Okay, so I’m a goof. This I know. Nothing wrong with goof, except that goof is closely related to the spelling of goon and goob. Coincidence? I think not.
Backspace, Samantha.
Speaking of the name Samantha, I’ve been using the name Sam so much to answer readers’ comments that I’ve started answering some of my personal emails with the name Sam, instead of my given legal name. I find this quite funny. I imagine getting an email back from a close friend I have known for twenty years, and her signing her name “Rhonda” instead of “Lisa,” and that just cracks me up. I’d be thinking: This chick has surely flipped. Then I’d be thinking what does “flipped out” mean, and what is the origin of this saying. I digress.
If you ever read a post of mine and I come across as level-headed, straight to the point, dry and organized, please assume I have been taking over by a life-sucking pod like in the classic horror flick The Body Snatchers. I am not going to wake up one day, in this same human form anyhow, and be able to stick to one agenda or one point, unless I’m making a list. And even then, the list will likely meander or be super long. I don’t get how someone can just list a few facts and be done. If I tried to do that I would have so much stuff leftover in my brain, I’d need three more blogs to write the rest of the list.
Hmmmm? Have you ever noticed how some bloggers have more than one blog? Maybe it’s so they can appear sane. But I bet if you put a person’s multiple blogs’ blogging-words (posts) together, the combined words would create and entirely different profile. Something to think about if you work for the secret-service, FBI, or stalk people.
Invasion of the Body Snatchers Found at All Movies; click for link
Don’t worry. I’m sticking to one blog with posts that could easily over spill into three more days of posts.
Backspace, Samantha.
I want to talk about how people used to say: The field of battle, and how they now say battlefield, and how the field of battle sounds so much cooler. I can picture a bunch of goobs upping their sophistication level ten marks, while munching open-mouthed on chips and dip, by saying, the field of football. But I’m not here to talk about that. But what other ways could we feasibly employ this sentence structure…Beatles song: “Fields of Strawberries forever.”
I wonder why I couldn’t focus in school? I still don’t agree with the one comment on my fifth grade report card: Has trouble occupying self when finishes work early. I’m certain I was occupying myself fully. I just happened to appear comatose and staring off in space. No doubt. Unless I was body-snatched since then.
Do you see how I did a full circle back to the previous prose in the last sentence? That is the sign of a gifted writer—or a rambling circular-state, similar to when a dog chases its tail. Dogs are cute. I’m okay with that. No butt sniffing though. Or licking, or poop eating, or garbage hounding…crap, for being so cute, dogs do a lot of gross-me-out stuff.
Image found at Spiritually Directed
Backspace, Samantha.
I better stop myself. How do I do that? First scroll up to remember what the heck the original title of this post was. Now focus.
Good day? Well so far today sucks rotten eggs. It’s only ten in the morning and I am yawning constantly, dealing with a leg cramp, messed up the time of my massage appointment (= no massage), waited in the waiting room for blood tests, until I found out I was supposed to fast (= no blood test), opened an envelope with unexpected and unwanted bill, and opened a new loaf of bread to discover clouds of green mold.
Here’s what a Good day looks like in my book:
A Good Day in My Book
The internet works efficiently and I can log on and obsess about my social network group page and my blog stats.
When I slept the whole night through without being disturbed by a dog’s bark, my husband’s restless leg, or nightmares where I find myself back at college, only I’ve forgotten how to find the classroom and I’m late to class.
When there is some form of chocolate in the house that I can reach and open with little effort.
When no one rants, raves, whines, or screams at me.
When I can stay in my pajamas all day, not brush my hair, have no appointments, feel no attachment to doing chores, and my husband cleans the dishes and brings home takeout.
When Netflix adds new television series to the menu. Especially intense documentaries, genius comics, and the show Weeds.
When someone calls and says something nice, like I love you, Let’s get together soon, or Can I please, please, come and clean your house and watch your kids?It would mean a lot to me.
When my dog doesn’t eat my underwear.
When I can think of something to write without having to watch two hours of Internet videos first for inspiration and without having to delete the three page post I wrote while tipsy.
When a reader truly gets me and I find a way to make her or him smile.
All in all, yesterday was a good day in my book. Everything on the list happened, except no one volunteered to come over to the house and my dog ate my underwear, again. She only eats my underwear. Makes me wonder. But that will have to wait for another post.
Here Comes The Sun. Oh, and here comes Spastic Colon, my dog, with my underwear!
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Everyday Asperger's 