writing

Day 105: The Clutching Man

| Aspergers Girls

Be gentle with yourself in regards to this money. There is nothing worse in this world than giving your power to something beyond yourself, whether this be pupil or papyrus. All is the same in the sense of losing self in illusion of highness and grandeur. And it is this that the papyrus of illusion instills upon you—an attitude, and right-filled belief that the imaginary will bring forward fortitude and fortune. And if it be not good fortune, a raining down of green leaves, than the opposite is supposed by chance. That inevitably the money will reap nothing but garbage and exile. That the empty pockets will cause weeping and a predetermine fate of bitter destituteness.

How bazaar the power this one illusion has upon you. How it wraps around not only your mind but your being as a whole, drowning spirit along side body, leaving you gasping for what was never had before.

Yes, in the books of tales which you recreate and uphold as truths, those with less are victims. But are you not all victims? Are you not all persecuted by your very mind and ramblings, the cyclic thoughts you believe are reality? Who is to say these so-named victims of the past were anymore suffering than the richest heir upon his hilltop castle, the duke, the heralding placating son of circumstance?

This money is a disease of the mind, a self-created vision of lacking, built solely around the illusion. Where you are not already perceived lacking, where you have not found holes, you add the lacking of money to the multitude. You self-punish yourself.

Suppose money was nothing but the rotting fruit. Suppose money were the clouds. Or better yet, suppose money was the heart of man. Suppose everyone hankered after the heart of man, because there the riches were held. Here is the knife to cut the man to retrieve the heart that has the secrets to longevity and life. Here is the knife. Take and cut.

This is how you play. How you cut one another. There is not this knife that you can touch, but the pain is no different. To tell a man he is naught, that he is of sufficient lacking based on illusion is to do nothing more than tear out his heart while he stands watching and mourning. Who are you to claim that this illusion is the truth? The money, the thought behind money, and the belief that feeds the illusion leads to more war and more death than a million knifes. For the masses have believed, and thus made it seemingly so, that money is the answer to the problems.

This is simply not so. There are no problems beyond the mind. To be happy in a hovel is to be at peace. To be happy in a castle is simply an illusion, unless the man were able to sleep in a hovel the next night barefoot and frozen in his humility without regret. To take a man from high and surrender him to low, and have him return untouched—this is the absence of problems. To place a man up high and let him know in all ways that if he falls, if he lowers, if he lets go he shall tumble in misery and trouble—this is the fulfillment of problems. It is not that the meek are happy or better. It is that the meek are aware. They understand that happiness is not in a magic bottle, not wrapped in a grand illusion. That happiness is within.

And still they laugh, these masterminds of money. For how could what they possess not have meaning and purpose—bring power and totality? They do not see that the hand that is empty, absence of clutching, is the hand open to discovery and newness. The hand so tightly gripped cannot even save the body from a fall. The hand held prison in greed is no better than the mouth held captive in gossip. Anything in excess breeds the opposite—thusly, a hand unable to release creates an excess of loose grip, so that the hand can no longer grasp what is vital and needed, can no longer gather the fruits that nurture the soul. Just as a mouth flapping and chaffing has no energy left to close so the flies and dust don’t enter and germinate. This money, what does it do? How does it equate to equality and justice? How does one with none accomplish in life, when all about him he is judged as this “none” as this “zero.”

What is a man that cannot view beyond the illusion he grasps? Why is the clutching man welcomed and not the man with open hands? What makes a man who chains himself to bars of gold free? Remember the eyes are only a very limited scope, attached to a mind pre-created by limitations of thoughts, memories and happenstance. There is nothing before you to judge except the method in which you perceive. Judge this first, and then release that as well.

Money is a funny thing. It is not easy to measure but is always measured. It is not easy to like but often obsessed over and loved. It is not easy to find but piles high in dark basements. It is not something to build a life upon but becomes the foundations of thoughts. It is not worthwhile but lasts through the ages. It is not damaging but cuts like knives. It is not attainable but collected like trophies. It is not desirable but wished upon through stars. It is not real but the basis of an entire system of exchange. It is worthless paper easily set aflame but used to build empires. Everything about money is contradictory. It is gathered to instill passion and security but fuels disgust and worry. Money is said to make the world go round but often strikes a man half-dead. What use is a spinning world when all upon the planet are unaware? This money is a funny thing.

Money stops dreams. Money stops families. Money stops love.

There is only one vaccine for the heresy of money and that is belief in a higher good, a higher truth. Replace the belief of money for a quest for higher truth.

The illusion is altering. The things that illusion brings are no less better than the illusion. Fear begets fear. Money brings fear. Give up the illusion of fear and embrace the illusion of higher good. Blow down the green of money trees and replace this green with the light of the heart, the glow of what is. Find the real green and share this to see what truly grows.

Day 104: Fire Ball and My BIG BRAIN

| Aspergers Girls

This is to give you a glimpse of what goes on in my mind. Not all the time, but enough of the time. I start thinking, and thinking, and thinking. All these thoughts below ran through my mind in the first twenty-minutes of our plane ride. I have to laugh at myself. Thanks for letting me ooze this out of my brain onto these pages. And I DO NOT expect you to read this all. Like I said, this is a sampling of MY BIG BRAIN.

Maui update: Wonderful, wonderful day. The sand feels so good on my feet. Watched the boys play in the waves. We got upgraded to a 2,000 square foot, ocean view penthouse for the first night. They had a raffle in the courtyard. About 125 people, 125 raffle tickets, and they drew five tickets. Out of the first four, three were each of my son’s tickets. What are the odds??? The force is with us.

Okay, here is my brain in high gear….don’t ask me to explain this.

The Fire Ball/Fire Mass

In the circumstance of two coming together in company, feelings arise. These feeling are both beneficial and non-beneficial. Because we choose our feelings based on illusion and limited perception, in turn, the element of choosing is either beneficial or non-beneficial.

There is no in between middle point or meeting point in considering variants of choosing. Choosing is not on a line. Choosing is neither good nor bad. Choosing is like the air. One does not look into the air and wonder what is between the air, or where air meets. Choosing is expansive, beyond human reasoning. This choosing is one of the gifts of humans. This choosing is powerful. As we choose as a collective, we generate energy into perceived reality. When the masses are choosing the same then the masses receive the same.

If choosing is not on a flat timeline and not based on evaluation or degree, and one cannot finger-point choosing, then where does choosing exist? Choosing cannot be applied a degree or numerical value, because choosing firstly carries no value, and secondly, choosing is a vast collective that cannot be pinned down at any moment. With the illusion of time, choosing does not exist. Remove the illusion of time, and choosing exists. Choosing is always, with no ending and no beginning. The masses choose continually. This choosing in time terms occurs every second, every half of a second, every hundredth of a second, and so on, into infinity. Thusly, choosing cannot be placed within the concept of time, only within the concept of infinite.

It is the collectives choosing that creates choosing. This collective choosing can be visualized as a fire ball. This fire ball moves continuously with heat and gases. The choosing moves within this ball, continually altering form and position. Our thoughts are our choosing. Thoughts move in the ball of circular continuous motion. There is no end, no beginning, no start, no completion. This fire ball fuels the reality that the collective sees. Ultimately, everything perceived through the recognized senses at this moment are fueled by the fire mass, and in turn everything perceived fuels the mass.

This fire mass is neither good nor bad, for no such named vibrations exists. The fire mass moves with what could be called beneficial and non-beneficial vibration. Non-beneficial does not imply bad, nor does beneficial imply good. Beneficial and non-beneficial are part of the fire mass; and as these two are within the mass, they are also within our choosing. Ultimately, beneficial and non-beneficial do not exist. If we were to apply bad to non-beneficial and good to beneficial then there is an instant separation, with one above the other, or one on the side of the other. These directions, of up or down, or negative or positive in degree, imply separation. Where there is separation of any form—be it word or thought—then there is an absence of unity. Unity has no opposite. Singular does not exist. Thus degrees of beneficial cannot exist.

What is beneficial and what is non-beneficial. Beneficial is vibration that expands and creates vibration that inspires growth. Thusly all things, all actions, all thought, all being is beneficial. For everything within this planet of existence inspires growth. Therefor non-beneficial grows within beneficial, just as beneficial stagnates (or ceases to create) inside non-beneficial. There is no separation of the two beneficials. Non-beneficial vibration implodes and creates vibration that inspires stagnation. Stagnation can be beneficial. Thusly, non-beneficial can be equated to beneficial. There is no opposite. They are as one, like all unity. They are part of the fire mass. We choose the words of beneficial or non-beneficial to communicate a variation in vibration, not a distinction in right or wrong.

One vibrating non-beneficial energy, which implodes and will be received as stagnant, with the inability to expand and grow, is beneficial to the one, to another one, and to the collective (fire mass). This is how: A person who is exhibiting non-beneficial energy will directly affect the fire mass. A person who is exhibiting non-beneficial energy will directly affect another person within the energy frequency. The person(s) affected will then have a choosing. The person will choose to vibrate with the non-beneficial stagnant energy or to vibrate with beneficial growth energy. There is no right or wrong. Whatever the choosing, the person(s) are learning and growing through the acceptance or transformation of non-beneficial energy. Persons who vibrate with non-beneficial energy are teachers, the same as persons who vibrate with beneficial energy. Each is a variant of the unity of love. Each is part of the fire mass.

There are lessons in every reflection viewed through the recognized senses. These lessons are a reflection within a reflection. It is vital to remember there is no bad or good. There is not good or bad energy. No good or bad reflection. Everything is a one and breathes as one. A non-beneficial reflection is a teacher, as is a beneficial reflection. Think of the one looking upon the one in the mirror. This one may choose to vibrate with beneficial energy upon viewing the reflection, or the one may choose to vibrate with non-beneficial energy upon viewing the reflection. This is the same for one looking upon another one. This one is reflection of the other one. What one sees is what the one chooses to see.

All at once we are either expanding in light or imploding away from light. This occurs outside our concept of time. Every glance into the reflection of illusion is fed back to the fire mass and then returned to the collective masses instantaneously. There is no time. Only union. This is not as a shooting star or rocket ship, where one energy is fueled down, and then another energy fueled back up. There is no up or down. Source and fire mass are within. Light is within. Thusly, the one is continually expanding and imploding. The fire mass is held by all light bearers. The unity is light bearers. All are light bearers. All are unity.

When one evaluates, judges, or analyzes another one, the one is choosing to send these thoughts directly to the one, to the other one, and to the fire mass. As in thought there exists no one.

When one believes the reality of, You make me feel, there is an instant separation. When one is able to step outside of self and practice as observer, then unity remains. With the absence and removal of the thought, You make me feel, there is a flow of transitioning from non-beneficial (stagnant) to beneficial (growing) vibration. The beneficial vibration expands the fire mass; the more one expands the illusion of reality, recognizes thought, and practices as observer, the more one expands beyond the senses, and the more the collective fire mass expands beyond the senses.

The flow of transition of thought into vibration into the fire ball (fire mass) may be observed in the following manner:

I am angry at you.

I am choosing to be angry at you.

I am choosing to be angry.

I am choosing to be.

I am choosing.

We are choosing.

We are.

In the first string of words (or string of vibrations), I am angry at you, one is choosing to be angry at another one.

In the second string of words, I am choosing to be angry at you, the one is releasing the belief of direct effect. The one is recognizing choice.

In the third string of words, I am choosing to be angry, the one is recognizing there is no distinction between one and the other one, and that all feelings stem from the fire mass. All feelings are a direct response from the vibration of the fire mass. The fire mass is held within one and held within the other, and held by the union of whole. Thusly, one feeling is not attached to only one.

In the fourth string of words, I am choosing to be, the one is recognizing the choosing and the absence of another one. The one is recognizing the absence of separation. In the absence of separation the illusion of blame does not exist.

In the fifth string of words, I am choosing, the one is releasing the sense of having to be in order to exist. In essence the one is detaching from the element of being and existing and viewing the one as choice.

In the sixth string of words, We are choosing, the one is recognizing the fire mass: that all choice Is collective. That all is a reflection.

In the seventh string of words, We are, the one (WE) has transitioned the illusion of reality, stepped beyond individuality, and is able to view the collective.

All strings of words can transition into the seventh level. Vibration at the seventh level is optimal. Those vibrating at the seventh level omit a vibration of growth, nurturing, and serenity. There is a calmness and a glow. The glow is spirit: the light of the fire ball. Thusly, the glow the one carries is the glow the unity or whole carries. Thusly, as the reflection glows as does the whole.

The seventh transition is seen in other form likewise.

I am ugly.

I am choosing ugly.

I am choosing.

I am choosing beauty.

I am beauty.

We are beauty.

We are.

Another:

That man is bothering me.

I am choosing for that man to bother me.

I am choosing bothered.

I am choosing serenity.

I am serenity.

We are serenity.

We are

Another:

I hope he likes me.

I am choosing to hope he likes me.

I am choosing likable.

I am choosing I am likeable

I am choosing we are likable.

We are likable.

We are.

Another:

What if she doesn’t think I am special?

I am choosing to fear she doesn’t think I am special.

I am choosing fear that I am not special.

I am choosing special.

I am choosing we are special.

We are special.

We are.

With practice, one can vibrate at the fourth and fifth level. The fifth and sixth level occur when one is able to accept the illusion of reality and experience the fire ball within, recognizing one is in truth WE.

There is no right or wrong in the transition of seven. One will experience the vibration of the transition as beneficial or non-beneficial. In beneficial transition, there will be a releasing of separateness and a growth of collective. In non-beneficial transition, the separateness will stagnate. Separateness cannot grow; there exists nothing beyond the wall of separateness. Once separate, in all ways separate. Once whole, in all ways whole.

The transition of non-seven will create non-beneficial vibration for the fire mass. In example, the string of words below demonstrates the stream of vibration feeding non-beneficial vibration. Again, this is not bad or good. This is stagnation which serves a purpose, as all vibrations serve a purpose.

It is vital to remember what one holds as truth for one holds for truth as all. The one who sees his one as ugly, likewise sees the other one as ugly. There is only unity, no one. The one who sees his one as ugly vibrates this into the collective fire ball, the fire ball each carries. Thusly, all ones carrying fire balls will see ugly, and the collective whole will be ugly. Ugly is an illusion. One can choose to create whatever one chooses. Choosing is the key and the power.

In reference, the following string of words reflects the non-beneficial string of non-seven transition:

I have an ugly face.

I am ugly.

You are ugly.

We are ugly.

We are.

Here the vibration vibrates as stagnant. This is non-beneficial but not bad. The one has not recognized the effect one has on the collective. This is stagnation that feeds back into the fire mass (ball). When one believes in the illusion of ugly, all are ugly. One cannot proclaim one is ugly without proclaiming that he is equally ugly.

All ugly is an illusion. All beauty is an illusion. Words are vibration. Vibration creates form and reality. The vibration of ugly is determined by the illusion of ugly. If one chooses ugly as bad, then the vibration of ugly is bad. This bad is an illusion as well, creating its own ripple of vibration.

All words carry power—but the true power is in the choice of vibration behind the illusion of the word. This choice vibrates into the collective and feeds the fire mass. This fire mass is within one and within the other. Ugly feeds the one, and so ugly feeds the other. Stagnation, or non-beneficial vibration occurs when this ugly, this word, this vibration meets the fire mass. The vibration of non-beneficial energy will feed to implode the fire mass instead of expand, decreasing the light. Again, the word is not bad, neither is the vibration. The word is an illusion, the vibration behind the word is created by choosing illusion. We are in a constant state of choosing illusion.

Day 103: The Sound of Nothing

| Aspergers Girls

Compared to my other posts, this is very mature. Part of my journey to wholeness and self-love has involved documenting events of my past. The short stories are a form of art work to me. They feel like art, as they are scribed through strong emotion and creative flow. However, the words are no longer a part of me. The little girl’s experiences are forever lost on the pages I typed.

This is not meant to be sad, but shared as a possible peer into another part of me—the melancholic artist, perhaps. Or a mature woman sharing her truth, so others know they are not alone. I have many pages of similar events, but shall not post on this blog because of the maturity-level. Someday the missing chapters, I suppose, may appear in book form as a collection of many of the thoughts in this blog.

The Sound of Nothing

My new sitter was Jessica Jensen.  I called her Jess.

She was much the complete opposite of the obtuse and sedentary babysitter Mrs. Stockman.  Jess was a long-limbed, freckled-faced high school freshman with thick reddish-blond hair and a ruddy face infested with whiteheads.

Initially, I wanted to make Jess my best friend, but Jess had different plans.  She wasn’t mean or anything.  She was actually quite tolerant.  However, she was short of being my friend.  During our time together, Jess feigned interest in me, in the form of an over curious stare or raised eyebrow, but within a few minutes she was focused on something else, like her fingernails or the person on the other end of the telephone.  Nothing I said or did truly seemed to impress Jess.  She thought I was smart and funny, and told me so.  But her real interest was in her boyfriends and teenage mischief, all of which I was much too young to understand.

Jess was a roamer, and in a way I was her little naïve sidekick.  I’m sure it crossed Jess’s mind several times to leave me behind somewhere, but to her credit she always kept me in close proximity.  She didn’t know what she was doing most of the time.  She was just some teenager from a broken, druggie home, who didn’t know better, a girl who had far too much freedom.  We attended movies, where Jess covered my eyes so I wouldn’t see the full screen of naked breasts, and then afterward we’d hitchhike about town, bouncing from one kid’s house to another.  Jess was in search of something, maybe an escape or a rush, something to make her forget about where she’d come from and what she’d seen.

I stood by Jess, no matter where she took me, because, like her, I had no choice.  Choices are for bigger kids, once they realize they are worth something, once they know their value, once they can look at themselves and smile, liking what they see.  Jess and I, we just hadn’t gotten there yet.

I followed Jess into a world that seemed a distant land from the home I once knew with my stepfather Drake.  It was a place of no good and ugliness, a world with molding mattresses stretched out under the overgrowth of a beat up magnolia tree, where the backyard fence was bent and broken in all different places, where the house with the peeling yellow paint and exposed boards stank even from the outside, maybe even from the next house over—a raw smell, a dangerous smell that I imagine dogs would whimper and slink away from.

And there, I’d find her oldest brother, or better yet, he’d find me—a long-haired, high school dropout named Rick: a teenager roughened by an absent father and a strung out mother, scraped up all over on the inside like a bristle brush to stainless steel. An aimless boy who roamed a place where beer bottles lined the back porch and stray wild cats, some pregnant, some close to death, slithered in and out of open basement spaces like hairy serpents.

Inside Jess’ house were threadbare couches, half-busted televisions and food, but not the type of food anyone would want to eat, just leftover spoiled junk, crushed potato chips and cookie remnants, and bowls of sugary cereals molding in spoiled milk.  It was the type of house that needed to be quarantined, sealed off with yellow tape and bulldozed down, or burnt into smoldering ash.  No good was in the house.  No good at all.

Rick liked to play doctor, a confusing game wherein he touched me in places a little girl should never be touched.  And Jess, he’d do the same to her, that’s what I suspected, though I never said so.  I just kept my mouth shut, let him do what he needed, and left, went out and found Jess, like nothing had happened.  He never laid himself on me, nothing as crude as that, and he was just a child himself.  He didn’t know any better; just like Jess, he didn’t know any better.

I didn’t feel nothing.  No pleasure, no guilt, no disgust, felt like I would after playing a game of Twister or the Game of Life.  That’s what it was, just another game of life.

One time, in the early spring, I clutched Jess’ hand in her backyard while watching the slimy-brown juices of chewing tobacco seep out the side of Rick’s cocked mouth. “Get the hell out of here!” Rick yelled, fixing his cold-hazel eyes on scowling Jess.

Jess stood her ground.

“Didn’t you hear me?” Rick continued, kicking up pebbles with his muddy old boots and letting loose a wall of dust. “Get the hell out of here!”

“You are an idiot,” Jess said. “It’s my backyard, too.”

“Screw you!”

Jess clenched her teeth.  I stepped back and started counting the multitudes of dandelions.  At the same time, Rick removed a chipped brick from an outdoor wall.

Jess screamed, “You’re going to get arrested!”

“Mind your own business,” Rick said with a heated gaze, adding more spit to the puddle in the dirt.  “Just get out of my sight.  Go back to humping your fat loser of a boyfriend!”  With that said, he pulled out a dented tin box which had been stuffed in the space behind where the old brick had been.  He then opened the box and pulled out a pile of compressed twenties.  He fanned out the money, stopping to toss a smirk Jess’s way, and then shoved the box and brick back in place.

Jess squeezed my hand, and shouted again, “If Mother finds out, she’ll kick you out on your ass again!”

Answering back with a stiff middle finger, Rick headed out the busted back gate. “Whore!” he hollered from over the broken fence. “Stinking Whore!”

Jess turned round to find me.  I gazed up at her and I thought for a moment she might grab some money for herself.  Images of Budd’s ice cream cones and bean burritos danced in my head.  But Jess didn’t take any money.  She didn’t even go near the brick.  Instead she led me inside her house to the grime-covered kitchen.

“Come on,” Jess said.  “Let’s get out of here.”  She grabbed a hotdog off of a plate and took a bite, then proceeded to chew with her mouth open.  My mother taught me to always close my mouth while eating.  I watched as Jess’ food slid about, until the hotdog moved to the side of her blushing cheek.  “Now, what did you see?  You didn’t see anything did you?”  She swallowed and took another mouthful.  A frantic look crossed her face.  She paused between her words to chew. “Because… if you saw… or     heard… anything… anything at all… it’s not… true.”

“I didn’t see anything,” I said, wide-eyed and innocent.  I started counting with my fingers.  I figured there was at least a few hundred dollars in the box.

Jess swallowed again. “Good.  Good.  Let’s go then.  Come on.”

As Jess walked a few strides ahead of me, I could hear her disjointed whispers.  A block away, she stopped and turned to me.  “Never mind,” she said.  “You’re too young to understand.  It’s too late, just too late to do anything now.”

Further up the sidewalk, Jess stopped dead in her tracks.  Her lacy halter flapped up in the wind.  I reached over and attempted to pull her top down.  She didn’t notice, and the wind blew the halter right back up again.  Her sheer pink bra was showing.  I studied the thin material.  Jess faced sideways and cupped her hand to her ear. “Listen.  Do you hear a police car?  Do you hear that?”

I gazed into the crystal-blue of her wild eyes and considered what Jess had said.  I didn’t hear anything.  We waited without moving, stood still—didn’t move an inch, just like those pill bugs do when they’re playing dead.  For a few seconds I believed Jess might well be a bionic babysitter endowed with supernatural hearing.  I waited patiently for the sound of the police siren or the sight of a patrol car.  I waited and waited, but in the end there was nothing.

© 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

Samantha Craft

Day 78: I Sail On

| Aspergers Girls

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.

http://news.bbc

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.

http://intheboatshed.net/

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.

Day 67: Butterfly Red

| Aspergers Girls

Butterfly Red

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)

~ By Samantha Craft 2012 Based on true events

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