I think one of the earliest feelings I had was despair, helplessness. I felt that anything I need, or wanted, food, comfort, safety, was beyond my reach.
No one responded to my requests, cries, asking, so I learned it was hopeless to feel, to need and to want.
The hands were forever closed in tight fists, never open nor willing to assist.
Despair is like a grenade has gone off in my chest, blowing a large, gaping wound that I keep trying to cover, bandage and subdue.
I keep my hands and arms, close to my body; my mouth tightly shut and deny my needs labeling them as instigators, rebels, on the losing side of a war.
I was thoroughly taught that my needs were inconsequential, and things to be ignored, swept under the rug, denied, Denied, DEnied.
So what's a child, an adult, to do to rectify this erroneous emotional abuse? How does one change such deeply ingrained thought and behavioral patterns? How can I dislodge, override and dispel those churning wells of despair and feeling not good enough to live, to breath, to need, have wants, deserve love, comfort and support?
My friends...I truly do not know.
Helplessness is having no legs and the only thing on the path is a shaky bridge with crumbling stairs and everything I want is on the otherside.
Helplessness is a chasm and you have no rope. And you are alone...you are always alone, as this is an inner battle, never spoken of before. And I hang my head, afraid of shame, stigma, being ostracized and ridiculed....because few can imagine...living with...a never ending sense of helplessness from that which happened so many years ago.
I sit in quicksand up to my neck...as I always have. I ask not for an open hand, a bamboo ladder or snake like rope...because..if I open my mouth...the quicksand will have a way to get in.
It's difficult, dangerous, self-deprecating to even acknowledge such a fatal flaw. It's as if my words give power to an enemy unseen.. to use against me.
Ah, so I struggle and question and continue to heal from the egregious,wounds of my oppressors. But I Am well. I am Good.
Thanks for listening
People with Aspergers generally are high functioning in everyday life but have great difficulty connecting with others due to the inability to read faces, body language and subtle verbal clues. They also tend to take words literally and have a hard time multi-tasking.
Oversensitivity to touch (clothing has to be soft and often the tags removed), light (do not leave home without the sunglasses), sound (loud noises and noisey places are avoided), taste (many Aspies have quite a limited diet and are frequently very picky eaters) and smells makes the everyday existence more of a challenge.
Fasten your seatbelts and come on in...
To find out more about what Aspergers is..please check out my earliest blog entries
Tuesday, April 25, 2017
I think one of the earliest feelings I had was despair, helplessness. I felt that anything I need, or wanted, food, comfort, safety, was beyond my reach.
Monday, April 24, 2017
So, I was fortunate enough to go on two Meet & Greets, this past weekend. I believe I was able to find the two intelligent and attractive women this one online dating sight offered, in my location.
They have so much in common, that it is eerie. Both; like crystals, were born mid-December, educated and intelligent, financially and Emotionally stable, confident, happy in their jobs, both in the health care field, casual dressers, lovely natural greyish hair, easy to talk to and easy to listen to.
I had a great time. They are both attractive and I'm hoping we can go out again. We have been keeping in touch via texting and have made some tentative future plans. I really enjoy talking with beautiful women who are so open and honest, such great listeners.
I like who I am and I know the type of healthy people to look for and hang out with.
I had a Great weekend!!!
Tuesday, April 18, 2017
First off, it means that a series of traumatic, abusive, horrific and overwhelming events happened to you, damaging your sense of self and splitting off various ego states along with the memories of the incidents.
These memories will slowly/quickly/ unexpectedly come back, at some point, in the form of flashbacks, in which you will find yourself reliving the trauma. Sometimes I can see, physically feel, hear sounds and words, even smell what the event was like way back when it first happened.
Often, I wake up in the morning, the middle of the night, after a nap, and have to orient myself to where I am, what city, is it day or night, what was I doing before I lay down, what is on the agenda of things needing doing, when was the last time I ate, is it time for meds? Usually not all at once, maybe 3-5 of those most times I awake.
It feels like I'm wearing my body like an ill-fitted suit. It can feel too big, awkward, clumsy or even robotic and it's movements are completely out of my control.
Sometimes I can feel my lips moving but I can't hear the words. I frequently and without any forethought refer to myself as "us" or "we". I don't consider myself a singular person, rather a group of related individuals varying in age from early childhood, toddler, preteen, teenager, young adults and adults, Littles (for those under 10; teens for, well, the teenage parts of me, aka "alters" for alternate personalities and Bigs, for anyone over 21.
When I switch/change into another personality, my vision change and colors may suddenly look very bright, dull and fuzzy, or crystal clear.
I've had numerous times where I've tried saying certain words and they sound like a child's vocabulary instead of an adults. I can suddenly start stuttering, stammering or go completely mute at any second, mostly just in therapy.
Sometimes it feels like I'm looking out through someone else's eyes.
It's not a normal daily life by any means. These are just some of the ways that I think being a multiple is different from being a singleton.
It's not bad or awful, just different.
Monday, April 17, 2017
I stumbled across this headstone today. It really gave me pause. I searched online for more information about Ame.
For one Oregon slave, the
Civil War didn't end bondage
Ame died in 1874, more than 10 years after President Abraham Lincoln set her free. So, why does her gravestone still identify 'Ame' as a slave?
By Finn J.D. John — October 17, 2011
In a quiet little historical cemetery in the north hills of Corvallis, there’s a marble gravestone about the size of a large loaf of bread, with a simple and startling message carved upon it.
The stone reads, “AME, Slave of Mary and John Porter.”
There’s nothing more. The gravestone has none of the usual information. Ame’s dates of birth and of death are unknown. Until not too many years ago, information like that was considered unimportant.
If Ame’s date of death had been listed, though, it would have been within a year or two of 1874 — at least 10 years after the President of the United States declared her a free woman, and at least five years after the Fourteenth Amendment made slavery unconstitutional. Yet she died as she had lived, as a slave, albeit now an illegal one.
But then, she'd been an "illegal" ever since she first came to Oregon.
Born into bondage in Kentucky
Ame's grave marker in the Odd Fellows Cemetery in Corvallis, Ore.
This modest marker denotes the final resting place of a "slave" woman
named Ame, who died in the mid-1870s, more than 10 years after the
Emancipation Proclamation. The marker is considerably newer than
those of the rest of the Porter family, suggesting that the original marker
was a humbler one, possibly made of wood.
Philomath historian May Dasch told Corvallis writer Theresa Hogue that Ame was born sometime between 1808 and 1818, in Kentucky. At some point, when she was a young woman, she was sold to the Johnson and Susan Mulkey family of Missouri.
When the Mulkeys came out west on the Oregon Trail in the mid-1840s, they debated what to do about Ame. At that time, the question of whether slavery would be allowed in Oregon was still unsettled, and if it were settled with a "no," they'd lose a valuable piece of personal property. (That may sound catty to the modern ear. It's not intended that way; remember, this was well before slavery was abolished. The Mulkeys were simply products of their time.)
To play it safe, the Mulkeys decided they’d leave Ame behind with family members in Missouri — where, in any case, she had her own children to look after.
“When the start was made, Ame was not to be found,” recalled the Mulkeys’ granddaughter, Maude Cauthorn Keady, in an interview for the W.P.A. Writers Project in 1939. “Nor had she bade them goodbye. It was supposed that she was so sad or overcome with emotion that she could not watch them leave. Not so .... At the fourth camp, much to the delight of grandmother and the children, Ame appeared at the campfire, and was helping with supper when grandfather came to eat. There was nothing to do at this late hour but take her along. Her faithfulness to grandmother and the children was wonderful. She had left her own children to follow Miss Susan and the babies.”
From near to far, these markers are for John Porter, Elsie Porter, Mary Porter, the younger Mary Porter and family slave Ame.
Well, that was one interpretation. Hogue, for one, seems skeptical: “Whether it was loyalty or the fear of abandonment in a place where her only option was to become another family’s slave is impossible to tell,” she writes dryly.
And indeed, Ame had been passed around the Mulkey family quite a bit, and most people she’d stayed with didn’t like her. Perhaps she knew that if she stayed back in Missouri with her own children, she’d just be separated from them anyway and sold on the auction block, and would end up toiling in a cotton field for the rest of her (considerably shortened) life.
(Personal note: If I were making a bet, this last scenario is exactly where I'd be putting my money. It's not in the nature of human mothers to prefer other people's children over their own, and Keady's blithe assumption that Ame was an exception to this tells us something about the relationships here. The whole thing takes on the appearance of a deep personal tragedy wallpapered over with pictures of Disney princesses ... The Little Mermaid comes to mind. —fj)
Whatever the reason, Ame left her own children behind and came to Oregon with her owner’s family. Along the way, her chief tasks were keeping the oxen in line and the children out of trouble.
The outlaw slave
Upon arrival in the Oregon territory, Ame found herself an outlaw, shielded from a hostile society only by the protection of a respected white family that was, itself, breaking the law by keeping her. Black people were simply illegal in Oregon at the time — slave or free, they were legally prohibited from coming to the territory. There was even a “lash law,” according to which African-American folks were to report for a whipping once every six months until such time as they took the hint and left the area. Subtle, huh?
The “lash law” was blithely ignored in Corvallis. Ame continued serving the family, occasionally being lent out to help with neighbors’ chores. Keady said she seemed happy to be there with them — but did she really have a choice? Could she have walked away if she’d wanted to claim her freedom? Legally, she certainly could; keeping her in bondage was a crime. But as a practical matter, the community might not have allowed her to exercise that right. And, in any case, she herself was an outlaw, guilty of “being in Oregon while black.” What kind of support could she count on? A speedy repatriation to Missouri, most likely, to be handed over once again to the Mulkey family there.
She may have made the best of it, but Ame — and all other Oregon slaves — had been dealt a losing hand.
World changes, leaving Ame behind
Time passed. Ame got older and, according to Keady, feistier — although she’d apparently been plenty feisty to start with. Young Mary Mulkey grew up and married John Porter in 1858; Ame became the newlyweds’ property.
In 1859, Oregon became the only state ever admitted to the union with a law on the books excluding black people from living within its borders. So far as we know, though, this had no effect on Ame’s status.
Nor did the outcome of the Civil War change her life. In the Emancipation Proclamation of 1863, President Lincoln himself declared her a free woman. In 1868, the Fourteenth Amendment made her continued bondage an offense against the U.S. Constitution. Still she continued to live and work as a domestic slave.
But then, by that time she was probably in her 60s, too old to go forth and start a new life in “free” society. She probably counted herself lucky that she was far enough away from Washington, D.C., to continue living as she had lived.
Ame’s gravestone is a good metaphor for her life. She’s buried right next to the family she served, but not among them — on the edge of the plot, closest to the path. Her loaf-shaped marker is much more modest than theirs. It was probably a little controversial to bury her in the family plot at all; after all, before the Civil War, black people were considered little more than livestock, and nobody today thinks of burying a dog in the family plot.
But perhaps that controversy is what the family intended. Perhaps the younger Porters, in this bright new world, kept Ame in violation of federal law as a favor done for an old family friend who deserved better than to be thrown away like a worn-out buggy. It’s possible — remember, the people making these decisions were the “babies” she’d taken care of when she was a young woman.
John and Mary died a year or two before Ame did, in 1870 and 1872 respectively; yet nobody else seems to have taken “ownership” of Ame after their deaths. When she followed, she was buried there next to them, with that grave marker at her head, its short and disturbing message looking up at the free Oregon sky like a distant accusation
Sunday, April 16, 2017
Lying in bed last night, I was suddenly struck with empathy for the wild animals that are hunted down or ensnared only to encounter a torturous, painful death.
Call it "the Snowball Effect" as I'm sure these sudden, intense feelings stem from the recent memory of my pet rabbit, Snowball, being cruelly butchered by my father in the family basement when I was 8.
I thought of all the proudly displayed carcasses, the deer heads, racks, stuffed and taxidermied innocent animals and how, each and every one of them must have felt as the bullet hit or the trap snapped, grabbing a leg and they were stuck in catastrophic pain as they waited to starve or bleed to death. I imagined what it must be like for a deer to be quietly foraging in the forest. It's silent home turf suddenly shattered by a bullet ripping through its side, startled, jumping, sprinting away, it's life slowly ebbing away till it dies, scared and frightened.
I'm torn. I understand the need for food but I am aware of the pain the animal must experience as well.
I'm not against hunting, per se, as I am no judge or jury and I don't believe I have the right to tell anyone else what to do or not do. I'm just saying that I could never look an animal in the eyes and claim my life was worth their painful death.
And no, I'm not about to join any animal rights groups as the last thing I'd want is grotesque pictures and righteous souls proclaiming their opinion. This isn't about protesting or trying to change anyone or what they do.
I'm no longer an admirer of "trophies", dead, hunted down and killed animals hanging on walls anymore, because I can imagine their suffering. It makes me sad, the things humans do for sport and for survival.
Saturday, April 15, 2017
It feels like I'm drowning in a sea of over information. Facebook is piously littered with all the miniscule wrongs from vocabulary purists, autistic overexplainations, picks aparts of every speech, quote and misspoke. People are impassioned, yes but everybody is right, no one's listening and the facts are skewed.
The Dissociative Identity Disorder/ MPD groups are assigning names to every little nuance. The politicos are broadcasting righteous indignation and belittling one another. Those who think we need to be shown photos of worldwide atrocities continue to post, thinking a picture of a dead child, wounded dog or starving family will make us change our ways and give a damn about something we are helpless to change.
It's as if it's suddenly okay to be outspoken about everything. Emotions, dare I say the cringe worthy word, are running high in both directions and nothing is changing but my ability to try and stay connected to my drama-free, simple life.
I've unfollowed at least a dozen "friends", left most of the intense groups, and have decided the only way to stay in touch is with brief, once every couple of days, checkins. It's just not worth it, this mind numbing, information overload.
The rose colored glasses are off but everyone's put on boxing gloves instead. No blinders leads to being startled, running in perpetual panic around the covered wagons circle. There are no foxholes save for the mighty power off switch.
My dear ones have forgotten my email, how to text and what a written letter is. If I didn't continue to check in periodically, I wouldn't know how my son, cousins and close friends were faring.
The good ol' days are long dead as I watch the zombies staring at their phones walking the streets blind to the rose at their side.
It's sad. It's what it is, now. And I refuse to be apart of the angst and anxiety of the new societal norm.
Time for markers and pencils, paint and small boxes, cartoons and old movies. Pop some popcorn and pass me a beer.
Let's sit and have coffee sometime.
I miss your face and seeing your lips form words that create pictures on the screen in my head. I miss the warm smell of someone breathing close to me. I want to fill the cold emptiness that has always been there, just recently acknowledged. Words on a page cannot fill me.
I'm a peace loving soul in a chaotic, drama filled world.
Tuesday, April 11, 2017
About once every few months, I have a dream that takes place in a foreign country. Last night it was Lithuania.
Previously, I have "visited" Cambridge, Yugoslavia and, a couple months ago, Vietnam.
Last night, I was visiting with an older couple and we were talking about traveling. I mentioned how much I enjoyed the Dakotas, and the woman mentioned that they had a second home there.
Next, I'm walking on a beach and noticing how everyone had to carry four, regular size, pieces of paper, side by side, enclosed in plastic as it was law. I remember thinking that they had to be laid out and not together in one stack as the papers could easily be destroyed in something spilled on them.
Next, I found my self in a Customs Help Line, a place to go with questions. As I waited, I noticed a good dozen pocket knives strewn on the ground...like, they weren't allowed in so they had to be deposited there. Worriedly, I mental checked to see if I had my Swiss Army knife in my pocket and I was hoping they wouldn't ask me to empty my pockets.
As I approached the counter, I was greeted by a uniform blue dressed, blonde man. I'm not sure what I asked him, at first. I remember whispering to him, "I'm in Lithuania, right?" He said yes. He stated that he had brochures on nightlife, for gays, and would I be interested. I said I would. He replied, oh really?
He gave me the papers and said "my wife and I wish you a good trip."
I proceeded off to the left. I must have had my destination planned, as I knew I had to take the down escalator. I was nervous passing by, so close, to the open stairway but I told myself that I'm traveling alone and there are some fears I've just got to deal with. My arms were so full, luggage, a game for my son, my purse and such. Mentally, I was trying to figure out if I could find a locker because I simply couldn't continue to carry it all. Then I figured that at my next stop I would mail back to the states, whatever I could, especially the large, awkward board game.
I stepped onto the escalator, which had stopped and it immediately started moving. It was action activated! Cool.
I knew I had to travel down to get where I needed to go.
Off the escalator, walking down the hall, I realized I had lost my purse, my identity...go figure. I started shouting, "My purse, my purse, my purse" and I started backtracking to find myself.
Dreams often mirror waking life, don't they?