Prepare to enter the wild and wooly world of an adult with Aspergers Syndrome, a form of autism characterized by intellignce, quirks, social difficulties and downright strange and oddish behaviours.

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

Friday, January 31, 2014


It's been a decade or more since the memory of my mother drowning me first surfaced. My first visual recollection of being alive was being held under water, in the kitchen sink, and seeing bubbles, my screams, above my face.
 I don't recall what exactly happened before the drowning. I was under a year old and getting bathed. Maybe the water was too cold. Maybe my sensitive, autistic sink caused me to shriek when my hateful and angry mother touched my bare skin. I honestly don't remember.
 I do know that my body was shoved under the water. The center of my chest/ throat area hurts, like I was punched just under the throat. Was the pain from my mothers forceful hand? Or was it the suffocating feeling of water filling my lungs, them into useless bags of cement? I may never know.
 That chest/ neck feeling has been haunting me off and on, most strongly the past few days.
 After that specific physical sensation, the memory stops. I'm stuck, cannot continue. Oh, I've heard myself say the sequence of events that happened mother sliding her hands under my arms, pulling me from my watery grave. I've talked about remembering the sound water makes as it falls off the baby's head and shoulders. I remember saying how I looked at my left upper arm/ shoulder area and seeing my skin cool grey, as I lay on mommas shoulder and endured the pounding on my back as mothers wailed.
 I don't know if I died that day.
I do recall how my body grew cold, under the water. The top layer of my skin became cold first, and then layer after layer of my extremities flowed from warm to cold, till all I could feel was the pounding, the heartbeat in my head and torso.
 Then I get stuck....with trying to figure out this sensation. Why does it stop me like a dark, bricked-over roadblock. I'm challenged to find words for which I have no references. Words for sensations I've never read about or previously experienced.
 Time to free associate...allow my subconscious veils to receded....I write whatever comes to mind and that which I see...
  Momma was pushing me away from her. I had displeased her and she was making me go. All too frighteningly easily, I remember the quick, violent rush of water fill my tiny lungs. I remember the heavy, solid feel of not being able to breathe anymore. The cold. I was screaming and then suddenly, the rush of cool water. Unable to choke or spit it out. The upper chest pressure, her hand, her anger and hatred all rolled into that one shove. I couldn't breath and it scared me. I was terrified. I struggled...then floated into blackness deep inside. The only sound, the heartbeat in my head. Fast fast fast, at first, then slowing down.
 Maybe I was under water for a second or two. Maybe she held me there till my struggling stopped. I have no concept of time. "Momma?" I was confused. Struggling inside and outside. Rope. Tied down. I don't think I thought she was trying to kill me. That thought doesn't register emotionally. My body. I didn't understand why she wanted me away from her and under water. I wanted to breathe. I didn't understand why it was suddenly taken away from me. She had all the power now. She proved she owned me. I felt small, insignificant, snuffed, completely counting on her for my fate. My life wasn't mine no more. It depended on her. She took something precious and dear from me, that personal power, the right to own myself, control over my own fate. It was a dirty trick.
Did she know what she was doing? Was she holding me under, making breathing stop, on purpose? Was this an accident? I didn't understand.
Tormented. I can hear my gasps, my struggle under the water. See my small seizuring, causing small waves. Alone. Naked. Still. Completely unmoving, laying on my right side. Everything went dark.
I remember the gasp. Coming out of the water by both her hands, quickly with an abrupt, brisk jerk. The water spurting out my mouth, my lungs with a violent, self-survival reflex, catching mom on the cheek and over her shoulder. The heavy handed pounding on my back. My watery, wet blurry eyes. The slapping on my back, omg, it was torment. It hurt, hurt, hurt, burned, like my back was on fire. The slapping I understood. Mom was good about slapping me, lots of experience. The remembrance of back....makes me really sad, adding injury to insult. I went from cool, to cold, to a rush of cool air and fire on my back. My lungs, omg, they hurt, they burned, too.
I remember, vividly my completely limp body, my head flopped on her shoulder, I couldn't move, couldn't control or really feel my body, cept for the slapping, slapping, slapping. Ah, I can hear it now, too. What a horrid, wretched sound. My skin, so very sensitive, turning, feeling bright red and completely burnt off. My entire body heavily shuddered with every, incessant, quick thump. It was continuos. Omg, I just wanted it to stop. More water draining out. Now breathing in hurt. Couldn't catch my breath. Tears in my lungs. Just kept gasping, struggling, practically convulsing.....against my will. I had no control. I was a rag her whim.
To this day, I freak out if anyone comes up behind me and presses against my back. My kids used to do that, when I'd be on the floor playing with them, or they would come up behind me to hug me and I flipped out. They quickly learned, as I calmly explained to them, that I can't have them touching my back like that. Now, I think I know why.
As I write, I feel, I relive, I reexperience the agony of this memory. My back hurts. I have to tell myself it's ok to breathe and that I'm not under the water anymore. Find myself holding my breath, making sure my inhaler is handy. Calming myself down.
I have to remind myself that this is just a memory...that her hand isn't on me, pushing me, punishing me. My lungs aren't full of water. This terror, this fear is okay to feel and express. She can't hurt me. Mom doesn't control me, or my body. My fate is not in her hand. My back, my poor back, seemed to hurt for days after that. The hitting. The jarring. Each smack seemed to hit to the bone.
She panicked. When she whisked me out of the water. Panic, fast fear in her voice. High-pitched regret and wet tears. Her body shook, trembled. She made the baby grey.
I remember the warmth from deep within my body, softly, slowly starting to flow outward. My body was definitely in some type of little mind, as well. For some time afterwards, I just lay on my belly, head to the side feeling the burning back, the slightly numb arms, the sick lungs wheezing. Felt quite damaged, inside and out. I didn't move on my own for some time. I was stunned.
Trauma causes dissociation. This is my earliest trauma.

I've managed to find words...and tears, to this first memory. I broke down the wall.

Wednesday, January 29, 2014

Memory and Living Multiple, MPD, DID

I was explaining to my therapist that I have two different types of memories. The first one is when I just know something, cerebrally, without pictures or words, I just know certain things. The second type of memories are visual remembrances where I can see it. Actually, there is a third type which is the flashback in which I am partially immersed in what happened and when. In an odd way, I prefer the visual and flashback remembrances because I can trust them more. I have no doubts that they are true. Mental memories, the first type, don't feel as accurate to me. I am Aspie and I am much more in tune with all that is visual.
 Some memories, like the aforementioned one involving my brother and peanut butter, I own completely. Even the different times where he brought me this cracker or that cookie, I, singularly remember it all.
 Now, the turn of the coin, the other two memories, I will refer to as Terror and be discussed later, I only recall a small portion of the individual memory. It's as if you go to a ball game and can remember the second, third and seventh inning but nothing at all about the first, fourth, sixth, eighth and ninth. My memories are separated into different pieces.
 This is a good example....I was three. I remember my mother screamed. I felt the thunderbolt, the jarring upset of her scream in my physical body. I turned to see her...then it went dark. Kinda like the lights all completely went out. It is pitch black, no sound, no sense of being, nothing.....minutes must have passed....some other part of me remembers what I black out. A short time later, I see my mothers hands wrapped tightly around my chest and I See her holding me, my body, slightly out the second story window. It's as if I'm hovering a couple of feet away and watching this crazed mother holding another part of me out the window.
 I recall seeing this, but I didn't feel her hands wrapped tightly around me. I have no idea what it truly felt like to look down from that second story window, because it was a different part of me that was being grabbed, threatened and held out the window.
 One memory broken into about three seperate parts.
 Trauma. Yeah, trauma causes dissociation. I dissociated about two feet away from my physical body and observed. It was an overwhelming experience.
 My brother and I had opened our bedroom window. It must have been the first time that we had done this. There was no screen or storm window was just a single panes window and together we had figured out how to open it. Mother walked in on Thomas and I as we looked out. She screamed in fear for our safety. We were all of twoish and threeish. I turned to her, then looked back at my brothers blank face. I know exactly what he was wearing, a blue and white checked shirt buttoned to the top button. I remember, I can actually feel, right now, and everytime I think of it, exactly what I wore, some type of wool, prickly, heavy jumper with green stripes, oh, plaid is the word I'm looking for. The jumper had two dark buttons. I had on a short sleeved, white blouse, as well.
After looking at my brother...blackout, no memory, no idea what transpired. Next thing I remember is mothers words "you could break your neck" or "do you want to break your neck?" and "you could be killed." Those are not exact words, but similar. Then back to blackout until I saw her holding my body out the window, which probably explains my consistent fear of heights and being afraid to sleep above the ground floor. Thanks mom, not.
At some point, those other pieces of missing memory parts will resurface, probably if I tell and retell the story to therapist or write about it enough.
Going off track a bit....See, when mom said "break your neck" it elicited some sort of physical/ emotional, deep seated response within me. Maybe it's the first overt threat she ever made to me, you know, saying the words and then scaring me half to death. Those words, break your neck....I was afraid that She was going to do that to me. And breaking ones neck was probably very painful. In my head, "don't hurt me, don't hurt me."
Anyway, enough for now. Lots to process.
Have a good night.

She was Magnificent, New Art

My latest creation. Hard to see the detail. A mixed media shadow box "She was Magnificent"

I Love This!!!!

Processing New Early Memories, Therapy and MPD DID

I'm having a hard time putting words to things, feelings, sensations and experiences lately. It's as if I wasn't given a dictionary or encyclopedia. Emotions seem very hard to pin down or identify. I have physical, visceral feelings with some type of emotional connection and I struggle to try and sort it all out.
 Therapy was okay. I look forward to it, to be honest. As someone with a painful boil looks forward to going to the doctor to get it some of the pain and pressure goes away.
 It was weird. I left the appointment and...hmmm, I feel an odd type of warm. It isn't physical warmth, per se (omg, when was the last time I ever said per se?) but a different warm. This is more dramatic than I wish but, it was like I was born, raised and had lived in a cave and I suddenly took one step out in to the sunshine. So much to process.
 Basically, I worked on three separate very early memories of when I was under four years of age. Maybe that's the rub, why I'm having trouble identifying and articulating. Ones vocabulary isn't fully developed so young.
 The first remembrance was regarding having someone who loved me and being hungry. Didn't really resolve this or either of the other two memories but I brought them out into the light, cerebral and verbal awareness. See, I was loved veryvery deeply and unconditionally by someone when I was 2-4 years old. It surely wasn't my mother. It was almost as if she and I had a solemn, unspoken agreement. She would tolerate me and I would tolerate her. We both knew that there was nothing resembling love between us, as if we had written out a document stating such and each had signed it in blood. It wasn't a secret between her and I. That is just what our "relationship" was, nothing more, nothing less.
 My father, kinda sorta loved me. The top layer of him loved me but the second layer underneath was unstable and crazy. He didn't truly or unconditionally love me.
 The one person that loved me...the one human who I looked to every morning and throughout the day...the only being that made the pain of my existence tolerable and made me want to not die, was my older brother.
 I'll call him Thomas for anonymitys sake. Thomas was 14 months older than me and he adored me. He constantly gave me hugs and kisses. We could look into each other's eyes and know what the other was thinking and wanted. I was a late talker who didn't have much to say, but Thomas understood me. We understood each other.
 I would look for him constantly, if he wasn't around I felt lost, alone and would cry. I had heard the story and seen the black and white photo of our cribs being pushed together because I would pitch a fit if he wasn't near me.
  When we were together, just he and I next to each other, it's as if a giant bubble formed around us and the rest of the world went away. Together we were pure love, one heart and mind. Two siblings were never closer. We were joined at the hip and happy being together, truly truly happy.
   He was the one who would bring me food from the kitchen, sometimes sneaking it if he had to. I remember listening to Thomas and mom in the kitchen on the other side of my bedroom wall. If I laid very still I could hear Thomas's voice. I'd figured out that if his voice went up at the end, that he was asking a question and that he might be asking mom if he could bring me something to eat. He brought me saltines, animal crackers, bread and one time in particular, that is a vivid visual memory, was a spoon with peanut butter on it. I remember how veryvery happy I was because I rarely had such a treat. Thomas held the pb spoon up like he had won a prize. Tears to my eyes. I was so touched that he would do that for me. He went out of his way and did everything he could to try and please me, to make me happy. Someone in the world loved me, cared about me and was always there for me. Thomas and only Thomas. And I loved him more than life itself. He was my world.
  So much strife and pain happened in those first few years. Lots to think and write about. More later
Be well

Sunday, January 26, 2014

Art: She was as Beautiful & Timeless as Stars

A little 4 inch drawer that I painted.

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Aspergers and Phone Calls

 It's the combination of everyday, little things that bog down and stress out the Average Aspie. Phone calls, both making and recieving are quite distressing. I understand, having seen it throughout my life, that non-Aspies tend to run to a ringing phone like they have won a prize. Aspies tremble at the ringing and avoid making calls whenever possible.

 I've been analyzing the reasons why I detest phone calls and trying to put it to words. I can probably sum up the overwhelming feelings in one word, uncertainty. I live in a very visual world. Even though I cannot read emotion on others faces, at times, I can certainly tell when a conversation is over when someone walks away.
 Each person has a different "normal" tone of voice. Some people sound harsh, rude, off put, as a rule. In person, I can judge body language and a persons overall demeanor with greater accuracy. When I'm on the phone, some voices make me think I'm intruding and they can't wait to get off the phone with me.
 As a good Aspie, I try and anticipate every single human interaction. I play and replay all possible scenarios so I won't be caught off guard. In a phone call, I'm confused and anxious because I have no idea what will be said, so my brain goes on hyper overdrive guessing at which questions or statements will be next. I have a verbal processing delay...I need time to think and formulate my answers from the jumble of words in my head. Sometimes, in these unpleasant pauses, something new is said, as I'm desperately trying to formulate the answers to inquiry #1, the party on the other end has thrown out inquiry #2. Now I am boggled, frustrated, lagging behind in the conversation, I look like an idiot and I can't catch up, having lost my original response to inquiry #1.
  I have no way of telling the mood of the caller. Are they upset with me? Or simply having a bad day? If they are a receptionist or I catching them at a bad time? Are they behind in their work with a line up of people at their desk? Are they sick and not feeling well? Or are my responses setting them off? Or wrong?
 Can they understand what I'm saying? Do they get my point, even though I'm using choppy, unprepared words that do not flow? Are they paying attention? Or distracted by playing games on their computer?
 There are dozens of questions, which I cannot answer on the phone.
 Whilst I try and make all appointments and get questions answered in person, on occassion I do have to make phone calls. I thoroughly prepare myself. I write notes regarding exactly what I want to say. I spend time writing possible responses based on the possibility of questions they might ask. I make note of the best times to call based on office hours and busy times. I write, look up and rewrite the actual phone number that I need to call, to make sure it is correct. I gather a notepad, working pen and glass of water, then compose myself, rehearse my lines and methodically push button, slowly and carefully (I don't want to call the wrong number) the number and anxiously wait.
I'm varying degrees of nervous, as I talk. The more familiar I am with the disembodied voice on the other end, the easier it is to talk. I take copious notes to keep up with what's being said. I try and write, decipher the important points of the conversation that I need to remember, in addition to some awesome, frantic doodles during pauses or waiting times.
Another stressful consideration....I watch people's lips move during conversation, because I'm never sure when they are finished making their statement and when it is my turn to speak. This is huge. On the phone I have no way of knowing when it's "my turn" or when I'm interrupting because I cannot see lips move or their head turn indicating they are done speaking and awaiting my response. I Have No Sense of Timing during phone conversations. I feel so awkward, displaced and out-of-sync.
I'm not sure if my answer to a question was received properly or if they were looking for more or different information.
Aaaarrrggggghhhhh, I get frustrated even attempting to write out All the varied reasons I avoid phone calls and their adverse effects on my psyche.
Aspies have serious struggles with phone calls! I hope that I have been able to provide some of the reasons phone calls are so stressful.
Please feel free to add any additional reasons in the comments!

Friday, January 24, 2014

Thursday, January 23, 2014

Wednesday, January 22, 2014

The Will to Live

Do you think that everyone is born with an identical golden coin that is the physical embodiment of "the will to live"? I wonder. Is everyone given the same sized coin? Is it a conscious or subconscious desire to want to live from day to day? I wonder if external factors are a consideration or if it's just a token we each have.
 I say this because I seriously wonder, if I ever had a conscious desire to see the next day. I lived precariously, struggling within each moment, never having a handhold or a vision of hope or of anything better. I strongly question how I survived to this point. It almost seems a cruel, sick joke. I don't recall ever feeling a desire to live. A desire to die, well, yeah, that was always present. I felt it inwardly since I can remember and it manifested, strongly, when I was nine. It's been a conscious and subconscious force within, ever since.
 I just wonder.
 What if I found this mythical, hypothetical gold coin of desire to live? My, wouldn't that have a strange, heavy feel in pocket or hand.
 Somehow, for better or worse...I got to this point. It continues to stymie me. Life has ever even a gift, just a painful struggle.

There was no tomorrow...early childhood abuse and neglect

I continue to explore my very early thoughts and feelings of being a child trapped within neglect. My recollections as vivid as if they happened yesterday. I don't ever remember having hope or wishing for tomorrow. I lived deeply within the pain and discomfort of each moment.

 Every time I start thinking of laying alone in my bed, with the immobilizing brace, I get ravenously hungry. That probably explains why I have been raiding the kitchen, each night this past week and waking up to empty bowls, candy bar wrappers and half-eaten bags of chips. Even now, writing about that time period, I get very hungry, even though I just finished breakfast. As a child, left alone, I wasn't given enough to eat. As an autistic child, who frequently slapped away and spit out food that was offensive and disagreeable to my sensitive palate, I was put in my room hungry. If I didn't eat what was served, I didn't eat. There were no other choices.
  I remember listening to my brother and mother talking at the kitchen table, in the next room. I'd listen for my brothers voice to change pitch...because I recognized that his voice would change, go up a little, when he'd ask a question. It must have been a question like, "can I bring Amy a cracker or cookie?" because the change in his voice was something I looked forward to. It was what I'm guessing was a sort of hope. My brother would bring me a cracker or two and slip them to me through the bars of my crib. I remember the smell of food on his face. Remember the touch of his hand. While mother never showed any interst in me, my brother did. He would talk to me and interact. He would share his food when he could. He cared about me.
  I can recall how the room smelled, kinda old and stale.  I remember seeing the well-used and not-so-clean wooden bars with the assorted greasy dirt accumulated under the railing top. The room was a rather dull blue green color with a single add-on closet in the far corner. The floor was of old, bare wood, as if it once had carpeting that was hastily removed and the flooring left unfinished. The window. There was one windw in the room, that I could see from my vantage I thought about the window...I became quite terrified and felt heavy pressure hands encircle my chest. Something...bad happened there....maybe the reason I am afraid of heights and can only sleep on the ground floor at home and in hotels. But that's a story to be further examined in therapy.
The other overriding feeling is physical pain. I was born with my body overly curled to the right. Both feet turned drastically right. The consensus was to try and straighten them with a single metal brace with a shoe attached to each end. The brace had adjustment nobs on the bottom so the doctor could continually adjust the torque in hopes of getting a better alignment. This brace was worn hours every day and night. Not only did the brace force my feet completely against their will and natural inclination, but every muscle and tendon from my toe tips to my mid back felt the strain and pain. At times, usually at night right before I go to sleep, I can refeel that brace and each and every muscle that struggled and pained me. My right foot took the worst of it. My ankle has never felt right. My lower right leg, well it has an unusual twist, the bottom end turns out and the knee area turns in. I've had countless ankle and knee injuries throughout my life because of it....and it all started way back then.
When I was braced and in a flood of pain throughout my lower body, I tried not to move or squirm, as each action just intensified the hurt. Yeah, a small child under two afraid to move half her body. Anytime someone is in pain, the body automatically tightens up and people tend to hold their breath. I was no different. Even writing about this, my breathing gets more haltering and my fists clench, muscles tighten.
I do remember crying and screaming, so much that my head felt like it was surrounded by one, giant, hurtful scream. I learned it didn't accomplish anything. Crying just made the entire top half of my body hurt, so I stopped. I learned it was best to just lay there,as motionless as possible. Leaving, dissociating as much as I could. As a child, this is what I knew, what I felt.
Hungry, trapped in a body that hurt, having nothing to look forward to but maybe a cracker, a small touch from my brother. I understand why I can't see tomorrow. There wasn't anything to look forward to. Nothing changed from day to day. I felt hopeless, hungry and very much alone.
The early feelings of a child starved in every way.

Tuesday, January 21, 2014

All I knew was abuse...part 2

One of the points I was trying to make....I don't have "normal" childhood memories of before my abuse started because it was always there. My childhood didn't divide into "before the abuse" and "after" because pain was always and consistently happening throughout my earliest recollections.
I don't know what a happy or normal childhood memory is. It boggles me and I have no point of reference. I can't understand what I haven't experienced. I'm seeing more and more, how brutal and cruel my upbringing was. No, I have no happy memories. Abuse and misery were my constant childhood companions. It was all I knew.

All I knew was neglect and flagrant abuse *TRIGGER WARNING nothing graphic but upsetting content*

I keep reading about survivors who have happy childhood memories, before abuse and molestation started. I have no such happy memories. My earliest memories are of my mother slapping my face or hands and leaving me, legs braced and unmovable, in my crib for hours at a time. Her face with the same, "I can't stand to look at you or touch you" contortion.
 Jealousy, if that is even possible in a toddler, was there also, as I watched my older brother receive all of mothers love and affection. I could hear them through my bedroom walls, eating, laughing, playing together, as I lay motionless, hungry, and with painful leg contortions, as the infernal brace tried to straighten my crooked feet and legs. Maybe it was envy or just a sense that I was worth much less than my brother.
 My dad had a fascination with my "girl parts" every since I can remember. More unpleasant early childhood remembrances. I was the first and oldest daughter, so all his perverted fascination was focused on me and that which was between my legs. It certainly wasn't safe to be a girl because being a girl meant my fathers hands or face was in that most private of places. My privates have never been mine. My girl parts were my fathers greatest joy and playground. Nothing on my body was sacred, respected or private.
  Those are my earliest memories. I cant find a spot of happiness or non misery. I've always been quite confused as to why living hurt so much and why my body was continually being abused by my parents. It stymies me to this day.
  If a child doesn't feel safe or at ease or even an ounce of okayness within, that just strikes me. How have I been able to live with myself all this time? How have I been able to live without being loved and respected?
 Some say it is a miracle, others a curse. Either way, it doesn't make sense. How was I able to live with myself, my body, when all around me was hurt and violation?
Somehow I managed to maintain a sense of...sorrowfully indignation. Somehow I managed to take the pain and suffering and stuff it all away deep inside. Emotions, like asking for help or demanding humane treatment was forbidden in the house Don and Sharon built. When mother hit me, I cried,till I realized she would just slap me again if I didn't stop. There was no way to protest at my fathers criminal acts. He was bigger, stronger and his hand fit easily over my mouth.
So I have been forced into overt numbness concealing overwhelming emotions. I had to. Now the time of silence, denial and suppression is over. No one can make me shut up. No one can make me feel bad about tears. I no longer deny my feelings and I search all the inner rooms for the emotions not permitted and allowed throughout my entire childhood and teen years.
Do I yell and scream, cry for hours and verbalize my pains and sadness? Yes.
Hmm, seems like a real human thing to do. This, says the girl, who was treated worse then a mongrel dog. My god, they treated stray cats more humanely than I.
I vent and I rage, free to break the chains of silence and shame. I talk over and over about incest, sexual abuse, molestation and childhood rape. I talk about neglect of affection, warmth and basic human needs. I talk of the degrading daily physical abuses suffered at the hands of my parents.
And you know what?
After keeping all this secret and hidden for over forty plus years, it sure feels pretty damn good! I'm not stopping anytime soon. Nothing has felt as good as the freedom to say who I am and everything that happened to me. Each time I say or write about the abuses, I get a little stronger, a little freer. It's like I'm finally on my way to becoming a real person, who feels as well as thinks.
I'm allowed to take up some space on this planet, in this world. I'm allowed to feel how and what I feel. And I'm beginning to trust myself more and more.
It's stifle a child is to destroy them one piece at a time. A child not allowed to feel....starts to believe she isn't really real and that she has no value outside of a slap or sexual plaything. Feelings and emotions are very confusing because the outside world distorted them, stomped them and made them go away.
Sometimes, it feels that I am standing under a waterfall or am caught up in the vortex of a volatile tornado because I was not allowed emotional expression, or shown appropriate, healthy feelings. I'm oft confused about what I feel and is it any wonder why?
The emotional level is where all the current therapy, remembrances and healing is taking place. The strongest emotions seem to be all the pain and hurt I had to stuff away. This is where I work, everyday, sorting and shaking out the dust and dirt. Trying to find a way to clean and healthy. Seeking self-expression for hideous, overwhelming, terrifying events.
It ain't much of a life, but it's all Is gots.

Sunday, January 19, 2014

The One Friend Theory

All an Aspie needs is one good trusted friend. I've had brief outbursts of friendships, that seem to disintegrate after 4-5 months. It's been well over a year, at this point. The only adult I speak with for more than a few minutes is my therapist. It's easily been over a month since I've had a non family, non therapist, face to face.
 One friend wouldn't solve all my problems, just 90% of them
The more she talked and thought about what she needed, the farther it moved away. Being depressed doesn't attract anyone to help, just seems like an effective repellant. Not really anything more to say, anymore.

If you have never been loved

“The truth is, you cannot love yourself unless you have been loved and are loved. The capacity to love cannot be built in isolation.”
― Bruce D. Perry, The Boy Who Was Raised as a Dog: And Other Stories from a Child Psychiatrist's Notebook--What Traumatized Children Can Teach Us About Loss, Love, and Healing

I so believe this

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Saturday, January 18, 2014

Friday, January 17, 2014

I hibernate in winter

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Having Aspergers and Being a Survivor of Childhood Abuse

My therapist asked me if being autistic made it easier to go public regarding my childhood abuse. My immediate answer was "No", quite the opposite. I think it makes it twice as hard to talk about as the average Aspie (person with Aspergers, Autism) recoils from revealing any personal information. However, in further thinking about it, maybe there are some characteristics about Aspergers that assist me in talking publicly.
Autistics can be brutally honest. Lying is near impossible. Many autistics have a very high moral compass and a deep seated desire to help others.

Some of the times where I question whether I should write and publish about my abuse, I think, "what if this painful revelation helps even 1 person?" Then I publish it. It is, by no means, easy to write and share, but I have found healing in going public, helping both myself and others.
My blog as become like a lifeline to me. The only way that I can reach out, reveal, share and hopefully help others and get feedback.
The average person speaks 16,000 words a day. Aspies vary on that scale. I would venture to guess I speak under 1,000. Most days I only speak with my Partner and two children. Maybe that's why I mention Therapist so much...she's the only other person I verbally interact with on a weekly basis.
I often think that being autistic made me easy prey for my father, till I remember seeing other non-autistic children molested. One of my autistic challenges is trying to find words to explain what happened as my verbal processing centers are slower than neurotypicals. But I'm managing. I'm finding ways to communicate easier with my therapist, as she works to understand my...varied, unique methods of communicating.
An Aspie does what is Right, and what is Morally Correct. Maybe my autism does propel my outspokenness about my sexual and physical abuse.

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Monday, January 13, 2014

More thoughts on being raped as a teenager

So much changed for me...that day. Forced sodomy is the most degrading and humiliating thing I have ever experienced. My father wanted to feel powerful and for me to feel helpless and powerless. It worked.
 I became the family laughing stock. It's like everybody knew and no one cared. I was the family joke. I was humiliated and embarrassed beyond belief. It felt like I had been publicly sodomized.
I've often felt like a cat with nine lives...and that day I lost one of them. I became puny and completely insignificant.
 I grabbed onto my was all I could cling to. The pain became my only friend....the only thing I could connect to....the only thing not actively mocking me. I disconnected.
 It made matters worse, to be raped while listening to my mother and siblings laughing and talking so close, so nearby. How could a mere ceiling such a barrier between two diverse worlds? How could my father be sodomizing me, violently, within earshot of the family? My father was embolden, brazen...he took torturing me to a whole new level. It felt very public, very he was punishing me in a public square.
 I wore no chains, but I more certainly became imprisoned that day.
 I remember looking at the front door, eight feet away from me in the family living room...and I could not leave. I knew that I could never leave. My chains were invisible, but oh, they surely were there.
I feel that I could have stood there, openly sobbing in the living room, amongst family...and my fate would not have changed.
 I lost all hope....and kept all the feelings locked away, inside, till it was safe...till I found someone who wouldn't mock me, or find me invisible.
I still feel tormented. Yea, I know, I just verbalized it today. I think that was the hardest and longest I've cried in an hour....and I'm still wounded.
 Sometimes I think therapy is nothing but a bandaid on a gushing wound..but it definitely helped staunch the flow.
 I will never be who I was before that day. Every life has moments, events, days that forever change us....this is one of mine.
 My remembrances get ....more intimate, intense and painful....but I must be much stronger then I was when I started down healing road.
 These memory feelings...are somewhat horrendous. Somehow, someway, I'll manage to make peace with them. Till then I shall lay very low and stay out of incoming traffic. I won't make excuses or let anyone give me grief for not being more active, social or put-together. I know how heavy the clouds...I know I shall be standing in this rain....for quite sometime. I give myself....permission to heal..which means...I have to feel. I don't think I could shutter these feelings away if I wanted to. They are quite strong.
 I can see how my everyday life has been effected, even with just this one memory. It's huge in scope and depth. I'll write about it when able. I'll continue to talk about it in therapy as needed. It's a big one. It forever changed my life, how I feel about myself...and how I perceive that others look at me.
 Hmmm, memories used to be these short snippets that once spoken, disappeared. Now, these newer memories are heavy, emotionally laden, intense and extensive.
Never thought I'd be at such a place....where, with help, I could somewhat calmly, examine each memory, each facet and garnish knowledge and wisdom.
I reclaim myself, one piece at a time.
 Truly, I cannot fathom a job more unpleasant, treacherous and painful. To heal, I have to reexperience events that overwhelmed me in the first place. Healing is not for the meek or weak. Only a warrior....I am a mighty brave warrior.

Raped at 13 by my father...TRIGGER WARNING HIGH

Today was "Therapy Monday". I swear, half the time I have no idea what we will end up talking about. I was positively clueless as to the revelations that manifested today.
 The past few days I had been in a horribly depressed, morbid mood....and I really had no idea why. My eyes kept leaking. I was restless, over tired and had to force myself just to get up and function. I knew I had a recent flashback about being 13 and raped by my dad, but I couldn't realize this flashbacks wide ranging implications and effects on me.
  When a multiple (person with MPD/ DID) splits (the main persona splinters off forming a new personality/ part) something overwhelmingly traumatic has to be happening, physically, emotionally or both. Whilst my dad had been molesting and raping me since at least 3, when I became older, in my early teens, he became a violent rapist. When I was 13, such a mentally catastrophic event occurred. Fair warning....graphic, disturbing content.
  I remember my dad coming down to my basement room. He took my right arm, twisted it behind my back and kinda threw, forced me, face first, up against the freshly painted cement wall. He pinned me there, brutally. Then he quickly, viciously raped me. I don't know which pain was worse, the od, heavy twist that felt like my shoulder would break or the furious, brutal force of his dick.
 I was in shock. He hadn't been vicious or brutal before. This whole gabbing me, arm behind back, pinning me with his forearm snugly, suffocatingly against the cold, moist basement wall...the lack of preparation before he raped me...was all too much for me to handle. It must have only lasted 5-10 minutes but it was damaging.
 After he left, I sat on the bed, not so much numb, hell no, not numb, just dumbfounded and shocked. I actually felt incredible pain as if every cell in my body was screaming, crying. I felt such intense pain as if trapped in a swirling vortex of fiery, hot. I heard my father, upstairs, joking and talking with family members. I remember feeling very my world had just ended. I don't know how long I sat there, dumbfounded, unable to process what had just taken place. My legs were weak and shaky. Every step required great, concerted effort as I walked gingerly up the stairs.
 I walked through the kitchen toward the living room. To say there was a crowd in the living room, is no exaggeration, as there must have been nine-ten people in there. Both parents and assorted siblings sitting about. I walked through the entrance and just stood there, observing. My dad looked at me, laughed and made some derogatory "funny" remark. My mom, siblings looked at me...or rather right through me. One of my sisters caught my eye...she knew something had happened.
 I had many realizations in this moment, this experience. The tide had turned with my dads sexual molestations. He now would employ surprise and violence. He could get away with raping me, in broad daylight, in my own room, with the entire family right above on the next floor. He showed no remorse but rather chuckling bravado for his new thrill. He mocked me, humiliated me, in front of the whole family and it was acceptable. No one came to my aide. No one asked me what was wrong. No, I became invisible, a nobody, degragated, a thing, and dad could get away with it.
 I became morbidly depressed. Who wouldn't, in my situation? I realized that what happened that day, in my family home, was identical to how I would be treated outside the home. No one would care. No one would offer to help. I truly became nothing, just a rapists victim. I quit life, that day. There was no hope of me ever escaping, I had no where to go. No one to tell. No one to shield me.
I was trapped in the family home, oft my own room, with my sadistic, rapist father. He could, and did, attack me, night or day, now...with no warning and without regards to whoever was home.
My life was over and I wanted to die.
 That was my life at thirteen.
That's when I started smoking, drinking whenever I could, and cutting. Go figure.
These emotions, the depression and pain, had remained dormant all these years...until today.

I'm still processing.

Saturday, January 11, 2014

Why I smoke...

1) because when I was 13 years old, everything else in my life was completely out of my control.
2) smoking gave me a reason to hide, find a space all my own
3) since I had no control over my life, maybe I could have control over my death
4) I could fit in with the misfit, school skippers
5) it was a wall that insulated me from what I was feeling
6) my only friend, that was always there for me
7) something to run to, that never rejected me
8) something to hold onto when I was scared
9) my friend that never would leave me, that I wouldn't have to explain anything to
10) smoke always listened and didn't judge
11) I wasn't alone anymore
12) when people hurt me, smoke comforted
13) I wanted to die but was too squimish to do it blatantly
14) I felt worthless, ostracized, smoking pushed me out of acceptability, made it okay to be socially stigmatized.
15) smoking pushed people away without words
16) felt like the only thing I really ever controlled in my life
17) just wished it had killed me sooner, quicker
18) it hid the hopelessness..god, I felt so completely hopeless
19) I was hoping it would eventually hurt me, just like people
20) I didn't care the damage it did
21) I figured I deserved a slow and painful death
22) I liked the way it hurt me
23) felt so lost and alone without it, stranded, adrift
24) emotionally tied to things, not people, my emotional connection
25) don't know who I am without it, without something to hold, look forward to, it's like the world stops
26) I don't ever regret was my lifeline, my only true friend
27) it hid the sadness, pain, hopelessness
28) kept me in a fog and more removed from reality
29) I've never been fond of reality...always trying to find a way out
30) it hid the rejection, knocking on doors, when no one would answer
31) if I smell bad, people stay away.
32) when I get nervous or uncomfortable, it's something to run to, always open arms
33) when I was beaten, it soothed
34) don't know what I'd do without my only friend
35) don't know what I'd feel, if I took away the smokescreen
36) I've ostracized and pushed everyone away already, what then, how can, I live with just myself
37) blocks the hurt, I like that
38) helps me not feel so much. When I quit, I feel so much.
39) what then? With no one, no thing to run to for comfort?
40) don't want to be so alone, again...I reallyreally don't...guess I'd rather die a slow, painful death
I'm not worth it
41) how can I walk through this world so scared, scarred and alone?
42) I'm grateful I got me through many tough, dark times
43) don't hate it...don't hate me for doing it
44) it's hard to quit when there is nothing else to hold on to....when the friendship has been so beneficial, comforting, a survival help
45) I always get morbidly depressed when I quit....Now I can easily see why...I don't want to leave the only friend who has been with me through all the terrible experiences. The only one who knows, we share the past...always been together....something to unfailingly count on.
How can I let that go? There can never be any replacement. Without it, I would be totally, completely, utterly alone.

Ask me again, why I smoke....why it's so hard to quit...I dare you

Thursday, January 9, 2014

Having Aspergers is like....

Being a perpetual high schooler. Feeling out of place. Walking from classroom to classroom, confusion and uncertainty in each room. Dreading the chaos of the bell, when suddenly everything, everyone springs into motion, chatting, breaking off in to pairs, small groups, hanging behind, avoiding the sensory overload crush.
  Just an invisible body, making movement, not to standout, become a target of laughter, ridicule. Never knowing what to say. If I raise my hand will my lips form the right words? With what certainty is my answer? Dare not to be wrong, spotlighted, mocked. High school, where one wrong answer can reverberate off locker filled walks, never dying, always lying in wait to hit you again.
 Praying for one person to smile, to notice you, to see you. A friend. Searching, wondering if there is one person who will want to talk, to sit with....someone who you don't repulse. Someone who cares enough to tap on the thickened wall and isn't scared off by the hollow, faraway sound.
 The  mythical friend, the search for that which materializes only briefly, gets too close to the flame and evaporates away, never to return. The quest begun in high school continues into adulthood, always unfulfilled cept for short, sonic bursts.
 Adolescence revolves around finding acceptance and who you are. It's like riding the bus, anticipating the arrival at your destination. Yet, the bus ride never stops. There is never a terminal of acceptance and okayness. No one misses you on the long journey. No one knows you have even left.
The dream of a friend blows with each candle snuffed, every year.
 One learns not to hope. One learns to delve fully into objects of obsession that can be controlled, bought and sold...not in people. Too risky. The rise and fall. When someone walks in the door, I stand there, ready to close it before they do. Because one slam in the face was enough to know that I have little tolerance for intimate pain.
 I'm a fan of "The Breakfast Club", "Sixteen Candles", Dawson's Creek, any show that accurately, dramatically portrays the teenage angst I experience with ease. The first film that moved me was "Ordinary People." Timothy Hutton struggling with the grief of loss, the coldness of a parent, the lostness and desire to fit in and be accepted.  Searching for a friend, someone to hear the haunting secrets and feelings.
 High School never ends, for this Aspie.

Change in routine, Boggled

My LittleGuy went back to school today, after being home for two and a half weeks. I had to work to remember what the "getting ready for school" routine was, this morning. Now, I'm stymied, clueless as to what to do with this sudden change in routine. Days like this, whereby I basically accomplish nothing and am completely lost in thought, it's usually best to go back to bed instead of standing around undecided.
 I'm getting quite befuddled. Hmmm, therapy continues to be this touch-n-go thing. One minute I'm looking forward to it, the next it's like no way, never again. Then with LittleGuy therapy, not sure what questions are appropriate to ask or what comments I should or should not make. I'm confused so I'll have partner take him next week. Floundering.
  It's like the wind suddenly died and my boat is silenced in the water. Directionless. Waiting for a breeze. Disconnected and unsure of which way to go.
  Suddenly, the lines demarcating right and wrong, share and too much info, appropriate and not cool, are all askew. Everything has shifted and I'm clueless as to which way to go. I'm questioning myself on every little thing. And not really finding any answers that fit.

Saturday, January 4, 2014

I Am a Childhood Sexual Abuse Survivor, Incest

I like using photos of myself because I want people to see that I am a very real person. I am not anonymous, or just a statistic. I am an adult who survived a torturous, panic and pain filled childhood. I never, in my wildest dreams, ever thought I'd be able to talk and share what happened to me. I was full of shame, guilt and embarrassment.
I'll admit I've found inner strength and courage. I've had help from others as well, a couple damn good therapists, two very caring health care professionals, one remarkably loving partner and a couple of great kids.
I have found my voice. I will speak for those victims who cannot. I understand how scary it is to admit and acknowledge. I know too well, the fear of intimidation, threats, alienation, disbelief and ridicule. I know how you were hurt by someone you trusted, maybe even loved. I'm sorry you hurt. You are not alone.
I will be your voice. I will speak loudly, clearly and often.

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Surviving Incest, Abuse, Neglect

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My Parents Never Loved Me

It's a no-brainer to anyone who has read about my childhood. As I sat hugging and kissing my son, it suddenly struck me that I cannot remember a single instance where my mother was warm or affectionate. Oh, she vehemently, loudly would proclaim how much she loved me, in addition to hugs and occasional kisses goodnight, but I never felt anything but hollow, cold, emptiness.
 There were many outward signs of this mythical "love" that she supposedly had, never once, not even for an instant, was the actual emotional feeling of love felt by me. My mother lived in a warped delusion. I didn't buy it. I felt nothing at her words or showy gestures. Mom taught me that words and gestures are completely meaningless and only for show.
 My father, well, that's another story, as he showed me great love and affection, all of it only sexual. That was the extent with which he "loved" me. His "love" never felt right either. It is with great ease and honest truth, that I say I grew up completely unloved.
 Feeling unloved is like feeling unwanted, valueless, a trinket mounted to the wall. I was something to look at, not someone to hold.
 Parents are supposed to love us, ground us, anchor us to reality, trust and love. Instead, I turned into a makeshift flounder, uncertain of my own boundaries and having no self-worth. Never sure if I belonged here or what exactly the purpose of life was. I grew up profoundly depressed and a native of unhappiness.
 I never thought I would ever find self-worth, or someone to love me. Two miraculous incidents took place in a few years time that completely changed the world and my place in it. First, I decided to have a baby. Ahhh, so this is what giving love feels like. Second, I met my Partner (of 18 years now) and oh, this is what it feels like to have someone love and care for me.
 I'm not sure why the Universe smiled on me so, but I am grateful.
  I've learned that my parents failure to love me, was no fault of my own. They were both severely abused and disturbed individuals. It was beyond their capabilities to love their eldest daughter. I did nothing to deserve it. Children believe they are responsible for everything, for their parents mood and abuse, among other things. I was no different. I thought something was inherently wrong with me....for decades. Therapy and introspective and the grace of God have shown me that I am worthy and lovable. I believe that now.

Stop blaming yourself. Every child deserves and is worthy of love. Many adults are too damaged to actually be capable of pure, genuine love.
  I understand the pain of not having a parent love you. It hurts. I'm sorry so many have this similar issue.
  You are worthy and lovable:) Amy

Thursday, January 2, 2014

Childhood Sexual Abuse ***TRIGGER ALERT***


I can't help but dwell on therapy and how  sick it makes me feel to even think about. I'm so repulsed by perpetrators forcing small children to do vile, inhuman things to satisfy their perversity, to make the child feel implicated and criminal by harming and abusing another child completely against the child's will.
The memories that bring the most castigation, pain and remorse are those in which I was forced to harm another  child. I can't adequately express the depth of my confusion and dismay at the high evil that was my father.
 What I did. See, the act was done by me. My physical body did bad things. Trying to get it understood, that it was notnot my wil.
Talk about feeling like a pawn, helpless, the victim taught to victimize. What does that make me? How can I ever feel innocent?
I feel so bad, so sickened by the memory. It's hard to own something that horrendous. Reminds me of the being forced to simulate sex with other boys. Another gruesome scenerio my father enjoyed.
Emotionally, I just want to fucking scream and cry out. It's so overwhelming. I hate myself for even being born, not for what was done to me, but what I was forced to do to others.
 People wonder why I do not trust. I was trained and raised by hideous evil and I know what fathers, men are capable of.
 I hurt a pain of a hundred deaths. It's hard for me to reckon, to live with these memories. They pain me to the core. I live in pure hell at their remembrance. 
 I don't know how to begin to forgive myself. Maybe if I imagine a three year old child, and look at her...maybe I can fathom that she had no choice. 
It Is hard to believe that fathers molest and rape their young children, boy and or girl. But it is so veryvery true. I wish it weren't so, but I know and trust my memories and how I feel.
 Disgusting is an appropriate word, as well as deeply sickened and horribly dismayed.
 Every week, we work with and through, the most painful truths that I have kept hidden away. The most difficult to acknowledge, feel and bear.
 It is a terrible reality. This is my life. This is me working to heal from complete and utter devastatation. It does not feel feel...for the walls to drop, for the numbness to go away.
 One of my few anchors is knowing that others understand and have decided to hold their heads up and march through this broken glass and these fires of hell.
I am not alone. Others have been where I am.
 Just trying to figure to heal from this intolerable I can deal with the next one.
 It's challenging to reason with a three year old. To convince her that it wasn't her fault. My inner child so emotionally consumed with sadness and badness, she doesn't deserve. How could any adult...ever..make a child do that? Sick, evil and twisted doesn't begin to describe it.
 And shame...I reluctantly admit...I feel great shame for these acts. Remorse, deep, tear filled ponds of remorse. I would never ever think of intentionally hurting another....Surely, that was one reason my dad had me do it. It practically destroyed my soul. It emotionally and morally devastated me. I swore, to myself, a hundred times over that I would never admit what I did. I kept it hidden from myself for over forty years. Then, once I became aware of the memory again, I spoke it aloud, again vowing to never let anyone but therapist know. Now, look at me. Here I am...sharing, disclosing the worst thing about me in the world.
 There is hope for me. I know I am not a perpetrator. I know children forced to hurt other children is something perpetrators do. Other survivors have been forced to do bad things, but they are not bad. It was not their choice.
 Not sure if I should post. I don't want to trigger bad memories in others. Not sure some people want to know how evil some people can be.
 Maybe the guilt isn't mine. Maybe it belongs to my dad.
 A three year old child is innocent and will do what his/ her parent tells them to do. Three had no choice.
 I had no choice.


I'm just so upset over so much. When I say very sick, it means I can't function without help. I hate it. If my partner hadn't been off work yesterday....there wouldn't have been anyone to call to take me to the dr, the pharmacy and the hospital for X-rays. It's hard to think about.
 Feeling so ill, is feeling helpless. I spend a lot of time researching, doing massage and energy work, changing diets and supplements and for what? It never seems like I'm healthy, much less feeling any bit better. Rarely are my physical problems easily diagnosed, treated and cured. I continue to wrestle with the pain and discomfort, and worry of lichen sclerosus. No known cure. I'm not sure if my Lyme has improved or is just kept in check with the antibiotics. Not sure if my detox regiment is helping at all. Unknown variables. All I know is I'm fucking sick of being sick and not being able to fix this shit and fucking tired of being subpar and unable to do all the shit I want. Yes, it feels like I am being punished. And I'm damn tired of it.
 I keep beating myself up for not being healthier, not eating better food, or getting enough sleep and exercise. I Am Pissed That I Cannot Easily Tell When My Body Is Unwell. Here's my autsm again. I didn't realize that the Double Over pain I was having warranted a dr visit. HELLO? I'm a fuckin idiot.
 If I'm not a ten on the pain scale, I must be ok, or faking it, or it's a body memory.
Just fuck this shit. Fuck this shit. I'm tired of this.
 It's like I'm working my hardest and getting Absolutely Nowhere fast.
And I'm doing a real good job of irritating everyone around me because I feel like shit.....and can't get myself better. I am just so fucking pissed off.
 My emotions, oh shit, are a force to be reckoned with. If I even think, for a moment, about therapy this week, my eyes form droplets, pools, rivers and streams. And I cant control it. Seriously, how many hours can one cry That hard? Shouldn't I be dehydrated by now?
 It sure feels like every fucking aspect of my life is out-of-my-control. And I can't slow down the triggers. Not even going
 My dreams, oh, that seems to be my only relief as my sleep has been heavy and mostly dreamless.
Then I think..when Was the last time I actually sat and talked with a friend? Or had one to talk to? I get too bottled up when I go this long without conversation, open, honest, conversation. Everything has been this appointment or that one..this meeting or be here at this time. Running around. Completely ensnared in obligatory schedules. Yes, I feel trapped, locked it, no way out.
Can't help myself and can barely help those I'm responsible for.
Vicious is life. Unpleasant, an understatement. Beleaguered. Weary. Extremely frustrated. Way pissed off.


 I've been very sick this week, physically and emotionally. I tried taking some mega Omega 3 supplements, only to discover that since I am without a gallbladder, my body is unable to process fats. I accidentally flooded my body with oils I cannot break down. I've been feeling miserable.
I saw my dr on Tuesday. She checked me out, ordered blood tests and an X-ray. It may take awhile for my body to get rid of all the excess fats. I have started back on a low low fat diet. I can barely eat without discomfort, so I eat less as a rule. I have pain pills as needed and I haven't needed as many today, so something is improving.
  Therapy was Monday, immediately preceding my abdominal pain attack Monday night. At was brutal...highly highly emotional. Very upsetting. It felt like a scar that started mid-chest and ran to my navel, had been ferociously ripped open. I'm at a loss as to if it is related to my physical pain.
    And I don't want to write anymore now.