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

Tuesday, January 21, 2014

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.

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