I like going to the grocery store these days because...

Being in a new city I don't have to worry that another shopper will peek down the aisle, see it is me, pretend not to see me and scurry away.
I found that to be one of the oddest incidents that I frequently encountered back at my small town grocer. Apparently there are at least a handful of ex friends that don't want to run into me.
I kinda wonder what I did wrong. I kinda don't care now that I don't have to endure the evasive treatment. It often hurt a little bit. I'm trying not to make the same mistakes here that I made in manistee. If people don't know me, they won't avoid me. Just playing it safe, quiet and neutral.

It's okay to be alone

I'm realizing more and more that it's okay, not distressing to be the alone.
The more people hurt me, the easier that is to say.
Maybe I'm just too sensitive for social consumption.
It's all good

Dealing with Night Time Aloneness

I rearranged my bedroom so that I can see the other apartments from my bed. I don't feel so alone.
Some have their lights on and I watch, wondering what people are thinking, doing, hoping for.
I'm alone but not lonely. I feel solace knowing others who are completely unreachable are do near.
Living AspieDID Is really something special. Each one diagnosis, in and of itself, produces distance from others. Together, man, I'm living Inside the island in the middle of nowhere.

I taught my son how to clean the microwave and sink today. One of these days I'll have taught him how to clean the entire place.
Feeling highly, highly anti-social. The dreaded Holiday Trifecta of Halloween, Thanksgiving and Christmas are two thirds done. I call them dreaded because each one requires high parental participation. Always happy when it's over.

I continue to be bothered by that relationship...maybe it's because Guy will never see what he did wrong, or ever feel a hint of remorse...or maybe it just want on so long and I lived with such malice and resentments that I'll have to deal with it multiple hours in therapy and write pages of posts before I get that toxic poison out of my system.

Going to bed, sullen. Got burned by a friend on fb. I was so stupid to think she was nice. See, every relationship has parameters and a price and variables, hidden rules. So, Cali wanted to give my son a gift, so ordered it and said I could pick it up.
In the meantime, Cali sent a card and check.
Today she wrote to say she cancelled the order. Rescinded offer/ gift.
Why?
Because in order to be Cali's friend one must notify her immediately upon receiving her card or at least within 2 days. I didn't know this. I'm not concerned about the gift. B, I should have known better than to accept my offer as Cali tends toward drama and needing attention. C, each and every relationship us full of these hidden rules and pitfalls.
It hurt me terribly and shocked me to hear she canceled and need more drama attention. I'm not sure why it hurt me so. The shock maybe? The realization that yet another minor friendship was dissolving before my eyes? That old familiar feeling of screwing up, giving up, this friendship stuff is too volital, confusion and it hurts. It ruined half my day. I don't need this. This is a pain I can avoid.
Silly me, avoiding pain whenever possible.
It's becoming so clear...the things that hurt me...how much and how often.
It isn't worth it to go out the door.
Not worth it to try. It's just going to break anyway. Why bother

Art always finds a way

Being born and love

If you think about it, we are each born so very needy, completely dependent on someone meet our every single need.
What is it like, being born craving, requiring and having all of the basic needs unmet.
I mean, you can't help that you are unable to feed yourself, cover up when cold or locomote to a warmer spot. Is that like crying in a windstorm? Would you feel hurt? Would you just go on wailing and flailing little arms until you realized each day will always be met with some for of starvation or other, be it human warmth, physical, emotional, visual or mentally?
Do you think those early months of being neglected or loved would set you up for a lifetime? If you were ignored, cold and hungry, would you just expect that misery was a way of life?
If you were loved, wouldn't you feel always that the world is a safe, loving and warm place?
I think I'm mightily confused as to whether or not I could handle the extreme difference of feeling warm and loved versus the perpetually misery, cold and lack of anyone to consistently care for me.
What must that be like? To be born and welcomed into the world wrapped in warms arms and given a nice, soothing drink?
What must it be like, everyday, to see a human that smiles and opens their arms at the sight of you, nothing but you? And they want to hold you, kiss you, play with your hair and make you smile? What's that like to hear oodles of soft, caring words Given freely to you? What's it like to feel welcome....loved....wanted.....and safe?
I can only imagine it must be very nice

Unloved Unlovable

One of the things that writing aloud, blogging does is it allows me to see memories in a different light.
Writing about my mother is making me realize that all this time I felt deep down unlovable. Because if your own momma can't love you, who can? You know? I always thought it was me, my fault. Reality is that she couldn't love me even if she had tried.
I continually am amazed that I've gotten this far in my life without a consistent, truly loving human. I truly am alone and have been for a very long time. I'm not sad about it. It's just the way it is.

My Father's Victims***Graphic Disturbing Events**

I guess there are cases where incest happens to only one child in a family, as well as a perpetrator sexually abusing only one victim. This does not apply to my father. He assaulted many children. His appetite was insatiable. The only reason I know this is because I was there, I witnessed, I saw, I stayed quiet.
For reasons of privacy, as I respect each persons way of revealing and dealing with their own assaults, I will remain very vague about specifics. It's not my place to narrate another person's story. I will tell my story in ways that, I hope, do no harm.
My dad's pedophilia stemmed from his own sexual abuse. It burned and scarred him terribly. In a sense, he was somewhat helpless in his abuses of children. Short of being imprisoned, I don't think anything could have stepped my father's...compulsions to molest small children.
I personally saw him rape three other children. None of whom speak of it. Part of me hopes they don't remember but part of me sees that they suffer with the secret harm. It's not my place to name names, so I won't.
Dad had an unhealthy obsession with children's genitals. Even though he molested me multiple times every week, in my mind he was more drawn to boys than girls. I would like to think that by the time he and mom were babysitting grandchildren that dad would have gotten control of his sick obsessions, but honestly, I do not know.
I say this next part, partially to rid myself of any lingering doubts that I knowingly and willfully abused...my dad thought it a pleasurable game to fondle and digitally sodomize very small children. Unfortunately it was something he forced me to do as well. I had no choice. I really didn't. I regret it deeply. Therapy continues to help me understand the power and threats my father held over me. I was an unwilling pawn in my father's perversions.
I can only hope my dad's many victims seek or have sought therapy for the damaging injustices done to them.
There were many. Sadly. There were many.

My Mother Villain or Victim

Do I wish my mother would have loved me, or at least liked me? Of course, who wouldn't? I've done remarkably well for an individual that has never had any degree of healthy, consistent, unconditional love.
I know my mom knew about the incest as she witnessed it a few times. Regarding the excessive physical abuse, both my parents were totally on board with that.

I have come to believe that my mother was incapable of loving me, one of her daughters whereas I think she was able to love her sons. Her, oh hatred isn't the right word, maybe I should say distaste and dislike for her daughters stemmed from her own abusive childhood? I'm just guessing here. There are a few indicators that I can recall. Once, mom told me she wore all black for a year in high school. To me that is a serious cry for help rather than a fashion statement. Goth was simply not in during the late 50's.
I remember asking two of my mom's sisters what beloved Grandma was like when mom was growing up. They said that both gram and gramps spent most of their time working and weren't very attentive. I picked up the impression that my mom may have been treated harshly and frequently called names like "cow" although she didn't appear overweight in any photos I saw. Mom seems to have mentioned being called names and put down by her parents here and there.
I can't say if my maternal grandfather was an abuser or not. I don't have enough info. My recollections are that once gramps, who spent a considerable amount of time at the public pool, was asked to leave the pool and not come back due to inappropriate contact with two minors. I was in the kitchen when mom received the phone call probably from grandma. I remember mom was upset about this and turned to my younger brother. She held his shoulders and told him that "under no circumstances was he to be alone with grandpa." Gosh, I'm surprised how clear and serious her words were. The look on her face suggested that she fully believed the allegations she had just heard on the phone.
The third red flag was when I was one of many in the car with gramps as he picked up my aunt from work at the mall. My aunt got in the front seat. She was upset about something. Next thing I know she blurts out loud, "Well I wouldn't have to be with a woman if you hadn't done what you did to me!" Years later I asked my other aunt about these memories. She adamantly stated that I heard wrong. Maybe I did. Maybe she was in denial. I honestly don't know.
If my mom was a victim, who married another victim, well, that would explain my dire childhood. I don't think I can hate anyone, even mom, if she was wounded and do damaged that she didn't have the capacity to love me. Maybe I should feel good in the knowledge that I wasn't loved for anything I did or didn't do...I was unloved because mom was too hurt.
I need to think about that for awhile...it feels big...groundbreaking, heart-mending big.

Thanksgiving Day poetry

Laundry got done
Under the clouded sun
The parking lot
Half empty
Strangely lightless,
Lifeless without motion
Or motivation.
My upstairs Asian boys three
No longer walking on my head
Quiet in vacancy,  like a passing thought
You once knew
Resident fledglings have scattered to distant nests.
The pigskin flew
Helmets got hammered
Half winners
Half losers
No pleasing everyone
Best not to hope too hard
On things that matter
Not a tinker's damn.

Rain beats to an absence of rhythm
Falling where it will,
Such power in having no master
Being unnoticed, uncontrolled,
Raindrops hit the ground
Making sound
As they die? No
As they transform
Silent as they fall in the grey mist
Do they hit each other?
Coalesce, become one or three or five
Is dropping sweet release or suicide?
Destiny.
The sound I hear seems so peaceful
Unlike the death scream of those afraid.
I wonder how long their journey
From Heaven to Earth
And back again.
Grateful for the moves made that have allowed me to become a freebird.
The lack of distress like wearing jammies and eating cookies all day.

I Talk About Incest...Why

Because I can
My perpetrator father is dead therefore his threats to harm me or someone I love are gone.
I have no one to keep quiet for. I estranged myself from my family, severing most of those once important and vital relationships. Those old adages  pounded into my brain, "family first, family above all else, you can never leave your family, you would be nothing without them" have long since lost their dysfunctional hold on me.
I have no one, nothing to lose.
I speak for the thousands of woman and men suffering silently within incestuous families. I get it. I understand why you are unable to speak about it. I will speak for you.
Keeping silent made me feel shame and guilt, like I was the criminal. See, I've realized that I am not. I was a small, innocent, impressionable child. My parents took full advantage of that and twisted me into a grotesque minor character in their sick play of "everything is okay, we are wonderful parents, really." I'm done with the shame and I have Nothing to be guilty for.
Breaking the taboo of talking about what happened, about incest and child sexual abuse breaks, or at least puts a small dent in the stigma of incest/ child sexual abuse.
I speak out Loudly

Guy the Dick, my ex

Ha, so I've decided to call my ex "Guy the Dick" in the interest of...anonymity and my usual, subtle degree of respect. This is my story. These are how I perceived and felt. This blog, other than my scant 1 hour a week of therapy, is my only platform whereby I can set free all the thoughts and feelings I was too afraid to say out loud.
The secrets were making me sick. I was invalidating my experiences to save others from embarrassment. Sometimes you have to throw down the gauntlet and save yourself, you know?
This past relationships was an exercise in stifling me. I was virtually invisible, a modest statue in the corner that made Guy the Dick feel less alone and more powerful, after all he bought and paid for the statue and dammit, it need to pose exactly as he wanted.
I'm still mad. I choked on angst night after night, as I silently screamed about the injustice in a relationship in which I was denied basic human rights, the same ones all the other three in the household had.
What kind of low-life, under carpet dust speck was I that allowed a mirror loving, egotistical breathing thing, to treat me as so subpar that I was unworthy of having my own bed? Why was I chastised and relegated to, what amounted to, a spare makeshift bed in a heavily trafficked family room? Was I invisible? Did Guy the Dick even once see my plight or consider how it must have felt? Nope, Guy the Dick can see and sense only his own needs. No one else's matter.
When you know, you Know someone, your partner, the one you want to spend the rest of your life with is sick with serious illness, do you not ask if there is anything you can do to help? Do you take them to the doctor? Cook and serve chicken soup and try and find something that will make their life easier? Show you care? Do you care? Nope, not if your partnered with someone like Guy the Dick.
I was angry, heavily frustrated and feeling totally powerless being an invited poorly treated guest at Guy's. I couldn't fathom the right words to ask for what any breathing human needs, dignity. I had blindly and wholly put my faith and trust in my mistaken belief that people were good and caring through and through. I couldn't believe that I would ever be treated as less than equal.
When you are a guest and have zero self-esteem you just take whatever is thrown your way. You are at the complete mercy of the selfish inn owner.
I guess I didn't think much of myself. Did I deserve exactly what Guy had?
If Guy got sick, I'd automatically take care of him. I'd constantly be asking and thinking about what I could do to help him.
See, I thought he thought like I. Gotta hate that autism at times. My inability to see the narrowness and indifference of my ex kept me subdued on the couch.
It was pure cruelty. Really. Okay, maybe the mental illness of narcissism played a hefty role, too. It wasn't right. I had no dignity. I was not afforded any respect.
I So Did Not Deserve That!!! Guy you Dick!

Say Anything ... Total Freedom

I've suddenly realized that being famililess and with scant close friends, that I am completely free to Say Anything, to stand on a soapbox and Finally release all the secrets that I've been forced into silencing.
It's like killing your own soul when you have to suffocate and stymie your own personal history because it might upset, gross out or ruin a friend/ family relationship.
I can't help but wonder how many "loving" families are smiling around the family table knowing they are sitting next to or across from a child molester. Yeah, keep smiling in denial while the shame of secrets eats you away.
Let the stories begin!
I'm not writing this for validation. I am well aware of what happened.
I have no reason to lie. I don't need any attention. If you don't like what I write, don't read it.
It boggles me how anyone can judge or be a vested, anonymous stranger with strong opinions, when they weren't living in my family's home.
Trust me, I would doubt the validity of my own positively bizarre truths unless I was actually there experiencing them. This stuff is hideous, horrendous and the kind of stuff that can put a most cruel slant on the wonderful, rose-colored world we wish to be true.
Yeah, I'll try to maintain some degree of anonymity for the others involved.
It's weird how some get all concerned that my dead father isn't here to defend himself. WTF? Who defended me when I was 3 or 4 or 8 or 12? Seriously? Think about it.

I don't say goodbye

I left my home state about four months ago. I intentionally set it up so that I wouldn't have to say goodbye to the few people I would miss. Call me rude or disrespectful but I only did it that way because saying goodbye is just too damn painful.
I don't need showy gestures of hugs and tears for closure or to know I feel for them. Something tells me they already knew what a healing, profound difference they made in my life.
I needed to do things on my terms with the least amount of hurt. I'm okay with that.

Living with Dissociative Identity Disorder, Basic Understanding

DID is near and dear to my heart as I have lived with this disorder all my life. Here's what I have learned:
DID/ Multiple Personality Disorder MPD means that a very young individual, usually under the age of three, is exposed to some type of overwhelming trauma, often physical or sexual abuse. Stop right there and picture a child you know around that age...beautiful, full of life and wonder, trusting, curious...then picture that child being hit once or fondled/ molested. Hard to imagine, isn't it? That anyone could ever do that to a child.
Now, here's the sobering news...adults rape, beat and starve children by the thousands Every single day. No one wants to talk about it. No one wants to even entertain such horrendous thoughts but it Is reality we choose to ignore.
Okay, back to the small child. A child's mind is an incredible, dynamic invention. When experienced trauma overruns the child's neural network, this wonderful survival mechanism kicks in. The child is able to dissociate, withdraw deeply into her own psych or float away to a safe place until this trauma can be dealt with.
The child's mind "split" although I tend to think of it more as a fracture, like an iceberg cleaving off a glacier only to float around in the vast ocean, never losing its size, content or shape, just drifting near and far, near and far.
In a family like mine where my dad, a victim of physical and sexual abuse himself, routinely, weekly sometimes daily, would sodomize his children and engage them in performing sexual acts, in addition to believing hitting/ beating your child was appropriate, I was exposed to graphic sexual acts...oh, let's be conservative here, say, on a weekly basis, let's say three times, every week from birth till 16.
Being autistic may have set me up in that I was more sensory sensation than most. On the other hand, I consider autism to be one step removed from reality thus it was easier for me to get safe and dissociate/ leave my body, the present painful experiences.
Dissociation is an extraordinary survival mechanism utilized and developed for horrific traumas.
Let's face it, dad rubbing his hands or genitals all over my body= sensory overload not to mention it felt dirty and like ick. Having no means to physically escape, I mentally left.
So my childhood was spent in various states of pain, confusion and dissociation. I was kept busy "organizing" if you will, the traumatic experiences while also working to maintain a decent "front" or "face". You know, like I had to pretend nothing was wrong. I had to go to school and make sure no one suspected otherwise dad would carry out his threats. I don't know how much of my covering up was due to his threats...sure, I didn't want him hurting me, my mom or my siblings but part of me didn't want anyone to know that I was thus whorish 5 year old little girl who regularly felt icky at having to entertain my dad's penis. When someone has there hands routinely on your genitals you feel creepy, dirty and diseased. Damn, it's almost impossible to have any sense of self-esteem or goodness at all, really.
What I did do was organize my "system", my parts, alters or, as I like to call them my people into categories kinda like floors in a big office building. One floor was for the physically abused ones. If mom or dad raised a hand, broom or brush to strike, I would switch, change to a personality that knew how to handle that. A personality that was used to beatings and could deal with that much physical pain. Oh, and this group of alters learned to not show emotion, no tears as my parents seemed to thrive on sering the hurt written all over my face. Helk, it didn't do any good to cry, so why bother?
Another floor housed all my people that were created solely for socializing and to put on a good, happy front. I have to laugh because these were the adorable and friendly ones kinda created out of thin air, very superficial and the first to show up in therapy and integrate, picture the floating iceberg returning and melting into the glacier.
There were two wings in which one group loved mom and a bigger group of those who loved dad. It's do complicated I'm just going to leave that there for now.
Then, the largest group of all, we're the parts of me that were tortured and sexual abused. These very vital, core parts of me lived within often heavily fortified rooms with thick walls. I tried to protect them within and used separate rooms in quiet locations. Each part...so violently damaged that it often had other alters specifically created as protectors and helpers or companions.
The numbers of alters Does Not Matter as one alter could have carried the memory of one trauma or all the rape instances that took place in a certain year or in a certain place. When first diagnosed, I was hung up on "how many" erroneously thinking the higher the number, the more difficult the healing. Sooo Not the case!
I stopped counting after those first few years.
The toughest part about being Multiple is that first year when the diagnosis is made. Those first few years were by far the most confusing and chaotic of times. Finding a psychotherapist was the key to getting my chaos under control.
I'm not going you, bring told you have DID is frightening because it's like your known world has suddenly turned upside down and you find this inner world of hurt.
I did not know anything about my incest until I was 27. My body and brain were so brutalized that I had wall upon wall built around the incest memories. I had no resources to handle that much pain.
I was worried about these "others" living inside of me, like bring in a big group home with strangers of various names and ages, each with a unique, painful story harbored within.
Therapy helped me understand what DID/MPD was. It allowed me to most slowly explore one floor or one room at a time. One of the cruel things about DID is that you get to experience the traumas twice, when the incident first happened and Again when you choose to bring it into consciousness and out in the open.
Face it, most people don't want to hear about your DID. Hell, I lived years with a significant other who never mentioned it or asked about it. It's hard to find others that understand that unique pain and how it feels. I felt degraded and dirty and, of course, the big guilty. Perpetrators want you to feel like it's all your fault and they work real hard to make you believe that.
I know better now. I really do know that none of that, the incest, sodomy, performing those sex acts, the beatings...none of that was my fault. I didn't deserve it. My dad just manipulated me into believing it was my fault for a few decades.
And mom, well, mom knew and she reinforced my silence. She liked to call me a whore among other things. She was a co-conspirator as most mom's of incestuous husbands are. See, if her husband was having sex with her daughter then she didn't have to. Yeah, way to go mom.
Anyway, this is just one segment of my life living MPD/DID.
I hope it has answered some questions and maybe helped a person or two.

Almost One-Liners

So therapist says: I don't know you well enough...should I be worried?
Me (on the inside): oh, how quaint
(On the outside): I always manage. Go on your vacation, come back, don't come back, don't flatter yourself, no skin off my nose

I had a close call. Pulled a pan with hot oil out of the oven and it splattered hard and wide. Luckily, uncharacteristically, I was wearing my glasses and the left was covered in hot oil. I was scared. I carefully used some Dawn to wipe the oil off with a rag. No blistering, so nothing more than some minor first degree burns to that side of my face. I am grateful. My sweatshirt showed how pervasive the splatter was.
Needless to say, I lost my appetite and threw my chopped potatoes in the garbage.
Bad oil. Bad, naughty pan. Almost threw that out but thought better. Not sure if or when I'll be able to cook my potatoes and onions again. Not worth the risk.

Realized why my son takes apart every show, commercial, plot, etc. I am a buzz kill and take things apart like that, show the negative, expose the impossibilities, strip off the drama and hype. Caught myself doing that as we watched a movie last night. Boy, I got issues. Need to stop taking things do seriously. Find this thing called fun.

Taught my kid to: respect parental authority; respect and honor his teachers and other adults; various chores and home responsibilities; that things aren't just going to be handed to them as he has to earn them. An hour of game time will only occur after one chore, one hour of playing and half an hour of reading so Now he does these three things Without question before asking for game.
I've taught him that his company is enjoyable as we engage in watching movies together, going for walks and playing board games. His Scrabble skills have definitely improved. He's reading Moby Dick which he is finding boring but almost finished. He knows enough to eat carrots, apple, banana or other fruit before getting one serving of chips at night.

I'm thinking of giving up my yummy sleep supplements in favor of staying up late at night and sleeping more in the morning. Yeah, back to my old schedule. I miss those four hour at night when I have the place to myself and my creativity runs high under the moon. I haven't gotten enough me time.

Oh yeah, now that I've settled in here the mask and walls of fearless momma have come falling down. I had to wear brave face until we did get comfy settled in. Now, sigh, now I can safely say that parts of my four day journey here were positively Terrifying, in a word. Just Terrifying. One topic of today's therapy session.
Yes, I've come undone but only to return to my true self with whom I am quite comfortable and at ease with.
This therapist is quite different. I kinda like her, I think.
I talked with her about a topic I've never ever spoke of....she did fine...interesting...lots to ponder.
I've changed enormously since therapy five months ago..so much new information that I need to wrangle and figure out how to time manage in a 50 minute session. What do I spend hours doing? Prioritizing topics and discussions for therapy. Yeah, hours and hours.
It's like everything I know is kinda new in an expanded sense. I accomplished tremendous insight with Mary. It was like we dug up all the gooey crap from the bottom of the sewer, spread it out and sifted through it to a high degree. Now, it's a matter of integrating this new info into a cohesive format. Mary was great and wonderful. And, yeah, now that I'm settled I'm allowed to miss her.

Oy, all the tears and fears that I've had to keep bottled these five months now are free to be released and they bubble and burst all over the surface. Not a bad thing, no, not a bad thing At All. It's all good. It's healing. This is how I roll. Life is good. I love Oregon. I have a greater appreciation of the depth of my bravery and the heights of my remarkable accomplishments.

She's come undone

Lost and Never Found

Or looked for
Or missed

I grow old

Alone
Without anyone at my side telling me I age beautifully,
Having never watched my parents, aunts and uncles experience each decade with a new type of grace,
Seeing nieces and nephews at birthdays, parties, concerts, graduations and marriages,
Accumulating and practicing parenting skills solely from innate, immature guessing,
Having someone to turn to for advice, wisdom or comforting words,
Never holding family gatherings at my place,
Never having a grandparent/ special friend to accompany my kid to school,
Knowing my parents sins were both curse and blessing,
Knowing I can only count on myself,
Unaware of the common pitfalls of aging through watching and interacting with those around me,
Having no one who knows me more than a decade or two,
I grow old
And try to forget
That I am
And always will be
Without anyone
By my side
Unable to convey my confusion at these mysterious turns my body takes.
Unable to decipher what is normal and expected at each passing year.
The great mystery continues

Truth

Living in the Bunker...the holiday season

I've found it best to hide away when the holiday season of late November hits. I drop facebook and shore up supplies in my bunkeresque home. I don't need anyone telling me "Happy Holidays" because it sucks. I don't need pictures of happy family gatherings or smiling faces around the big table heaped with food. I don't need to be reminded that folks find this the happiest time of year. It just serves to remind me how different and obscure I am.
I've never enjoyed family gatherings, go figure. Load noises, lots of strangely familiar people packed tightly into odd houses, steaming plates of too much foreign food that everyone thinks I should try and taste, people pretending to care for two days a year when the rest of the year they never call or care. I remember all those aunts who smiled to my face and dropped me the minute grandma died. Gram was the only one who loved me, I get that now, okay.
I don't know how other survivors do it, you know, being shoved into crowded rooms with relatives that have sexually abused or stood by and did nothing. Invalidation reigns high during the "holy" days of November, December.
Family, to me, has always been a sick joke of pretty looking papers dolls that have no feelings or smiles genuine. It's cheap dollar store gifts from one unknown to another. Strangers hug, smile and lie over turkey and pie. Thinking they care, ha. What a joke.
Glad to be rid of them.
To get invited or naught with these new strangers....they can't comprehend my anxiety at a setting with strangers. They don't know my aversions or fear of new food and how an hour of small talk can stress me out for three days. I turn them down. I run. I hide. I hole up so I don't need to explain the unexplainable, me.
Enough with the well wishing and gifts. Just go away. I'll get through this like I do every year. At least I have a really good bunker.

Being a Recluse

Busy disappointing and alienating people again. Trying to make and keep friends is once again proving too stressful and an impossibility. Really need to accept what I am and what I'm capable of. Friendship isn't part of this ship. Flying solo. It's all good.

Staying in Bed CPTSD

No place feels safe but it's least scary here

CPTSD

One Sound Can Shatter the Mood...or my entire day or evening

My son dropped his toy onto the metal baseboard heater. The sound jolted me, made me jump and I started to cry. I felt so unsafe that I went out for a walk to try and settle down. It didn't feel safe in my own home. Sigh.
Life is forever unpredictable and full of hurt.
Living PTSD

The Latest News

Well, my son got over his 3-day virus and returned to school yesterday. Today will be my third day sick. I've figured that it's not unusual to get sick every month after moving cross country to a different state with different viruses. It's like our Michigan bodies need to build Oregon antibodies. Makes sense.
I had my second appointment with new therapist. I'm pretty sure this therapeutic will work out very well. I'm positive that we will hit some bumps along the road, as the road to understanding another person is always fraught with minor obstacles to overcome. It's the nature of the process. So, I'm glad the therapist search is over.
A local church is sponsoring us for Thanksgiving. This weekend someone will be dropping off our holiday food basket. It's exciting! I like that we are thought of and given assistance. I have no qualms or worries or embarrassment about receiving help and assistance At All. It really just makes me smile. People care about one another And about me and my son. It's all very good.

Now I can Play! Lego Whistler's Mother

Settled In

I recently realized that I am all settled in from my Big Move. I have my rental assistance, food stamps, son's therapist and doctor, my therapist and doctor, good communication with my guy's school and I'm pretty comfortable with the lay of the land and can easily get to where I want to go.
Three months...pretty damn good for this Aspie Chick!!!
Life is Good!
Just another day in paradise!

Fuck You

What Is Comfort? Pain, Everyday Life, Relationships

I'm starting to realize that being comforted in times of distress, would have been a welcome change from the pushing me away whenever I made a whimper.
Clarity: I will always have had two good relationships to look back on; my marriage and friend/girlfriend unions. Most of my perplexity and damage comes from all relationships other than those two.
My mother would push me away, put me to bed or lock me in a room if I displayed any tears or screams of discomfort and pain.
Another partner, well, I think part of me realized the good times were over when I went to the ER in terrible pain, and I had to ask to get em to stand beside me, hold my hand or please, please hug me. It felt cold and forced, like a thick, heavy wall rising. I could readily feel their agitation, these invisible pulling away, recoiling at having to hold me.
Sigh, for someone with such strong need for affection, I sure picked losers in that "meet my needs" category.
I'm just realizing certain patterns and bringing them to the surface for closer scrutiny.
Maybe I have this burgeoning need for affection because I never experienced enough of it in those stark early years.
Maybe it's a gaping hole that refuses to heal and instead chooses to stay open, vacant and gaping because to close, to mend and heal would leave me vulnerable to risking a relationship again and reliving the wounds, you know the type of wounds that get busted open and you repair and mend and Bam, just when your fixed up again here comes another who will recoil at the thought of touching you and you know how much it hurt the Last Time and scar upon scar does not a healthy body make.
It's soo risky, relationships. I'd have to lose part of myself, my routines, the things that cause no pain in order to get the affection meter out of the red zone.
I can't win at somethings...
I've learned that showing discomfort and pain will lead to rejection and hurt.
It's just as easy not to showcase my feelings because then maybe they will agree to keep me around, maybe I can earn their affection...if I only knew how...to not need.
I've accepted the fact that some things were not meant to be and I'm okay with that.
I will always be autistic, seperated and behind this invisible glass wall living in a world that doesn't cause me possible pain around the corner, a stranger to startle me or ask small talk questions that stymie me and make me stutter, having to explain my tiny frustrations that devour me, no sudden bright lights or sounds of breaking glass...the Outside World is Harsh, Scary and mostly Unpredictable!
I could experience sudden intense pain (picture seeing two cars crashing directly in front of you, the loud noise, the sudden disturbing sight, the full text of the anxiety and thick fear....well, my friend, that is an example of the distress I feel when someone starts talking to me, when I get into someone else's car or office, it's what I fucking feel every single time I walk through a doorway from the known and familiar into the sensory overload of unpredictability. It's Fucking Scary Every Day, Multiple Times!!!! God, I wish I could tell you how each day is work and worry and work to try and avoid the Fucking Pain that could strike at any moment!
New sensations, sounds, sights, smells elicits fear at the possibility of pain.
Damn.
Be nice to your local Autistic, ok? You really have no idea how difficult every waking hour is.
Peace

When you are mom to a disabled kid...

There is a certain look that people get on their faces when they notice my son's disability. For months I haven't been able to identify it even though I see it every month, oft every week.
I noticed it again today when my neighbor came up to me, all excited and enthusiastic. His eyes, his eyes were very different. His lips were different too. His smile was a wee bit forced and never varied from an over wide grin. He was offering my son and I free tickets to a local big college game.
His smile never wavered when I stated that I was autistic and couldn't handle crowds. Okay, his eyes got a bit vacant like "what does That mean?" but his smile remained.
It's like...he had a tear or two hiding behind his eyes. A certain sadness that I can now summarize as the thought, "I'm so sorry."
I saw it in the eyes of the waiter who brought us the takeout, in the eyes of his teachers as they talked about him and I see it frequently in those glances standing in line somewhere when someone notices he has no left hand.
It's okay, though. I guess I see it as a silent admission that they too realize my son's life has a few challenges.
Sigh. It's wonderful to be able to finally identify the look I've been seeing for over 13 years now.

Visual Starvation or Seasonal Affective Disorder

Last winter I suffered a deep, unrelenting depression. Prescribed medication and light therapy offered me no ounce of relief. The six months of bland and stark northern Michigan conditions forced me to realize that I had, what I like to call "Visual Starvation." The lack of sunshine wasn't the problem...it was the lack of color, plants, trees, flowers and clouds. I needed to see Something Alive and Vibrant and Real!
I lived 2 treacherous icy highway hours away from the nearest cultural center, indoor gardens, museum and zoo. My brain, my highly visual brain was slowly starving day by day and I was unable to find any sights to feed upon and sustain me.
It makes perfect sense to me. I thrive on visual stimulation of all things. Hmmm, maybe I'm autistic, lol.

I don't close my eyes in front of other people

It's another one of those Aspie things that I can't logically explain but it's near impossible for me to close my eyes in front of others, at church or at any public gathering.
I remember back in school when the teacher would ask the class to close their eyes and think of such and such. I never could. It does make me feel awkward in church but it's something I can't change.
Just sayin'

Be Yourself

Sounds easier than it is

Of friendship & love

Part of me realistically knows that it will always be an extreme challenge to hold on to a good friend. Maybe that Is my reality. Maybe I shouldn't expend all the unnecessary energy and worry and call it all fair, good and logical. Maybe learning acceptance will be my best route.
A fish can't climb a tree anymore than a tree can walk up that mountain...let's just get real.
Time to reorganize my priorities and keep them in line with my actual abilities. Novel concept.
I need to make my domicile more user friendly, discard all the clothes that no longer fit and give away the knick knacks that no longer move me. I need my books, my art supplies, a few good notebooks and a desk to start creating again.
Will I ever be loved as someone's main, one and only? Maybe not, so why fret or plan or primp? Maybe it would be nice to actually be in love with a caring person....or maybe that's beyond my reach as well. I'm not going to sweat it or lose any sleep. I see who I am and it's all good.

Imprisoned

Hollowman

I'm not a memorable person...more like a whisp you met once, but can't remember her name but she had wild hair.
Half the time people misread or mishear my name and call me Ann. I have the timid voice of a tiger whipped too much every time she roared...as if my voice might disturb, cause anger and force someone into a rage.
A wallflower blended in to faded wallpaper.
Yeah, I think there is more work to do

No one Knows

The other day, after talking with my new potential therapist about my lack of friends and humans that know I'm alive, she remarked: if I'm hearing you right, it sounds as if no one knows who you are...
Sigh
Yeah, the only people that get to know me are therapists. Two people, in the world, know me. Thank god for paid professionals.

Oh, yeah, the Apology

Unlike others I have known, I've gotten better and quicker at knowing I've committed an infraction resulting in the moral need for a formal apology.
The other groggy morning, I received a call from little guys doctors office. This new receptionist was quickly rambling off about what the doc said regarding my son's limb difference.
The doc was talking out of her ass about something she didn't have enough information about. I was stunned, pissed and so not in the mood for a load of morning bullshit. I stammered and stuttered and said something about finding a clinic, dadada and abruptly hung up the phone. I was befuddled.
A few hours later, as I was relaying this event to my potential therapist I thought "Omg, I was rude and she was just doing her job. I have to stop by the office and apologize!"
I spent the next couple hours figuring out why I had been so flustered. What was I going to say to the receptionist? How can I fix this mistake of mine? I wasn't at all embarrassed or self-deprecating on myself. Weird. I just knew my autistic and emotional manner got me into a problem situation that needed fixing.
That afternoon I did just that. I stopped at the office, asked to speak to her and thoroughly apologized.
The woman was relieved. She said she was wondering what she had done wrong on our phone call All Morning. I'm so glad I explained that it had nothing to do with her. It was all about me....and I fixed what I had broke ☺

Busy Day of Ups, Downs & Apologize

Today was bust from dawn till dusk. My first task was to try and locate little guys misplaced iPad. I stopped by the local police/ sheriff office to see if anyone had turned one in. No luck.
Headed home to call the school bus garage. Bingo, there was an iPad with Darth Vader...the missing!! So, I drove over there, picked it up and dropped it off at the school.
Next, I was on to call the cable/ phone company and find out why my new modem wasn't working for my recently purchased landline. The customer service rep and I chatted for a half hour or so and she easily fixed my phone line. Another large, looming task that has needed tending for the past week or two.
With two major accomplishments, you'd think my day was grand, wouldn't you?
Nope, as I cooked my daily lunch of potatoes, onions and vegetables...I inexplicably burned them to a crisp thereby telling me that my smoke alarm did indeed work and I lost my lunch. Sigh
Off to Goodwill for a bookcase. The used, scrappy one I had picked up finally broke apart last night and I needed to have a place to set the phone. Found a decent, tall bookcase and had it loaded into my car. I spent the next two hours making space, vacuuming and clearing out the old broken one. One of the kind maintenence guys was around. I asked him if he could help me out. He grabbed a dolly and the new case was in the place.
No time to rest as I had to stop at the doctor, therapists and school to give them my new primary phone number. It's nice to be able to receive messages, again.
Finally, ugh, it's time to rest. It's a definite full-time job for me to be mom, apartment owner, bill payer, grocery shopper and resident cook. It never slowed down today.
I really did accomplish much.

Finding a Therapist, Talking

Yesterday, I met with my new potential therapist for the first time. It could work. I'll give it a couple more visits.
Funny, insurance isn't a problem and meeting weekly isn't one either...so different from Michigan where I could only receive 20 sessions for a full calendar year before it was out of pocket.
The office is quite comfy and cozy with a big ol love seat and two other soft chairs. Sigh.
It's so weird to talk for an hour to someone after not having conversed for that length for about three months. I was completely exhausted afterwards. My verbal center certainly wasn't used to working for that long. I took today off to bike around, pick up a bit and take a much needed nap.
Getting a therapist was my last big objective regarding my Big Move. We will see how it goes from here.