Why am I here?
I think, for most, that the goal is external; going to college, paper degrees, working, promotions, financial gains, and accolades.
My locus is internal; surviving, reexamining the neglect and infractions inflicted when I was completely helpless and total dependent on two hapless, hopelessly sick and twisted individuals, dealing with the repercussions of being shattered and relentlessly tortured.
Ouch, childhood leaves a mark no matter how it played out.
To you that had good growing ups, kudos. To you that got over a few rough patches, I commend thee. To those, like me, who are walking wounded and constantly applying fresh bandaids to festering wounds, I applaud you.
We each come into this life with a task, a goal or objective. I know mine, now. It isn't pretty but neither is it embarrassing or to be feared.
My job is to heal using all the tools I can find; therapy, dreamwork, acupuncture, energy work, writing and arting.
My job is to live everyday knowing and feeling beaten and tortured without becoming a bitter, angry soul seeking vengeance.
Most of my work is internal. Then there is blogging, writing and, maybe someday, speaking out in public about the horrid things some people do to children and how to heal from it.
Find out what your life task is...then do it.
I get it.
My life isn't a bad thing...it's just my life.
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
Wednesday, December 28, 2016
Why am I here?
Thus I write.
Up, out of bed, lest the memories engulf me. The past is a voracious beast when left unattended or properly cared for.
Realizing the magnitude of what I've lived through...and the hurts I care inside which seem to be leaking to the surface and are becoming more impossible to contain.
I think most people carry stuff inside, mostly parental approval or disapproval, like naked trees in spring. You know, childhood events, our parents hate, love or neglect...their not loving us enough, getting their approval, all the times they hit us calling it discipline, when in reality it hurt and humiliated, all that stuff dwells inside.
Emotions, those retched things we really don't want to deal, hmm, they exist whether we believe it or not.
A spanking was a hit of disapproval and bullying. Those kids that were hit, grew up to hit their kids thinking they lived through it, why shouldn't their kids?
People, parents like to express their pain, kinda to try and neutralize it, by doing it to their kids. In a sense, hitters are saying, "well, I lived through that humiliation and degradation and my parents were never wrong, so here kid, I'll wallop you and make my parents actions okay in my head."
You know, if your face is pushed against a wall it's a seriously narrow view.
Introspection is only for the brave and utilized by very few.
How do I feel? Lately, like I'm tied up, naked on a mattress waiting for the next....
Yeah, so it can summerize my early years but I'm not gonna hide it. I don't deceive myself by painting a pretty picture when all I had to work with was grey and black.
I no longer pretend to be without emotions. Sure, most of the ones I feel suck but I think, in working through my shit, that I will find some light and bright.
I've stopped lying to myself. I get where I am coming from. So, yeah, it's a putrid sewer but it ain't going to get any better unless I admit it's there.
People lie to themselves...and die never knowing who they are.
I don't want to be like them...I refuse to keep my eyes shut and drown in the black sea of repressed emotions and discarded truths.
I know so much about what happened to me...and yeah, it's keepin me up nights.
Monday, December 26, 2016
It was a busy day. I decided to clean the bathroom and kitchen. I had my son assist in the bathroom, as it was more his mess than mine. Plus, if he doesn't like mopping it up, maybe he'll have better aim. It really needed a thorough job and I was up for the task.
Cooking didn't work out quite as well, as I practically liquified my potatoes leaving little to mash. The turkey came out okay. That outer burnt stuff didn't seem to effect the taste. I'm not a big fan of the gobbler but Rosebud and my son relish it.
After all the cleaning, I had dirty rags that I couldn't have sitting anywhere around the house, so I had the laundry room all to myself and managed a couple of loads.
The football game was pretty exciting. I enjoyed the peace and quiet of the complex here. Very few cars in the lot.
I've been in the house too much. I'm pretty sure tomorrow is a road trip day. I don't have funds but I'll probably drive north or south and window shop at the thrift stores. Holiday break means no school and momma needs a ride. Time to see the sheep and the mountains.
I'm so grateful this holiday shit is over. Man, it just seemed so long, strung out and like it'd never get over with.
Please!!! And Thank you
I need to keep moving, even if it's just around the house. I've been stuck in my head too much lately. Time for some fresh air...and maybe a lollipop...hahaha, cabin fever madness trying to set in.
Sunday, December 25, 2016
I was grateful to receive a holiday food basket, in which I picked each and every item, from a local Christian church. In addition, I was gifted a gift card to the local supermarket.
Since I had enough food, I bought all those non-perishable items that I usually pay for out-of-pocket. You know, toilet paper, laundry soap, shampoo and one total luxury item, Discover magazine!
My brain was starving for intellectually stimulating science material. I hadn't the funds to purchase my own magazine since my arrival here. It seemed more a matter of mental health than a luxury.
I've been devouring each and every article. I love the big, sciency words and the lingo. My brain is happy!
Saturday, December 24, 2016
I'm done for the moment, for the holiday, with interaction both real and online. I keep waking up thinking the holiday is passed and I'm bummed to find out it is pending.
I'm just done with it all, alright. Yeah, my son will celebrate as I tolerate and retreat.
My mind as vacant as the parking lot. Don't want any more well wishers or photos of family happiness. Be gone. Phone off.
Five more days till therapy. Kitchen cleaned. Rearranging, dumping to make more room. Vacuuming and dusting feels good to do. Outdoors is pretty silence.
I miss my dreams at night. My nighttime meds eliminate my dreams, which is a sad side effect. I'm willing to go medless and somewhat sleepless as having no dreams for weeks makes me feel like something major is missing in my everyday life.
Things are going well. I just don't like holidays and am always ass-happy when they are over with and done.
I only get one hour of therapy a week via insurance. Man, that does not feel fair. So much to deal with, speak of and cover. Damn it. And contain, for days. Yeah, I'm busy, go away.
Thursday, December 22, 2016
Unsettled feelings about finding this out. My dad trained me to do certain things, like a cocker spaniel, at 7 yrs old, and I was rewarded for my work with cake and coins.
Yeah, it really hasn't sunk in yet. I mean, I did remember the one instance with the guy at the aluminum and paper recycle place when I was 10. That was gross and grimy but this new stuff was earlier. I don't know how often it happened. Based on current data, it seemed like a commonplace occurance. I was well-trained and never even questioned what I was doing. My dad was truly a master manipulator and he started grooming me while quite young.
Honestly, it was normal, and icky for my dad to molest me. Just a normal every day event. If you experience something practically everyday, you tend to perceive it as normal, especially as a child.
Yeah, I'm still processing this latest piece of shit flashback/ memory.
How did I ever live through this much shit? I'm starting to see the scope of the abuses. The frequency and different type of infractions. The sheer volume is overwhelming. I get it. I survived. I split.
Trying to put the pieces back together, sorting out the intense emotions and depressing feelings, the physical symptoms and painful body memories.
I'm fucking amazing.
Pour me another drink, Maurice. It's going to be another long night.
Tuesday, December 20, 2016
It feels like I'm sitting in a movie theater with my back against the screen and the movie is always playing, you know the one where the children are being tortured and beaten. Every now and then pieces of the film break off, get louder, nearer and float into my vision. I cover my ears, I close my eyes but the visions won't go away.
I just have to wait...for therapy, for a different, less violent piece of film to superimpose on top of the disturbing one.
Yeah, it's that good...at times.
So many times, violations, physical, sexual, emotional...the film Never sleeps and rarely (without medication) do I.
Welcome to my life.
It is what it is.
Part of the thing that is weird...I didn't cause this. All that was done to break my body and spirit was intentionally inflicted upon me against my will.
A history of heavy violations. A man who routinely raped his daughter. A mother who despised, shunned and beat me, too. A mother who looked the other way, pretending not to see what was before her very eyes.
Her child, broken, bleeding...and she turns and walks away thinking her dirty hands are clean. Falsely telling all who would hear, how magnificent it was to have so many children...her greatest pride, her joy...as she quietly shut the door and never acknowledged or spoke of it...till over 35 years later. For then she could admit she saw, she knew and she protected...all the other children...but me.
Thank you mother, I spit in her face.
I walk away.
It's just me....it's just me as it always has been.
No one really wants the truth...unless it's covered in froth and icing.
If the truth be ugly, do like my mother, turn away, pretend you can't hear or see, and walk out. I've been disbelieved long enough.
I was there.
It happened...and I wonder if I will ever be in one piece......
Monday, December 19, 2016
It's almost bedtime. I just noticed that I hadn't been making eye contact the entire day. Briefly, when CC and I were out and about, I tried making eye contact but I found it unnatural and just couldn't do it.
Maybe some days I do have more autism then others.
I can't explain it. I have no answers. I do believe it's been weeks since I've had a zero eye contact, ZEC, day.
Maybe tomorrow will be different.
Saturday, December 17, 2016
It snows, typically, once or twice a winter, here in the Willamette Valley. It's usually only one or two inches and it melts within a day or two.
Here's a small snowman that I found in our parking lot. I brought Alice out for size comparison.
The next pic is from today's paper. I thought you might be amused.
My 13 year old was born with one hand. Today was another one of those days when I was using both hands simultaneously to shake paint bottles, felt a sudden wave of guilt wondering of my son was feeling sad as he watched me and I quickly put one bottle down and proceeded to use only one hand.
Why him? And not me, instead? It saddens me that his daily life will be difficult than most children. He asked me to cut his pizza and bagtie the French fries, two tasks he hasn't learned how to manage yet.
Something in the air the past two weeks that has made me aware that I feel guilty and almost ashamed, that I should be gifted with two.
I'm working to not flaunt it. I'm definitely more aware of my hand actions these days and my feelings surrounding them.
Thursday, December 15, 2016
There is a certain inalienable fear when I pick up brush to paint. Will it be good enough, ostracized, reveal too much of my inner sanctum. It's like beginning to write a book without a clear ending. Unknowing if the final product will match the dream.
In a way, painting, creating is like looking at a dirty canvas and slowly, with rag of vicious turpentine, delicately wiping away the grime to reveal the picture underneath that has always been there, in my dreams, in my head.
As I stare at blank canvas, naked wood, within my mind I am "told" what colors and designs to employ next. It's a process of trusting...myself and the creation....it's risky, scary...it's show who I am.
The naked artist
Just lots of unique perspectives come to mind, brush in hand and moving with an inner pulse
Wednesday, December 14, 2016
Today, I noticed that just before I switched that my body felt heavy, like I was sinking deeply into the couch.
Sometimes I'll feel dizzy like I can't quite complete my sentences and the roller coaster is slowing to a stop.
I've had switches do fast that I felt nothing but a blink.
Rarely, I've felt as if I'm falling backwards into myself. It's not scarey, maybe because I've done it so many times before.
Sometimes it feels as if I'm sitting next to another part of me and if I, say glance right, I'll fall away and she will be out.
Having so little time in therapy, and with how long it can take to switch, about 5-15 minutes, I may end up employee a strategy that worked with therapist #2, having different alters come out in the waiting room and walking into the office. It eliminates that frustrating beginning and gets right to things that matter. I'd forgotten how often and how well that worked with #2.
Now that I am back in therapy and more aware of what's transpiring, expect more insight into DID, MPD.
Today it heavily dawned upon me, I really like hugs. It almost felt like the first time I ever got a warm, safe hug when asking and receiving one from Neo.
I feel like a delinquent, like I've been missing out on something intrinsically special and necessary. And I want to get back everything I've missed.
It seems so basic...and....not something I should have to beg for or feel bad about asking for. I almost feel the need to apologize, as if I'm needy and asking for the golden fleece and I'm not worthy.
I can't put into words how good to felt, how deeply, like a blanket finally covering a large, gaping wound that had been left open.
Words can't heal as much as a simple heartfelt hug.
It's kinda like I never felt one till today.
I want more but I don't want to be needy or overwhelming.
I don't know how many hugs I'm entitled to. Is there a set limit before I annoy? I don't want to annoy or put anybody out.
Gosh, I wish I'd gotten hugs all my life, or once a month like this one I got today.
I don't feel so alone now. I really like hugs. JB
Tuesday, December 13, 2016
A "switch" is when personalities change. Right now, "I" am out, some refer to it as "the front" or front or face. Lol, I often refer to it as "point" from the military's "being on point", the very front of the line.
So, I'm out. If another personality, say "B" wants to come out and front, then I kinda start fading and everything around me gently, or suddenly blurs and I'm gone...gone "inside", within my mind. I may or may not have knowledge of B or what she is saying. If I could hear her and be aware of her, I would be "coconscious". Sometimes I am, sometimes I'm not.
When B is done talking and it's my turn to come back out to the front, it's often more dramatic, like someone shaking my shoulder and waking me up from a deep slerp. I'm almost always groggy and a bit disoriented, maybe dizzy. It's like I have to fit back into my body and feel like I'm in my body again.
It's pretty damn distressing at first and takes some time to get comfortable with the whole switching process. I mean, to switch I basically give up all control, to my body, my words and actions.
At this point in my therapy and for the past few years, actually, I only completely switch within that 55 minute therapy session or when I'm by myself at night. It's not a daily occurrence that interfere with this bland reality, lol.
Switching feels different based on whether I'm going, fading or when I'm waking up, going out front.
Oy, after not living as a Multiple for 5 months, my system had been carefully shut-down so that we could easily move cross-country, starting therapy means the flashbacks, memories and people/ alters are waking up.
It feels unnerving yet oddly familiar. The anxiety is like hot wires on fire. People want to meet the new therapist now, so I'm working to hold back the flood.
We knew our previous therapist, #2, was a "patch", temporary, as she worked part-time and spoke of retirement. New therapist, #3, is nowhere near retirement and works full-time. We know #3 is the long term therapist that we have been searching for.
I wondering how the pace will change...after the excitement and enthusiasm whereby each get to meet her, wears off. We definitely worked fast and furious because we've known for months that the insurance with #2 was running out. Do things slow down and get dealt with thoroughly? Will there be breathing room between major memories? As I recall, there were no breaks these past few years that didn't last more than a week.
I'll be inquiring as to whether or not insurance will allow, and therapist 3 would agree, to a longer session. In therapy, there is a 5-20 minute intro before I'm able to switch into memory mode. Of even more importance is that I require 5-15 minutes to put myself back together. If the intro and exit take 30 minutes or so, I'm left with 20-25 minutes of actual DID work. That's not much.
I'll ask if 90 minute sessions would be available or not. Either way, it's going to take me some time to adjust to appointments and manage people.
Seriously, my life revolves around caring for my son and managing my autistic Multiple self.
Yeah, this anxiety is so overboard. Picture roaring lion pawing through the clawed door or three ships trying to reach the locks simultaneously, racing. Holding live wires so they don't short each other out. Quite simply, four people all banging at the door wanting in Now, but the timed door doesn't open for 12 hours.
Welcome to my life.
It's nice to finally be able to talk about my MPD/DID...it really is...refreshing.
Thanks for reading. Even if you don't fully understand my spastic rant. Thanks for reading.
Monday, December 12, 2016
Wow, if this doesn't describe my everyday Aspie life....
He was crushed by poverty, but the anxieties of his position had of late ceased to weigh upon him.
He had given up attending to matters of practical importance; he had lost all desire to do so.
Nothing that any landlady could do had a real terror for him.
But to be stopped on the stairs, to be forced to listen to her trivial, irrelevant gossip, to pestering demands for payment, threats and complaints, and to rack his brains for excuses, to prevaricate, to lie-no, rather than that, he would creep down the stairs like a cat and slip out unseen.
Sunday, December 11, 2016
DID/MPD is probably one of the cruelest disorders. It isn't a mental illness in that I wasn't born multiple. My DID was created/perpetrated on me through a series of severely trauma and painful experiences. To have DID, I must have endured severe, repeatative abuse at the hands of someone trusted, in addition to not having enough nurturing and care.
I can only guess that therapists working with Multiples (which is what some of us call ourselves as in the older term, Multiple Personality Disorder) must be both fascinated and disturbed at the same time.
My experiences have shown me that the only way to heal from the pain of DID is to say aloud and relive the horrific incidents that caused me to split and fracture in the first place. I get to speak about it and I need someone to hear me. That's where the therapist comes in. I can't imagine hearing such things by an average person. It's ugly, brutal and highly disturbing.
I know my previous therapist said I was her most fascinating client. I'm guessing calling me her most disturbing client wouldn't have been therapeutically appropriate.
DID is an extreme condition. It truly would blow your mind to try and follow the complexity of the matters of my mind. You have no idea. It's just me.
I'm all good
Tuesday, December 6, 2016
Touch validates my existence. It means that I'm real, seen, heard and someone else, in this world, is not repulsed by me.
It's really that simple.
I've often been...oh, embarrassed maybe, wondering if I'm crossing some therapeutic boundary or revealing too much of how I feel deep inside.
I'm a big, strong adult that has falsely prided myself on the fact that I need no one. I had no one and I took the initiative and stopped showing any needs, any soft underbelly or weakness because my needs weren't worthy of being met. Or they would be exploited and used against me.
I don't want to need anyone....so I'll whisper this...I do need someone to touch...so I know that I am real and that I'm okay.
I often wondered if it was the 50 years of less than adequate affection or, more likely, the supreme distance and disconnect I feel on a daily basis being autistic. Maybe that's part of it, too. It would make sense.
All I know for sure is that I need a safe therapist that allows me to touch or hold her hand at times. I recognize what I need to feel safe and heal.
Monday, December 5, 2016
Well, we went in for our 4th appointment in a fb panic. Shared some basic instructions I've learned:
Sit close unless one of three things happen- whoever enters pushes the empty chair back against the wall, asks her to move back and 3, most likely, someone will tell her in a not nice way, one of the protectors.
I only ran over time in the last 3 yrs about 5 times due to instability after switching. I like, I pride myself on being punctual to and from appointments.
Don't let me leave disoriented. It happened once before and it was a bit frightening. Mostly I need to be aware of my state of mind. If I'm not stable, I'll sit in the lobby.
I asked her if she was going to flip out on me when I switched. She didn't know how she was going to reactive, if she'd say and do the right things but she was pretty sure she wouldn't flip out.
Sooooo....I switched into an alter about 8 years old. He sat quietly with her for a bit, then talked some. Then it was time to switch out. It was rather dramatic, Joker.
Therapist looked pale and somewhat shaken...unnerved might be the best word. I have to remember that therapist has never experienced switching and DID before. I always wondered what it must be like for therapists....especially the very first time they witness it up close.
My previous therapist had never encountered the likes of me before Either and she survived. She was either better at hiding her emotions or I wasn't able to see them through my own chaos. I think she appeared more flustered after she and I realized I was switching. She ended up doing great, excellent and with zero experience.
So, new therapists lack of experience doesn't bother me although I am concerned that she may rethink this whole working with me if it's beyond her capabilities. I'll probably send her an email in a couple of days, to see if she is still willing to work with me or if she can't handle it. I think a couple of days will give her time to analyze the situation.
It's clear that she had done some reading and research, judging by her questions and comments. We will see.
I had to get it out of the way. I don't want to get invested and then have a therapist flake. Something tells me she's the one. I should nickname her Neo.
Sunday, December 4, 2016
My dad was many things, different things to different people. I laugh at his obit where it says he was married to "the love of his life." OMG, is that a dysfunctional and cruel use of the term "love."
Anyway, my dad was a good father, at times, to his kids. No doubt, can't deny, he did support, help out and love his children.
He was also a tormented individual that endured a harsh childhood full of physical, sexual and emotional abuse. That was the part of him that I knew best...the angry man that had been deeply hurt and violated, so much so that he felt unable to control his own thoughts and actions. He violated his own children. He beat some of them. He raped others.
I don't fault those that remember him as a good man, because he was. Don't fault me for seeing him in a darker, more putrid light as I was his victim.
It sounds almost criminal to say...but sometimes leaving your family is the healthiest and sanest thing to do.
Growing up, I was taught that my family was everything to me and that I was nothing without them. No one voluntarily leaves their biological group....it's unheard of and reserved for outcasts, addicts and the sick in the heads. I can't think of anyone who willfully dons the title of black sheep.
I was shoved into a corner. Mentally, I couldn't handle my incestuous father sneaking over to my apartment during his lunch hour. I couldn't get my mother in denial to support me in any way, shape or form. I couldn't confide in my siblings, aunts or uncles. Hell, I couldn't find words to explain the emotional torment of being my dad's sex slave for 20 years. I went crazy inside. I left in the middle of the night and turned myself in to a psych hospital 3 hours away. And I didn't tell anyone in my family where I was going.
I left them all.
No, it wasn't easy. I cried on that 3 hour journey over leaving my brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles, and my loving grandma. I simply could not live, deeply embedded within the family of high dysfunction whereby the patriarch raped and sodomized his own children, the mother covered it up and no one was able or willing to help me make the madness stop.
It hurt to leave but it hurt more to be my dad's constant victim.
Leaving your family Is an option. It is a Personal choice that no one can make for you.
I made the right choice for me. There was no way that I could have ever been able to achieve a degree of sanity living within the family that secrets built.
If you are thinking about it, know that it Can be done and it is sometimes the Healthiest option.
I'm living proof.
Saturday, December 3, 2016
What a great loss...for him.
He had one of the kindest, most caring and creative individuals under his roof...and he never got the time to know me, to love all that I am
Friday, December 2, 2016
I've never liked waving hello, goodbye or even "hey there." My hands, like my feet, would rather stay close to my center.
If there was a line from the tiptop of my head straight down, that would be my centerline and I don't like to stay from it.
Even as I walk, I take measured, smaller steps. Taking a large step would just feel wrong, unnatural and I'd feel vulnerable.
It is my normal not to wave, always has been. I'll do a friendly chin thrust but that's usually as far as I'll go.
It's funny because as a mom I'd wave very little to my older Aspie son, but with my neurotypical little guy I'll routinely wave hello or goodbye because it's required for his emotional wellbeing.
I used to beat myself up for not waving but I've grown more accepting of who Aspie Amy is. I'll wave if I have to but otherwise I'm good!
Well, I had to sell off some of my gold jewelry today. It's not a bad thing. I realized the food stamps were done with one week left of food needed. I did what any decent parent would have done...slot anything to make sure my growing teen had food in the house. It felt like a rite of passage of sorts, giving up something sparkly but useless for something needed and nurturing. I did what needed to be done, plain and simple.
Now, I'm figuring out what other community resources are available in case this happens again. They are out there.
In a fair world, my son would receive child support and I'd get palimony, but Guy the Dick never could treat me as an equal. Support would mean giving up that precious control and acknowledging that all the times I was called partner, I actually was one. Can't have anything that would resemble an unequivocal equal. No, I'll always be something less in his eyes.
I'm learning how to step up and be a good mom. Pretty proud of myself today.
Having lived the DID\ MPD life for over half a century and completing 20+ years of intense psychotherapy, I can look back and see when it was the most difficult...when I was first diagnosed.
Learning of the diagnosis of Dissociative Identity Disorder or Multiple Personality Disorder in my time, sent me into a chaotic tailspin. "What could have happened to me that I was so traumatized that I fractured and fragmented? How many parts of me are there and what memories do they hold? Are parts of me dangerous, mean, vindictive or hurtful? Who am I?
First off, remember this...you have been DID most of your life. DID is a normal, extreme response to life-threatening trauma. You lived through it because of your system, all your DID parts. You Were Made for Survival!
Yes, the diagnosis is distressing and upsets the apple cart/ your entire way of thinking but it is your normal.
I remember being overly preoccupied with the number...how many people (I've always called my parts people as most have names and ages) are in my system (the entirety of me)? I figured if I had, oh, 5 or 10 then it would be easier than having 50 or 100. Wrong. The number doesn't matter one iota.
I'm guessing I had about 40? People at one point. Some had nothing buy a single horrific memory or was present at 2 traumas. Others held the memories and feelings of dozens of rapes or beatings because that was their job and they knew how to deal with that specific, weekly abuse. It was only in the past year that my therapist and I discovered two entire layers of deeply buried memory people that I didn't know existed. Just because their memories were more painful, they were kept hidden much farther away from the surface. I knew enough not to panic at these newbies. I wasn't regressing. I was healing and in healing things come to light.
Flashbacks are awfully distressing at first. Remember that you lived through them once and You Can Live Through Them Again. Understanding that a flashback generally occurs when you are able to start dealing with it, helps a tiny bit. It Does Get Easier. Flashbacks are your brains way of healing. Find tips to help you get through it. Write then down, call a therapist or crisis line, learning how to "put flashbacks on hold" until your next therapy appointment and stay as calm as you can.
When I lived alone, I could keep a notebook out so that any of my people could write when they wanted, whatever they wanted. It was an outer bulletin board, in a sense. Internally, within the structure my people lived in, I installed a large bulletin board directly before the hallway leading to outside reality. Upon this I put photos of therapist, loved ones, pets and anyone could put in a request to see therapist next visit and it would try to be honored. When there were to many things that needed discussion at therapy, I'd work to prioritize so that the most disruptive issues would get attention first.
You have internal helpers and protectors. I used to see my people with these jobs most often in dreams. I remember a couple of elderly people, babysitters and even knights and soldiers. Each system is unique but you probably have people like this.
I don't want to overwhelm you anymore than necessary. I wanted to point out some of the more valuable and hopefully helpful things that I have learned and wish I knew back then.
It's going to be okay.
Thursday, December 1, 2016
I haven't had an acupuncture treatment since I arrived here 4 months ago or so. I asked my housing helper, CC, if she would go with me to check out the Corvallis Community Acupuncture Clinic. My doctor had recommended it. Researching on the line, the Clinic was the cheapest and only affordable place in town. They didn't charge as they operated strictly on donations of whatever you could afford. I was majorly excited to see this place.
CC and I located the building. We went in and talked with the receptionist. The first thing I did was mention that I was autistic and that I was wondering if I could see the treatment room. The receptionist kinda lit up when I said "autistic", as if she had some idea of what the word meant.
She gladly walked us down the hall and showed us the treatment room. Omg, I couldn't even walk in the place...I couldn't believe my eyes...I did keep the tears in because my dreams of getting acupuncture were suddenly dashed against the rocks.
It truly was a Community clinic in that all clients were treated in one large room. There were 10 cot-like seats, beds and 8 were occupied with semi-slumbering clients in a wide variety of ages. I knew I'd never be a client in that room. I could never close my eyes in a room with ten others. The only time I'm not distressed is when I'm the only one in the room and my anxiety rises with each additional breathing body.
No, no, no, this girl would never be a victim, client in that big room. No, no, no, nope.
Maybe it's just not time for acupuncture. I mean, I've only had three meetings with New Potential Therapist. Maybe I need to focus there first.
The Acupuncture Clinic probably works really well for most, just not this Aspie.