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

Monday, March 27, 2017

Dawn is barely cracking

as the sky sheds it's darkness for a lighter hue. The portal of words has sprung wide open filling the anteroom. Pictures once on the wall, pages of memory maps, the layout of the childhood stomping grounds have fluttered off the wall and parade around my if I could have forgotten the way of the walk to school and back. The names of the streets, colors and shapes of the houses; postage stamp yards; length of each section of sidewalk piece.
Sleep is the first innate gift to go, forever, when the body, the mind, the soul, is shattered with the rapist living in the bedroom next to you. For sleep is trust; trust that the body is safe and will remain unharmed in unconscious bliss of faraway dreams. Vigilance is ears on stilts searching, waiting, constant scanning for the sound, dare it draw near and high alert, blaring alarms signal the coming of the assault, the inaudible screams and the searing pain.
It burns as if a lighted match were thrust inside and cooling, silent tears quench, become the focus, trying to forget, make foggy.
Triggers are the sounds of zippers, the sliding of the elastic, the lifting of the flimsy cotton veil that protects nothing but a small sense of self.
There is nothing but the want of emptiness. A singular room, a bed to oneself, the breathing of but one, skin untouched, a nightgown that isn't removed, no fear of footsteps and a peace reserved for those unmolested.
The refreshing delight of sleep undisturbed was a gift meant for others not me.

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