Blare, a self-soothing technique

 A repost from an earlier time.

I am learning appropriate formatting for my book, thus finding pertinent older posts to edit and add.

Blare is the affectionate term for music turned up really, really loudly so that windows shake and floors vibrate. 

Believe it or not, there is a sound (LOL) reason for this atypical behaviour. I don't remember it exactly, but, at massage school they taught us that one of the reasons massage works when people are in pain is due to the overstimulation of the sympathetic or parasympathetic nervous system. When the right one gets overloaded, the nervous system automatically calms down. They called it the gateway effect or some such thing.

Its like if a million neurons are going in all different directions and someone stands at the top of the peak and blows a whistle really loud...everyone falls in line and simmers down.

Blare leads to calm...and i like calm..a whole lot. Its a self-soothing mechanism that actually works for this Aspie.

Its true...really...trust me...I'm a certified massage therapist...I know this.

Yeah, Blare and me...we got a thing

going on

Magpie Syndrome, the love of pretty shiny things and stealing Updated

 Magpie Syndrome – Back in 2016, someone I knew invited me to a conference for Autism that was taking place over a weekend miles and miles from my home. It would involve me riding in a car filled with mostly strangers, attending events and lectures that I did not understand, as well as spending the night away from home. I had no idea what I was getting myself into as I had little idea of what a conference entailed. I learned many interesting and surprising things about myself and my peculiar brand of Autism by stretching my comfort zone and being present at such an event.

One such anomaly was that I found myself admiring pretty, shiny things mostly other peoples’ bling (bling- expensive, ostentatious, jewelry) and baubles (baubles- small, showy trinkets or decorations) mainly jewelry such as rings, necklaces, fancy key chains and pins or brooches worn upon the chest.

When seated with others from my party, I often found my gaze seriously gravitated to necklaces and rings, to the point where I had to either consciously self-restrain myself from touching or I would ask the wearer if I could examine said pretty, shiny thing. Most people proved to be okay with allowing me to touch their goods with one woman even going so far as to remove her ring and let me play with it for a moment.

Upon my return home, I scoured the internet to see if there was a correlation for Aspergers/Autism and pretty shinys and if the obsession with all that glitters was a psychiatric or named syndrome. It took my search awhile to stumble upon “Magpie Syndrome” and even then, only on one obscure website named “Urban Dictionary” mentioned it. I wasn’t even sure Urban Dictionary was a legitimate site but I double-checked and indeed, it be real.

Here is what that website said:

Magpie Syndrome- an irrational affinity for shiny objects. When a highly shiny object is seen by the sufferer it often may induce a compulsive need to claim it and several minutes of staring at said object. This will later end in the sufferer pocketing the object to add to his/her collection by a sunny windowsill at home. If a shiny object is out of a sufferers grasp it will usually result in a strong, though usually short-lived obsession over it.

Okay, so it is somewhat tongue-in-cheek (an ironic, flippant, exaggerated, insincere or not exactly true thought or saying) and it is a website where individuals submit their own words and definitions, but it really, really fits. I find that it is irrational, an unquenchable thirst, a lust with no name, rhyme or reason,  and definitely obsessive to the point of distraction and nothing else mattes, albeit momentarily or temporarily.

A couple of days after my return home, I was picking up my new repaired cellphone and the technician assisting me had on a bright, oversized, shiny pretty necklace with a semi-familiar symbol on it. After a few minutes determining when it would be appropriate to ask, I did inquire as to the necklace’s meaning and origin. Of course, I do not touch things that are directly upon a person like that, but I was able to do the second-best thing which was to overtly stare and admire it as the wearer described it.

My Eldest Aspie son has Magpie Syndrome to a degree maybe a bit higher than my own, and I consider mine to be of a medium high degree. Back when my son was 4 or 5, my other parent and I noticed that bright, shiny, expensive small things were missing from the house…jewelry, crystals, souvenirs, things like that. My child had been pilfering many sparkly items. As his biological mom, the job fell upon me to give him a good, reprimanding talking to about removing items that were not his. I thought my talks were effective yet the behavior persisted and I continued to find purloined items in his room on cleaning day.

It became quite clear that this was an activity that was obsessive and beyond his rational control. My ways of coping were to simply start checking through his room once in a while or if I detected anything missing from its normal place. I stopped displaying certain pretty shinys and instead, kept them out of sight or hidden.

Magpie Syndrome is indeed a symptom of the Aspergers that runs in my family.

Walking in the rain

Listening and feeling the raindrops falling onto my hat and coat, the nearby variety of leaves and grass, with the absence of any vehicle or motor noises, I imagine this is what a rainforest sounds like. 

It is bea

utiful and gentle. I love it here.

The Depths of Parental Cruelty

A friend once said, everyone has a lousy childhood. I believe my childhood was different, more extreme and deviant, the epitome of how to deeply scar and destroy a child. I was a child prostitute from 2 to 13, at my parent's behest.

It started as seemingly innocuous play between my dad's friends, one-on-one, behind the closed door of my parent's bedroom while mom was away and dad and his small trio of friends played hearts and drank beer. It had been a long week and every man deserves to unwind as he sees fit. My parent's apartment was the place to be. That was between the ages of 2 till 5.

The first time I saw money change hands was at the air force base when my dad's commanding officer handed me back to him after a romp in his private quarters while everyone enjoyed the parade. I was 3 or 4 then.

The real fun, the malfeasance extraordinaire kicked up in earnest when my parents bought their first home along with a mortgage, taxes, utility bills and two, then three, more mouths to feed. 

Beginning around age 5, I started attending parties, private homes where men arrived with money in hand to pay for a piece of me, private time in the dark with a child from 5 to 8 years old. The parties happened three weekends a month, on Friday or Saturday, at one of 4 various residences. The event was rotated to avoid attention and suspicion. I'm sure the sight of young girls in places with grown men may have been alarming to onlookers or nosy neighbors.

At the parties, in addition to making a handful of money, groceries for the week,  my dad would arrange "specials". A special was a separate time, one-on-one with me, in a motel room paid for by the customer. My dad would always be near  waiting in the bathroom until the deed was done and the customer was satisfied. Physically, I was not to be harmed but that didn't stop some customers from being rough. I did not look forward to specials even though it meant more money.

Specials were scheduled on a Tuesday, Wednesday or Thursday night. Usually it was just once or twice a week. I didn't do well when there were two specials in one night, so dad stopped scheduling two back-to-back like that.

I had time periods when I became quite ill, strep throat mostly. A round of antibiotics and a week home from school, and working parties, would often cure me but not always. If I was working too much, and school was demanding, there were times I required two rounds of penicillin and two weeks off of work.

I would be conflicted those times I was sick and wrapped in covers on a feverish day spent home in bed. I was glad I didn't have to work the men but sad that my brothers and sisters would have less to eat. I was selfish and selfless at the same time, but I couldn't control it. Sometimes my scrawny, little body just couldn't take it anymore.

In the late 60's and 70's, a hand job was 10$, a blow job 15$, and well, a special was 25 to 35$.

My dad could not make enough money to feed his family or ensure the roof was over his head. My mother and he decided to sell me to make sure all the bills got paid and food was on the table.

No, my childhood was not like yours. It was unlike anything I have ever read or heard about.

Early on, I learned to separate off, splice away and hide my incest and prostitution memories from my everyday ones. It's like I have two houses inside. One filled with whores, the sexually abused, the incest ones and the other filled with the good, loving, Catholic school girl, loving daughter who loved her parents.

I am different. I am weird and queer and broke into pieces.

We all are the abuses we don't talk about, the family secrets we keep hidden. We are our scars even if we refuse to look under the bandages. We are our traumas and tragedies and their repercussions whether we acknowledge and talk about them, or not.

I write this because I can. It is a story no one wants to read or hear or believe but I was there.

My parents were monsters who sold me for sex to strangers. I'm not going to hold that secret in any longer.

I am in therapy for life but it is my life and now I own my self and every single wretched and cruel thing that was done to me.

I chose to heal.

I am different. This is my story.

Getting Social

Tomorrow is the first day that I don't have planned appointments or social outings. I actually get to sleep in and decide for my self what, if anything I decide to do. It's been two week of busy days, so tomorrow is Friday and the weekend is mine!! I can smell the freedom from here. My expectation stresses are melting away. Maybe I'll turn into a noodle with this lack of temporary rigid structure.

Learning to give my self time, hours and days, that I can call my own. Feels good and cozy and warm just thinking about it.

Looking forward to sleeprest and a languid three day timeset.

I have Aspergers. I went outside. I didn't meltdown. Reward me.

Going out today, errr no

I was going to head out this Saturday morn. I had given myself plenty of options to choose from: laundromat, library, cemetery pictures, drop off clothes to thrift store, shop at thrift store, pick up apples and bananas from store. Then, I sat here near the open window.

It sounds high peopley outside. Lots and lots of distant traffic, like a constant stream in two opposing directions.

Change of plans.

The new idea is to find as many things to enjoy within my home, and choose which I'd like to do.

It makes me nervous just hearing how busy it is out there. Yes, I am in an especially high high sensitivity mode and easily overwhelmed, and I know it.

Staying in for my health.