Having Aspergers and Being a Survivor of Childhood Abuse

My therapist asked me if being autistic made it easier to go public regarding my childhood abuse. My immediate answer was "No", quite the opposite. I think it makes it twice as hard to talk about as the average Aspie (person with Aspergers, Autism) recoils from revealing any personal information. However, in further thinking about it, maybe there are some characteristics about Aspergers that assist me in talking publicly.
Autistics can be brutally honest. Lying is near impossible. Many autistics have a very high moral compass and a deep seated desire to help others.

Some of the times where I question whether I should write and publish about my abuse, I think, "what if this painful revelation helps even 1 person?" Then I publish it. It is, by no means, easy to write and share, but I have found healing in going public, helping both myself and others.
My blog as become like a lifeline to me. The only way that I can reach out, reveal, share and hopefully help others and get feedback.
The average person speaks 16,000 words a day. Aspies vary on that scale. I would venture to guess I speak under 1,000. Most days I only speak with my Partner and two children. Maybe that's why I mention Therapist so much...she's the only other person I verbally interact with on a weekly basis.
I often think that being autistic made me easy prey for my father, till I remember seeing other non-autistic children molested. One of my autistic challenges is trying to find words to explain what happened as my verbal processing centers are slower than neurotypicals. But I'm managing. I'm finding ways to communicate easier with my therapist, as she works to understand my...varied, unique methods of communicating.
An Aspie does what is Right, and what is Morally Correct. Maybe my autism does propel my outspokenness about my sexual and physical abuse.

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Aloneness and Loneliness

More thoughts on being raped as a teenager

*HIGH TRIGGER WARNING.....GRAPHIC and DISTURBING
So much changed for me...that day. Forced sodomy is the most degrading and humiliating thing I have ever experienced. My father wanted to feel powerful and for me to feel helpless and powerless. It worked.
 I became the family laughing stock. It's like everybody knew and no one cared. I was the family joke. I was humiliated and embarrassed beyond belief. It felt like I had been publicly sodomized.
I've often felt like a cat with nine lives...and that day I lost one of them. I became puny and completely insignificant.
 I grabbed onto my pain......it was all I could cling to. The pain became my only friend....the only thing I could connect to....the only thing not actively mocking me. I disconnected.
 It made matters worse, to be raped while listening to my mother and siblings laughing and talking so close, so nearby. How could a mere ceiling wall...be such a barrier between two diverse worlds? How could my father be sodomizing me, violently, within earshot of the family? My father was embolden, brazen...he took torturing me to a whole new level. It felt very public, very shameful....like he was punishing me in a public square.
 I wore no chains, but I more certainly became imprisoned that day.
 I remember looking at the front door, eight feet away from me in the family living room...and I could not leave. I knew that I could never leave. My chains were invisible, but oh, they surely were there.
I feel that I could have stood there, openly sobbing in the living room, amongst family...and my fate would not have changed.
 I lost all hope....and kept all the feelings locked away, inside, till it was safe...till I found someone who wouldn't mock me, or find me invisible.
I still feel tormented. Yea, I know, I just verbalized it today. I think that was the hardest and longest I've cried in an hour....and I'm still wounded.
 Sometimes I think therapy is nothing but a bandaid on a gushing wound..but it definitely helped staunch the flow.
 I will never be who I was before that day. Every life has moments, events, days that forever change us....this is one of mine.
 My remembrances get ....more intimate, intense and painful....but I must be much stronger then I was when I started down healing road.
 These memory feelings...are somewhat horrendous. Somehow, someway, I'll manage to make peace with them. Till then I shall lay very low and stay out of incoming traffic. I won't make excuses or let anyone give me grief for not being more active, social or put-together. I know how heavy the clouds...I know I shall be standing in this rain....for quite sometime. I give myself....permission to heal..which means...I have to feel. I don't think I could shutter these feelings away if I wanted to. They are quite strong.
 I can see how my everyday life has been effected, even with just this one memory. It's huge in scope and depth. I'll write about it when able. I'll continue to talk about it in therapy as needed. It's a big one. It forever changed my life, how I feel about myself...and how I perceive that others look at me.
 Hmmm, memories used to be these short snippets that once spoken, disappeared. Now, these newer memories are heavy, emotionally laden, intense and extensive.
Never thought I'd be at such a place....where, with help, I could somewhat calmly, examine each memory, each facet and garnish knowledge and wisdom.
I reclaim myself, one piece at a time.
 Truly, I cannot fathom a job more unpleasant, treacherous and painful. To heal, I have to reexperience events that overwhelmed me in the first place. Healing is not for the meek or weak. Only a warrior....I am a mighty brave warrior.

Raped at 13 by my father...TRIGGER WARNING HIGH

*HIGHLY GRAPHIC and DISTURBING*
Today was "Therapy Monday". I swear, half the time I have no idea what we will end up talking about. I was positively clueless as to the revelations that manifested today.
 The past few days I had been in a horribly depressed, morbid mood....and I really had no idea why. My eyes kept leaking. I was restless, over tired and had to force myself just to get up and function. I knew I had a recent flashback about being 13 and raped by my dad, but I couldn't realize this flashbacks wide ranging implications and effects on me.
  When a multiple (person with MPD/ DID) splits (the main persona splinters off forming a new personality/ part) something overwhelmingly traumatic has to be happening, physically, emotionally or both. Whilst my dad had been molesting and raping me since at least 3, when I became older, in my early teens, he became a violent rapist. When I was 13, such a mentally catastrophic event occurred. Fair warning....graphic, disturbing content.
  I remember my dad coming down to my basement room. He took my right arm, twisted it behind my back and kinda threw, forced me, face first, up against the freshly painted cement wall. He pinned me there, brutally. Then he quickly, viciously raped me. I don't know which pain was worse, the od, heavy twist that felt like my shoulder would break or the furious, brutal force of his dick.
 I was in shock. He hadn't been vicious or brutal before. This whole gabbing me, arm behind back, pinning me with his forearm snugly, suffocatingly against the cold, moist basement wall...the lack of preparation before he raped me...was all too much for me to handle. It must have only lasted 5-10 minutes but it was damaging.
 After he left, I sat on the bed, not so much numb, hell no, not numb, just dumbfounded and shocked. I actually felt incredible pain as if every cell in my body was screaming, crying. I felt such intense pain as if trapped in a swirling vortex of fiery, hot. I heard my father, upstairs, joking and talking with family members. I remember feeling very different...like my world had just ended. I don't know how long I sat there, dumbfounded, unable to process what had just taken place. My legs were weak and shaky. Every step required great, concerted effort as I walked gingerly up the stairs.
 I walked through the kitchen toward the living room. To say there was a crowd in the living room, is no exaggeration, as there must have been nine-ten people in there. Both parents and assorted siblings sitting about. I walked through the entrance and just stood there, observing. My dad looked at me, laughed and made some derogatory "funny" remark. My mom, siblings looked at me...or rather right through me. One of my sisters caught my eye...she knew something had happened.
 I had many realizations in this moment, this experience. The tide had turned with my dads sexual molestations. He now would employ surprise and violence. He could get away with raping me, in broad daylight, in my own room, with the entire family right above on the next floor. He showed no remorse but rather chuckling bravado for his new thrill. He mocked me, humiliated me, in front of the whole family and it was acceptable. No one came to my aide. No one asked me what was wrong. No, I became invisible, a nobody, degragated, a thing, and dad could get away with it.
 I became morbidly depressed. Who wouldn't, in my situation? I realized that what happened that day, in my family home, was identical to how I would be treated outside the home. No one would care. No one would offer to help. I truly became nothing, just a rapists victim. I quit life, that day. There was no hope of me ever escaping, I had no where to go. No one to tell. No one to shield me.
I was trapped in the family home, oft my own room, with my sadistic, rapist father. He could, and did, attack me, night or day, now...with no warning and without regards to whoever was home.
My life was over and I wanted to die.
 That was my life at thirteen.
That's when I started smoking, drinking whenever I could, and cutting. Go figure.
These emotions, the depression and pain, had remained dormant all these years...until today.


I'm still processing.

Why I smoke...

1) because when I was 13 years old, everything else in my life was completely out of my control.
2) smoking gave me a reason to hide, find a space all my own
3) since I had no control over my life, maybe I could have control over my death
4) I could fit in with the misfit, school skippers
5) it was a wall that insulated me from what I was feeling
6) my only friend, that was always there for me
7) something to run to, that never rejected me
8) something to hold onto when I was scared
9) my friend that never would leave me, that I wouldn't have to explain anything to
10) smoke always listened and didn't judge
11) I wasn't alone anymore
12) when people hurt me, smoke comforted
13) I wanted to die but was too squimish to do it blatantly
14) I felt worthless, ostracized, smoking pushed me out of acceptability, made it okay to be socially stigmatized.
15) smoking pushed people away without words
16) felt like the only thing I really ever controlled in my life
17) just wished it had killed me sooner, quicker
18) it hid the hopelessness..god, I felt so completely hopeless
19) I was hoping it would eventually hurt me, just like people
20) I didn't care the damage it did
21) I figured I deserved a slow and painful death
22) I liked the way it hurt me
23) felt so lost and alone without it, stranded, adrift
24) emotionally tied to things, not people, my emotional connection
25) don't know who I am without it, without something to hold, look forward to, it's like the world stops
26) I don't ever regret starting...it was my lifeline, my only true friend
27) it hid the sadness, pain, hopelessness
28) kept me in a fog and more removed from reality
29) I've never been fond of reality...always trying to find a way out
30) it hid the rejection, knocking on doors, when no one would answer
31) if I smell bad, people stay away.
32) when I get nervous or uncomfortable, it's something to run to, always open arms
33) when I was beaten, it soothed
34) don't know what I'd do without my only friend
35) don't know what I'd feel, if I took away the smokescreen
36) I've ostracized and pushed everyone away already, what then, how can, I live with just myself
37) blocks the hurt, I like that
38) helps me not feel so much. When I quit, I feel so much.
39) what then? With no one, no thing to run to for comfort?
40) don't want to be so alone, again...I reallyreally don't...guess I'd rather die a slow, painful death
I'm not worth it
41) how can I walk through this world so scared, scarred and alone?
42) I'm grateful I smoked...it got me through many tough, dark times
43) don't hate it...don't hate me for doing it
44) it's hard to quit when there is nothing else to hold on to....when the friendship has been so beneficial, comforting, a survival help
45) I always get morbidly depressed when I quit....Now I can easily see why...I don't want to leave the only friend who has been with me through all the terrible experiences. The only one who knows, we share the past...always been together....something to unfailingly count on.
How can I let that go? There can never be any replacement. Without it, I would be totally, completely, utterly alone.


Ask me again, why I smoke....why it's so hard to quit...I dare you

Having Aspergers is like....

Being a perpetual high schooler. Feeling out of place. Walking from classroom to classroom, confusion and uncertainty in each room. Dreading the chaos of the bell, when suddenly everything, everyone springs into motion, chatting, breaking off in to pairs, small groups, hanging behind, avoiding the sensory overload crush.
  Just an invisible body, making movement, not to standout, become a target of laughter, ridicule. Never knowing what to say. If I raise my hand will my lips form the right words? With what certainty is my answer? Dare not to be wrong, spotlighted, mocked. High school, where one wrong answer can reverberate off locker filled walks, never dying, always lying in wait to hit you again.
 Praying for one person to smile, to notice you, to see you. A friend. Searching, wondering if there is one person who will want to talk, to sit with....someone who you don't repulse. Someone who cares enough to tap on the thickened wall and isn't scared off by the hollow, faraway sound.
 The  mythical friend, the search for that which materializes only briefly, gets too close to the flame and evaporates away, never to return. The quest begun in high school continues into adulthood, always unfulfilled cept for short, sonic bursts.
 Adolescence revolves around finding acceptance and who you are. It's like riding the bus, anticipating the arrival at your destination. Yet, the bus ride never stops. There is never a terminal of acceptance and okayness. No one misses you on the long journey. No one knows you have even left.
The dream of a friend blows with each candle snuffed, every year.
 One learns not to hope. One learns to delve fully into objects of obsession that can be controlled, bought and sold...not in people. Too risky. The rise and fall. When someone walks in the door, I stand there, ready to close it before they do. Because one slam in the face was enough to know that I have little tolerance for intimate pain.
 I'm a fan of "The Breakfast Club", "Sixteen Candles", Dawson's Creek, any show that accurately, dramatically portrays the teenage angst I experience with ease. The first film that moved me was "Ordinary People." Timothy Hutton struggling with the grief of loss, the coldness of a parent, the lostness and desire to fit in and be accepted.  Searching for a friend, someone to hear the haunting secrets and feelings.
 High School never ends, for this Aspie.

Change in routine, Boggled

My LittleGuy went back to school today, after being home for two and a half weeks. I had to work to remember what the "getting ready for school" routine was, this morning. Now, I'm stymied, clueless as to what to do with this sudden change in routine. Days like this, whereby I basically accomplish nothing and am completely lost in thought, it's usually best to go back to bed instead of standing around undecided.
 I'm getting quite befuddled. Hmmm, therapy continues to be this touch-n-go thing. One minute I'm looking forward to it, the next it's like no way, never again. Then with LittleGuy therapy, not sure what questions are appropriate to ask or what comments I should or should not make. I'm confused so I'll have partner take him next week. Floundering.
  It's like the wind suddenly died and my boat is silenced in the water. Directionless. Waiting for a breeze. Disconnected and unsure of which way to go.
  Suddenly, the lines demarcating right and wrong, share and too much info, appropriate and not cool, are all askew. Everything has shifted and I'm clueless as to which way to go. I'm questioning myself on every little thing. And not really finding any answers that fit.