Rainman Rainman

I am definitely in the throes of Rainman days.

So grateful for this movie.

I'm so f*ckin weirdy!!!

Nope, just Aspie as hella

Observations from the Puddle, the Saga of the Most Alone Multiple Autistic continues to no fanfare or likes

 Observations from the Puddle called August 17, 2023

It's Wet

The journey continues. The outside unbreathable, smoke and smog filled air assisted in keeping me indoors the past two moons, however, I needed to force venture Out to get some food. I've noticed, over the years, that if I don't grab my anxiety by the collar and drag it out in the open and shake the Hell out of it, "air it", acknowledge it, what have you, then it grows like a decaying roadkill carcass until it explodes and becomes completely unmanageable and hella messy. Thus, I clutched my anxiety, put it on a strong leash and hauled it and myself, kicking and screaming to not one but two public stores.

If it looks like Rainman

and it doesn't talk like Rainman

Is she really Rainman? 

Kindof, yeah. I walk funny these days, all stiff and non-swinging arms and upright and like ready to run or fight. My watery tears, crying situation, wherein I start crying sogging, opulent tears, continue to happen without warning and multiple times within each day. Today, I noticed whenever anyone was near me in the aisle or speaking to me, like the cashiers and clerks as are required, then I would be fighting to hold back them tears. Not fun, but whatev.

I heaved myself out because I fear this current shaky, fragile, nervous state I currently wear may very well be my near-normal and I must get used to it instead of "waiting for it to abate". It's been a couple of weeks and it hasn't abated yet. The eggshellic condition has improved a bit in that the tears seem slightly less in volume and occurrence. In a weirdy sense, I have a bit more control over the uncontrollable watery falls.

I've realized that I need to write out, figure out the "baseline" for our food needs. Like, what do I absolutely have to have, bare minimum, to sustain myself each day, week, and month.

My volumous public post for help was met by assistance from five kind souls. Therefore, the paying of of the debt card will continue for the forseable future and my disability check needs to be further stretched to success. 

I have short term and long term additional finance ideas. Whether they work or not largely depends on how much ass I can kick out of this lingering, heavy, couch-worthy, depression and malaise. It's a lot of work to be me.

And, yeah, I get it, if I dropped off the face of the earth tomorrow, two people would notice. I get it that I am alone with my own resources and no one to assist. I get it, there are no friends nearby or to talk to and ask questions or advice from. I am well aware of my little cage I call home. And it is the exact place that I have found myself in through most of my life. Therefore, I have come to the conclusion that this is where I am supposed to be.

This Is Where I Am Supposed To Be

because I keep ending up here. Because my current aloneness seems to be the most consistent, stable thing in my life. The pattern repeats For A Reason.

Do I like it? F*ck no.

Do I recognize it after time and time and time and time...ad nauseum?

Yep

So, the Observations from the Puddle, I lovingly (blech) call home is that It Is Indeed Wet but it is Indeed My Home.

peace out bitches

Incredibly Strange and Totally True

To say I've been in a melancholy state of mind the past week would put an obviously optimistic slant on my current state of affairs.

Yesterday, in the depths of my daily dark despair, I went into my kitchen and promptly soundly struck my left shin against an open dishwasher door.

Normally, I would have screamed or emitted an unpleasant and painful sound however, upon this unexpected event, I looked at my shin and thought to myself, "Oh, look, I've ran my leg into the dishwasher door," in a matter-of-fact fashion.

Incredibly strange. A most novel reaction.

It was a sort of relief, pseudo a smack across the head which actually cleared my head and mind and brought me back to reality.

It hurt physically but in the mildest of ways. I felt more gratitude and clarity than any thing else. Maybe that's why I awoke, for the first time in days, weeks and words filled my cranium longing to be free and written.

In my depressed emotional state, the sharp pain was more of a help than a hindrance.

Honest. True.

no one loves me

I Do Welcome Your Comments and Feedback

 Unfortunately, the amount of spammers and criminals requires me to filter each comment. So, when you write one, it is emailed to me first and then I will "approve" it, basically, say it is not one of the spammers, and then it will publish under the post. 

I deplore having to censor or give authorization to anyone's thoughts but my own. Living in a digital age where people choose to invade and corrupt an other's privacy is sad but necessary. I apologize.

I Loved Book Reports, the Halcyon Days of Youth

 I remember the halcyon days of fourth grade and book reports. Information required, the Book Report Format was an Aspergian Dream. 

Title

Author

Characters

Story

Plot Summary

This was grand, succinct, to the point, all-inclusive, no questions or explanations required.

I handed in Book Reports every week, oft more than two or three a week because books were one of the accepted public forms of escape from cruelty, neglect, starvation, parentally inflicted, family-accepted pain.

It would be nice to say that as a child I was loved, but that was not the case. I was not loved, nor was I cared for. Of those two I am crystal clear. Umm, I was wanted because my parents needed someone, some thing to push upon all of their decades of pain and torment. Yes, that is the magic sentence. Okay.

I was not seen or acknowledged. I was, basically, used. A receptacle, an object, the oldest daughter, second oldest with all the perverse job activities required thereof.

I was a thing, an object, a babysitter, a place where dad could..., my mothers relief pitcher and stand-in. I didn't have feelings to be asked about, considered or heard. Inanimate. Hmm, yes, I was not allowed to have any thoughts or feelings or emotions regarding the crimes done to me. I said little. I was little, enslaved. Showed no emotion and managed to somehow live through it enough to escape the family house of carnage and ill repute at 18 and runoff with an older male counterpart.

Life doesn't make sense like book reports.

There is no standard form; there are hundreds and thousands. Each person, each situation is different and unique. I have but one pen. I know but one form. Most of my time is spent lost, if I am honest.

But I do exist. So, when able, I will write.

I don't have to have a point, an angle, a cute and corrupt way of writing that entertains...I just have Aspie me.

I write to know I am

because I am and I matter

to me

Report from the perverse fringe of Nothingness, Help Is Not On The Way

 And the Aspergian, upon stumbling out of the muted dankness, finds her treasured lockbox of words, open and spewing and spilling forth, tumbling like unpolished gems of all colors, shapes, sizes and sounds..

Does she makes sense? 

Probably not

I'm not interested in politics as much as I am keen on not starving. To that end, I entered a plea, a slightly demoralizing plea for assistance on the platform of the public social media. 

I wanted to be able to eat. I wished to be able to pay my rent.

But, alas, the valiant effort, one of the few noble overt gestures this being has ever uttered aloud, was met with muted silence amongst the 50 or so odd "friends and family".

Sigh.

I had not gotten my hopes up yet, I was disappointed. I thought that if I needed help to sustain myself, that, maybe there was a being or beings who might want to help me. 

Sad but life.

Being alone is grand if your greatest desire is to be able to walk around naked and sputter insanity aloud but, those are not my desires.

I could tell the air outside was bad the moment I peered out the glass. Yellowish, fog tinted, and hanging heavy in the atmosphere told me to check the latest forecast before venturing out. The leaves droop, listlessly blowing in slight breeze. You can practically hear their angst and dismay as they slowly suffocate, but just a little, not enough to cause choking death and the morbid spiral from limb to ground.

Sure enough, unbeknownst to me, forecasters and half of the applications on the comphone device, the air quality has fallen to above danger levels but below deep, easy breathing markers. It appears a combination of nearby Oregon fires, as this Is fire season (a valid, noteworthy and dangerous season of the year within the state), mingled with high temperatures, a stagnant, stubborn wind, and the handfuls of smog have produced a less than ideal mix and tint to the surrounding air.

It is advised to stay indoors and limit outdoor activity.

I procured a delicious lunch. The blessing of food stamps allowed me my final incursion to the grocstore for vittles yesterday. I selected the finest of broccoli, as it has been days or weeks since my last green veg crunch, along with celery and canned salmon for salmon cakes to be made, in addition to a pound of hamburger for four scrumptious patties that had not been formed, cooked and et in this kitchen in a month, and two bananas and two apples, for I have always felt deliciously rich and wealthy when I can devour Both an apple and a banana within the same day. Ahhh, indeed, I Am Rich for two days and starvation is yet again kept at  bay with whip, chair and an ounce of hope.

Now, now, I sit and write as the once locked verbiage flows and runs fast and deep. It's almost as if all the thoughts I was unable to spew forth verbally the past seven or so days, simply were displaced within a back room for me to find once the key was obtained to open the lock.

I was deeply awash in the depths of emotional wells. The Dark Night of the Soul seemed to be the preferred wording for the putrid pain inflicted, felt, relived and cast off and out.

When one relies completely within and withon oneself for all that one needs, requires, hopes and can live with, one must be exemplary, and oh so extremely capable. This Autistic....this extremely alone, living on a small disability income from the blessed state, without resources or any being to turn to...this Autistic struggles. Sometimes the struggles are so heavy, I am weighted down unable to get up off the floor or venture out the door or out from under the potential heft of daily functions that prohibit my rising from bed, couch or ground.

Asking for help has proven to be an exercise in futility and, to be honest, highly depressing. Tis be much easier to imagine help is available if needed than to test the theory and find out it is false, nonexistent. And that is where I am at.

I have fallen and I have to figure out a way to pick myself up knowing it is just and only and singularly Me.

The aloneness, remote. The depth, beyond measure. 

Yeah, when you discover the truth about the help...devastating.

Truth be told. Now you know. Move on and deal.