To the disillusioned, the world-weary, the beaten and the worn. To the aware, perceptive, intuitive, and empathetic. To the watchers of a world ablaze, and to those pulling others out of the fires at grave personal risk. To the wise and the wary. To those who guide, lead, and build...
Your work is Sisyphean, and yet you toil over it day after day. You don't truly see change, no matter your greatest efforts. So why do you do this? It is not truly about change or improvement. It is about balance. You are at the forefront of keeping the balance. Without you, the world would surely crumble. Everything hangs on by a thread, all thanks to you and others like you. You are dutiful, compassionate, truly life-saving. What do you get in return? A broken body, an exhausted mind, depression and anxiety, pain and tears. In this world, selfishness, disregard for others, narcissism, ruthlessness, a lack of conscience and morality, a cold heart... These are the qualities that provide worldly rewards.
You take the road less travelled, off the beaten path. You spend much of your life in solitude, even when surrounded by others. You are unique and rare in this world. There is an eternal blaze, and no matter your efforts you will never put it out, so you instead try to keep it from spreading. It is there, it is very real, and you've seen it consume all too many. Your acts are not for praise or reward, not for some ulterior motive... You do this not because you were asked and commanded. You do this because every fibre of your being says it is right, because your heart wrenches every time you see another person get burned. You realise that the 'self' is just a piece of the whole. You are like a cell of a body, or - more aptly - an atom. You make up such an infinitesimal piece of the universe. And yet, if each of you did not do what you do, disaster could occur. Even the Law of Conservation of Mass agrees that you are required for the Universe to be.
Others may hurt you, not appreciate you, look down on you... but do not let this deter you. They do not see the truth, the necessity of your existence. You do not take this path just for the sake of taking the path. You do not have some sense of self-righteousness or entitlement. You do what you do because it is who you are. Others may try to change you - do not let them. Do not change to suit others, but rather to improve upon who you already are. Seek enlightenment, improvement, and transcendence. Do not become disheartened when you fall, or when you make a mistake. Take the time you need, get up, and keep being true to yourself.
Friday, August 22, 2014
Wednesday, August 13, 2014
Innocence Lost... in Translation
Aspies (a fun and casual term for those with Asperger's) often find their words and intentions get lost in translation. We're blunt, we're honest, and we don't really pick up on other's intents and meanings, as well, either. But there is a fairly important difference between the misunderstandings of one with Asperger's and those of others who don't...
Imagine someone who is illiterate looking at a page full of words: "What are all these weird squiggly lines?" It wouldn't mean much to them would it. This is what body language, things like vocal intonation, many abstract concepts (like sarcasm), and other social cues are like. We don't pick up on these things as well as others, but we can still learn - we just need time and lots and lots of practice (not to mention a desire to put forth such effort.) So, if you see someone on the autism spectrum not understanding your feelings and intentions, try to consider your body language and vocal intonation, amongst other subtle cues, which come naturally to you, as that text on the page in front of the illiterate. They can't read it, but you can help teach them.
Now, how about the misunderstandings of those without autism? Okay, now imagine someone took an equivalent, or nearly equivalent, alphabet to write in English. A person who isn't familiar with both alphabets could get very confused. Let me give you an example: Кан ю рид дис? If you can't read that, you probably don't know Cyrillic, and unless you speak languages like Russian, Bulgarian, or Mongolian, you probably wouldn't be familiar with it. Trying to read an Aspie is like trying to read the same exact language... in a different, yet more or less equivalent, text. Just like an Aspie being able to learn the body language and social cues of non-Aspies, the inverse can be true, as well - non-Aspies can just as well learn the inner-workings and behaviors of Aspies.
The interesting thing about this is that Aspies are different, and yet very much the same. It's pretty much all a matter of perception - Aspies tend to perceive the world around them a bit, or a lot, differently from most other people, but it's all the same world. People with autism are really just humans like anyone else, with emotions, struggles, aspirations and goals, and who want to be loved and accepted. No matter how much we seem like it sometimes, we're not aliens. When a non-verbal autistic (typically regarded by most as 'retarded' and 'not worth trying to make understand') write, whether on a computer or text-to-voice program, or some other means of giving them a voice, people are realising, "Wow, they're really just like us!" Just because someone has different mannerisms, body language, perceptions, and has difficulty or is unable to speak, it does not mean they're stupid, idiots, retarded, or essentially vegetables of people who are burdens to society (this is truly what many, if not most, people believe, including medical professionals.)
If a foreigner came to your country, and didn't know your language, would you ridicule them and call them stupid for not understanding what you're saying? If you say yes, then you're one of the many ignorant individuals who probably thinks the above misinformation about Auties (like 'Aspies,' but for all autistics) is true.
Now, I'm going to say some generalisations that are true more often than not, but like all generalisations, certainly has its exceptions. People with autism:
Imagine someone who is illiterate looking at a page full of words: "What are all these weird squiggly lines?" It wouldn't mean much to them would it. This is what body language, things like vocal intonation, many abstract concepts (like sarcasm), and other social cues are like. We don't pick up on these things as well as others, but we can still learn - we just need time and lots and lots of practice (not to mention a desire to put forth such effort.) So, if you see someone on the autism spectrum not understanding your feelings and intentions, try to consider your body language and vocal intonation, amongst other subtle cues, which come naturally to you, as that text on the page in front of the illiterate. They can't read it, but you can help teach them.
Now, how about the misunderstandings of those without autism? Okay, now imagine someone took an equivalent, or nearly equivalent, alphabet to write in English. A person who isn't familiar with both alphabets could get very confused. Let me give you an example: Кан ю рид дис? If you can't read that, you probably don't know Cyrillic, and unless you speak languages like Russian, Bulgarian, or Mongolian, you probably wouldn't be familiar with it. Trying to read an Aspie is like trying to read the same exact language... in a different, yet more or less equivalent, text. Just like an Aspie being able to learn the body language and social cues of non-Aspies, the inverse can be true, as well - non-Aspies can just as well learn the inner-workings and behaviors of Aspies.
The interesting thing about this is that Aspies are different, and yet very much the same. It's pretty much all a matter of perception - Aspies tend to perceive the world around them a bit, or a lot, differently from most other people, but it's all the same world. People with autism are really just humans like anyone else, with emotions, struggles, aspirations and goals, and who want to be loved and accepted. No matter how much we seem like it sometimes, we're not aliens. When a non-verbal autistic (typically regarded by most as 'retarded' and 'not worth trying to make understand') write, whether on a computer or text-to-voice program, or some other means of giving them a voice, people are realising, "Wow, they're really just like us!" Just because someone has different mannerisms, body language, perceptions, and has difficulty or is unable to speak, it does not mean they're stupid, idiots, retarded, or essentially vegetables of people who are burdens to society (this is truly what many, if not most, people believe, including medical professionals.)
If a foreigner came to your country, and didn't know your language, would you ridicule them and call them stupid for not understanding what you're saying? If you say yes, then you're one of the many ignorant individuals who probably thinks the above misinformation about Auties (like 'Aspies,' but for all autistics) is true.
Now, I'm going to say some generalisations that are true more often than not, but like all generalisations, certainly has its exceptions. People with autism:
- Are usually literal and take things at face value
- Don't like to bother with lying because it's more work than just telling the truth
- Are typically honest to a fault (consider if you really want to know the answer to what you ask!)
- Often just want to be accepted and loved, and will often try to do their best to receive such
- Are loyal to a fault (many with autism get taken advantage of for this)
- Are usually willing to try to learn new things if it's important to them that they do (like social skills)
- Just want others to be patient and understanding
- Usually need some degree of their own space, but can also be very clingy (try to go with the motions, providing them with the space and tranquillity they need, while also being there for them when they need)
- Usually have a thousand times as much going on in their head than they could ever verbalise
- Have co-morbid conditions like hypersensitivities (proneness to sensory overload, sensitivities to all five senses, and prone to hypersensitive immune systems, such as proneness to allergies), mood disorders, anxieties, ADHD, OCD (either tendencies or the full condition), psychotic disorders, neurological disorders, somatic illnesses, genetic conditions -- BUT KEEP IN MIND, THESE THINGS, THEMSELVES, ARE NOT THE AUTISM!
- So on top of just seeing the world differently, not being able to naturally pick up on social cues (instead having to learn the behaviors intellectually, or utilise mimicking), having difficulty with abstract social constructs like subtext, ulterior motives, spite, and dishonesty, people with autism typically also have to deal with a wide array of psychological and physical ailments that simply coincide with their autism, but which make things all the harder
Sunday, June 1, 2014
O, Ambivalence
The bitter-sweetness of depression and love... Feeling two things that oppose one another simultaneously... Listening to sad songs that are beautiful... It's hard to stand with one foot in one world and the other foot in another. Contradictions are both natural and unnatural, their very nature contradictory, and yet there is some strange sense of purpose and meaning behind them oft enough. Paradoxes, mirrors, asynchrony, ambivalence. Logically speaking, they shouldn't both be able to exist, and yet somehow they do. There can be as much tangible nature to both things, things which oppose the other's very existence. Yin and yang... Darkness allows light as much as light allows darkness, and yet each opposes the existence of the other. Night and day, light and dark, love and hate, war and peace.
My sadness allows my happiness to exist, and my happiness is payment for my sadness. I could forever dwell on the unfairness of my depressions, or I can see my depressions as the price I pay to experience happiness. Everything good costs at least something bad, and everything bad can reward with something good.
My sadness allows my happiness to exist, and my happiness is payment for my sadness. I could forever dwell on the unfairness of my depressions, or I can see my depressions as the price I pay to experience happiness. Everything good costs at least something bad, and everything bad can reward with something good.
Friday, April 25, 2014
Always When Things Get Good
Warning: Rated MA (LV, for crude language and violence)
Bipolar... One son of a bitch of an illness. Or more like a smart ass illness. It always makes certain to keep me reeled in by reminding me over and over about the mania highs, the wealth of empathy and compassion it provides me, the unique perspectives I have because of it... Do I have Stockholm Syndrome? Yeah, it feels like my bipolar has held me hostage for all this time, and to survive, I fell in love with it. Stockholm Syndrome. It holds a gun to my head and I beg it not to leave.
Right as that perfect moment comes up where things are feeling like they're all good, it pops up. Depression. Often, it creeps up slowly, building itself up more and more, but sometimes it's stealthy and it hits before you have time to react. By the time you realise what's happening, it's already too late. Over and over, the word, "Fuck!" rings in my head, as though a resonating voice in a very long, echoing tunnel. I'm a very reactive person. Every time something happens, I react, and the better or worse the thing is, the more strongly I react. I suppose it's normal when phrased so simply, but the nature of the reaction is more complex than that.
Mixed states. Often considered the worst of the worst moods for bipolar, they can wreak all kinds of havoc and are typically even more unstable in nature than mania. Most bipolar suicides occur during such states, as they both have the mania for the energy (mostly negative energy, though), and the depression to push the suicidality. Most often, when people are suicidal but don't actually attempt to commit suicide, it's because they don't have the energy to do it, not because they consciously decided to resist. People are given euthanasia in some countries for less than this sort of thing, and the suicidal simply take the burden of giving euthanasia to themselves, rather than having someone else do it. I have had suicidal ideation, we're old pals, but I've never truly been suicidal. Suicidal ideation simply means dwelling on the subject, not necessarily wishing to do it. I've always been able to find at least one good reason to stay alive, and that's more than some people. Many other people are so hopeless that they can't even come up with one. Keep them alive and let them suffer, or let them die and be buried in peace... An ages old dilemma.
When I get into a dysphoric mania like this, I have this... built up energy like shaking up a champagne bottle corked and full of champagne. Sometimes, the cork just can't hold, and it pops. I also get racing thoughts that are constantly morphing and changing like the winds around a fighter jet going at Mach 3. It's turbulent and the smallest deviation from its heading can cause significant changes in the aerodynamics. One tiny mistake can send that fighter jet rocketing into the ground and exploding into a million pieces; at least it'd be a grand display. I feel creative and yet blocked, inspired yet depressed, restless yet lethargic... Sometimes, I just feel like ripping my own arms off and beating myself with them, not that I even know how I could possibly do that; how would one beat themselves with their own arms when they have no arms to hold the arms? Sometimes, I feel like twisting my neck so far that it just snaps and bye-bye world. Sometimes, I feel like peeling the entirety of my skin off, exposing all the muscle and bone beneath it. Sometimes, I feel like running as fast as I can into a cinder block wall, ramming my head as hard as I can into it, and then just living with the result.
When I put names to my problems, I become way too fricken aware - hyper-vigilant - of all the little things that make up that issue. It consumes me, and it can sometimes feel like my only purpose in life is to monitor my illnesses and creating stats. "I have no other purpose; I just tally the problems!" Good things feel toxic to me. Sometimes, it seems like I'm deathly allergic to good things, so I avoid them whenever I can. Bad things, however, seem to be the antidote and vaccine, but I have to get it regularly to keep the good at bay. Wouldn't want that pesky goodness to kill me, after all. Chaos is me and I am chaos. I want to get high by getting off the drugs. I want to let my mind run wild and crank out all that it can until it overheats and explodes through my ears and eye sockets, a moment later annihilating my skull into a powder cloud of bone fragments, nothing but a poor, ripped up torso and legs to commemorate me. I want to walk into that Starry Night and to walk on moonbeams. I want the world to become a painting and become a beautiful stroke of red across the canvas in blue.
"Do you want to be an exceptional mind and be dead?" said the psychiatrist on Black Box. She's saying that someone on a self-destructive warpath to annihilate themselves may be exceptional and unique, but they also end up very dead very early. I find the answer to that question a little difficult to find. Sometimes, I think I'd rather drown in the sea of my disease than let it become a barren desert. I've often thought, for years and years, that drowning would be my ideal death... It would be peaceful and quiet at the end with a wonderful view (I would want to drown facing belly up somewhere that isn't so dark nothing can be seen, perhaps like the open ocean on a starry night.) Yes, there would be an instinctive struggle in the beginning, but then the calm approaches and you're slowly lulled to sleep.
Things have gotten good in my life. Can you tell?
Bipolar... One son of a bitch of an illness. Or more like a smart ass illness. It always makes certain to keep me reeled in by reminding me over and over about the mania highs, the wealth of empathy and compassion it provides me, the unique perspectives I have because of it... Do I have Stockholm Syndrome? Yeah, it feels like my bipolar has held me hostage for all this time, and to survive, I fell in love with it. Stockholm Syndrome. It holds a gun to my head and I beg it not to leave.
Right as that perfect moment comes up where things are feeling like they're all good, it pops up. Depression. Often, it creeps up slowly, building itself up more and more, but sometimes it's stealthy and it hits before you have time to react. By the time you realise what's happening, it's already too late. Over and over, the word, "Fuck!" rings in my head, as though a resonating voice in a very long, echoing tunnel. I'm a very reactive person. Every time something happens, I react, and the better or worse the thing is, the more strongly I react. I suppose it's normal when phrased so simply, but the nature of the reaction is more complex than that.
Mixed states. Often considered the worst of the worst moods for bipolar, they can wreak all kinds of havoc and are typically even more unstable in nature than mania. Most bipolar suicides occur during such states, as they both have the mania for the energy (mostly negative energy, though), and the depression to push the suicidality. Most often, when people are suicidal but don't actually attempt to commit suicide, it's because they don't have the energy to do it, not because they consciously decided to resist. People are given euthanasia in some countries for less than this sort of thing, and the suicidal simply take the burden of giving euthanasia to themselves, rather than having someone else do it. I have had suicidal ideation, we're old pals, but I've never truly been suicidal. Suicidal ideation simply means dwelling on the subject, not necessarily wishing to do it. I've always been able to find at least one good reason to stay alive, and that's more than some people. Many other people are so hopeless that they can't even come up with one. Keep them alive and let them suffer, or let them die and be buried in peace... An ages old dilemma.
When I get into a dysphoric mania like this, I have this... built up energy like shaking up a champagne bottle corked and full of champagne. Sometimes, the cork just can't hold, and it pops. I also get racing thoughts that are constantly morphing and changing like the winds around a fighter jet going at Mach 3. It's turbulent and the smallest deviation from its heading can cause significant changes in the aerodynamics. One tiny mistake can send that fighter jet rocketing into the ground and exploding into a million pieces; at least it'd be a grand display. I feel creative and yet blocked, inspired yet depressed, restless yet lethargic... Sometimes, I just feel like ripping my own arms off and beating myself with them, not that I even know how I could possibly do that; how would one beat themselves with their own arms when they have no arms to hold the arms? Sometimes, I feel like twisting my neck so far that it just snaps and bye-bye world. Sometimes, I feel like peeling the entirety of my skin off, exposing all the muscle and bone beneath it. Sometimes, I feel like running as fast as I can into a cinder block wall, ramming my head as hard as I can into it, and then just living with the result.
When I put names to my problems, I become way too fricken aware - hyper-vigilant - of all the little things that make up that issue. It consumes me, and it can sometimes feel like my only purpose in life is to monitor my illnesses and creating stats. "I have no other purpose; I just tally the problems!" Good things feel toxic to me. Sometimes, it seems like I'm deathly allergic to good things, so I avoid them whenever I can. Bad things, however, seem to be the antidote and vaccine, but I have to get it regularly to keep the good at bay. Wouldn't want that pesky goodness to kill me, after all. Chaos is me and I am chaos. I want to get high by getting off the drugs. I want to let my mind run wild and crank out all that it can until it overheats and explodes through my ears and eye sockets, a moment later annihilating my skull into a powder cloud of bone fragments, nothing but a poor, ripped up torso and legs to commemorate me. I want to walk into that Starry Night and to walk on moonbeams. I want the world to become a painting and become a beautiful stroke of red across the canvas in blue.
"Do you want to be an exceptional mind and be dead?" said the psychiatrist on Black Box. She's saying that someone on a self-destructive warpath to annihilate themselves may be exceptional and unique, but they also end up very dead very early. I find the answer to that question a little difficult to find. Sometimes, I think I'd rather drown in the sea of my disease than let it become a barren desert. I've often thought, for years and years, that drowning would be my ideal death... It would be peaceful and quiet at the end with a wonderful view (I would want to drown facing belly up somewhere that isn't so dark nothing can be seen, perhaps like the open ocean on a starry night.) Yes, there would be an instinctive struggle in the beginning, but then the calm approaches and you're slowly lulled to sleep.
Things have gotten good in my life. Can you tell?
Monday, April 21, 2014
Asperger's? Empathy?
My grandma was actually the first to say she thought I had Asperger's. I
pretty much immediately said that I didn't, though I admitted that I
shared some similarities. Well, about a year later, I started to think
more and more about those similarities that may not be just similarities. On the show, Parenthood,
a kid named Max has Asperger's, and many sources say that the portrayal
is exceptionally accurate. I could relate tremendously to Max, and yet I
know that my own experiences and how I've handled things in life are
quite a bit different. However, Max seems to be on the somewhat more
severe side of the Asperger's spectrum, which may yet still be on the
mild side of the autism spectrum. Max is the key reason why I thought I
had similarities, yet did not have Asperger's.
Later on in the series, the character Hank - a successful photographer who has fumbled all his relationships with people his entire life - reads a book about Asperger's to try to get to understand Max; however, in reading that book, Hank instead learns a lot about himself: that he probably has Asperger's. Hank is rather laid back, seems quite normal in most respects, and yet has a lot of difficulty in social circumstances. You wouldn't look at him and just think right off the bat, "Yep, he's autistic." Perhaps you'd think he's artistic, being a great photographer and all, but not autistic. He proceeds to see Max's therapist who specialises in Asperger's to try to understand himself further and why he keeps screwing up his relationships with everyone he knows.
It is Ray Romano's portrayal of Hank that made me start to realise that I may, in fact, have Asperger's. My nurse practitioner, who is for all intents and purposes my psychiatrist, has long said that she sees many qualities in me that you would find on the autism spectrum. When I told her that I was finally starting to think that I may actually have Asperger's, all she really said was, "Yep." Seems she knew all along, but never came right out and said it. Maybe she knew that I was gradually getting closer and closer to that realisation, and just let it come to fruition naturally. I can't say how many times I've listed this quality or that which "is like Asperger's," without giving having Asperger's the credit that's due. I haven't done any official tests - just those online ones to give me a ballpark estimate - but my NP sure seems to think I have it. She also thinks I'm schizoaffective, which is on the schizophrenia spectrum, and the Asperger's and schizophrenia spectra both overlap genetically and symptomatically. Seems all my problems are linked from just a couple genes.
Besides probably having Asperger's, I'm also a wildly uncontrolled empath. Being super empathetic has both its benefits and downfalls, as you can understand other's feelings, yet by taking on at least a portion of that same emotional toll, for better or worse. I've also heard that those on the autism spectrum have a whole lot of empathy, but don't especially have the social skills to be there for the person they are empathetic towards. Often, seeing that their actions often just cause distress, they instead distance themselves from the situation whenever they see someone in pain of one sort or another. I've found that those with Asperger's frequently have immense, unimaginable difficulty and frustration trying to understand others... something I found so ironic about the apparent abundance of empathy.
One of the quotes from the character, Max, is: "I try do understand them, but I can't... Asperger's is supposed to make me smart... but if I'm smart, why... Why don't I get why they're laughing at me?" A clip of that exact scene can be found here: www.hulu.com/watch/611376 Well, empathy is supposedly what makes a person able to, "step into someone else's shoes," so to speak. I ask myself, then, why is it that I have all this empathy, all this understanding of the trials and tribulations of another, yet don't understand people? I can sense and feel the emotions of others, yet I don't even know how to take a compliment, let alone properly engage in any sort of social interaction. I suppose I certainly do have my good times, and I tend to communicate quite well in writing, but the simple face-to-faces, I struggle with. I become more and more shut in and distanced from people who are or were physically in my life because I unwittingly, as well as unwillingly, push them away.
I don't understand people, nor what they expect or even will accept from me. I don't understand social constructs, rituals, and the like. I struggle with the very... abstract and fickle nature of etiquette, politeness, sociology, and society itself. A number of times that seems uncountable, I've been asked some pretty basic questions about myself, as well as what I think of others in one way or another. For years and years, I've really struggled with the answers. For instance, being asked, "How do you feel today?" I often joke or say something veiled by sarcasm, trying to evade the question. To be honest, I can't put many things about how I feel or how I think others view into words. When I do sound more serious, it's usually from memorisation of what I should say, because I can't come up with an answer on the spot. Most of my limited social skills are from trying to mimic others. I rather subconsciously observe others and how they act in various situations and try to emulate that to appear normal. However, because I do use mere mimicry, I often find myself employing what I've seen others do in the wrong circumstances or times.
I know that a lot of this seems pretty standard human behavior and confusion. To be honest, I'm extremely afraid to say that I am, or have, something that I'm actually not. I feel like taking such titles without properly earning them brings shame upon myself for some sort of offence against those who have earned it. It probably sounds silly, but it's true. I have found that some people find my long list of issues and labels is absurd and somehow reflects badly upon my character. But the way that I view labels is very literal: they are a method employed to more easily realise what you're dealing with without having to know each individual quality or characteristic as an individual. You can group things together and know them as a body, a whole of some sort. Labels are organisational and intended to make understanding things easier because they aren't so scattered. It's always harder to find what you're looking for when there is nothing but chaos. I can put all those little pieces of my issues into boxes, and then label each box so that I know what I'm looking at and where to find it.
Asperger's... That feels like a big title to take on. Am I deserving? Is it not my place to say I have Asperger's? Some things have just... begun to sink in, I suppose. Of course, there's a whole lot I need to figure out for and about myself. Asperger's just may be one more thing to add to the list.
Later on in the series, the character Hank - a successful photographer who has fumbled all his relationships with people his entire life - reads a book about Asperger's to try to get to understand Max; however, in reading that book, Hank instead learns a lot about himself: that he probably has Asperger's. Hank is rather laid back, seems quite normal in most respects, and yet has a lot of difficulty in social circumstances. You wouldn't look at him and just think right off the bat, "Yep, he's autistic." Perhaps you'd think he's artistic, being a great photographer and all, but not autistic. He proceeds to see Max's therapist who specialises in Asperger's to try to understand himself further and why he keeps screwing up his relationships with everyone he knows.
It is Ray Romano's portrayal of Hank that made me start to realise that I may, in fact, have Asperger's. My nurse practitioner, who is for all intents and purposes my psychiatrist, has long said that she sees many qualities in me that you would find on the autism spectrum. When I told her that I was finally starting to think that I may actually have Asperger's, all she really said was, "Yep." Seems she knew all along, but never came right out and said it. Maybe she knew that I was gradually getting closer and closer to that realisation, and just let it come to fruition naturally. I can't say how many times I've listed this quality or that which "is like Asperger's," without giving having Asperger's the credit that's due. I haven't done any official tests - just those online ones to give me a ballpark estimate - but my NP sure seems to think I have it. She also thinks I'm schizoaffective, which is on the schizophrenia spectrum, and the Asperger's and schizophrenia spectra both overlap genetically and symptomatically. Seems all my problems are linked from just a couple genes.
Besides probably having Asperger's, I'm also a wildly uncontrolled empath. Being super empathetic has both its benefits and downfalls, as you can understand other's feelings, yet by taking on at least a portion of that same emotional toll, for better or worse. I've also heard that those on the autism spectrum have a whole lot of empathy, but don't especially have the social skills to be there for the person they are empathetic towards. Often, seeing that their actions often just cause distress, they instead distance themselves from the situation whenever they see someone in pain of one sort or another. I've found that those with Asperger's frequently have immense, unimaginable difficulty and frustration trying to understand others... something I found so ironic about the apparent abundance of empathy.
One of the quotes from the character, Max, is: "I try do understand them, but I can't... Asperger's is supposed to make me smart... but if I'm smart, why... Why don't I get why they're laughing at me?" A clip of that exact scene can be found here: www.hulu.com/watch/611376 Well, empathy is supposedly what makes a person able to, "step into someone else's shoes," so to speak. I ask myself, then, why is it that I have all this empathy, all this understanding of the trials and tribulations of another, yet don't understand people? I can sense and feel the emotions of others, yet I don't even know how to take a compliment, let alone properly engage in any sort of social interaction. I suppose I certainly do have my good times, and I tend to communicate quite well in writing, but the simple face-to-faces, I struggle with. I become more and more shut in and distanced from people who are or were physically in my life because I unwittingly, as well as unwillingly, push them away.
I don't understand people, nor what they expect or even will accept from me. I don't understand social constructs, rituals, and the like. I struggle with the very... abstract and fickle nature of etiquette, politeness, sociology, and society itself. A number of times that seems uncountable, I've been asked some pretty basic questions about myself, as well as what I think of others in one way or another. For years and years, I've really struggled with the answers. For instance, being asked, "How do you feel today?" I often joke or say something veiled by sarcasm, trying to evade the question. To be honest, I can't put many things about how I feel or how I think others view into words. When I do sound more serious, it's usually from memorisation of what I should say, because I can't come up with an answer on the spot. Most of my limited social skills are from trying to mimic others. I rather subconsciously observe others and how they act in various situations and try to emulate that to appear normal. However, because I do use mere mimicry, I often find myself employing what I've seen others do in the wrong circumstances or times.
I know that a lot of this seems pretty standard human behavior and confusion. To be honest, I'm extremely afraid to say that I am, or have, something that I'm actually not. I feel like taking such titles without properly earning them brings shame upon myself for some sort of offence against those who have earned it. It probably sounds silly, but it's true. I have found that some people find my long list of issues and labels is absurd and somehow reflects badly upon my character. But the way that I view labels is very literal: they are a method employed to more easily realise what you're dealing with without having to know each individual quality or characteristic as an individual. You can group things together and know them as a body, a whole of some sort. Labels are organisational and intended to make understanding things easier because they aren't so scattered. It's always harder to find what you're looking for when there is nothing but chaos. I can put all those little pieces of my issues into boxes, and then label each box so that I know what I'm looking at and where to find it.
Asperger's... That feels like a big title to take on. Am I deserving? Is it not my place to say I have Asperger's? Some things have just... begun to sink in, I suppose. Of course, there's a whole lot I need to figure out for and about myself. Asperger's just may be one more thing to add to the list.
Wednesday, February 19, 2014
The Ticking Clock
I lie down, close my eyes, and lay my arm across the bridge of my nose
to block any light that would peer through my eyelids. As my wrist
dangles beside my ear, I hear the ticking of my watch - tick, tick,
tick. I can hear the passage of time. One tick after the other, and they
don’t stop. Even if I smashed the watch, the ticks wouldn’t stop. Even
if I destroyed every clock in the world, the ticking wouldn’t stop. So,
instead, I try to relax, let the beta blocker settle in, and listen
carefully to the ticking in hopes it might lull me to sleep, instead of
sending me into a panic.
Tick, tick, tick. Even when I take the watch away from my ear, I can hear the ticking in my head. The ticking reminds me that time moves ever forward against our will. I can almost feel my bones cracking, my cells dying, my skin wrinkling, my vision fading, my hearing withering, all with age. I peer into my inevitable future should I stay this course, and it’s a lonely, decrepit existence. Should I even make it to old age, should I even have children, I must’ve had some miracles handed down to me from above, perhaps out of pity. Likely, my mind would rot away with my body, and I’d probably die before I turned eighty. This is, of course, the luckier of the possible outcomes. Luckier, or just extended.
As the world around me cracks and crumbles with me, becoming overgrown with nature reclaiming its land, I fade into sleep. Sometimes, I wonder, “Will this be my last? Will I wake again?” I often don’t have too many qualms no matter the answer. Either I do wake up again, and I get one more hand to gamble with, or I don’t and I resign from this circuitous, laborious game. For a long time, a great and impeding malaise has hung over me and ensnared me, making most everything a great task to defeat. I’ve been tired for about as long, and am surprised already at how long I’ve lasted. But it’s not my bones or my body that’s cracking; it’s my mind and my soul. It’s not so easy to repair and sustain one’s mind and soul.
“Depression is the inability to construct a future,” said the psychologist, Rollo May. For much of my life, I have and will have no future. I will have good days and I will have bad days. I may be manic, or I may be depressed. But whether I even have a future, I will inevitably fall asleep, letting fate decide if I am to wake.
Tick, tick, tick. Even when I take the watch away from my ear, I can hear the ticking in my head. The ticking reminds me that time moves ever forward against our will. I can almost feel my bones cracking, my cells dying, my skin wrinkling, my vision fading, my hearing withering, all with age. I peer into my inevitable future should I stay this course, and it’s a lonely, decrepit existence. Should I even make it to old age, should I even have children, I must’ve had some miracles handed down to me from above, perhaps out of pity. Likely, my mind would rot away with my body, and I’d probably die before I turned eighty. This is, of course, the luckier of the possible outcomes. Luckier, or just extended.
As the world around me cracks and crumbles with me, becoming overgrown with nature reclaiming its land, I fade into sleep. Sometimes, I wonder, “Will this be my last? Will I wake again?” I often don’t have too many qualms no matter the answer. Either I do wake up again, and I get one more hand to gamble with, or I don’t and I resign from this circuitous, laborious game. For a long time, a great and impeding malaise has hung over me and ensnared me, making most everything a great task to defeat. I’ve been tired for about as long, and am surprised already at how long I’ve lasted. But it’s not my bones or my body that’s cracking; it’s my mind and my soul. It’s not so easy to repair and sustain one’s mind and soul.
“Depression is the inability to construct a future,” said the psychologist, Rollo May. For much of my life, I have and will have no future. I will have good days and I will have bad days. I may be manic, or I may be depressed. But whether I even have a future, I will inevitably fall asleep, letting fate decide if I am to wake.
Reflections in the Waters of Reality (January 15th, 2014)
For years, I've wanted to be totally insane... wanted to
have to depend on others just to survive. I've wanted to be broken,
busted, and overall useless to the world. My perceptions of reality
often shift and switch like the sands of a desert, or the waters of a
sea. The surface was never the same, but what was deeper often was, even
though I couldn't easily see it. Usually, the only times that I came
face-to-face with what was below, I was choking or drowning on sand or
brackish waters - sometimes both at the same time. I realise now... just
how often I use metaphors involving drowning, and I'm beginning to
connect that to the few times that I nearly drowned in my childhood,
keeping me from learning how to swim until I turned 9. I only learned
how to swim because of my bipolar mania egging me on, taking away all my
inhibitions. I'm beginning to realise just how relevant all these small
events are in my life.
And water really is a great descriptor for me. Sometimes, life becomes very... very silent and calm... like when the water has filled your lungs and your consciousness begins to fade, your body sinking slowly into darker and darker waters. The water is cold, and yet you don't feel cold... You feel... feel... happy. Everything slows down, becomes so peaceful... But, if you're lucky, you're pulled out of that delusion, things suddenly go black and then white as the water you choked down comes pouring out of your lungs. You're no longer under the surface, drowning, but coming back to the world with air back in your lungs. You feel pain... such... sharp pain, much unlike the soothing calm of drowning slowly. Unreality is a terribly... soothing - horrifyingly so - thing. Reality is always sharp and cold like millions of tiny razorblades cutting deeply across your insides. Waking alive, or fading toward death - reality and unreality.
I like to fade into oblivion... “Illusions allow us to feel good instead of bad,” I believe I’m paraphrasing Freud a bit. But the problem with illusions is that they aren’t real. Or are they? It gets too fucking hard to tell, sometimes. What’s one person’s reality is rarely another’s, and connections are often forged over the few times that two people’s realities overlap. But instead of flat, transparent sheets, which can be laid one over the other, my realities are warped and contorted in ways that don’t often allow others to see eye-to-eye with me, or vice-versa, and yet I can often contort it just enough that it does suitably overlap, even if it shouldn’t. Do I forge false realities to create false similarities? Share experiences that never actually happened?
I occasionally and periodically have these tears from reality like jumping headfirst into that pool. The waters break and burst as I fall in and rip through that thin, yet powerful, barrier - the skin. If I hit too hard, I smack it like cement, but if I dive or gently fall in, I glide right through and into the other realm. I may not quite get psychotic where I’m hearing voices and seeing things that aren’t really there - not anymore - but reality does change and become difficult to grasp. It becomes like water and pours through my fingers, not meant for holding it. My dreams start to fade into reality, and reality into dreams, until I can’t so easily distinguish. And when I wake? Soaked, like I came out of a pool... It’s like I came back out of that lullaby-like drowning state and returned to the realm of the living. But I’m soaked in the dream and can’t get it out of me... It blurs with my daily perceptions. It blurs with what I think to be reality.
Really, in the end, the most I want to do with my life is have someone to love and who loves me back... My love would be unconditional - I know it for a fact. I’d live my life dedicated to that person, have a family if possible, and love the children unconditionally, as well. I’m just a sucker for love, in the end. I feel like I would do just about anything to find it, and there are nights that I just stay up longing for it...
I don’t have anyone like that... No one to show my affection to, to move on in my life with... No one to fight for: both my own personal battles, and our shared battles. I have no one to live for, to dream for, to hope for, to fight for... I have no muse to keep me waking up each day, and bring meaning to my life. I have an empty shell just waiting to become filled and invigorated. Nah, vigor is something I utterly lack. I’m just a step or two from dead inside, with those seeds begging for water and good soil to dig roots into. If I could find that water and soil - my life and foundation - then my seeds could take root and grow into vast, lively trees or ferns or bushes... a plant that blossoms, basks in the glory of the sun, and loves life, as well as helps create it. I’m a romantic without any romance... a lover without love. I’m becoming so terribly, embarrassingly desperate for human connections that I sometimes actually think about slicing my arms wide open, just because I’d want to feel the love of a worried family member... or anyone who would offer it. I think time and time again about getting the razor - not to end my life, but just to elicit something from others and from my own heart. It would be like a defibrillator, shocking my heart back into existence, but with cold steel and scarlet tendrils.
Empty, lost, alone... These words I’d use to describe myself. But what words would I want to describe myself with? Loving, joyful, warm, compassionate, endearing, soulful... Oh, how I can dream.
And water really is a great descriptor for me. Sometimes, life becomes very... very silent and calm... like when the water has filled your lungs and your consciousness begins to fade, your body sinking slowly into darker and darker waters. The water is cold, and yet you don't feel cold... You feel... feel... happy. Everything slows down, becomes so peaceful... But, if you're lucky, you're pulled out of that delusion, things suddenly go black and then white as the water you choked down comes pouring out of your lungs. You're no longer under the surface, drowning, but coming back to the world with air back in your lungs. You feel pain... such... sharp pain, much unlike the soothing calm of drowning slowly. Unreality is a terribly... soothing - horrifyingly so - thing. Reality is always sharp and cold like millions of tiny razorblades cutting deeply across your insides. Waking alive, or fading toward death - reality and unreality.
I like to fade into oblivion... “Illusions allow us to feel good instead of bad,” I believe I’m paraphrasing Freud a bit. But the problem with illusions is that they aren’t real. Or are they? It gets too fucking hard to tell, sometimes. What’s one person’s reality is rarely another’s, and connections are often forged over the few times that two people’s realities overlap. But instead of flat, transparent sheets, which can be laid one over the other, my realities are warped and contorted in ways that don’t often allow others to see eye-to-eye with me, or vice-versa, and yet I can often contort it just enough that it does suitably overlap, even if it shouldn’t. Do I forge false realities to create false similarities? Share experiences that never actually happened?
I occasionally and periodically have these tears from reality like jumping headfirst into that pool. The waters break and burst as I fall in and rip through that thin, yet powerful, barrier - the skin. If I hit too hard, I smack it like cement, but if I dive or gently fall in, I glide right through and into the other realm. I may not quite get psychotic where I’m hearing voices and seeing things that aren’t really there - not anymore - but reality does change and become difficult to grasp. It becomes like water and pours through my fingers, not meant for holding it. My dreams start to fade into reality, and reality into dreams, until I can’t so easily distinguish. And when I wake? Soaked, like I came out of a pool... It’s like I came back out of that lullaby-like drowning state and returned to the realm of the living. But I’m soaked in the dream and can’t get it out of me... It blurs with my daily perceptions. It blurs with what I think to be reality.
Really, in the end, the most I want to do with my life is have someone to love and who loves me back... My love would be unconditional - I know it for a fact. I’d live my life dedicated to that person, have a family if possible, and love the children unconditionally, as well. I’m just a sucker for love, in the end. I feel like I would do just about anything to find it, and there are nights that I just stay up longing for it...
I don’t have anyone like that... No one to show my affection to, to move on in my life with... No one to fight for: both my own personal battles, and our shared battles. I have no one to live for, to dream for, to hope for, to fight for... I have no muse to keep me waking up each day, and bring meaning to my life. I have an empty shell just waiting to become filled and invigorated. Nah, vigor is something I utterly lack. I’m just a step or two from dead inside, with those seeds begging for water and good soil to dig roots into. If I could find that water and soil - my life and foundation - then my seeds could take root and grow into vast, lively trees or ferns or bushes... a plant that blossoms, basks in the glory of the sun, and loves life, as well as helps create it. I’m a romantic without any romance... a lover without love. I’m becoming so terribly, embarrassingly desperate for human connections that I sometimes actually think about slicing my arms wide open, just because I’d want to feel the love of a worried family member... or anyone who would offer it. I think time and time again about getting the razor - not to end my life, but just to elicit something from others and from my own heart. It would be like a defibrillator, shocking my heart back into existence, but with cold steel and scarlet tendrils.
Empty, lost, alone... These words I’d use to describe myself. But what words would I want to describe myself with? Loving, joyful, warm, compassionate, endearing, soulful... Oh, how I can dream.
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