I am not beloved amongst the immediate family of my beloved. It is a painful thing, but as I have faced my mortality and know my time is yet again possibly more finite I have become an ear for the lost. I’ve given of myself at he cost of my health, mental and physical. This is a small sacrifice in my mind as I may die any day and the pain and joys I’ve suffered if transmitted correctly could lead people to a better path. Most find my intellect and honesty to be an insult, when it is the truest gift I can give. The youths in my beloved’s family have sought me out because of the same reason my truest friends have (though they may be finite), for my honesty. I don’t pull punches, but I listen without judgement, because I’ve been to dark places in life, and I’ve pulled a broken yet functioning version of myself from the depths. I council two brothers. Tonight I showed a spiritually confused, morally ambiguous, and still naive young man that I am a force. I learned to fight as a defense mechanism. I also learned psychology and philosophy to serve the same. I have many weapons in my house yet am a pacifist at heart. My spouse joked (not unduly) that there is scarcely a room in my home that there isn’t a weapon. He asked to come over and since his brother and I are close I accepted this as is fair. I showed him every weapon. By themselves they are just tools created for violence, then I stood him up and showed him with control and speed what life had taught me, and I had expanded on with my intellect. He became silent, which for him is not a common thing. He said if I wanted I could be one of the world greatest assasins. At this I laughed. He was blown away at my skill, but didn’t grasp that they were never honed for the purpose of violence. I was abused, bullied, and mentally broken down as a youth. These weren’t the tools of a killer, they were the skills of a survivor. I wasn’t diagnosed with autism until my thirties, a series of cruel and violent events gave me DID. I have all the makings of a Batman villain, mental instability, intelligence, a skill for combat, a facial scar, and even a mask. Despite all this, I would do everything in my power not to do harm. Yet I put out the requisite amount of fear and sheer skill to show him that he was not ready for his path toward darkness, I showed him a true fighter’s spirit. He’s a headstrong and boastful youth, and man who almost died before the age of fourty would be able to end him with the effort of a child at play. Better yet I asserted that the path of a killer lacks honor and was beneath me, hopefully his false hopes of displacing his rage on others as a method of masking his pain were dispelled. If not then I would gladly remove his tools and render him unable. Hopefully he sees that the strongest of us would only harm another to protect ourselves and them from a life of folly. Misplaced hatred created me, and I refuse to let a loved one become a victimizer. Better to live a philosopher than a warrior, for those that have had to do both, temperance of mind is the greatest asset. I hope it was transmitted with the
Stop talking and do…
People have told me how to monetize my blog, increase it’s readership, get my word out there. I do not care for these things. People as a whole don’t realize that all the positivity in the world will be eliminated by the fact that the normal human mind only tries to express itself. We only want “our” words to be the truth. To be recognized, to be validated, but how can we know if that is what the world needs? We are blind to reality. Your words mean nothing in the scheme of things. Neither do mine. All the men and women that have spoken for peace over the centuries have only had their messages diluted and corrupted by the singular opinions of individuals that see the infinite from their own perspective. Your opinion is a star. Someone may see it’s light, but that light will die and fade, it may have already. As we explore the universe we still don’t know what the darkness that encompasses the majority of the known universe is. All we know is that it is infinitely more than us. There is more than us. No expensive NASA photoshop can deny that what we truly know is finite, or perhaps nothing at all. Knowing this we should love and respect all things, for who truly knows what there is that is real. We do not matter, what we do matters, that reverberation extends. That extension should be positive and life affirming. Not just our lives, but all lives are effected. An opinion is centralized and myopic, an act done if in the cause of all things is what will shape that little piece of light that we have. Even if it fades and succumbs to the darkness, maybe the positivity of a light that burns for the right reasons will strengthen other lights. Maybe it will illuminate darkness…creating a lack of either. Why create a wall when you can make a bridge. Only knowledge will better us, belief and hope are fleeting ideas that we abandon daily. Don’t dream, don’t hope, don’t pray, do…as if it’s the last thing you are able to give. Because it is. Your light will die, darkness will take its place. It doesn’t have to be insignificant. It can brighten a distant star. It can create light in dark to guide others. Don’t do it to gain a thing, as it may not gain anything. Do it because it is the right thing for those that can influence things to try. You can mean nothing or everything depending on your actions and your intentions. As long as your drive isn’t yourself it is worth the attempt. If you fail, it is ok. If you succeed, then your selflessness may drive another light, and perhaps another. It’s never been about “you” or “me”. It’s about a stronger and more self aware “us”. If we survive the darkness it will be those that have given without need for thanks. Who needs accolades when our lights have faded? The lights matter. The truth matters. Doing matters.
Being Dissociative…
I have Dissociative Identity Disorder. It’s controverstal, too annoying that the rare media you can compare it to that the modern person understands is Split and Bates Motel, although, since Norman only hears his mother he doesn’t qualify, plus halucinitory events aren’t a common part of the disorder. I’m still dealing with a current alter that has spoken to my wife, but not myself or my therapist. You always question new alters…what part of me that isn’t even expresssed is coming out. You hope for the better, but there’s always a chance. Yet you always question. What do I have inside? What demons like in my mind, but haven’t revealed themselves. We are don’t need to believe in us for us to exist. Like a mirror shattered into pieces. Still the same image, just fragmentary.
A talk with friends and loved ones…
I have fully realized that this urge to write is mine alone. Wether it be polarizing or controversial is an irrelevancy. I writte my own narrative, be it accepted..published.. or summarily ignored is of no pertinence. I looked for advice not because I questioned my story or skill, but if the community felt like it would be polarizing. It’s my story based in my life and wether it be fictional of factual is irrelevant. It’s my story, told through the lens of a fictional narrative. Either look forward to it or don’t, at least we will be seen. A thing that is a rarity. Time will tell…
That moment of clarity…
I asked the few that skim my blog if I should write a novel that terrifies me, but would encompass my struggles in life. Maybe it would be polarizing but I disctintly asked for “COMMENTS” not simply likes. I was specific in this. The book everyone said I should be writing, a baring of my soul. The verdict was a resounding no, or worse a resounding “I skipped the “comments only” part to seem interested. This is my life. I pour words into the void and they are either given no weight and float on the wind, or are wasted by a lack of care and attention. Yet they are genuine and I attempt to make them pleasing to the literary mind. In this I’ve obviously failed. This year has been much like the past few. I pour my heart out to the world and I am either ignored for the richnesss of the content, or denied what I seek due to apathy. Humanity is a difficult term for me because I’d rather be alien to the population and show care than be normal and divide my time and attentions between the important and the trivial. I put myself out there for people. While YouTubers beg for millions of follows or like just to make another shallow video, this decision could have been decided by one person. Just one person who read and responded with humanity. Wether to bring this to the people because it was relevant, or to avoid it to not scare the general population, neither came. That is a moment of clarity. I knew the outcome before I wrote it, but I look for humanity in people. I fail…and I try again. I hope beyond reason that someone will extend a listening ear. This is why I stopped this blog years ago. That horrible apathy…where an opinion is reduced to a like or dislike. Thumbs up or down. This is a closed society we live in, minds and hearts. You don’t need to expect a reward in return for extending a hand. Even unaknowleged it should be enough. Thank you for clarity. Truth already buried under a thin layer of hope. Back to shallow posts and poetry…if that.
Dare I write it? That novel…
As any person with a mental health issue knows media helps shape the stigmas that we confront daily. I’ve always been encouraged to write a book. I see that my way with words can shape opinions, sway people minds to the benefit of myself and others, and how it can be viewed as a brutal and blunt weapon of honesty that vilifies me to both family and friend alike. In that I see how ignorance of a subject creates fear of it. Yet the story I want to tell will be a horror story. Why horror, because it grounded me. It put me on a level that everyone can feel and express. Fear is a universal constant in living beings. The fiercest of predators can be felled by fear. It’s something that made me feel connected to humanity. Yet the tale I’d tell is a double-edged sword. It could color yet another person against mental illness, it could also bring a sense of connectedness to those of us who suffer under the stygma of the “normal” person, a person some may see as lesser, as their ability to bend reality to their own worldview is sickening. There are no heroes in this idea of a novel. There is only humanity and it’s relation to mental health in a stark and unnerving contrast that will lead both sides to an internal conflict. Extremes on either side will heap praise or vilify it. The center ground may have eyes opened to the potential that the villain of a story is based on perspective, is it those who suffer the illnesses, or those who generalize them. I want your opinion dear followers. I will write each chapter and publish it here, free of charge. Only the opinion of those who’ve sought to listen to my words can sway me. Likes are insufficient. Comment. Weigh in. Make your opinion into words to feed me onward lest I starve. If I write this it is yours and mine. I have enough creative outlets to satisfy myself, but this novel would be a baring of the soul and a shared contract. The potential can polarize every reader, and it is only with your continued support that I’d continue this endeavor. Either I write it or stay silent. Either it spreads like a virus and infects all who read it, or it goes dormant and dies. All my life people have encouraged me to do something so bold, but it will take a piece of my soul with it. You all have the chance to force me onward or to dissuade me. Maybe it’s only a few choice comments, maybe it’s a majority rule, but you get to judge wether you think me worthy to start. The story is there, it is not pleasant, but maybe in this world where personal feeling and group-think are in such opposition that I NEED YOU to judge the outcome. I’ve never felt worthy. Read my past writings, I have. I see typos, I relive my past suffering, I see every reason to write this and to abandon it and am not so egotistical as to think the audience doesnt matter. This novel will pain me, but life does this without my will. If you want me to go down this road, to use my words to express the pain that both the normal and the abnormal feel then send a like and a comment. (Only true comments will be considered, be they positive or negative.) Likes are appreciated but are not input toward a difficult choice. It’s in your hands dear readers…few as you may be in comparison to those who others have gained, every voice is one that I give my greatest respect. That you choose to hear me at all is an honor. It’s the reason that a trained artist such as myself does not seek to decorate this page. Only the words matter. You matter. Wether it be yea or neigh, I am a living being who has suffered disgrace, injustice, and very nearly death. A being who humbly prostrates himself to the readers. Without you my words are fury and emotion yelled into a wind that drowns it to the faintest of whispers, lost on the winds. You will be my deciding factor. Only comments will be considered, likes are appreciated, but will not factor if not followed by succinct comment for or against. I will either way remain a sparse blogger among billions, still advocating, still spouting poetic, but I will abandon the novel. If you want my soul in words then speak, if not then speak. I place myself in the hands of the people wether they be in right mind or not. This is what we all suffer when faced with mental disorders. Judgement by those who hold weight. I am ephemeral, weightless until given weight. Advocate as I might, it is only the opinion of the many that amplify my voice. Until I receive a decision on the validity of this I will make no separate pleas. If it comes to a point where I feel support for my novel is wanted then it is yours, pass it, trash it, do with it what you may. Know that what you do will be a piece of myself given freely to the loving and the hateful. I leave this issue in the hands of those who have no true need to guide me either way. Just know that if it is chosen that I write this that you are my ambassadors. I’m not self promoting in the least. I hide from the world, My trust is fleeting. When you choose to hold my words in your hearts and mind, you hold a piece of me that cannot be returned. I will gladly sacrifice it for you, but only if you deem it worthy. Take your time. Or ignore this as it is. My decision will come in the form of a first chapter or more posts of the same. Either way you’ve a piece of me, and you decide where it is distributed. All love either way.
The little things you don’t expect…
It’s very easy to get mired in your own self doubt. People have repeatedly touted my intellect and skills, yet due to my disorders and my own hatred of myself I’ve never quite reached the level of impact I feel a person should if blessed with certain gifts. I was a failure. Friends and family have always rested on a very narrow ledge of trust. For all the people who could not confront me to my face because they knew I’d not need raise a hand in violence to decimate them, to those who feign care while judging me in silence, my trust is select and not without near constant review. I hate being disabled. Not working when I have so many skills to contribute feels not only insulting but saddening. Perfection I am certainly not. Yet I deny the idea of it because even those without mental disorders prove themselves as flawed. If you’re not a subscriber, I almost died in October. A deep vein thrombosis and a saddle pulmonary embolism. For once it wasn’t my brain that sent me to the emergency room, it was another flaw in my genetics. On a scan, a reality to even the mental health ignorant, 24 hours from dying before age 40. Yet even after I was there for the few that hadn’t written me off years ago as a fraud, even though applying for mental health disability at my age is not only humbling, but shows you the bias you will face for your whole life. I’ve struggled my with my level of intellect and my ability to give an indelible mark back to society. So far I’ve failed in my personal opinion, but the people I am there for see my contributions during a time where I should have not been focused on the pain of others but healing my body and mind see it differently. I almost died, yet other people in my life came first. I almost bought it. I still struggle with that, and even though I know my contributions to friends and family have been somewhat minimal. They tell me how much it means and try to convince me otherwise. Autistic people feel, they love, they sacrifice. I was at a Hobby Lobby this afternoon with my wife and a women had her autistic family insulted and dehumanized by a cashier. That woman hunted the managers like an attack dog and read them the riot act, she wouldn’t stand to see her loved ones stereotyped and dehumanized by a customer service representative of a major corporation. These are the people we need in this world, I stepped in for just a moment because what she said mattered and I don’t present as Autistic and boldly said to the management “Sorry to interrupt, but I’m also autistic, that kind of speech is unacceptable.” Then we walked away. Unexpected friends, family, and strangers have bolstered my hope for the world. Every voice helps. Every person counts. Most importantly if you’re where I am and you hate yourself more than you should I will tell you that you count. As the philosopher Freidrich Nietzsche said, “Verily, a strong wind is Zarathustra to all low places; and this counsel counselleth he to his enemies, and to whatever spitteth and speweth: “Take care not to spit AGAINST the wind!”. We can can be Zarathustra. The great fictional sage. Advocate for yourself, be strong, be a person no one dare confront with hate. Those “low places”, for they and those who populate them are many. Yet their weakness of knowledge and character are what separate us from them. Climb even if it strains your body and soul to higher ground. Be a strong wind.
Can we be self sacrificing?
A lot of people in society are not informed enough to think that autistic people can’t be empathetic. Tell that to the friend I had a nearly twelve hour phone call with (The longest call I’ve ever had…) A person that had suffered abuse and had been repeatedly knocked down in trying to communicate her pain, and has just asked to have her pain recognized. We all look for that in life. Recognition of our pain. There wasn’t a vendictive bent to her plea, she simply asked to be heard and to speak her story to others. Sadly a bias, and possibly prejudice took her down to the lowest lows, yet there I was. The person most people assume can’t even hug a person, giving my heart and time to a friend in need. Not that there isn’t a toll, my gut locks up, my anxiety flares, I imbibe in drink more than I should. Not because of my disorder, but because her pain is mine. I always questioned friendships because people have betrayed me. Yet I know that giving of myself although possibly self destructive is what makes a friend a true friend. Listening, sharing your pain, absorbing theirs. It’s part of the process. We aren’t all black and white. Shades of grey exist in the autistic mind. Yet I saw the right and wrong in this clearly and it hurt my heart to not see justice done. Yet I will be there for the final day in court. I will support my friend. For all the people that assume before talking to me and stigmatize me without cause, I’ll be a support. Even if my heart is filled with pain and rage at the verdict, it’s not the reason I am there. It’s because a friend needs support, and I understand intimately what it’s like, to be judge wrongly. We are not unsympathetic, we are not without emotion, in fact some of us absorb pain and feel it acutely as those who express it. Easy…no. Wotrth it to support a friend. Every time.
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A poem to entice sleep…
My mind is like a railway station, running so many lines that I lose track.
Even those the trains are my own thoughts, no signpost or schedule can bring it back.
To organization or a syncopation, all these skills I lack.
I can’t conduct my own symphony.
Futile efforts to to stop the cacophony.
The more I try to organize the chaos into a form of order.
It becomes more apparent that it’s part of my distinct disorder.
My mind was never wired with pathways compatible with the ways.
That the average railway passengers go about their days.
Best to accept the ebb and flow of the passengers on those trains.
Those as lost and confused by the geometry of my brain.
Why come back?
It’s a valid question. When I quit writing on here and collapsed inward I was overwrought with self-loathing, anger at humanity, and fear. Would I ever be able to make that impact on the world that I wanted so desperately? I still struggle with that today. So many trips to the emergency room trying to implore the doctors to seek out my therapist. It was always mental, the bills were always unnecessary. No job, no accomplishments, and then the creation of financial burden my wife would shoulder. What did it take to bring me gasping to the surface for air? Drowning would have been easy. I was over-medicated, supplementing with drink, at a low that I thought couldn’t get lower. I finally swallowed my pride and admitted I needed help, more-so I deserved it. As a human, something I’ve always struggled to see myself as. All the further degredation, anxieity out of control, more alters, no possibility of employment. I felt like a lost cause. My impact would be extant medical bills and the brief sadness of people who cared. Then I won my disability. I escaped from the clutches of in-laws that once claimed to love me then instantly turned on me when I became “mentally ill”. I could build a life by my standards and morals, but that wasn’t enough. It was letting people in. It started by being a listening ear to someone who’d shared some of my pain in my youth that I could perhaps guide to a better place, it was enhanced by a friend making a Buddhist a godfather to his Catholic daughter, yet that was just a doorway. I almost died of an actual physical condition. Fully viewable on a scan for once. I was 24 hours from death. Even after all the bad news, the continued flow of surprise and anger I somehow found a way to laugh. Despite being on blood thinners for life, compression socks for years, and having the diagnosis become more elaborate with each follow up, I felt warmth in my heart. Despite all the clotting. A week out of the hospital and I’m not refusing the attention of those that need me. Strangely they ask me when before they wouldn’t have or maybe even shouldn’t have given my condition. Yet in the face of death I smiled and volunteered myself mind, body, and soul. Even though none had time to heal and the toll on me would be more than I would ever tell my loved ones, I was there. Alive. Fuck comparison…they felt need and pain, and I suddenly was self-sacrificing. My time was their time. I could be something even if I’ll never know how much time I can give. I never got an answer to why I went from seemingly healthy to having five life threatening blood clots in such a brief period of time. Does it matter? I’m needed and valued. I started writing again to get out the feelings so that I wouldn’t burden others in my life with. The fear or your own mortality. I haven’t left my mark yet, but since I “dogdged the bullet” there’s still time to make my mark in this world. It may not be profound, but anything that helps us become better as a people, creates a mark that makes others think or smile, opens a mind that may open others…it’s something that keeps me tethered. It’s a reason for loving and living beyond myself. Don’t misread, my father is dead and I’m glad his gene pool thins out with time. I’m not without regret or doubt, but it it has opened a place in my heart for others that may have been blocked by the bitterness of the past. Maybe the blood thinners helped? Still broken, still imperfect, still conflicted. Yet it’s a fleeting thing, life. Millions have passed with no indelible footprint. Maybe a few words of wisdom will influence someone else, in trying and becoming less you win a little. Buddha never claimed godhood, he just claimed to have found a path, one that anyone could follow if they looked inward and put themselves to a goal of not worrying so much for the self. I hope I’m on the path he outlined so many centuries ago. So I’ll keep coming back, because one voice can carry a message. It can breed love from hate, and light from darkness. I can’t ever be sure if I’ve accomplished that, but I’ve tried. Trying counts.
autisticlemonade 