The other side of the glass

They can’t see me. They’ve never been able to see me where I sit on this side of the looking glass, so close to their reality I can reach out and brush it with my fingertips if I tried. I wont, it just leaves me lost and bewildered in the wake of confusion that rushes swiftly through my mind as I try to decipher a world that assaults every sense I have. I can walk beside them and what they see is a warped reflection of the truth, cast in the image they desire to perceive, but never do they open their eyes and see the extent of the fiction they have created. Heaped with a burden of expectations I always seem to fall behind, losing my companions to the crowd that surges around us and defines the edges between my world and theirs. Unable to keep up with the flow of socializing it’s easier to just fade away.

I’ve spent most of my life creeping around the edges. I’m a social voyeur living vicariously through those who do it with such ease. It fascinates me, the way people interact, and I view life like one big sociology study. Sitting quietly in the background taking mental notes on what people are saying and the way they are acting, no one would even notice I’m there unless I stood up to speak and although I have a lot to say I’m rarely sure how to say it.

I feel myself retreating, looking for the way out, disconnecting from their side of the veil a little more each day. The desire to meet them on their terms is an ebbing tide that shows no signs of returning. My pride insists on acceptance and there are only a few who can see past the smoke and mirrors to recognize the value of the real person that hides inside. Those who can respect me for my differences I’ll meet halfway, for their differences deserve to be respected in turn. Those who would continue to heap futile expectations on me should know that they heap them on a husk of what was once there to be burdened.

I still want that connection. It’s the biggest dichotomy in my life. My need to be left alone and my need to connect with the world at large tug me in opposite directions some times when I want to reach out and touch someone nearby. I’m lucky, now, that I have someone who chooses to exist beside me, grant me that human touch I desire so badly, to do it on my terms and see it for what its worth, to appreciate the things I have to offer. I’m lucky to have met someone whose needs run so parallel and yet opposite to my own that we find strength and satiation in the flash floods that consume us. Someone who can see the reality Through Glass.

Masochism

Although this diagnosis of Asperger’s is new to my life, the self evaluation and discovery that has gone along with it is a story as old as I am. I’ve always been seeking the deeper meanings and hidden answers and this isn’t the first time that the things I have discovered about myself have raised eyebrows and had people thinking that there must be something wrong with me. When I tell people I’m a masochist I get the same reaction.

There is an epidemic in our world that for some reason no one seems to see. Its an epidemic of misinformation and it plays a deciding role in the amount of discrimination and ignorance that people are running up against every day of their lives. Google masochist and see what you find, a startling array of articles and definitions proclaiming masochism to be a mental disorder characterized by a pervasive pattern of self defeating behavior, and while I admit there are those out there like this, its these types of blanket diagnosis that contribute to the misunderstanding I suffer from. Things are rarely black and white in reality the way they are on paper.

No one stops to consider that maybe it’s a combination of mental and/or emotional disorders that contribute to some masochists behaving this way. I am a masochist without self defeating personality disorder.

Saying I like pain is a lousy way to describe it. While I have a high tolerance for it, pain is pain and it hurts. What I do like about it is the rush of endorphins and adrenaline my body produces in response to the physical and emotional trauma I am putting it through. When it comes down to it I’m nothing more than an adrenaline junkie who is too smart to jump out of an airplane and knows that its better to throw it into a cocktail with some yummy endorphins to kick start the effect. No one is out there insisting all snowboarders are in need of psychiatric evaluation, or that bungee jumpers are just trying to cover up emotional pain.

By now some of you are wondering, do I hurt myself? Do I let other people hurt me? The answer is once again not so black and white, it depends on the situation. I went from poking at scrapes as a kid to artistic cutting and wax as a teenager. I prefer, at this stage in my life, to have someone else do the hurting for me. Now, before you jump to conclusions, I am not out roaming the streets at night dressed like a slut hoping someone will attack me. Remember what I said up there about being too smart to jump out of an airplane? I take my personal safety very seriously, and this is no exception. I’m very careful about who I will let hurt me, but what a wonderful surprise to find out that there was another side to this coin. I have a wonderful sadist in my life.

You see, while the amount of pain I can cause myself takes the edge off the desire, satiation is hard to achieve. My bodies natural defence mechanisms kick into full gear way too soon and I have to remain present to continue. Take that power out of my hands and put it into the hands of another and suddenly I can ride the way it makes me feel. Ultimately I am safe, he isn’t going to do anything I can’t get up and function from in very short order, but the uncertainty of not knowing how far he will push this time or what he will do next plays tricks on my mind and floods my body with my drugs of choice. Knowing he gets off on hurting me just adds the emotional twist of lime that finishes it off perfectly.

There is a side of this no one sees, the mutual trust and respect that’s required to engage in these activities, or the communication that takes place about every aspect of this in our lives. This isn’t something that’s entered into lightly, it takes a vast amount of understanding about both yourself and the other person to take things to the level we do, and the risk is as much his as mine. People express their concerns for my safety and, while I understand that they are just worried, it’s insulting because it expresses a lack of confidence in my intelligence and strength.

Just as insulting, in fact, as considering my having Asperger’s a disability.

The "cure" for my "problem"

I’m baffled by the concepts of normal, and typical, and common sense that isn’t common and doesn’t often make any sense at all. I don’t understand the world’s propensity towards dishonesty and untruth. “Honest to a fault” is the most ludicrous thing I have ever heard. Whose fault are we talking about here and why does the truth need to be anyone’s fault at all? Why can’t the truth just be what it is? I spend my life asking these questions, and haven’t found an answer yet.

The only way to achieve balance in my life is by being honest with myself and the people around me about who I am and what I need. I tried bluffing, I tried faking it, I tried pretending I was just like the rest of them. I tried and failed, but I tried and succeeded with surprising frequency as well, only to return home still overwhelmed and miserable in the long run, drug down by the pressures of the role I was playing day after day after day. I tried to be someone I wasn’t for the sake of the mass majority that they could continue to be comfortable in their idea of what was right and normal and the best thing for everybody, but the truth still sang beneath the surface until my ears rang with its echo and my head pounded to its rhythm. The inside of my head was a raging storm of confusion as I tried to make my needs meet the standards of a world that thought I was getting by just fine. Interesting that now, as I have reached calm and balance, they think there is something wrong with me that needs to be remedied. I’ve found the cure, and they are still confused about the problem.

The only disabling thing I suffer from is judgment, the rest of my life is calm and peaceful and I’m quite content with what I have. That’s more than can be said for most people out there trying to “make it in the real world”. If I sought a cure for who I am, the things that form my personality, what would be left? What would it matter if I could enjoy having more friends if all of the things my real friends love about me were lost in the process? I have spent 30 years in self evaluation to get myself to a point where I have all the things I need to make me happy and content in my day to day life and what would be the point in throwing all of that away in order to have things I don’t really want in the first place. Really, they ought to stop trying to cure me, and start trying to accept me. It’s much more within their realm of influence.

Whats Missing?

They say I can’t be happy unless I have lots of friends and acquaintances with which to pass the time. They say I can’t be happy, spending most of my time hidden away in my apartment from the rest of the world. They say I can’t be happy locked inside my head thinking away the afternoon. They say I need more. What do they know? I wouldn’t know how to be happy any other way.

I tried it their way for years, all it did was make me anxious and miserable. All those friends and no time to get to know any of them, a full time job I hated, and me faking a smile when I could be half assed bothered to concentrate on it. The days disappeared one after the other with never enough time for the things I needed to do and needed to think about. It was all too much so I stopped pretending but now that I have everything I need they tell me it’s not enough. Why do they only see the things I don’t have, and never the things I do.

I have a beautiful daughter whom I have raised well. She is a shining example of acceptance and tolerance. I can’t remember the last time she threw a fit, when she wants something she approaches me calmly and rationally. She knows I am almost always willing to negotiate. I know we will have our rough spots over the next few years as she becomes a teenager, but we have excellent communication skills that should serve us well.

I have a wonderful, caring, understanding boyfriend. Although he doesn’t always get why I feel the way I do, he is willing to take it at face value that I do and accommodates me to the best of his ability. He values my honesty and candor about the things I need, and communicates his own needs very effectively as well. He is my social buffer when circumstances warrant a trip outside. He nurtures the little girl that I am inside and yet respects me for the adult that I am. He gives me my space when I need it and understands that it’s not a slight against him, that I am just preoccupied sometimes and its best to let me be. Many of the things he loves the most about me can be directly attributed to having AS.

I have a quick and attentive mind to the things that interest me. I don’t jump to conclusions without doing my research, and I don’t open my mouth unless I have something valid to say. I am the first to admit when I am wrong and the last to back down when I am right and it matters to me. I can be stubborn and hard headed but only about the opinions I am sure of, and I have no desire to force those opinions on someone else. I am willing to share the information that I have, but by no means do I expect blind compliance, I prefer for people to take what I say and come to their own conclusions. I often see the connections between things that others are missing in the big picture. My advice is well respected.

I have a best friend who understands me in a way no one else does. She also has AS so we are able to bounce problems and ideas off of each other with no worries about judgment. We don’t chat about the weather or spend hours on the phone discussing our crushes. We do have each other’s back no matter what, and when no one else understands its time for a visit.

I have a phenomenal grasp of the English language, and the ability to inspire emotion through my writing when I am in turn inspired to do so. I can just as easily write a professional business letter as a journal and I also write poetry and other creative pieces. I have been receiving high quantities of praise from respected individuals about this talent for years. Having a computer allows me to share my writing with a much greater audience without the pressure of having to socialize face to face.

I have friends who don’t expect anything beyond our friendship. We care about each other and even if we go weeks, months, sometimes years without speaking we know it doesn’t change that. If they need me and there is something I can provide they know where to find me, and vice versa.

I am happy and fulfilled. What exactly am I missing?

Suffering From Judgment

Floating around on youtube this morning I came across a video discussing how we do not suffer from Asperger’s we suffer from society.

This is something I have thought about many times over the years, even before being diagnosed with AS. I have never suffered from my differences, only from the judgment of others about the value of those differences. When held up in contrast to their own needs my life seems hollow and disconnected and so it’s easy for them to jump to the conclusion that there must be something wrong with me. They fail to see how full and rich it is when compared to my own desires.

30 years of being told there is something wrong with you takes its toll, and I feel it through secondary mental disorders. As time passed and I was increasingly expected to take part in society as a “normal” person I developed anxiety and a social phobia. Although I don’t imagine I would have either of these were it not for AS in my life, I’m quite certain they are not a symptom of the AS itself but rather a symptom of societies reaction to my differences. The social phobia is almost a benefit now; I feel much less guilt about my inability to function in the outside world when I’m not making constant attempts to do it. Still I hear on a regular basis that this is no way to live my life, that there must be something wrong, that I ought to be looking for a cure.

Am I angry about it? Not really, I cannot blame the vast majority for not knowing any better, it is after all not something they have been prompted to think about. Those that should know better but don’t are another story, but I am happy to know their true character and even more happy to leave them out of my life. I just think it would be a vast improvement if people stopped trying to decide what was “right” for everyone else.

Perception

Some will seek the tangles in the depths, only to be trapped and lost in a cage of their own interpretations. They close the doors to their own minds, slamming them shut one after another in an attempt to hold together their fragile and shattering sense of self. The cracks that mar the surface ebb land flow like the tides, for sometimes these feeble attempts at enlightenment form mud that seeps into the cracks and fills them. But the reality of truth flows past these shallow dams, they loosen the bits of debris that tries to lock itself into feeble wisdom.

If only these eyes could see, if only the walls that contain this all could be torn down one brick at a time. If only progression could force time back in its wheel, then the voices of things once uttered in distress could be trampled under the heavy tread of common sense. But alas, time marches on and the voices that once echoed so soundlessly from wall to wall, fade in the distance between then and now. Who remembers the whispered tales so forgotten in their own past they cannot see the light of the present shining bright into their imagination, beckoning and tempting of things that could lead the soul to peace and the mind to clarity?

Feeble winds and feeble tales spread slow and tend to whimper with dying breaths, for without progress the wings could not unfurl, and the butterfly would never soar, forever doomed to the path of the earth, chained by the bonds of altered evolution. Stagnancies breeds disease, and this disease that burns fierce along the pillars of the bridges casts its shadows long across the path that leads onward, forward, one step at a time.

The arms of comrades fallen by the wayside, point the way through the mires that try to grasp and claw, draw them into its heart where it feeds on those who call themselves the truth. Gaping rents in the understanding of those too blinded by base achievement to grasp the difficulties within their twisted hands. Psychic vampires who sneak unwary through the triumphs of others, seeking to pick and prod at the delicate fibers that hold the sleeping eyes of dreamers as they wander from room to room.

My spirit sings at the cusp of the deepest pit, obsidian darkness and an echo that fans out forever, like a stone dropped from far too high to ever pierce the delicate skin of the oceans that abound. Laughter fills the emptiness of the blackened rooms behind the closed doors. For those without eyes to see, or bridges to traverse the severity of the landscape, shall trip and stumble to the knees of a child when faced with the certainty of their own mistakes. Someday the slap shall send them reeling, and the crystal palaces built so carefully, brick after brick, in careful progression, will shatter and fall before the eyes of the disbelieving.

Progression relies on the imperfections of humanity, for with nothing to improve on how could we progress. And yet there will always be some who can refuse to see even the plainest of colors as they pass before their eyes. Some who will always see the calming blue that descends from above as the crimson red that surrounds their defenses. My song mourns these lost souls, who have forgotten how to forgive themselves all transgressions that they might learn and grow and seek the metamorphosis that allows them to soar.

Indigo blood sinks deep into the soil that holds captured the feet of those who wander too far down the path of self righteousness, those who would dare scratch insults in the dust in vain attempts to be granted company in the face of their own denied misery. Grant them succor, and their claws rend and tear at the pages that hold the destiny of truth before their very sight. Grant them solace and they cry foul and dismay, that one would dare offer sanctuary in the depths of their own endless drive towards totality.

Let the angels be warned, that the demons that hide within the hearts of those too important to care for the opinions of others exist in the closets and under the beds. Intolerance is the nightmare that lurks in the shadows and causes fear in the night. Each time the evening descends, another voice fades from the echoes, another is added to the chaos, another twists itself into knots with its own failed logic. In all cases, at the end of all tales, reality and truth will prevail, for that is the path of progression, and there is no denying that.

The Missing Voice

I’ve been doing a lot of research these last few weeks. I have a driving need to find out exactly where Autism fits into my life so I can decide where to go from here. I’m shocked at what I have found. In mainstream coverage there is one thing significantly lacking. Where is the voice of Autism? How can people who have no idea what it is like to have Autism claim to know all the answers about how it affects your life and what you should do to “cure” it? Why are we listening to the NT parents of Autistic children and not listening to the adults who have lived with this their whole life? Those same adults who were once children with Autism.

I see a general sense of panic happening over the issue of Autism, and I don’t really see the point in that. I’m all about getting the stats out there but this tendency to react with horror and disbelief is a little childish in the face of the facts. An average of 1 in 150 children are on the Autistic Spectrum, and I agree these numbers are staggering, but they are not new despite their relatively recent appearance. If 1 in 150 children have Autism then 1 in 150 adults have Autism. You grew up beside us, the quiet kid at the back or the class clown. You worked beside us and maybe once in awhile wondered where our minds were wandering off to. You sat beside us in the coffee shop and wondered what book we were reading. You sat beside us in the movie theatre and didn’t even know we were there. Autism isn’t new, people panicking about it is.

This rush to find a cure frustrates me. How many Autistic people did they talk to before they decided we need a cure and how much of this push is coming from parents who just want a “normal” child. I’m amazed that people who consider themselves intelligent and rational are buying into and contributing to this hype. I’m even more amazed that they perceive this as the whole truth when it is so blatantly half of the story. Digging deeper the real story is there, the endless accounts of people who have lived with this their whole life. Acceptance of who they are. An overall sense of confusion about why the world can’t accept them as they are as well. People who know that like everything else in life it isn’t all bad, that the upsides to being Autistic more than balance it out. People who wouldn’t want to be NT for all the money in the world. Oddly enough, I haven’t found anyone with Autism screaming for a cure.

Altered Reality

I sit and wonder impossible things. Impossible questions with impossible answers that are impossible to find. It’s no wonder I feel like I’m running in circles, panting and heaving with each labored step to get where? Nowhere except right back here where I started, staring at my own bitter reflection, that warped perception with no face that I embrace and hold dear. It shatters under the pressure of so many hands tugging it this way and that towards their own definitions. No care for the not so fragile doll, suddenly porcelain under their scrutiny, searching for flaws in the already crackled veneer of what they taught her to be. I don’t understand how it can be easier to live on their side of the mirror.

Clarity they say, and common sense, naught but hurled remnants of ages long past that drift to the bottom of the muddy waters that surround them, social conditioning that has no basis in reality. Not clear, clarifying, but crimson with the tears of bleeding hearts and opaque to muddle and blind, if only they could see. I can’t save them from passionate denial, when all I have to offer is words, and to open my mouth I risk the flood pouring forth, to sear them where they stand for their damning accusations of reality and misguided fantasy. Even now I fail to understand the world beyond the glass, its perceptions seems so warped it overwhelms me. I’m a catalyst with no voice beyond a whisper trapped between here and there. Nothing but these groups of letters that fall from my fingertips.

I seem to exist in a world they can’t even imagine, at the edges of their reality, their existence, where they glide endlessly through life on magic carpets fueled by the dishonest truth, kept company by a golem in my likeness, though I long ago fled the safe womb of that chrysalis. I fight my way through rabid jungle that seems so calm and serene from their lofty perch, where the wind barely graces the tops of the trees with its gentle kiss. The reality of who I am exists only in their dreams, where they can cast hideous denials back in the face of my defiant screams, and find succor in their heated delusions that I am like them at all.

I am not who they expect, not who they see when they deign to cast enlightened eyes my way. The reality flows just beneath that brittle veneer, one that could not hold under the gaze of a closer look, a blessing then that they choose not to, their cool apathy the glue that holds its cracked and worn fragments as my disguise. Deaf eyes and blinded ears. Where, I wonder, did they learn not to trust their senses. Common sense in the face of the truth that it is neither common nor sensible at all. The intensity of their lives makes my head swim and no matter how strong you are, treading water is always a losing battle. Any wonder that I choose to exist in my world rather than theirs; they make the same choice every day.

Opening Minds

I’m not going to cry, I’m not going to whimper, I’m not ever going to let a lone tear roll tracks down my dusty cheeks. I won’t let the world know the pain they cause, the scars that cut through my soul, marring the edges of my very spirit, and leaving me crying in agony on the inside. A cold face is all they will receive in return. Their cruel taunts will pass my ears with the speed of a wave, crashing against the rocks, and yet will not wear me down. My strength is moored in the lines of the earth, and the energy that sustains it runs through my bones as well. Laughter may echo across the lands of my mind, but my own can join it in harmony, and soon the mocking shall fade, no power without consent. I won’t let them see the shattered webbing of the core that is created, when laughing minds refuse to see the truth, when the sheep inside their hearts follow blind along paths of destruction.

The fear that rocks my being is one for them alone, and yet they will never understand this, for the weight of the world rests in their hands, and the power of it makes them gluttonous. Wrapped deep within layers and layers of gauzing, cushioned from the damage they cause themselves, and everyone else in the process, my heart still weeps but I won’t let them see. If they opened their eyes, saw the lines in between, walked the tunnels with lamps instead of blindly floundering on, then the world might last forever. Takes but a moment to ask the questions that provide illumination for this journey of ours, and the light a single one may cast can light the way for countless others who follow in their wake. But no, some people fear the light, and the knowledge it may bring, that in the glare of the truth they might find they their perspectives a little warped. So they hide behind Ire, and claim to have a greater understanding of the world at large, when all they can really see is the walls they have created in their own little reality.

True bravery takes a step outside that door, those walls of safety and comfort, to see the world from the eyes of another. Why won’t I cry? Whimper? Because it would make no difference, cruel eyes would just flash and call it weakness. They would jump to conclusions, assuming they hurt me, that the wounds that appear across the flesh of my soul are theirs. But they belong to humanity, romantic as it is, for these people will mean the end of the earth, Armageddon, Ragnorak, if they don’t learn to listen to the greater songs that are the energy of us all. Why embrace anger, when acceptance comes easier, why embrace hate when the heart wants to learn. Why claim understanding before even listening. Open your mind and embrace clarity.