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.

Stone

I sit at the edge of the night
Watching the frayed bottoms of the curtain rise
Searching for all the missing pieces
That I seem to have left scattered in the wake
Of my tumultuous flight
To reach this precipice

Curled in upon myself I seek warmth
Protection from the cruel winds
That taunt back and forth across my flesh
Screaming in agony for release
Into this, the twilight of my former existence.
I shiver, and I wait, and I watch.

I was beckoned here by the taunts of a childhood best forgotten, these seeds of dismay took hold early and the thorny brambles they grew are too thick for the fragile to pass. I hold them deep inside, protect the hearts of those I love from the true depths of my own depravity, and lie fetal in wonderment as my own imagination threatens to tear my very essence to shreds. But these times I need as well, for the tears I cry are the tears of the Gray of Matha, born of portent and tragedy, and they doom the messenger, my own unrealistic despair. They are the tears of Frigga, and as they pass the portents change, and resurrection can begin. They cleanse my soul of its own poison, and cure my blindness, that I might resume my stolid vigil.

What I watch for has never been clear
A glimpse might peek from the sheltered sky
But lost in the fog of my own solitary confinement
I wait, but not in silence,
Questions echo across the empty span of darkness
Fall back down to shift and swirl about my huddled frame
The scratching of talons on the earths own crust
It calls, and I scream defiance

I lived in this place of denial for many years. Even after I discovered this world I drifted in the unrealistic expectation that I had to be a certain type of person to qualify. I strove for years to mold my personality, convinced early on that my fantasies where just extreme versions of what I really wanted. I have vacant memories that float around my brain, snippets of conversations that once danced circles around my understanding of who I was. Voices that spoke calmly, in deepened tones, as they told me what and who I was. What I needed, what I wanted. They bore a hint of truth and conscious reality, so they never sounded hollow on deafened ears to my own screaming desires. Submit they whispered softly into the cracks of my foundation, and I felt I had no choice but to listen, my own regard so eroded in the swollen waters of their power.

Creeping up from behind they sat
Sharing my space for but the passing of a moment
Eternity in my tiny world, where dark dreams held sway.
The stony façade, the marble iciness of my gaze
Though tempted never strayed
Oaken wisdom, thorny roses, petulant weeds
All tossed and broken in the storm

So I sat alone. Still lost in wonderment at my inability to find my own definition. Each eternity that passed just waking further the demons that danced along the edges of the curtain on the horizon. The one that hinted of wonders, and horrors, and screamed truth loud enough to ring bells in my ears. Their talons crept forward, to rent deep into my flesh, valleys for tears to find passage to the parched and dusty earth that settled where I sat. Alone was far better than the flaccid reminders of what I should be, I should be waiting, and watching, and searching for answers.

When the curtain starts to rise
The edges start to crumble,
Open eyes clenching shut as the light of what has been hidden sears forth
It flashes and falters, for the truth cannot be so clear
Gone again, tears form at the corners of steel blue eyes
Melting stone in their path, fragile flesh exposed
To the twining thorns that twist and flourish around me.

There is no path through me, that was the mistake of lost souls that tried to chip at my base and alter my perceptions. But these thorns did not seek to alter, they twisted and twined and snared me in their embrace, taking nourishment from exposed flesh as it was offered in turn. Each sapping strike bleeds my soul of the doubts and worries that plagued my ideals, and in these thorny brambles I find comfort and solace. Given life in that brief flash of understanding and truth, he continues to grow around me, entwining my soul and making my cry out to feed him the blood of my own pain to sustain the growth of his power.

Stone cannot be bent; it must be chipped away, shed in the light of destiny and the scope of self knowledge that the mind can grasp. The demons still dance at the edge of my awareness, but the raging inferno that tips every thrusting thorn that drives through parchment flesh, tender and weak as it flares and burns in its wake, lends translation to the voices they cast across the opaque distance between fantasy and reality. With the solid wall of his own beasts, reverberating whispers that speak of depth of character and are mortared by protective nature, to bounce from they take on tones of meaning and understanding.

With prodding claws he drags forth my tears
Each searing drop of agony a question lost to wings
They form wider with each strike leading further into the recesses
Twisted realities that lead to a path labeled destruction
By those who care not to heed the warnings
These thoughts are not placid
These raging waters of destruction that persuade me to drown
In seductive images, and terrifying nightmares
Knowing that those thorns that drain me, leaving me helpless in his embrace
Bear also the fundamental ambrosia that grants me life
The vigil continues, but I sit not alone.

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?

To the music in her mind..

She dances alone in a clearing full of eyes all alight with wisdom and understanding if only they could see her. They cant, she covers her own eyes to keep it inside thinking that if she cant see them they cant see her, and she’s right. What they see isn’t here, its nothing but a shallow veneer wrought of lilacs and ivy woven tight with thorns to prick the unwary and keep a million tiny pieces trapped inside. Pieces that she has painstakingly collected through time untold and clutched in the tiny fists that beat against the chest of humanity.

Its not a simple as they think nor as hard as they imagine to dance beside her, but the vision they behold blends and wavers between this world and another baffling their concept of reality and truth. Frightened by what they can’t understand they watch on and the whispered songs they should have heard from the dawn of this act vanish beneath the din of observation and judgment. Still she dances, uncaring that lines are blurring and unmindful of the storms that are brewing overhead. This is her time, and her place, and they cannot really see her after all. They could dance beside her but the very nature of their world holds them back.

She falls exhausted to the dirt at her feet and carelessly they rush to her side, words of solace and pity that grate through her veins, burning her with the intensity of their desperate advice. Clenched fists that they would see this fall as weakness, this need to stop and catch her breath as impairment, did they not see her dance? Surely if they had they would know she deserves this moment in the dust, the sweat that glistens on her skin, the pounding heart that threatens to burst from her chest. They didn’t, they saw nothing but the tears and anguish of a child too afraid to reach out and take their hand, too lost in her own dreams to even see that they only want to help her understand. They cannot see that its not she that needs to understand.

Why can they only see her here she wonders, when she lies in the ashes of her own humanity too weak to rise and greet the song that plays endlessly through her mind, and her tears begin to soak the fallow earth that cradles her prone body. Mired in a net of judgment and evaluation she could drown in her own thoughts as they try to surge past her lips in a torrent of explanation, only to be lost in the stream of labels and opinions that pour from their mouths. Careless definitions cast forth in an attempt to find a way to keep her here, in this world, where they can see her. She rises to her feet and though she still cries she smiles and turns away, shrugging off those hands that seek to bind her to this reality. There is nothing for her here but dust and ashes, and so she starts to dance again, hoping against hope but knowing better, that this time they will finally open their eyes and witness the peace this dance brings her.