I have no idea what to write about. Everything I think and say seems to originate from somewhere other than in me. I feel like all that I am is a human photocopier, except that I don’t simply copy the original as it is, but mash together a whole conglomerate of differing ideas and behaviours, ending up with a confused mass, and never knowing where most of what I think comes from. Is it any wonder I don’t know my own mind, or why I behave the way I do? My own thoughts seem to be buried somewhere beneath a bloody mountain of shit (and I don’t mean that the shit is bleeding!) Or perhaps I just don’t have any of my own? Maybe I am just an empty vessel, except that I’ve never been able to allow my vessel to be emptied of all the rubbish I’ve accumulated over time, and so achieve that perfect yogic state of allowing thoughts to come in and go out, like the breath.
With me everything goes in and stays in, and then we have to go through the long-winded and arduous task of sorting through every single item individually, and from every conceivable angle, to determine whether it is of use to us before deciding whether it can be let go of. And even then, it seems, I never actually let go of anything ‘cos it all stays imprinted in my memory (just in case – at least that appears to be the reason for it, but then that suggests that it’s a conscious cognitive choice I’m making, and it doesn’t feel like it is: but what would I know about how my brain works?!)
I never realised that I copied: at least not to the extent that it turns out I do. But then I never realised that I was completely obsessive, that everything I do is done obsessively. Nor did I realise that I was rigid, hate change, hate discipline, can’t function without routine, can’t maintain anything, take things literally, don’t understand people, can’t chat, take everything seriously, often don’t recognise when I’m being teased, obsess about the minutiae, can’t see the bigger picture, can’t multi-task, can’t empathise, have absolutely no spatial awareness whatsoever (very freaky!), suffer paranoia, anxiety, stammer, self-stimulate (rock, make folds in my clothes, stroke my nose, etc), can’t bear certain sounds and cannot filter out noise, flap my hands, hate being cuddled and fawned over (a quick hug is fine, everything else makes me go rigid and, as I’ve recently realised, my brain interprets as sexual – which is fine, as long as it’s with a male, and one whom I like, which is very rare!), have a very limited emotional vocabulary and rarely interpret correctly what I’m feeling, cannot see beyond my own world, can’t focus for very long and lose interest and get distracted very easily from what I’m doing, see everything as black or white, do everything to the extreme, have temper tantrums (now that I’m an adult they’re in the form of silent rages), have other sensory difficulties (eg can’t tell temperature, can’t tell when I’ve eaten enough), hoard and display, can’t plan, can’t organise, have limited imagination, ad infinitum.
I’m going for my formal aspergers assessment in three weeks time. Do you think I’ll “pass”?!!
"Do you believe in Magic?" asked Colin.
"That I do, lad," she answered. "I never knowed it by that name, but what does th' name matter? I warrant they call it a different name i' France an' a different one i' Germany. Th' same thing as set th' seeds swellin' an' th' sun shinin' made thee well lad an' it's th' Good Thing. It isn't like us poor fools as think it matters if us is called out of our names. Th' Big Good Thing doesn't stop to worrit, bless thee. It goes on makin' worlds by th' million - worlds like us. Never thee stop believin' in th' Big Good Thing an' knowin' th' world's full of it - an call it what tha' likes. Eh! lad, lad - what's names to th' Joy Maker."
From 'The Secret Garden', by Frances Hodgson Burnett
"There is no way to happiness - happiness is the way."
The Dalai Lama
"If you don't stand for something you will fall for anything."