If You're Happy And You Know It, Flap Your Hands

“When I became a man I put away childish things, including the fear of childishness, and the desire to be very grown up.”    C S Lewis

Are you a flapper, a rocker, a spinner, or maybe even a twitcher?  In other words, do you stim?  For the uninitiated it means self-stimulation (think hand-flapping, body rocking, spinning around in circles, etc - not masturbation!)  

I stim, though, up until recently, I didn’t really understand why.  I kind of thought it was just one of those peculiarities attributable to people with autism: yet another example of the difference between us and the non-autistic population.

Strangely enough, given its conspicuity, it’s one thing about myself of which I’ve never felt self-conscious.  Of course, this could be due to the fact that I’ve been largely unaware that I’m doing it (difficult to feel self-conscious when you’re not even conscious); or that it’s considered an odd thing to do.  Why would I?  It’s part of who I am, what I do, so to me it’s perfectly normal.  Plus, having perfected the art of avoiding looking at people (because I cannot read their facial expressions, nor simultaneously listen to, and look at, them), I have no idea whether they are looking at me, or exchanging questioning glances.  

So it wasn’t until after I’d got my Asperger’s diagnosis, years later, that I discovered that people do, indeed, notice what to them is considered to be my odd behaviour.  My best friend told me how some of the members at our local Alcoholics Anonymous meetings would stare and point at me in concern, directing their silent questioning at her to find out what was the matter with me, whilst I remained blithely unaware.  

After all, it was perfectly logical to me to bend my body into a pretzel-shape to make myself as small as possible in order to hide (I also happen to have a problem with sitting ‘properly’, and stationary, on a seat); avoid all eye contact by staring at the floor; and then soothe myself by rocking.  I was astounded to learn that it produced the opposite effect - that I made myself conspicuous, which to some people would even appear as if I was attention-seeking.  Dread the thought.

My particular preferences are for rocking, hand-wringing, stroking (myself, particularly upper arms; and, if available, dogs, cats, soft toy animals, and anything else with a soothing texture), and patting/drumming/tapping (especially my upper chest, which produces a pleasant sensation, and a satisfying noise).  I do these for their soothing and calming abilities, which makes perfect sense - think of how people rock, pat, and stroke babies.  And yet some of those same people think we’re odd.  Have they forgotten how soothing, and effective, such things were?  Perhaps it’s  because they expect us to have grown out of the need for such things: but then they don’t have a highly sensitive nervous system like ours. 

I’m also a bit of a flapper, sometimes, though I don’t do it as frequently.  This I do when I get excited about something - it’s like there’s a surge of energy that needs releasing, so madly flapping my hands helps.  It makes me look like a sea mammal flapping its flippers, so we now refer to it as me doing my seal impersonation.  

Oddly enough, until I found out I’m autistic, and then read about flapping, I don’t recall ever doing it before: unlike the others, which I know I’ve done throughout my life.  It’s like I unconsciously started copying what I’d read.  I did it with stammering, too: never stammered in my life until after my diagnosis (I’ve always been more prone to becoming mute than babbling, when anxious), then suddenly I couldn’t stop tripping over my words!  

Having discovered that what I do has a name, I have become increasingly more aware of when, and why, I am doing it, which has given me the ability to choose whether I continue to do it or not in that moment (for instance, my best friend will sometimes tell me I’m rocking whilst we’re on Skype, which can make her feel a bit dizzy, and be rather distracting for her).  What I have not consciously tried to do, though, is attempt to control it.   And yet it has lessened, seemingly of its own accord.  

I put this down to a number of factors.  One is that, remarkably for me, I have accepted it as being part of my autism, and so haven’t tried to force myself to stop doing it (an approach which has never worked yet).  Another is that the level of general anxiety I experience on a daily basis has reduced phenomenally over the last few years, which means an automatic lessening in the need to sooth and comfort myself via stimming.  You can tell when I’m really anxious because I turn into a restless, rocking rambler again.  

I believe that my improvement is due in part to the practice of the AA programme, which has led to an increasing faith and dependence upon a God of my understanding (spiritual, not religious), one of the results of which is a reduction in my anxiety about the world around me.  Then there’s the practice of yoga, which has taught me how to calm myself, and control my anxiety, through the breath. 

So, this may well sound like it’s a post about how to reduce stimming, which would totally conflict with the title, not to mention a large proportion of the content.  On the contrary, it is, in effect, a celebration of what is, essentially, an intuitive, benign tool for self-care; and the fact that I have recently discovered a socially acceptable way of stimming.  I kid you not.  

Yoga.  Seriously.  

I can’t believe it’s taken me this long to realise it (I have, after all, only been doing it for twelve years), but it makes perfect sense.  When we stim we are unconsciously stimulating the autonomic nervous system (responsible for, amongst other things, heart rate, breathing, and the fight or flight response).  The practice of yoga does exactly the same thing.  However, it wasn’t until I started supplementing my regular practice with Kundalini yoga a year or so ago that I made the connection.

Kundalini yoga employs a lot of quite vigorous exercises, which are called kriyas - a number of which actually look as if they were designed by autistics!  Truly.  So, not only am I absolutely, positively induced to try to bend myself into a pretzel shape with my usual yoga routine (something I was naturally drawn to doing before I ever came across the formal practice of yoga), but I now also get to spin in a circle, rock backwards, forwards, AND sideways, and flap to my heart’s content (with variations).

So I say flap like a loon if you feel the need; and if anyone questions what you’re doing, just tell them you’re practising yoga!

Language Of The Heart (Part One)

“When we try to speak to each other - Me to you, you to Me, we are immediately constricted by the unbelievable limitation of words…  Words are really the least effective communicator.  They are most open to misinterpretation, most often misunderstood.

And why is that?  It is because of what words are.  Words are merely utterances: noises that stand for feelings, thoughts, and experience.  They are symbols.  Signs.  Insignias.  They are not Truth.  They are not the real thing.”     From “Conversations With God”, by Neale Donald Walsch

Imagine a blind person still trying to use their eyes through which to see; or someone who is deaf who continues to listen with their ears; or an individual who has lost the use of a body part attempting to utilise what no longer works.  

And now think of an autistic, for whom communication and understanding via language is, at worst, frustrating and bewildering, and at best incomplete, still insisting on depending on this form.

This is me.  Yep, it finally dawned on me that, despite my diagnosis four years ago, I still have not accepted this rather major facet of my character (it is, after all, one of the defining traits of autism), and persist in relying almost wholly on words as my means of understanding, and communication. 

I realise that my perception is at fault, and I am limiting myself as a result.  I have a narrow, rigid comprehension of the word “communicate”: I see it as referring solely to the use of language - to talking, reading, and writing - when, in fact people, communicate via other means, through their feelings and actions.  But, since I am largely unconscious of this, I have always chosen language by default to express myself and interpret what others are trying to convey. 

Therefore, in order to broaden my perspective, it needs adjusting to include other definitions -  which, as an autistic with a narrow viewpoint, and a tendency to focus on minute details, forgoing the bigger picture in the process, is alien and unnatural.  But I believe it can be done: it’s just not going to be instinctive.  I’ll have to make a conscious effort to do it, to remind myself when I’ve become narrow and limited once again.  

As I have said before, I LOVE language - playing with words, crafting a piece of written work, constructing the perfect sentence.  When I really let myself play (when I’m not constraining myself with a lot of rules, which take all the fun out of it) then it’s like my heart becomes engaged in the process, not just my brain, which I think is what allows me to be able to communicate through this medium.

Unfortunately, though, I have come to depend almost wholly on words; to revere them as if they hold the key to all knowledge and understanding; to believe that because I can read and write and understand what I’m reading on a literal level, that this means I understand what is being said.  This can be very confusing.  

Language Of The Heart (Part Two)

“Words may help you understand something.  Experience allows you to know it.  Yet there are some things you cannot experience.  So I have given you other tools of knowing.  These are called feelings.  And so, too, thoughts…  

Your experience and your feelings about a thing represent what you factually and intuitively know about that thing.  Words can only seek to symbolise what you know, and can often confuse what you know.”      From ‘Conversations With God’, by Neale Donald Walsch

So, to continue, my problem is that I don’t see beyond what I literally see, and I have no idea what other people see, so I assume that they see what I see, and that what I am seeing and hearing is what they are saying (get your head around that one if you can!!)  Only to frequently discover that it’s not.

It also dawned on me that not all autistics have the exact same problem.  Sure, we all share the difficulty with social communication and understanding (which not only includes language in the form of words, but reading body language too), but they don’t all depend on language the way that I do.  And yet some of them live full and successful lives; have found ways to compensate for what they ‘lack’; are happy and accept themselves as they are; and trust what they feel.  My autistic friend is one of them.  

She has the ability to see the essence of what is being expressed, along with any literal interpretation she might have.  At first sight it can appear that she is not that literal at all, especially not when compared to me, which I have concluded must mean that she isn’t: that the part of the brain which deals with language interpretation is not as affected in her as in me, or that she is not quite so far on the autistic spectrum.  All of which is quite plausible - after all, we aren’t all exact replicas of each other.  

But it seems as if, when she reads something, she is not reading solely with her eyes, simply engaging her brain - she is reading with her heart, her soul, her whole being,  which appears to compensate for the literality.  She trusts and depends on her instincts.

I, on the other hand, don’t trust mine at all.  I was raised differently: I learnt to doubt, distrust, ignore, suppress, and fear what I felt.  If I couldn’t name it then it didn’t exist.  And I did it so well - the evidence of this is that I’m still doing it now, though I’m hoping that there is a shift taking place, now that I’ve seen this truth.  

I have learnt to place great importance on words: it has not served me well.  I read and re-read things, in the futile belief that understanding will come by constant  repetition and familiarity.  It doesn’t work.  If all you can see is the surface, then all you’re going to see is more of the same surface when you’re looking at it from the same angle, no matter how often you look at the same thing!

Then we have my attempts at trying to see beyond the literal meaning.  Not good.  I invariably misconstrue what’s trying to be conveyed, as I strain my brain to see beyond my limited viewpoint.  This usually leads to long bouts of deep analysis, where I manage to bypass the point completely - all because I’m still doing it through my ‘eyes’, with that part of my brain that doesn’t process language well.  Plus I’ll often try to look for the deeper meaning to things which have none, and are actually meant to be taken at face value.  

But then there are times when I have discovered the essence of what I am reading - which appears to occur when I’ve read with my heart, and my feelings have been engaged, not just my mind.  Like I’m connected to God, who then does for me what I can’t do for myself, and opens my mind to a more unlimited veiwpoint.  It might still take me quite a few attempts at reading something before I get beyond the surface, and if I try to force understanding then it doesn’t work.  But if I relax, and let God lead the way as it were (or, another way of putting it, be guided by my feelings) then it gradually comes.

Words, I have finally realised, actually impede and limit my understanding.  They clutter my mind, and distract me from seeing the true meaning.  They fill me with doubt, leaving me constantly questioning the validity of what I feel or experience, causing me confusion, resulting in a constant state of indecision and conflict.  I get caught up in the minutiae of trying to determine the exact meaning of a word or sentence, which narrows my focus, so shutting me off from the bigger picture.

So what does this mean?  It means, I hope, that there is hope of change.  

It means that if I give up trying to force a part of me to work in a way that it can’t, and being totally dependent upon it, and instead shift to learning to tune into and trust what I feel, then I might well have a better chance of communicating and understanding.

It means that I might learn a more effective way to utilise my ability to read, without being dependent on the words themselves to impart the meaning.

It means that I might shift my perspective even further to see it not as a liability, a deficiency, or a problem, but as something that allows and encourages me, and all those with whom I engage, to find more effective ways to interact - to see that my autism is not meant to limit but to liberate me.

And the truth is that words are not that effective at all, as it says in the quote at the beginning of this article.  Even when used between non-autistics, they frequently miscommunicate and misunderstand when relying on them.  After all, isn’t that how arguments and wars are often started?  One wrong word and you’ve got Armageddon! 

Fear Of Flying

“People wish to learn to swim and, at the same time, to keep one foot on the ground.”     Marcel Proust

Last night I had a dream about flying.  At least, we were meant to fly but, symbolically, we never actually took off, merely spent a great deal of time on the preparation.  Yes, even in dreams I still manage to procrastinate!

The dream itself involved me boarding a plane for the first time, and then wandering the length and breadth of the whole thing, trying to find the perfect seat, probably in an attempt to keep the anxiety about flying at bay.  And, as is often the case in dreams (with them often being representative of something), the plane was not an exact replica of the real thing.  Instead, it was set out in a series of ‘rooms’, and the seating resembled that of a cafe or restaurant - lots of dining tables and chairs.

We never did take-off in my dream (kind of the story of my life).  By the time I woke up, I was still wandering around anxiously, trying to find a place to settle, attempting to locate the toilets in case I needed to vomit (which I was already anticipating would be the case), and to find the person with whom I’d connected in the queue, who had said that they would guide me since it was my first time, but who had taken off alone the moment we reached the boarding tunnel (symbolic of my lack of trust in real life - I expect people to let me down, and I often confuse guidance with dependence).

In reality, I have never flown: I’ve hardly travelled at all, in my forty-seven years of existence.  This is where my anxiety really impacts on my life, and no amount of yoga has so far helped to overcome the obstacles which impede any prospect of me travelling.  That doesn’t necessarily mean it won’t ever happen, though, sometime in the future.  

I’ve done lots of things in my life since coming into recovery, and finding the Twelve Step programme, which has led to a connection with a Higher Power of my understanding (which I call God): none of which I ever believed possible before.  For one thing, I left my family home, and acquired a place of my own - something I never imagined I’d be able to do.  And, since then, I’ve moved twice more - another feat I thought myself incapable of, since I hate change so much, and any disruption causes me such anxiety and distress.

But travel for me is fraught with extreme stress (from the planning, packing, etc, to the journey itself: and once I reach my destination, the anxiety doesn’t stop there), and I require so much stuff (part of the need to exert some feeling of control, I believe), that it’s really not worth the hassle at the moment.  

I worry especially about food, since I have such a ‘specialised’ diet - I am vegetarian/almost vegan; can’t eat sugar, of ANY description (and so much of it is hidden in foods you wouldn’t expect it in), other than certain fruits; can't eat bread products, so no quick and easy sandwich snacks for me to carry with me; don’t have dairy; don’t eat anything processed, pre-packaged, instant, etc - I make everything from scratch.  And the list goes on).

So, back to the dream, since there was a great deal of meaning to it, which, for once, I had no problem interpreting.

On the surface, there’s the literal interpretation of flying that I fear (though that in itself is merely symbolic of the whole act of travelling, by whatever mode of transport I choose).   But beneath that it represents my fear of allowing my self, my soul, my spirit, my essence, my whole being to take off and fly; to be free; to think my own thoughts; to have my own beliefs; feel my own feelings; experience my own experiences; to live my own life; to let go of trying to control everything.  

I fear not being in control, and letting go and letting God do His/Her/Its part - which means trusting that all is well, and will be well.  So of course I worry about having to trust the pilot (God), and the plane to stay up in the sky, especially when I don’t understand the ‘mechanics’ behind any of it (how does something so heavy remain airborne?; and how does one fly a plane?)

I fear that if I do allow myself to fly (to let go of all the negativity and enjoy my life) that it won’t last (like a plane can’t stay in the air forever), and I’ll come crashing down to earth at some point: no gentle landing to refuel for me.  No, my ‘plane’, I seem to believe, has to have a crash-landing.  Either I, or someone else, will do something to bring me down to earth - ‘cos of course I worry (become paranoid) that some people will be envious, and try to sabotage my flight.  And since I’ll have further to fall if I soar too high, it will be more painful: therefore it’s better to keep one foot on the ground, which means I never really take to the air at all.  

Or there’s the option of a Harrier jump jet take-off - lift vertically into the air a few metres, hover for a short while, then return to earth in almost the exact same position you started from.  Sounds like my kind of journey. 

 And then, of course, there’s the fact that I not only literally require so much luggage to take with me when I venture anywhere (no matter how long I’ll be away from home), but that I figuratively lug around tonnes of baggage, which I struggle to let go of - worries, fears, resentments, obsessions.  All of which contributes to impeding my ability to take flight.

So, the dream I believe, in essence, was showing me all of the stuff which I have designed, both consciously and unconsciously, to keep myself grounded (and not in a good way), to stop myself from travelling further along on my life’s journey, and to slow down and control the process of growth and change.  Because it’s my mind in which all of this is taking place, and which my dream is dredging the depths of in order to bring to the surface what’s happening ‘down’ or ‘out’ there, in the dark abyss that often gets overlooked.

And the only way I know of to change any of it is to first become conscious of its existence; to bring it out into the light where I can get a good look at it; share it with someone who has a more objective perspective and can, hopefully, offer guidance on how to deal with it; and own it - stop blaming it on other people, or circumstances, or things.  Only then can the journey to freedom continue.

Doddle.  Just don’t forget to take your parachute, and a spare (or two), just in case…!  

Or, better yet, trust that God is always there to catch you if you fall… unless you believe that God is man-made, and likely to malfunction.  In which case you’re in deep shit, and probably better off staying on the ground, like a bird with its wings clipped.  But oh, you’ll miss out on so much.

Take a risk, ask God to remove the fear of flying (the fear of change), let go and let God be in charge of the outcome, and just enjoy the journey, like we are meant to do.  Simple, but not easy (as we say in AA).  Bon voyage!

Fear Is The Key

‘“Ah!” said Rabbit, who never let things come to him, but always went and fetched them.’      From ‘The House At Pooh Corner’, by AA Milne

“Every human thought, and every human action, is based in either love or fear.  There is no other human motivation, and all other ideas are but derivatives of these two.”      From ‘Conversations with God’, by Neale Donald Walsch

I have all the patience of a toddler waiting for Christmas to arrive.  Just like Rabbit, I find it almost impossible to wait for things to come to me, be it inspiration for a painting or a piece of writing, or the answer to some question.

For a long time I believed that this was intrinsically part of my ADHD, but I’m no longer certain that’s true.  I think it just happens that one of my particular personality traits is an excess of impatience (like I seem to have an excess of everything!), and having ADHD exacerbates it.  

It’s as if the ADHD trait of poor impulse control combines with my impatience to produce, or heighten, my distractibility, restlessness, and quick loss of interest.  It’s kind of like they have a symbiotic relationship - the more impatient I become, the more easily distracted, etc.  The same goes with any emotion, whether it be positive or negative, e.g. if I get too happy I find it impossible to calm down, leaving the way open to the familiar ADHD symptoms.

Another characteristic I have, which I believe is part of my autistic hard-wiring, is a bone-deep inability to stop myself from copying, and absorbing.  I say it’s hard-wired because I do not choose to do it.  It happens automatically, without any conscious decision on my part, and more often than not I haven’t got a clue that it’s occurred, until later.  

If I had a choice, I wouldn’t do it - it’s one of the things about having Asperger’s that I actually hate.  It has confused me for a long time because I am so vehemently against the idea of imitating other people: I long to be an individual.  Before I got my diagnosis I wasn’t even aware that it was something I did, probably because I was wandering around with the conscious belief that I didn’t want to be like other people, or follow the crowd.  

But it seems it’s often the case that the conscious thought is merely what you would like to be the truth, and not what the reality is: as in this case.  And everything about me screamed out otherwise - from the way I behaved, how I looked, to what I believed and said.  I was like a walking car-crash, a tangled mess of confusing and conflicting influences, with hardly a sign of the original, intact person left behind.

The fact is that, much as I might be telling myself that I don’t like copying, at the root of me something is going on which I can’t see, which drives me to do so.  And, again, just as with the ADHD, discovering that copying is part of my nature as an Asperger, and trying to attribute it solely to that, has only served to answer half the puzzle.  But I might have finally found the rest.

I copy because I don’t have the patience to wait for an answer, or the faith to believe that one will come in time (God’s time, not mine).  

I copy because it’s easier and quicker than having to deal with the unknown, and the feelings that sprout forth as a result - I can just follow someone else’s path instead.  Unfortunately, this still means that I have to wait for the result, which I also find impossible to deal with, hence my inevitable tendency to chop and change, abandoning one person’s ideas in favour of someone else’s, and never being able to stick to one path and see it through to its natural conclusion.  As I’ve mentioned before, I am the Queen of Tweak.

I copy because when I get distracted, restless, and lose interest (an ADHD attack) it’s the quickest way to fix it, to go on-line seeking new stimulation to try to awaken my dopamine-deficient brain.

Basically, what all of this boils down to is that at the root of me I am motivated by fear.  I fear that if I don’t go and look for the answers then they’ll never come; I fear that I’ll miss out on something; I fear that I might be doing it (whatever ‘it’ is) wrong, and I won’t learn unless I go looking to someone else for the answers; I fear that the feelings will not pass. 

In the words of God (from the book ‘Conversations With God’), “This is what I have called the Sponsoring Thought.  It is either of love or fear.  This is the thought behind the thought behind the thought.  It is the first thought.  It is prime force.  It is the raw energy that drives the engine of human experience.”

So then you put these two things together, the autistic copying/absorbing, along with the fear-driven motivation, and the result is me going searching on the internet for quick answers and inspiration (not to mention it’s distractibility  appeal, which allows me to forget myself and all those pesky feelings that I’m trying to escape).  

But, whilst I might break free for a while, I don’t escape unscathed.  Instead, I return with a confused mess of new ideas and information which will inevitably come back to bite me on the arse at some point in the future, when I’m suddenly reminded of something I read, and decide on a whim to try to integrate it into my life.  Which usually means abandoning something that works in favour of something new that inevitably doesn’t.

Of course, this wouldn’t be such a problem if I weren’t autistic, and if I possessed that miraculous ability to filter information, discarding what isn’t relevant, and adapting what is to suit my needs.  But I don’t.  For some reason, God saw fit to create me without a filter.

It also requires some modicum of self-awareness, to be able to identify what is relevant, and to recognise the commonalities you share with the people about whom you’re reading.  Nope - I don’t have any of that either, and it doesn’t look like it’s coming my way any time soon, much as I’ve kept on striving to acquire it.  Seems this, too, is a hard-wiring issue, and I came out of the factory with the relevant bit missing.

So what’s the answer?  Well, I guess I have to accept that I copy, and always will do, so seeking solutions and an escape on the internet will always be a problem.  It does not hold the answers for me, but merely compounds my difficulties.  My choice is between non-acceptance of my autism/ADHD and it’s limitations (which could be turned over and viewed as blessings), or giving up the fight to prove that I can do what other people do. 

Acceptance means the need to shift from fear into love (and faith) - which means practicing the opposite to what I do at the moment, and start believing that God has the answers, and will provide me with them and everything I need, if I allow Him/Her/It to do so.  Which means trusting that “This too shall pass” (a slogan we have in AA), when I am plagued by feelings - as long as I allow them to do so, by not going off and trying to escape them.  

Filling my head with other peoples’ ideas and opinions does not help me to find myself - it merely helps me to lose touch even more with who I am, as I get buried under a blanket of random useless information.  To act out of love (to trust in God) would mean to honour the fact that I am autistic/ADHD, and so stop doing the stuff which only serves to hurt me.  

Maybe then I could truly embrace the concept of ‘To Thine Own Self Be True’, ‘cos I might finally find the Self to which I could be true. 

E = Motion

I’m really hopeless at feelings - recognising when I’m having them; identifying them; experiencing them; dealing with them; talking about them.  And yet, for a very long time, I thought I was really good at most of this stuff (bar the dealing with them bit), having made an extensive study of the whole subject, as part of my AA recovery experience.

What I’m actually really good at, exceptionally so, is avoiding or ignoring them; misidentifying them; obsessing about them; and analysing them.  All whilst missing the point completely.  It’s a gift.  And I think it may be terminal.

Having been surrounded and immersed in the whole subject of emotions, human behaviour, psychology, and the like since first entering the world of AA 12 Step recovery twenty-six years ago, I naturally assumed that I’d acquired more than a modicum of self-awareness, and self-knowledge.  I am far from a novice.  And yet ironically, despite all of that time spent in the relentless obsession and pursuit of furthering my understanding of the human condition, I’m almost as hopeless now as I was back at the beginning.

Thankfully I now understand why - lack of self-awareness is a character trait of many people with autism.  I’m one of them.  And it’s okay.  I’ve finally accepted that my attempts at self-analysis just leave me tied up in knots, especially as I never know when to stop.  So I can give it up.  I don’t have to understand everything in the universe (much as I may think I need to, in order to feel safe, and not be caught off guard.  As if that ever worked).

But I’m still left with the difficulty of simply recognising when something’s going on with me, despite the fact that I display certain signs via my behaviour, kind of like flashing emergency lights that are trying to get my attention: “WARNING!!  WARNING!!  YOU ARE NOW ENTERING A FEELING ZONE!!!  SLOW DOWN!!!”

But do I notice them?  Nope, absolutely not - probably ‘cos I’m too busy speeding along, in an unconscious attempt to escape them.  And nor does it matter that I consistently manifest the same signs, at regular and frequent intervals - I still remain totally oblivious.  My best friend, however, does not.  She recognises them, and what they mean - which is a bloody good thing, otherwise I’d never have acquired even the minuscule amount of self-awareness which I do have, without her input.

It’s as if I operate at such a deep level of unconsciousness, almost tantamount to being in a black hole, that I just never, or rarely, make the connection between my behaviour (which is the outward sign), and the feelings that are instigating it.  I fail to get just how powerful emotions are, and how everything in us is linked - there’s a symbiotic dance occurring within each human being, and nothing occurs in isolation, for no reason.  We are our own individual little universes, and what goes on within our worlds mirrors the greater universe outside of us.

Unfortunately, it’s like I compartmentalise everything to such a degree that I can’t see the links (as I am wont to do in my misguided attempts at trying to simplify things).  Plus, I find the whole concept of feelings to be rather on the abstract side, probably because I’ve spent most of my time attempting to understand them (in an effort to control them), rather than learning to recognise, identify, accept, and deal with them.  So, separating them out from my behaviour removes the concrete evidence of their existence, and turns them into an abstract puzzle.  And I don’t do abstract either, which leaves me in a bit of bind - floating in that black hole I mentioned earlier.

Asking questions like, “How do you ‘have’ your feelings?”, “What do you ‘do’ with them?”, “How do you ‘own’ them?”, or “Where do you feel them - in your head, your body, your heart?” is, I’ve discovered, rather a fruitless task because there appears to be no definitive answer.  This line of questioning simply feeds my preponderance towards obsessive analysis of the minutiae.  In short, it keeps me in my head, and doesn’t produce any result, other than a headache and overwhelming feeling of tiredness from thinking too much.

The ‘right’ question to ask (ie the one which would produce a more positive outcome, and which might create a change) would be, “How do I recognise, and deal with, my feelings?”  This is an action question.  Which is probably why I forget to ask it ‘cos, along with not ‘doing’ feelings very well, I don’t do action - I do thinking.  I have spent a large proportion of my life attempting to think myself into action, think myself out of feeling, think myself into being a different person.  And I wondered why nothing ever changed.

In the past I’ve dealt with my emotions by basically not dealing with them: instead I’ve used alcohol, food, medication, the internet, television, reading, sleep, self-analysis, and obsessions as the means with which to deal with life in general.  And the feelings themselves have become the ‘reasons’ (unconscious or otherwise) for my negative behaviour.  I’ve also found it easier to simply read about other peoples’, or watch them on tv, and ‘borrow’ theirs, having made one of my erroneous attempts at identifying myself with someone else.  Unfortunately, this is something else at which I am hopeless, so I usually come away with a confused identity which is not my own.  I probably resemble an abstract painting.

Since being diagnosed with Asperger’s and ADHD, and recognising that my wiring affects the level of self-awareness I am able to attain, I have gradually been able to let go more and more of that driving need to understand myself and the rest of the human race.  I’ve discovered that it isn’t necessary in order for me to be happy.  And it was mostly about control anyway - my misguided belief being that if I understood everything then I could manage it, and that would relieve me of all those negative emotions and behaviours, and my anxiety.  See - trying to think myself well.

There is, however, one feeling that I do recognise, but which, ironically, I have failed to identify as being a feeling, until today - restlessness.  I experience it a lot, probably as a consequence of having ADHD.  And therein lies the problem.  I have come to associate it as being intrinsically a part of ADHD, compartmentalising it as being merely an identifying ‘symptom’ of that condition, that I have failed to recognise it as a feeling at all.  And yet I describe myself as “feeling restless”.  How can a person miss something so bleeding obvious?!  Well, they can, and I have.  I have a knack for it.

So today I’m attempting to deal with my restlessness, and any other feelings I might be experiencing, in a different, more productive, and positive way by writing about them on here.  They have served a purpose.  And I feel calmer as a result.  It’s kind of like the act of writing grounds and focuses me, which is the opposite to how restlessness makes me feel - flighty, disconnected, up in the air, spacey, lacking focus and direction.  And my usual solution, which is to give my mind leave to wander and remain unfocused on the internet, compounds the problem ‘cos it seems I’m using like with like, as it were.  Like pouring more oil on an oil slick.

Still, despite all this positivity, you can guarantee I’ll continue to get in a quandary with this stuff, and forget what I’ve learnt here today.  But not to worry.  It’s kind of like learning a foreign language, and there’s nothing more foreign than the strange, alien world of feelings.  I now understand why I used to like Mr Spock so much.  Now there was a man after my own heart.  Or mind.