I Just Want Someone to Know Who I Am

I exist...I know I exist. I breathe.
I live deeply within myself, shying away from public, human contact and interaction.
I want someone to know who I am. I want someone to know, intimately, my pain.
I don't have hopes, wishes or dreams. I just want someone to hear me scream.
I've been trapped...inside myself, with memories...memories that scare me and hurt.
I want to confide, to release the onslaught, the tide.
The essence of who I am is ensconced in a silenced tomb. And I don't want to live there no more...in the forced, suppressed wordlessness.
The truth is rarely spoken. Flowers in the wind. Skating on cracked ice.
Who am I really?
I am the ultimate survivor. My life revolves around getting through the next day, the next hour or minute. Always has.
I accept that I wasn't given the option of college and career, public servant and consulate volunteer, saving this or that worthy cause.
(In a small, far away voice) "i'm a worthy cause"
There has been no salvation from the outside, no strong, caring family, loving partner, supportive friends...there isn't help outside...it has all had to come from within.
I don't want to die with no one ever knowing that I have lived.
I write about what I know. Writing is the purest salvation for you cannot bandage a wound you cannot see. I write to know me, to prove I'm real.
I exist.
The pain and hurts that have created me, exist.
And I will share them.
I will write and write and write and I will set myself free.
Maybe I'll be heard.
At least I'll get to know me.

Surviving Severe Child Abuse

An Analysis of the Types of Physical Abuse

It's no secret that I experienced a multitude of types of physical abuse at the hands of my biological parents. As a child, I examined and categorized the various forms and rated them on a personally created scale.
1) Slapping, with an open hand, usually to the face. An adult hand basically covers the entire one half of child's face. The physical pain was akin to an intense burn that gradually diminished. It frequently left an imprint the next day, which my mother would cover with make-up if there was school or a family function.
Slapping, in my family, seemed to be a reflex action and completely unexpected. There was no way to run or prepare for it, except to keep my mouth shut.
Emotionally, the slap felt very personal, highly insulting, as if by my mere presence my abuser was disgusted. It damaged self-esteem, was a reminder of my worthlessness and zero value. When slapped in public, around other family members, it was a public humiliation, like standing naked on a street corner, ostracized, laughed at, made an example of.
I would rather be punched or kicked as opposed to this act of violence...this violation.
2) Punching and Hitting, the most common type of abuse for me. We will talk about pure, physical violence, as opposed to the hitting with objects, which is actually different.
Hitting was usually the result of doing something wrong, not good enough, forgetting a task, repayment for an infraction against a sibling...in a strong sense, it was anticipated. I saw it coming. Cause and effect. If I did x then I would suffer with y.
In order to try and avoid being hit, I continually self-monitored my behavior. I became constrained within myself and memorized the various rules, carefully trying to remember each previous act that had caused me to be struck. It felt like I had a large degree of control over being hit. Well, to some degree as being in a house with seven children, oft times fingers were pointed at the innocent or parents grabbed and inflicted upon the closest one.
Punches hurt physically deeper, which, in my childish mind was often "better" as the pain was spread out over different sensory skin levels. Hmmm, okay, slapping just stung, like, one or two layers of nerve cells, confining them in a way...the pain couldn't hide or mitigate, whereas punching almost overwhelmed the affected area, making it a less and different type of pain.
I guess I should mention that I am autistic and have triple the amount of sensory neurons...in a sense, I feel so much more physically.
Emotionally, hitting wasn't as personal or insulting as slapping. It was so routine that it was a non-issue, nothing to get too upset about. It was the way my family worked.
Hitting with an object...mother with her white, Avon hair brushes, spatulas, spoons and curtain rods, was even less personal, less painful emotionally.
3) Scratching and Grabbing. Scratching, fingernails drawing blood, leaving permanent scars, was the result of being grabbed gone bad. Either I was running or trying to wrest away, or caught off guard by my mother. The scars on my neck, hands and arms are the forever reminders that I wasn't quick enough. I was coached on how to lie about them, as they were clearly visible for days. Yeah, my dog scratched me or I was playing with my brothers or some such tale.
Grabbing meant one of my parents got a hold of me when I wanted to get away and couldn't. It felt like failure. The following blows were worse for attempted escapees. It was so much easier just to confess to something I didn't do than to be grabbed, hard, by the arm, hand, neck or hair.
Emotionally, grabbing felt like being caught in a bear trap. Helplessness, that sinking feeling of personal failure and the impending doom of what would come next or when will I be released. Devastation.
If a parent was grabbing, they were highly frustrated and angry, desperate. There was no way to know what would happen next. High fear. Very high fear.
4) Burning, the intentional infliction of pain and scars with either matches or cigarettes. These are my scars from my dad and his mom, my grandmother. I always saw them coming. I was supposed to. These were purely intentional acts of torture, suppression and keeping me quiet. It worked quite effectively.
The physical pain, well, if you've ever had a burn you know. The pain is above intense and lasts for days.
Emotionally, I don't know if words can accurately portray...A lot of it was regarding their power and control over me. I guess I can't really go into the emotional scars quite yet.
I was going to add a couple more but I'll stop here. I think I've said enough to give you a good idea of how damaging some forms of physical child abuse can be.

My Favorite, the Best Alfred Hitchcock Movies

I've been fortunate to have had the opportunity to watch a plethora of Hitchcock Movies on TCM, the Turner Classic Movie station, throughout this month of July.
I have not seen them all but I will list the movies that I am making my selections from.
It's worthy noting that I shudder at violence, thus any films with high or grotesque violence I automatically give a thumbs down to.
Here are my favorites in no particular order:
**Marnie- 1964 starring Tippi Hendron and Sean Connery. This film is pure Hitchcock and pulls lots of punches. The acting is flawless. The storyline twists and is full of suspense and intrigue. A film close to my heart as it reveals the power if repressed memories. I also enjoyed Sean Connery as an altruistic, compassionate and caring being. Awesome film!!
**Shadow of a Doubt-1943 starring Joseph Cotton and MacDonald Carey. Pure brilliance!!! The mystery unravels at a slow pace and clues pop up, small and erratic building to the final, shocking climax!!
**Lifeboat-1944, a rich cast of characters stranded in a lifeboat. Watching their narratives unravel, heartstopping surprises, characters connection in the face of uncertainty and possible death. A favorite, must-see.
Spellbound-1945 Ingrid Bergman, Gregory Peck. Consuming suspense thriller filled with twists and turns. The Salvatore Dali special sequence is fantastic. A rather surreal film. Highly enjoyable!!
**Rope- 1948 OMG, so much to say and love regarding this film from the avant-garde shooting perspective, the macrabe humor and plot, the perfection of the neurotic actors, the delicate unravelling. Love, love, love.
**Dial M for Murder-1954 Grace Kelly and Ray Milland. My virginal experience into Alfred's world. Ideal plot, excellent actor portrayals, what's not to love?
*** Rear Window- what can I say? Five stars all the way.
***Vertigo-1958 Kim Novak, Jimmy Stewart, a must-see, excellent acting, suspenseful plot, slowly drawn out, surprising conclusion. A psychological thriller.
***North by Northwest-1959 Cary Grant. An iconic film that keeps you guessing. The Mount Rushmore scene is always to be remembered. Fantastic!!!
Other notables: I, Confess Fabulous!!! Montgomery Clift at his finest. Four stars
Strangers on a Train Great!!!
Psycho (terrifying but excellent)
The Birds (great film, too violent for me)
Stage Fright an okay film
The Trouble with Harry nice, light comedy but too trite for me
Foreign Correspondent okay, ending too traumatic for me
Suspicion- biggest reason I dislike thus film is the constant degradation of the female character by the nickname "monkeyface"..just offensive to me. Disappointing ending.
The Paradine Case
Notorious
To Catch a Thief
The Man Who Knew Too Much (disliked for personal reasons, a child kidnapped)
The Wrong Man (interesting starring Henry Fonda but too slow, boring for my tastes)
Topaz too much violence
Torn Curtain way too much violence
Frenzy unable to watch due to violence.
Those are the movies that I have seen.
My selection of favorites!!!

Living with MPD DID and laying low, downtime

Having active MPD, a competent therapist, switching and talking about major revelations is high energy consumption. I'm learning the value of laying low, self-care and lying in bed for hours upon hours. MPD work Is Exhausting!!!!!
This week, I haven't had a full day of relatively normal activities; you know, getting chores done, errands or even working on my art. The energy required and expended in therapy has left me a sloth with zero impetus to venture out of bed.
Recovering and processing big stuff requires Big downtime. Take it without an ounce of guilt. Snuggle in bed with your favorite comfort objects, pillows and pets. Don't worry about the dishes or laundry. You will awaken one day and feel up to getting things done, don't worry.
Therapy and healing is priority and the equivalent of a full time job with sporadic overtime. Downtime isn't a luxury; it's a necessity.
I'll be up and running again. Just needing lots of quiet time in bed, processing a hundred pieces of new info.
Take care of yourself

Do Angels Walk Among Us?

I've often wondered if there truly are humans that are angels in disguise. I know their are kind people scarcely scattered about, but are there angels, dressed in human suits that are benevolent and loving, giving and supporting without asking anything in return?
I must admit the idea of an angel walking around and serendipitously meeting me, wanting nothing more then to care...is a new, brand spanking new, random thought. Maybe this is what I picture hope as looking like. Hope is another foreign concept in my shattered world, but maybe, just maybe my view of the landscape as being full of malicious and sinister malcontents out to get me, is changing.
I'd like to...try to entertain this neoteric notion even though the majority of my experiences have proven the exact opposite. Maybe, just maybe.
I've seen this concept in a couple of movies, Marnie being the latest. I shake my head as I write.....yet, i reach for this ideal like the tail of a kite barely out of reach.

I don't feel desperate anymore

A couple days ago...was a breakthrough therapy session. It's been a thick fog, distant voices, snippets of conversations with Neo, since therapy. I've mostly been sleeping, lying down or simply deeply lost in this waking, walking self, reminding myself to eat something and take puppy out for a walk. It's good that I am temporarily living alone as even the idea of carrying on a coherent conversation eludes me. 
Yesterday the only clear thought was "I live an extraordinary life." I know I'm not average or anywhere near close to typical based on my experiences and reactions to them.
Just now, I realized that I no longer feel desperate. Desperation was my constant sidekick, and, for some reason, based on therapeutic events...it is gone.
What was I desperate for? Someone to hear my disparaging screams. Judging by the uncomfortable silence, lack of eye contact and the wide berth I was given in the crowded waiting room after session, I made my voice loud enough for all to hear, even from the office of occupied about 20 feet away.
After decades of pounding walls and muffled screams, I found someone willing to hear me or a therapist I felt I could take that chance on.
Gone is the desperation...the aching for food, money, a body to hold, and the searching, the frantic running through dark, scary forests filled with ravenous beasts.
It's weird, odd, almost unsettling to feel my own feet and to not be running towards some thing or chased by fears.
Near indescribable really, to be out of the tear-soaked, thick clouds and find clarity on semi-solid ground.
So, this is the ground? Strange how heavy it all feels...
Anyway, it would take 7 hours and 12 pages to write all that transpired in this week's one hour session.  As the mists continue to lift, I'm sure more clarity will present itself.

I Live an Extraordinary Life

I survived incest, child sexual abuse

Distress, near tears...False Love, Missing You

I've been near tears most of the day. I have no idea why, so I thought I'd write in an attempt to figure it all out.
As I have been organizing, I realize that I do miss having my youngest son here with me. It's been about a month now. I miss his presence, his voice, ice cream sundae Sunday and his hugs.
My therapist is away for a week. I miss talking with her, looking forward to appointments and the huge relief I often feel at the end of session. Plus, she gives great hugs with those long arms.
I miss my best friend Lis. I just do is all.
I'm rather stressed out. I've been socializing at a rather frenetic pace, for me anyway. Most of the time I've thoroughly enjoyed it but feeling good and having fun seems to come at a high price for me. One afternoon of fun typically equals a day or two of sleep and nothing else. My energy is zapped for a couple days and I fall behind on getting things done at the house.
As I've been dating...i see more clearly...how much work and energy is required in interacting. I see my shortfalls, my disabilities, my slowness in thought and how challenging daily life, mundane average tasks are for me. Hmm. Part of me seriously wonders if I'd be able to sustain a healthy relationship given I require so much downtime and self care.
I see myself as a child trying to learn the rules of the road, the rules of dating and the effort and time needed just to get to know someone well.
Maybe I can never have a steady relationship or the ability to sustain one anyway. If that is the case, I need to learn to be okay with that. I'm not saying it isn't viable, I'm just questioning, seriously questioning whether I'm able to actively participate in a comfortable relationship given my sensory issues and needed time for rest and processing.
I feel a loss...like, I'm not as far along in my recovery as I thought I was. A bit of grief maybe at being able to see in the mirror more clearly.
I feel more vulnerable and cautious, like I'm a small child in a very big, highly unpredictable world. Lol, I rarely feel like I'm an adult and adults partake in different things then children do.
The world outside is moving too fast as the world inside is shifting with awareness. I'm juggling 7 balls incessantly and I tire and I'm weaker then I thought and I keep dropping the ball, getting frustrated with myself and my mental restraints of having gray matter that functions so slow, flips switches and routinely loses balls under the rug, the bed and way back behind the fridge.
I like my friends that I communicate with once every couple of weeks or so. They don't find fault with me or expect more then I can give.
I don't have much to give, to others outside. It's a brutal reality as I bundle up my coat tighter against the freezing sheets of sleet. It's like I'm in a blizzard and I can't find warmth or comfort outside anyway.
I'm gifted with curiosity and creativity. It almost hurts not to be able to pursue my arts, crafts and special interests. My passion sits on a shelf, staring down at me, forlorn, waiting for when I have the time and energy to enrich myself and pick up paint brush or wood glue or create an assemblage, a painting, sharpie a card, delve into mapping, so so much I want to pursue yet my hands are tied, metaphorically speaking.
Then there is the whole idea that I've learned love or, their misbegotten definition of it, all too well. My mother, my ex used the L word a whole lot and it never meant anything warm and fuzzy. Their love was empty, cold and meant outward shows with smiles, words and a multitude of gifts, yet, they were completely incapable of giving any emotion, any warmth, genuine care and worthy respect. I learned love wrong. I learned their definition and now I am aware that it was falselove, badlove, love full of manipulation and hurt. Trying to figure out how to fix my dictionary as I believed all their slanted, manipulative words and empty gestures.
Yeah, I don't know what the real definition, truelove feels and smells like without the taste of ick. They taught me well and all wrong. They were both narcissist, you know. Both heavily damaged, unable to see their own cruelty and shortcomings and unwilling to be aware of how damaged they really are and how they hurt and destroyed those they "loved".
You can't fix what you refuse to acknowledge is broken. I don't feel much pity for them. They have had ample opportunity to seek professional help and see what pain and hurt they caused, choosing to remain broken and cruel. I refuse to waste my breathe on those who never heard or saw my cries.
I guess that's why I miss Lis. She was one of the few kind and truly loving beings I've been blessed with. I guess, if I can date and find the right person that they would be a lot like her in heart and spirit. Damn, I was lucky she was in my life those long ago years when I had no one.
Well, a week from tomorrow I see my therapist. My one friend and I will have lunch next week. My other friend is a texting session about every week or two. I have weekly acupuncture and that seems to help move out old energy and calm down the anxiety.
I was able to complete most of the items on my task list and even had an hour to color.
Tomorrow there be another list and again, I will attempt to indulge my art for at least an hour if energy permits.
I'm not sure I touched on the crux of my tears. They seem to have arisen due to a multitude of factors. I may have to write more tomorrow. Maybe tonight my dreams will enlighten me, as they often do.
Take care
Be kind
Thanks for reading

And sometimes I just start crying... What is love?

Because I clearly remember the pain of rejection and being treated as worthless, a nobody and someone to be tolerated and ignored, hour after hour, day by day. This was my normal. I was too sick to move, to feed, care or even dress myself and the one person in the world that I thought loved me did absolutely nothing to ease my suffering.
She wouldn't take me to doctor appointments...no, she was much too important and busy for that but if the cat got sick, she dropped everything to take him to the vet. The cat had far more value than I, her "partner".
I can't imagine being more helpless in a body wracked with pain and unable to move and she watched me suffer and didn't give a tinker's dam. How could that be anything but neglect, abuse and damaging blows to my shattered psyche?
She knew I had grown up severely abused, relentlessly tortured, starved and neglected. Basically, she took the malfeasances that I endured and inflicted deeper wounds on the ones not even healed.
It does make me angry...the depth of human cruelty, the lengths to which one can turn a blind eye and kick the sh*t out of someone who can't even crawl. How could she??????????
Where is God and hope and justice and f*cking human decency?
Those 20 years with her almost equalled my first 20 hellish years but in a more subtle manipulative way. She knew I was a victim and made the conscience decision to inflict more harm. Who does that? Who can live with themselves, sleep well at night and look themselves in the mirror...and smile with self-satisfaction?? What kind of f*cking animal allows her "soul mate" to sleep on a couch night after night for decades because she refuses to share her bedroom or comfy queen size bed??? Someone who is clearly sick with a major, documented illness and she provides zero support, comfort or assists with the basic necessities of life.
Who is so selfish, self-righteous and egotistical that she can easily walk past and ignore someone in great distress?
What kind of inhumane flotsam walk this earth with head held high and never feel anything but self-absorbtion even when she shares a living room for hours everyday and she does nothing to help???
How can someone have such a blackened soul and hardened heart?
I suffered...i suffered horribly in the presence of someone who said they loved me, wanted to marry me and I was her soulmate. How screwed up and deranged is that person's mind? What would she have done if she didn't like me??? She could not get any lower.
The pain, the grievous injustice, the pure daily cruelty overwhelms me. In a way, her sickness ....is worse than mine. She can't see it and continues to feed and malign others. She sees no wrong, She sees No wrong in anything she has ever done. How f*cking sick!!!!!!
She will Never Apologize!! Never take Any responsibility for her neglect, for her cruelty and for the endless daily pain she inflicted upon me. She will forever be blind, deaf, abusive and completely self-absorbed in her narcissistic little warped world whereby I'm a piece of sh*t and she's the mother of big dogs dragging oversized balls.
How do things like that live with themselves?
How can any hurt me so...how can anyone choose to repeatedly, venomously and with great vigor decide to harm me?
God, I am such a nice person. And God I have suffered enough. I don't know why I was her perfect victim and all I saw in her was good for so very long. We were both blind.
That Wasn't Love!!!! That was so very far from love. She said the word just like my mom and dad and it didn't mean anything but hurt.
It's difficult to acknowledge the chest of heartache she caused, mostly because it would give her satisfaction to know how much she hurt me.
I cried a couple times every week on the couch...the only space in a 2400 square foot house that was allotted as mine.
She hurt me by lying with distorted words. She hurt me by daily treating me as an infidel. She hurt me by metaphorically punching me in the chest everyday with her cold, dead eyes. I was suffering and I was nothing to her...and it took forever to escape that death chamber and her narcissistic grip.
It hurt that I used to believe her when she said she loved  me when she was really just punching me in the chest and showering me with hatred manipulated.
I'm working to undo the damage little by little. It's like unraveling twisted metal that has begun to rust. I have to teach myself what love truly is...not the evil thing she and parents instilled within me. I've thought that word almost vile and why would anyone seek it? Now I know my friends...sadly and with great shudders now I know.
They taught and demonstrated that love hurt and meant feeling very bad about myself...that wasn't love. They showed that love meant being viciously wounded and hurt with a smile on their face.
God, I see where things have gone wrong....and the work I have to do to actually be able to feel pure, true love.
Lies, all lies....i get it now.
My work begins anew...finally headed in the right direction...thank you God

Alone not lonely

Being Alone & Misunderstood

Trying to Decompress, PT/ OT a trigger nightmare

I'm on a roll, like a monster ball rolling downhill picking up debris and speed with every mile.
Last week, I had my first and only Physical Therapy session for my injured left wrist. It was one unexpected trigger after another and I had no way of stopping the hellatious roller coaster ride. I have cancelled allll scheduled appointments and will never go back. If anyone suggests PT in the future, I am instructed to politely decline or run screaming from the room.
The triggers were (due to my extremely abusive past, my complex posttraumatic stress disorder and my dissociative identity disorder):
My instructor making a tight fist and instructing me to do the same.
Dipping my entire hand, repeatedly, into hot, burning wax  (oh, the recent burn memories!!!!#$@).
My instructor producing previously never seen large, handheld gadgets that looked like they could have been weapons.
Okay, stop, as those were the three big ones that produced rage, intense fear and panic.
You know, it continues to amaze me..this fucking struggle, turkey dance, this insane minefield that I'm forced to walk through every fucking day, never knowing when I'm going to blow.
The struggle is so very real, visceral and it tastes like a raw lemon rind.
It's so important that I write, that I share and am heard. The struggle is Astounding!!!!!!!!

Rough Days, Autism, Triggers, Memories

It's been extremely rough...seems like one unsettling incident after another...my knuckles are bruised and bleeding, metaphorically speaking.
Can't seem to get enough chores done or enough restful sleep. Always tired. Low energy. Pondering the cobwebs and why they blow without foreseeable wind, yet the dirt speck dares not move. The night brings peace and the agony of knowing night is not forever, it will break into dawn. The taskmaster rises with the sun.
I pray for inner peace and the strength to manage these mountains. Rest, rest, okay

Today's traumatic incident, Aspergers Meltdown

It's the little things...the daily stuff that shocks and sends me into overload, like spilling hoy coffee on a keyboard and watching the sparks and smoke. I shortcircuited and melted down into a somewhat incoherent, panicking hot mess. That was hours ago. My head's still ringing. Can't go into the kitchen without the feeling that the sink is on fire and I have to run.
So, what exactly happened? It's so usually innocuous that hesitate. That plus my lips restart uttering nonsense tics at the thought of writing.
I'm just going to simplify here...i dropped a couple of spoons, accidently into the garbage disposal, turned it on, horrendous racket, count turn it off right away, finally I turned it off and ran (screaming only on the inside) out my front door like the house was on fire. I bolted. I shook, stammered, quaked. Felt like I'd drank 10 cups of coffee and couldn't talk right or think straight. I hailed a maintenance guy to remove the busted silverware.
I ain't been right since. Settling back down is taking awhile. That was 12 hours ago. I just tried washing the last few dishes but flew into a panic again. Still reacting.
Just wanted to write about one of the difficulties of my everyday waking life.
Still very rattled. Just have to wait till it all calms down.

Autism and Ownership, Overthinking, Personal Property

So I'm working on building a 5 bedroom dollhouse. This presents a number of challenges. I struggle to read and understand written instructions and this dollhouse has a book to work from. I have to slowly read each step about a dozen times. I've discovered this rereading is best done with hours or days in between. My brain has to figure exactly what needs to be done and time does seem to help instructions to be understood.
Anyway, the issue of ownership came in to play today. I had two 2 foot sections of flooring that needed to be painted. I read the instructions, wrote down the type of floor stain needed, polyshades, and went to my local hardware store for just the polyshades and some sponge brushes. I also need to stain the shingles with a different type of stain but I didn't risk buying both and getting confused and messing up. I'll get the shingle stain After I finish the flooring.
Next, I needed a place to stain. Indoors was completely out of the question as polyurethane needs high ventilation. I thought about opening the trunk of my car, laying down plastic and cardboard and painting there, but then I would have had to leave the trunk open and exposed, vulnerable and that wasn't going to work.
Here's the crux, I live in an apartment complex, thus the parking lot and grounds do not belong to me. I could not paint in any place that I did not have exclusive rights to as it would be explicitly wrong, in my beautiful autistic mind. I spent hours searching for a solution.
People say "overthinking" like it's a bad thing when they don't realize that, to some of us autistics, it's an Absolute Necessity!!!!
I didn't want to do something wrong, get yelled at or commit an infraction. Finally, I settled on a solution. I would stain on my stoop, the 4 x 4 sidewalk area directly in front of my apartment. It's a Sunday, the office would be closed and foot traffic low. It was the only recourse, in my mind. Yes, I was able to apply the first coat of stain being very cautious not to get any drips on the apartment complex concrete.
Ownership is a huge issue for me. If I'm in someone's home, I don't touch anything unless I ask first. Likewise, the things in my home are not to be touched unless I give permission, hence, I rarely let anyone into my home.
I've gotten more...at ease with my car. The car is more of a community property thing in that things can be touched and for some reason unknown, I've been perfectly comfortable letting a friend of mine drive. Maybe it's because I'm giving permission. Maybe this new friend is just a wonderful, trustworthy anomaly that I feel completely comfortable around, I don't know.
The other blaring example of (new places are a special type of autistic hell) not touching things...my dear friend was in ICU, an unfamiliar place for me. I didn't know the rules, had no one to ask and was completely lost on protocol...could I push the chair, the hospital's chair not mine, up closer to the bed so we could talk? Could I move the rolling table out of the way or was it in that particular position for a specific, unknown to me reason? I timidly moved the chair, all the while feeling I was committing some major infraction
See, I don't know the rules outside of my own house yet every neurotypical naturally knows them!!!!!!!! I have to brainstorm, second guess, dare to ask, hope for the best or base things on items I've read or previous experience.
This Is my everyday life...spending hours upon hours trying to figure out the things most people innately know
Its exhausting!!!!!!!!
Welcome to my world

A Surfeit of Arbitrary Thoughts, Autism MPD

Lying in bed last night, erratic thoughts and ideals arose from the flotsam that frequently surfaces in the twilight of impending sleep.
I dream of whales, or in particular one dark grey humpback whale. Maybe it's a spirit totem, God in disguise or an aqueous angel. Could it be my new proximity to the coast, the Pacific migratory waters (yes, I checked, the night of my whale dream humpbacks where spotted near the shore)? I'm not sure.
I'm currently ensconced in quiet time, submerged and away from everything external. I can only find and remember my own rhythm when alone so I'm taking some time to reset to myself, to slow way down from the upbeat, hectic pace of the outside world. It's taking a bit, many hours of self talk and absence of chatter to calm my self and locate some hard fought inner peace.
I slumber day and sometimes night in the warmest, deepest, most welcoming sleep like a personal, temperate cocoon all my own wherein often I resist the urge to stir and awake, my comfort so thorough and complete. My time is my own, such rarity!
Awareness, I've finally realized that I am meticulously safe from the external clutches of my former cruel foes. I wept when I felt this to my core. I've been fighting off the evil beasts as far back as I could remember, and dealing with their prevailing thought patterns ever since. I'm starting to feel the effects of this new thing called Safe, whereby I believed that everyone was deliberately out to hurt me. I must attribute this new sensation to the privilege of sharing company with women that don't want to hurt me, women who actually like me, care about how I feel and treat me with respect. All New to Me, and most positive. I do spend considerable time processing this new information as it is so bizarre and unfamiliar to me
Yes, I kept breaking out and releasing suppressed tears from a multitude of arenas. It's all good and highly healthy.
My PT the other day was horrid. My ptsd was highly triggered on multiple levels. I can never go back. I tire, from the depths of my soul, of having to explain how every day, trivial matters are pure, high and jagged mountains to overcome. Seriously, only another Autistic Multiple could truly understand. Enough said.
Therapy and it's aftermath is highly intense these days and it will continue to be so for a spell. I'm working. I'm working awfully damn hard and maintaining an external life as well.
It's been busy but so much of it is veryvery good. Catching some rest.
Thanks for reading.
Be well

To be clear...this is just one torture experience

My memory has become clearer, on all the events revealed in last week's therapy session. What my grandmother did to me when I was 8, on one visit with her.
She had me lay naked and threw lit matches onto my front and back. (I don't yet know when the cigarette burns up and down my back occurred, but in her words it was "To build character".
With the stick matches, grandmother would hold some of my hair in one hand, right in front of me I saw her and with the other hand a lit stick match. She would give me a haircut, set my hair on fire and then put it out. Afterwards, she would wash my hair in the sink. The smell of burnt hair.
I always worried she'd go to far, especially with the stick matches lightly burning my face or between my legs. That last stuff, really burned.
At the end, when she was done burning, she'd apply silvadean ointment to calm and sooth the burning areas. I detest that cream, the sight of the jar, it's cold medicinal feel, it's rank strong smell (again it smelled like sulfur) and the cream also meant she would have to touch me with her grotesque, ugly, defiling hands. No bandaids, never any bandaids to show there was a wound and make others suspicious...as if anyone was going to give a rats ass.
She took stick matches and held them longer at my face, genitals and feet.
She told me all the many ways that she could kill me: poison that I couldn't taste put into my food or drink; snap my neck with just one of her hands; smoother me in my sleep by putting a pillow over my face or simply by forcing her hand over my mouth and nose, as she said "little children go to bed and don't wake up all the time" or she could drown me by holding my head under water in the tub or lake.
I hate matches and won't use them. The smell of sulfur makes me sick and I'm actually highly allergic to sulfur. I can't help but wonder if I became hypervigilant to sulfur due to the threats....smelling sulfur means danger, don't eat, don't drink. The smell of matches...danger, I'm going to get burned again.
Maybe hell smells like that, sulfur and evil grandmother mixed with silvadean.
That's just the burn stuff. The sex stuff is for a much later date.
Yeah, I was torured...this is just one experience recalled....you have a hard time believing, don't you?....so do I, so do i

Ugly Truth, Torture

Lately, with Neo, new therapist, I've been discovering some ugly truths, some terrible things that were done to me by close relatives.
I don't know what to do with this new, old information so thus I blog. It's probably not for the feint of heart, nor is it conversational fodder.
It makes no sense that a grandparent would intentionally torture her own granddaughter...except, I'm guessing, it somehow appeased her own tortured soul. I can only wager that similar deep and disturbing acts were done to her when she was young.
Here goes...
I remember being 8 years old, naked and laying on the master bed which was covered with a fireproof tarp. I had been ordered to put the tarp there before I watched grandmother pour two glasses of deep purple wine.
In the smaller shot glass she added white powder from a small folded envelope. I can only guess that it was something she brought home from the pharmacy where she worked. The powder only went into my glass, not her taller one. She drank and smoked as I drank the hot peppery liquid.
Next thing I remember is laying face up on the bed, watching grandmother pull matches off their little book, light them and fling them onto my torso. She walked around the bed, always smiling with moments of furrowed, angry brow mixed with her cackling laughter.
I'd watch where the matches flew, bracing myself, tightening muscles, trying to imagine the match bouncing away or the flame snuffing out quickly. The flame typically lasted only briefly. Grandmother was often carefully to leave few marks by flicking the match quickly. The faster it was thrown, the quicker it went out.
She also used stick matches...but those had a different, more sinister mission. Grandmother didn't like my hair very long or simply took great delight in trimming my hair with matches. She would hold a small clump of hair in one hand and a lit stick match in the other. She'd singe the edges and rub out the flame...usually quickly. The acrid smell of burning hair assaults me still. Olfactory flashback.
That wasn't the worst thing she did with the long-lasting stick matches but I'm not going to write anymore tonight.
I feel damaged.

Autism and Shutdown, Low Energy

I answer to my autism. I have to continually monitor my activities and interactions. I have to be aware and observation of the subtle signs of impending exhaustion, a heaviness in the limbs, mental sluggishness, slowed almost slurred speech and listlessness, not wanting to do anything but sit or lay down.
If I fail to acknowledge these first symptoms and continue my everyday activities, I fall into shutdown whereby I do the bare minimum of self care; I can sleep for over 20 hours a day for days at a time and I frequently fall into selective mutism and my verbal center stops working complete.
Autistic Shutdown, AS, to me, feels like a waking coma. I'm not helpless within myself but I am helpless in my ability to communicate and interact externally. A low level prison without any bars and no one can see me, see my predicament.
I used to both fear and hate AS. I ran to doctors looking for answers to my days of fatigue. All tests come back normal. It wasn't until I found other autistics in fb groups that I realized AS is a very normal part of being an Autistic. Sigh. Just because it's normal doesn't make it any easy to acknowledge that I'm not always in control of my own life and what I want to do.
Big events, day trips, multiple appointments all have to be well thought out with lots of breaks and downtime. I need to keep track of every event and carefully schedule each appointment so that I'll have the maximum functionality, productivity and try and avoid the AS.
It's taken me some serious self talk and time, that with age comes wisdom thingy, to accept the fact that this is simply who I am and a daily part of this autistic life. It's useless, counterproductive to hate or be upset with things I'm hardwired for and cannot change.
I accept that AS are a major factor in my waking life. It's just who I am.
I've even gotten better at helping people, friends understand it. I felt..gosh, embarrassed, ashamed, faulty maybe and I'd try and hide the AS as much as possible. Just the past week I've chosen to explain it...It Is Still hard to explain and acknowledge, a bit uncomfortable but that's cause I'm not used to talking about.
I guess the page has turned and this really is a new chapter...Accepting My Autistic Shutdowns.
I done good!