Assimilate The Child, The Bitch, Asperger & Me

Nearly a year ago I came to this site and quite frankly I was a mess; insecure, angry, somewhat neurotic, a touch paranoid, filled with self-loathing and praying each night that I’d close my eyes and not wake up in the morning. I looked terrible and felt even worse and my personal mantra seemed to be “I just don’t want to feel like this anymore” coupled with a sense of despair.

I didn’t actually want to join 43T to start with, I just wanted to find a magical website that would give me solutions and bring that golden moment of clarity. I was looking for instant answers to some personal questions but every time I typed something into the search engine 43T posts were being brought up in the top 4 or 5 results. In the end, I gave in to Universal shoving and began to read.

I was overwhelmed by the raw honesty and deep reflection that was evident in so many of the entries. I was equally amazed by the support that others offered to the writers of these posts. It felt like a good place to be but the closeness and caring between members, to a certain degree, actually put me off. My experiences being the new person trying to become involved with an established group had never been especially successful in the past and I felt scared of potential rejection, worried about being perceived negatively and just so damned inferior to all these positive, upbeat, life-affirming strangers; what the hell did I have to offer and why on earth would anyone want to reach out to me?

But I kept on reading, through the night. I searched out posts and entries that related to how I was feeling, often crying at the loving and heartfelt responses, advice and friendship that I saw being offered, and wishing, always wishing, that I could feel connected to people in that way. When I finally collapsed into bed at around 5am I was emotionally wrung out, utterly exhausted and not really feeling any better about myself. However, something must have set a seed inside my mind because over the next few days all I could think about was this site and the things I’d read. A new determination began to take hold of me and so I came back to 43T and joined up.

I didn’t expect for anyone to talk to me or try to help me; I just wanted to make my list and quietly work through it, almost wanting to be left alone in my own little space of the internet to just express myself. Mostly I hoped no-one would be mean to me or make fun of me. My head space at the time told me that if I didn’t get ‘involved’ then I couldn’t be rejected; better to stand alone than to risk having others push you away. By ‘eck though, that’s a lonely state to condemn yourself to, particularly when you don’t even like yourself very much, and when all’s said and done, I didn’t really want to be alone; I wanted to be accepted.

And so the process that lead me to this goal began. My earlier goals were about being nicer to my husband, less angry in general, loving myself; they were important steps but the problem was that all these initial goals focussed on trying to make other people believe I was ‘nice’. It was a tactic that was unlikely to succeed because no matter how much I tried to shape myself in order to win approval, I could never please all of the people all of the time, so was inevitably brought down low again when someone responded negatively to me. I would lay down to be walked over, like a doormat with the words ‘Welcome – please wipe your feet’ written across it, then I would get angry and resentful that people treated me this way. Of course, my anger and resentment would undo all the ‘look, I’m a nice person’ display that I’d been putting out and so the self-damaging cycle would continue. I didn’t know how to stand up for myself without being aggressive and I had no real grasp on what was and was not ok to accept from other people in terms of the way I was treated. I just believed that if I could be better, nicer, cleaner, purer, then people would love me, treat me accordingly and I’d feel good about myself. Each time I yelled at my husband or cut someone dead in the street, I would sit for hours afterwards punishing myself mentally for behaving like that, always blaming myself.

As time went by certain people on this site began to respond to me, to reach out and talk to me. It sounds so silly but every time I got a cheer, every time someone paid me a compliment, or just took time to comment on what I’d written, I would be stunned. It was almost beyond comprehension that people seemed to like me…..but of course, I’d remind myself that they didn’t really know me, and if they did, well they’d soon change their minds about me. I felt like a fraud.

I got involved in a couple of unpleasant incidents on here, said my piece loud and clear (heart pounding and fear causing the adrenalin to pump so hard it made me shake as I typed) and still I wasn’t chased from the site or ostracised by the community. I was so scared that I would be labelled a trouble-maker and rejected but, in fact, several people (really good, solid, kind people who I’d not had the nerve to interact with previously) held out a hand and offered me friendship. This showed me something brand new; I could speak up and express myself without having to agree with the majority or the ‘stronger’ element, and still not be vilified. It revealed something else to me as well, something far more important; that in order to feel good about myself I must be true to myself. How could I be bitter towards people for not understanding me or treating me right when I didn’t actually do that for myself?

From early childhood I’d tried to please others and failed. I’d set myself up for repeatedly being told I wasn’t good enough. As a child I’d known no different, as an adult I’d allowed this to take place; it had to stop. The starting point had to be me; if I didn’t like something in me then I had to change it but I had to listen to myself very carefully in order to work out what I genuinely didn’t like about myself and what were merely shadows and reflections placed on me by others. Did I really need to try to be a better wife, or did I need to learn to set boundaries and say, “You must be a better husband”? Was my anger towards others really unjustified and horrible, needing to be removed from my soul or was it that I needed to learn to express it more appropriately, harness it more effectively? And loving myself; was that something I could only do through the approval of others or did that reliance on such transient, external validation actually fuel the insecurity and self hatred?

I’m not going to rehash what I’ve already posted; key factors of this journey of self discovery have been posted publicly. I’ve dug and I’ve delved, I’ve been brutally honest with myself and I’ve been gentle with myself, I’ve taken my inner demons by the throat and hauled them out into the daylight so I can inspect them properly without them wriggling off into their guilt filled caverns to fester some more. I’ve told my ‘shameful secrets’ publicly and privately to people I’m truly honoured and blessed to be able to call my friends (you know who you are, I hope!) and bit by bit I’ve been cleansed and healed.

I’ve thrown away the old robes that others have dressed me in and begun to don the skin that is mine. The toughest part has been to stand naked (metaphorically speaking) and not to cower when others look. It’s so easy to let others walk you back to your familiar ruts and paths, to feel bad when people say, “Why are you being like this? It’s not you!” So much harder to say, “Actually, this is me and I’m sorry if you don’t like it but I will not change it.” It’s interesting, don’t you think, how quick others are to tell you you’re selfish because you are doing what is right for you and not what they want you to do. But with each step I’ve learned a little more, gained a little confidence, begun to realise my own worth and felt less burdened by myself.

I didn’t know at what point I would mark this goal complete; a part of me suspected that it would be many years before I could say I was done, and maybe that’s true to an extent. After all, self development is a life long journey that’s only really complete when you die (and if you have certain beliefs, it’s not finished even then). Then, a few weeks before Christmas I took action on something that I felt was preventing me from moving any further forward and as a result became more ‘real’ than I have ever previously been, unexpectedly bringing this goal to a conclusion.

I’d shared the details of my marriage with a very good friend and told of incidents that had never been shared with anyone else previously because I was ashamed. This friend helped me to see that I had no reason to be ashamed, that burden belonged to my husband. The friend also helped me to realise that, where one specific and horrific incident was concerned, if I could not forgive then I must let my husband go and stop the mutual punishment we were delivering to each other as a consequence of it. I knew that as things stood, I could never forgive. My husband had never taken the steps necessary to enable me to heal from that event and had, in fact, allowed a situation to develop where I was the one who was being blamed for the actions of someone else. Where he should have defended and protected me, he was cowardly and weak. He didn’t put me first in a situation where there should have been no question about it and I couldn’t forgive that. Nor could I forgive his continued choice of the other person above me.

I told my husband I wanted a divorce. I cried when I told him but I knew I was, at last, being honest with myself and him. I’d spent years telling myself that a forgiving and decent person would put the event behind them, not harbour a grudge and that a good wife would most definitely not ask their husband to choose between his wife and a member of his family. I’d asked my husband to choose the night the incident took place, and he’d not chosen me; I wasn’t prepared to ask again. When I told him I spoke without anger, as somehow the acceptance of the end of the marriage had taken away the rage, leaving behind just the hurt and sadness of something once so good now being seemingly lost. At that point I stepped fully into my own self, certain of the right to feel the way I did and with no fear that this made me ‘bad’.

We didn’t speak for over 36 hours and then he came to my study and asked to talk with me. He had made a choice. He knew that I may not wish to continue with our marriage, despite him having finally chosen to take the right course of action and to cut this family member from his life; he did it anyway because he knew that he should have done it several years ago. He told me that he understood if I wanted him gone and that he would still support me through university regardless. He told me that all the family he needs, all the future he wants is here, in me (and my son). He told me that no matter what happens, no matter how many years go by, he can never compensate for the things he’s done and allowed to be done to me, but that he would spend the rest of his life trying to be the man I deserved to be with, if I would let him. And if not, then he would hope that I would find someone who would honour me as he should have done.

Now, this might seem like an ‘in-law’ feud or a battle to ‘have him as mine’, but it wasn’t and isn’t. There is no triumph for me in seeing my husband reject his brother. However, by stating myself clearly, I stripped away the false picture that had been built around me. By being true to myself I made my husband see me as I really am; by knowing my own worth I enabled my husband to place true value on me and our marriage. I didn’t force his decision and I certainly didn’t expect it. In fact, on past behaviour I fully expected him to have a jolly good rant at me, pack his bags and be gone within an hour of me first asking for the divorce.

I don’t know what will happen over the long term, but we have each taken a huge step out of the cess pit of misery that we were wallowing in. I dare to have hope and I can feel his hand in mine as we turn away from the past and look forward together; I want us both to fulfil our potential and to learn and grow together. The divorce is off the table.

My marriage isn’t Me, so what has this got to do with this goal? Well, I finally got to grips with the fact that certain things happen because I give others tacit permission to treat me that way. By ceasing to worry about what a ‘good’ person would do, and how I would be perceived by others, and instead acting upon what I needed, parts of me stopped fighting each other and settled down. I learned that when I connect with my inner needs, my true feelings, that I feel peace inside. My thoughts might panic and my fears may rise, but the core of me remains calm and whole. When I do that, and love myself as I ought, I’m happy. The parts of me that were splintered and separate have come together; I understand them now. I also learned that if I am to be loved and respected by others, I must first give it to myself then demand it of others. External attitudes can never compensate for the lack of internal belief; it all stems from within.

Today I stand proudly and say, “This is Me” and I truly don’t mind if the world doesn’t like it.

This goal is complete and so am I.
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“Searching for meaning, searching for worth, I am directed inward.
I excavate through the layers of resentment,
guilt, sadness and shame
to find that my identity is none of these emotions
but a beautiful spirit that waits just beneath.
Buried beneath the tiers of buried tears,
I am discovering the unique facets of my spirit being.
Quietly she has waited for the rage of the ego to subside,
for her voice is gentle
and is not easily heard over the rant.”

Words & image by Rita Loyd
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and reclaimed another little part of Me.

It felt really good ;-)
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To accept ourselves as we are means to value our imperfections as much as our perfections._{Sandra Bierig}

Some time ago SG wrote in response to one of my posts, “please take care of who you really are”; ever since I’ve been contemplating that, attempting to define who I really am.

Over and over I’ve tried to gel my thoughts and self perception so that I can put something tangible on a page, but every time I’ve ground to halt; it’s never felt right because it’s always been some form of justification or explanation of what other people see me as, rather than what I know myself to be.

I’ve thought about how friends, work colleagues, family members, my husband, people on here, tutors, my next door neighbours and people who will never speak to me again because they hate me in some way, perceive me and I repeatedly come up with the fact that most people choose to base their whole perception of me on one or two facets of my character and personality; sometimes these are positive traits and other times the focus is on the negative. Either way, it’s a distorted reflection of myself that I’ve allowed to be my truth at times. There are clear and notable exceptions; people who know what’s in my heart, what comprises the larger percentage of me, and who don’t judge me when I fall short.

I’ve spent too long trying to persuade people to like me, to love me, to understand me; for what? So that they tell me I’m right to think I’m ok? So that I know I’m nice? Fuck that!

I’ve had enough; enough of being told I’m a bitch because sometimes I get frustrated and lose my temper and shout; enough of dumbing down the language I use because some people think ‘it’s patronising’; enough of trying to convince people I’m a good person while they take all I have to offer and continue to say “prove it”; enough being ‘the wise one’ when I have no idea what I’m doing or where I’m going half the time; enough of being ‘the strong one’ to some and the pathetic waste- of- space mess to others. Enough of all these labels and boxes; I want out of the prison.

I’ve talked to LL and Sarah about the way they see me; they say I fill them with energy yet calm and soothe them simultaneously. They have seen me raging angry, falling down drunk, helpless with depression and they are two of the few people in the world who have held me when I’ve cried and made it better by being there; they care for me more because of those times and they don’t judge me as ‘bad’. When I’m with them I’m most often at my glowing, confident best. These are the sort of people I want in my life; not because they tell me and show me what I want to see and hear, but because they see and react to the best of me whilst understanding and accepting the less shiny parts.

In contrast to this is my husband; he’s decided I’m a negative, moody, irritable person. This has come about as a consequence of him initially wrongly categorising me to be a specific type of person (meek, submissive, extremely traditional), not because I mislead him, but because he chose to only see and hear the nurturing side of me when we met…..he didn’t want to see the independence, the capability, the passion or the determination, even though clear evidence was there displaying it. When I insisted he see those sides to me by reacting in ways that were outside of the box he’d constructed for me, he then ceased to see all the good parts to me and could only see the bad. Everything I do is filtered through that perception; it’s not pretty communication between us. The worst of it is though, just as I live up to all that LL and Sarah see in me, I’ve been living down to the expectations of BBB. This is not good.

This is not about discussing my marriage, it’s about contrasts and is indicative of the way I so often become what others tell me I am. It’s about realising that I’m no longer going to be just what I’m told, I’m going to be who I know I am. Tonight I talked to my husband and reclaimed ownership of myself; it felt good. Whether that has any long term positive impact on our marriage remains to be seen, but something changed irrevocably in me.

I’m not for one moment thinking I will never again believe someone else’s poor image of me but something clicked, a part of the puzzle of this goal fell into place for me and my soul said an “Hallelujah!”

So what did I realise? Who is ‘Me’?

Me is a complex mix of passion and rage, love and bitterness, doubt and confidence, misery and joy, intellect and idiocy, maturity and childishness, lethargy and energy, vulnerability and independence, just like any other human being. The true realisation is that what matters is I’m good enough for me, not whether I’m good enough for anyone else.

It’s up to others to look at how all these bits of me balance out in percentage terms and to decide if the mix is just right for them to enjoy.

If not, that’s ok, I like my mix just fine thanks very much. I don’t need to change it, or hide parts of it or whatever, and others don’t need to tell me what they think is not ok…..they can go find a mix that suits their tastes better rather than trying to adjust this one. Trying to change the mix makes neither of us happy, I’d rather spend time with people who can see in me what I see myself.

No-one has higher expectations of me than I do of myself, and no-one could judge my words and actions more harshly then I do; I don’t need or want people in my life who can’t or won’t see that I’m doing my damned best and that my best is actually quite alright.

Nobody can be exactly like me, even I have trouble doing it sometimes_{Tallulah Bankhead}
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The inner child is an interesting concept; for many it’s a psychobabble phrase that conjures up images of earnest hippy types yearning to find deeper meaning within themselves, or anxious neurotic types who dwell for hours on their terrible pasts rather than seizing the day and getting on with now. For others it’s about maintaining their connection with their child-like self, seeking pleasure from innocent pursuits and experiencing joy through simplicity. For yet others it’s about acknowledgement of pain and releasing emotions that have been locked in suspended animation since childhood; letting go. It’s a term so laden with connotation that it’s been tough going just working out what it means to me without even starting on actually working with my inner child.

There are numerous goals on this site relating to connecting with the inner child, not to mention the thousands of web sites, books and journal articles devoted to the exploration of the inner child, plus the plentiful voices who deny even the existence of an ‘inner child’ and who talk of those involved in such practices, be it in a professional or personal capacity, in tones ranging from mildly mocking through to downright scathing.

So here was my first issue; my goal is to assimilate the child with the other aspects of myself. Did such a thing actually exist? Was there a ‘child’ who needed attention or was this just an avoidance of taking responsibility for my current state of self by pinning things on my past? So, choosing a somewhat biased research technique, I avoided all the people and writings that viewed inner child work negatively and only looked at information that gave guidance and advice as to how to progress with this type of self-help. I tried things on to see how they ‘fit’ with me, to gauge if this was something with which I resonated. It was necessary for me to avoid the ‘detractors’ views as due to AS induced self doubt, I can often be persuaded that I’m deluding myself in relation to my feelings and that my perception is flawed. Ultimately I concluded that, as with all emotional healing techniques, it’s a case of ‘to each their own’; if it does what you need it to do and makes you feel better about yourself, go for it; the only ‘proof’ that you need about its efficacy is your own.

At this stage my focus of reading and research was upon healing the inner child; seeking out what damaging behaviours present in me now were rooted in some past childhood event. It’s not as if I’ve grown up not realising the stuff that’s happened continues to affect me but what I’ve not known is what to do about it, how to ‘get over it’. I think as well, that I’d not really appreciated just how much the ‘being affected’ has manifested itself in my actions and reactions to just about everything and everyone in my life. In the past when I’ve tried to resolve some of my issues I’ve done it with a view to finding a way to shrug it off, to not dwell on it or have flashbacks about it; it’s not been at all successful. What I was doing this time was about seeking incidents out, reliving them, experiencing them afresh and recognising the emotions that were born back then and continued to be expressed (inappropriately) right now. It was hard.

I quickly discovered that where I recoiled from what I read or was unwilling to engage with the emotional exercises, these were the areas that I really needed to focus on. I had to fight the internal voice that accused me of deliberately wallowing in self pity, of self-inducing misery and which urged me to forget it all and just look to the future. The trouble was, by now I knew enough to realise that if I did that, then the future would be more of what the past had been. There would be more abusive relationships, more periods of deep depression and self hatred, more seeking out of situations that compounded and perpetuated my feelings of being ‘damaged goods’, dirty and unworthy of anything good. The thought of all that, and all the side servings of anger and loneliness that went along with it, stretching on forever, always being inside me until the day I die…..well, that was more exhausting, more frightening and more upsetting than any demon from my past could be.

It took all the grit and determination I had to sit down each time and work through those incidents and feelings, alone (because for me it had to be something I did for me, with me and only through my own perceptions; no-one else could do it either for me or even alongside me). There were times I could only get there by degrees, edging my way in like you would into a cold swimming pool and there were others where, almost against my will, I was assaulted by and engulfed in a complete flood of agonising recall but what kept me pushing on was knowing that by doing this, it would finally end. I kept reminding myself that I’d survived these incidents once before and I’d had to deal with the physical reality then; at least this time it was about emotion only.

Step by step I did it; I went back as far as I possibly could…...to the day I was sitting on my mother’s lap, aged 20 months watching my father leave with his brown leather suitcase, a vision of a blood stained kitchen tile in my mind while I listened to my mother cry, feeling afraid of an unnamed monster….. and I retraced my life. Each step of the way I relieved it and I put it right.

I shared a couple of these incidents with you on here; those moments needed recognition by others and the gratitude I feel to those of you who gave me that is immense; not only recognition but validation and something else….something like acceptance. It’s hard to explain really but when some of you used your words to put your arms around me, when you didn’t say “Eww, how could you?” or run away from what I’d revealed, when you didn’t shun me or leave me alone….it wasn’t me you were being kind to, it was the little girl who never fit in, who had second hand clothes and clumpy shoes, who had tangled hair and probably not so clean teeth, the too-gangly-and-grubby-to-be-cute kid that people aren’t really drawn to because she’s a little bit ‘weird’…..you put your arms around her and made her feel worth something, treasured.

Much of what I’ve been able to understand and resolve has been intensely personal. I’ve had to allow the child to experience all the pain, without letting any other parts of me shut it down then bring my adult self forward to listen to the child, not with blame or anger or criticism but with compassion and understanding. It really has been about giving my child the love I would give to any child who came to me crying and telling me of horrific acts that had been committed upon them. It was about persuading my childself to trust my adultself; part of that was achieved through ‘memory replacement’. It’s a technique I’ve found very healing, although some might misinterpret it as pretending or even lying. It works on the basis that by visualising how things should have panned out, what action should have been taken by others…..then you sort of give what should have been given at the time. Like for example, imagining that my mum had stormed into the room when P was beating me, had smacked him round the face, dragged me into a huge hug, and then sent him packing forever. So it didn’t actually happen that way, but by imagining it and letting my childself know that that’s how it would have been if my adultself had been able to be there means the child finally gets to feel understood and to be told that what she deserved was not what she got. The sense of eternal vulnerability has eased as I’ve learned to trust that my adultself can and will hear the fears and afford protection from harm. I don’t know if that makes any sense, but it has worked wonders for me!

Each incident I came across, each time I peeled back the suffocating protective covers I’d placed across myself, the lighter my sense of being became and the more confident I felt about myself and my future. I’m not saying there’s nothing left rattling around in the closet, in fact I’m quite sure there are things that I don’t recollect right now that will, at some unexpected point, swing into my brain like a mutant Tarzan, all loud yelling and chest thumping; the difference is if and when it happens, I now know how to deal with it. Neither am I saying I’m all perfect and serene and no longer have emotional reactions based on past triggers…..it’s just better, so much better than it was, and I’m absolutely positive that an angry child will never again be the main or sole controller of my behaviour.
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• I find social situations confusing.
• I find it hard to make small talk.
• I did not enjoy imaginative story-writing at school.
• I am good at picking up details and facts.
• I find it hard to work out what other people are thinking and feeling.
• I can focus on certain things for very long periods.
• People often say I was rude even when this was not intended.
• I have unusually strong, narrow interests.
• I do certain things in an inflexible, repetitive way.
• I have always had difficulty making friends.

While I don’t exactly find social situations confusing I frequently find them overwhelming and find myself retreating either before I even go out, or suddenly and for no apparent reason, part way through some social event. Once this process has begun it can rarely be reversed; attempts to use alcohol to force a better mood have resulted variously in me getting into horrible arguments (mostly with strangers), me getting maudlin in the toilets and stopping someone else from having a good time, or more often than not, it just increases the feelings of discomfort. Trying to force my way through it just doesn’t work; it feels like I’ve climbed inside myself and want to lock the doors and pull the blinds down so the world can’t get in.

I’ve found the best bet is to come up with a really good excuse to leave (got to eat; got work; promised the cat I’d be home before ten) as soon as I feel the retreat start. That way I can usually still paste on a smile and people don’t misread my expression and assume I’m going cos I’m pissed off. When I feel this way I have to be at home, in familiar surroundings. I know that this happens because I get sensory overload (too many different conversations, background noise, lights, music, even strong smells) or because too many people I’m not comfortable or familiar with, have joined the group, but it makes me feel like a freak; an idiot who should get it together. I get very confused and ashamed by these overwhelming feelings that most other people don’t seem to experience or comprehend.

Trying to explain how Asperger makes me feel is one of the most difficult things to do. I mean, just look at that list of 10 things for a start…..a lot of those things will apply to people who don’t have AS. When I talk to other people about it, one of the most painful things I hear in response is, “Well, lots of people feel like that, it’s not unusual.” This is such a dismissive statement; where can I go from there? Make a big fuss and drama about how others may feel some of those things but it’s so much worse for me? Hmm….then I get accused of playing the ‘poor me’ card and making a big deal out of nothing much.

It doesn’t help my case that I can give an outward display of being confident and assured, so when I’m struggling people often dismiss what I’m saying to them as attention seeking. What they don’t realise is the continuous internal dialogue I have running in order to keep panic attacks at bay, to get myself out of the door some mornings, to remind myself to smile and look friendly when what I really want to do is pull my hat down as low as it can go so no-one can see me…..just to function sometimes is a triumph of willpower.

Although it sounds similar in some ways, this struggle isn’t because of depression; it’s because of fear. Fear that I will do or say something inappropriate because I haven’t judged the situation correctly; fear that I will inadvertently be rude or come across as arrogant….I apparently do these things a lot. What makes it so hard is that if people would just explain to me why what happened was wrong then I would understand and be able to remember for future; it would just be a learning curve. The thing is, people don’t generally explain; they disassociate from me at best and at worst they rage at me and call me names. They base their judgement of me on the assumption that as a highly intelligent woman in my 40s there is no way I could genuinely not know how I’d caused offence, ergo, I must be doing it on purpose and therefore be a complete bitch. So every time I commit some kind of faux pas it racks up my anxiety levels further. To be clear, I’m not just talking about anxiety surrounding events like parties or social gatherings of that nature; I go through this walking down the street, or going into a shop for the first time, or even just paying my fare on the bus. Some days are easier than others.

The irony of all this is that I’m actually a very sociable outgoing person. You wouldn’t believe it from all I’ve just said would you?! It’s uncertainty that causes it to be difficult; if I know the ‘rules’ and can follow set guidelines, I’m fine. If I know the people and know they accept me as I am, I’m fine. If I know my way around the building, I’m fine. Like with most AS people (and I’d hazard, most people anywhere on the autistic spectrum), routine and familiarity are key. Anything out of the ordinary will promote feelings ranging from mild anxiety through to full blown panic, even if it’s something I want to do.

For example, to go to a concert in a town I’d never been to before I had to research the venue on the internet (find a plan layout of entrances, exits, exact spot my seat was), then I had to print out about 5 different routes from the train station to the venue, as well as having to check and re-check the timetable for the trains to ensure there was no possibility we would be late. This was a band that I really like and the tickets were for their penultimate ever gig as they’ve now split. In the end I didn’t go. I just couldn’t deal with the tension it was creating for me and I knew that even if I did get there, my anxiety would prevent me from being in the moment and enjoying the music.

This odd conflict between my outgoing self and my freaked out AS self has resulted in the loss of many a friendship. The 10 Statements state difficulty in making friends; I can make them easy enough, but keeping them is a whole other thing. Despite being utterly unable to make small talk and struggling with all the uncertainties I’ve described, I find a lot of people are drawn to me. What I find though, is that when I feel insular and need to retreat from socialising for a week or so, people see it is a personal rejection. When I don’t accept invitations for certain events because I know I won’t be able to handle it, they see it as me rebuffing their hospitality. It doesn’t seem to matter how much I try to explain, they still don’t get it. There will usually be a short period of suggestions for how I can ‘fix’ the way I feel; e.g. “It’ll be fine once you’re actually there; don’t be silly, you’ll know a couple of other people; get a few drinks down your neck first; everyone feels a bit nervous sometimes, you just need stop worrying”. Once I’ve tried to explain why these suggestions, although appreciated, don’t actually work for me, then comes the hostility and anger, the backstabbing and the vilification.

I have one, true, longstanding friend, Sarah. She has been part of my life for an incredible, record busting, 19 years. Sarah is the Best Friend a person could ever wish for. Apart from her, I have one other person in my life who has become my friend and remained so for a significant number of years; the awesome LL. If you want to know what LL is like, look up the definition of the words staunch/steadfast; that’s her. These two know me, really know me, and accept me wholeheartedly. They don’t roll their eyes or sigh at my hang-ups, they don’t mind that I bang on about my passions, they don’t stop inviting me to do things with them even though I most often say no, because sometimes I say yes and they don’t want me to be excluded. Apart from them my friendships tend to be short lived and based on more superficial common factors such as working in the same place or kids going to the same school; I never feel properly relaxed in them, never feel that I can truly express myself.

Since coming to this site I have made friends with someone who I suspect is going to be one of the most significant people in my life; CrunchyBread. In you Crunchy, I’ve found a kindred spirit, someone who not only doesn’t require me to explain what’s going on for me, but who actually thinks and feels it too. It’s been incredible; like for most of my life I’ve been holding my breath and now all of a sudden it’s been released. It’s been like finding a missing part to myself. I can’t put into words how it feels to have met you, but I guess I don’t actually need to :-) That’s not to say that we always agree with each other but I don’t think real friendship needs total agreement; where’s the fun in never having different viewpoints to discuss? But you can take my blunt and direct challenges in a way so few people seem able to and you don’t mind me diving straight into deep and heavy subjects with no preamble, lol.

So what’s the point of this post? It tells all of you a little more about AS, but it also helped me to see something; people don’t back away from me because I’m hateful or unloveable (as I spent many years believing) although, shock, horror, it is sometimes because they don’t like me ;P No, the backing away and the turning against me that so called friends do comes through an inability to comprehend that what goes on for me is different to what goes on for them. Without wishing to come across as arrogant, I think that makes it more their loss than mine when they walk away. What I mean is, because I know my brain works differently to a neuro-typical one, I work extra hard to understand the other view point and am totally open to the fact that my stance may be ‘incorrect’ or my judgement of a situation skewed; I think that makes me a pretty good friend to have. I don’t think I’ve lost so much when people dump me from their life because they don’t understand why I won’t be coming to their dinner party. I only just realised this :D
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^{The only one of the 10 Statements that’s totally not true of me is the one regarding imaginative story-writing; I’ve always loved it, still do. I can create better places and scenarios for versions of myself to live in. I read a lot of fiction too, which I gather a lot of Aspies don’t. But as I’ve discovered, on a spectrum, there’s a lot of room for variation ;-)}

I wish people would take off their masks and disguises and be straightforward. What is this need in people to hide and pretend?

If people have something to say to me, why can’t they just come out and say it? I can’t help thinking that if you’re hiding what you think and feel then you must know on some level that there’s something not right about it; why else would you want to distance yourself from it? Why else would you use someone else’s voice?

Why do people hide who they truly are from me? Are they scared of who they are? Don’t they have trust and pride in who they are? Do they not like themselves very much? I don’t understand the pretences; do you think if you’re honest I won’t like you? Maybe there’s nothing wrong with you at all or maybe I actually won’t like you, but let me judge for myself….don’t trick me and fool me.

You want me to like you right? So then, be yourself and show your face, otherwise you’re manipulating me and basing everything on a lie. How can that be a good way to proceed?

I wish people would just lay their cards on the table from the outset instead of being confusing. I wish people would realise that the way I respond to them is based on the assumption that they’re being genuine in what they portray to me; how can they then be hurt or angry when I change my position and attitude once the truth is revealed?

I wish there were no masks.
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I had a privileged childhood, not in the sense of having been born with a silver spoon in my mouth, but in that I was able to experience the very last vestiges of a way of life that no longer exists.

I was fortunate enough to catch rural life just as farming was on the cusp of becoming the travesty against nature it so often is now. I experienced the time when no-one ever locked their doors and when community was a way of life that really meant something, rather than being something you saw ‘in spirit’.

I lived in some stunningly beautiful places, both the homes themselves and the places in which they were situated. We moved around quite a lot so I lived variously in England, Wales and Scotland; mostly in tiny villages and small towns.

There was the village nestling in the lush rolling green of the Costwolds, where we lived in a cottage that was actually two old blacksmith’s cottages converted into one. There was still a working smithy across the road and I would watch from my bedroom window as the sparks flew, glowing orange and white against the darkness of the mysterious and strangely frightening interior of his workplace. It was always exciting when horses came to be shod but I always felt a little sad for them as they clip-clopped away in their shiny new nailed on shoes; surely that must hurt, and how horrid having all that weight added to your feet.

This was the village where The Mint Man lived; he was everybody’s Granddad, carrying in his pockets a seemingly unending supply of hard boiled, icy blue, translucent mint sweets. When the weather was good I’d sit on the doorstep, or if it was inclement, I’d perch on the deep windowsill of the living room to wait. I couldn’t tell the time but some instinctual primal clock would tell me when he’d be walking by, every single day. He’d always stop and chat for a while; admire your new doll’s dress or toy car, commiserate with you about your scraped knee and share a story of some wonderful adventure he’d had. He knew every child’s name and everyone’s birthday. He could find coins behind your ears and waggle his own ears up and down independently! I was convinced he had elf blood in him as his ears were just slightly pointed. He smelled of mothballs and mint and a little bit of tobacco and he always wore a hat and we all loved him.

For a while I lived in a manor house in a small Scottish border town. This had once been a thriving fishing port and our house had belonged to some hot-shot of the time. It was reputed to be haunted (I believe it was!) and was also rumoured to have a hidden tunnel that linked it to the town hall; some escape route from days of civil unrest. I spent hours, days, months, years, combing the house and its grounds, but I never did find that trap door.

This imposing sandstone house was originally built in the mid Victorian era but an extension had been built in the early 1900s, during the Edwardian period. Those rooms were large enough to play badminton in, lol. There were 16 rooms in use, with a further 7 or 8 in the cellar and 2 above the old stables (by then converted to garage space). My little brother and his friend used to be able to race each other on their tricycles inside the house without it being an issue. There were still the servant bells in the kitchen and the pulls for ringing them in the rooms. The mechanism was very quickly disconnected once we discovered them.

There was a fruit orchard, vegetable garden and lawns. We had a little summer house and beautiful cobbled paths. There was a river at the bottom of the garden, with an area to moor a boat and with the house came fishing rights to the river. We never did any of that as we didn’t have a boat and the river was pretty fast and dangerous. It sounds awfully posh but the place was riddled with dry rot, had a dodgy roof, was impossible to heat and in a terrible state of disrepair all round; the house was picked up dirt cheap as a result. To me it was the most exciting place I’ve ever lived.

There were hidden nooks and crannies all over this house and the previous owners, over the years, had left odd bits and pieces behind. There were a couple of oil paintings of goodness-knows-who’s ancestors (I wonder what they did that they were left behind and pushed from sight); there were black & white photos of an African safari; perfume bottles, pots and pans, broken toys; there were coins and papers and children’s drawings….......my imagination used to run riot as I tried to visualise the people who’d been there before me.

My sunniest (literally and metaphorically) childhood memories are from when I was living in a tiny village in the heart of Wales. In 1976 Britain experienced a heatwave where, in a most un-British fashion we experienced something like 45 or 50 days of continuous sunshine, no rain. At that time I had the good fortune to be living in an idyllic place, a place where time and ‘progress’ had moved that little slower. For the first year I lived there, farmers still brought milk in churns to the stand across the road from our house in order that the dairy lorry could collect it. A stream that had originated high in the mountains meandered through the bottom of our garden (this was clear, drinkable spring water…..people came from miles with huge containers to collect this water for use at home) and sheep were brought to graze on the meadow over the other side of it.

Technology and communication were slow to work their tentacles to this village; very few people had their own telephone at home so instead they would give out the number for the telephone box in the village. This was situated closer to our house than to any other, so inevitably I or my brother would be sent out (whatever the weather) to answer it. We’d then have to run through the village to knock on the door of the relevant person to let them know they had a phone call. As they got their shoes on, we would run back to the phone box and let the extremely patient caller know that they would soon be connected. People didn’t need so much instant gratification back then.

It was the most perfect of summers with the totality of freedom that came with the sense of safety within the community, and of the time. I have a Cider With Rosie sort of memory of those weeks where school was out and we had nothing more pressing to do than explore and have adventures. We would ride our bikes through winding country lanes, fighting invisible foe and conquering great nations. If we were hungry, we’d go apple scrumping or pick blackberries from the abundant bramble patches. If we were thirsty, we’d just knock on a farm door and ask for a drink; it wasn’t rude or begging, that’s what you did. Day after day we’d come home late in the evening, dust covered, bearing scratches and bruises whose origins were unknown, because at the time they happened the excitement of the game overrode heed to injury. We returned with our trophies and gifts of such wondrous things as sheep skulls, a handful of slightly squashed wild strawberries, a stone that glittered with flecks of quartz; we even once brought home a freshwater eel in a bucket. Bed has never felt so good as it did then; after supper, bath and bed time story, I would snuggle down with sun tingling skin and dream my dreams of tomorrow.

During the summer all able bodies were required on the local farms, and as our school friends were mostly farmer’s children, if we wanted to play with them, we had to work with them too. We helped with the haymaking, making dens and igloos with the bales then travelling on the back of the tractor back to the farm where the table would be groaning under the weight of home cooked food; thick slices of ham, pickles, chunks of crusty bread spread thick with yellow butter, boiled eggs collected that morning from just outside the back door, freshly cut salad and tomatoes that were waiting to burst their ripeness all over your tastebuds. There would be bara brith and Welsh cakes , fairy cakes and scones, and always plenty of orange juice and cups of tea to drink. I don’t think I ever heard of people drinking coffee back then.

Often, after tea we’d take the ponies and horses out for a ride. I had free riding access to a fat, Thelwellian Shetland Pony named Hobbit. He objected to wearing a saddle and therefore had to be ridden bareback, and he had a horrible tendency of trotting along quite happily for a while then just slamming to a halt and putting his head down to inspect some interesting twig or blade of grass; this would frequently result in me sailing over his head and landing flat on my back. He was grumpy, stubborn, utterly untrained and I loved him. He came into his own when we set up hay bales and did speed jumping over them; he’d hurtle round that course with me grimly clinging to his mane. We only lost when the older kids set the jumps so high that poor Hobbit’s little legs couldn’t lift the weight of his fat tummy over them.

Ahhh…happy days, blissful memories…sorry it’s been another epic post…thanks for indulging me :P
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Cloud: I wish that I could go back and apply the knowledge and wisdom I have now to the parenting I gave back then.

• Silver Lining: I’m glad that I understand now and can appropriately ask forgiveness and make amends, including to myself.

Lemons: I wish I had experienced a childhood free of pain and fear and where love was unconditional.

• Lemonade: I’m glad I have a better ability to see, understand and empathise with others because of it.

Rain: I wish I had been able to understand what marriage really meant and avoided having two divorces.

• Rainbow: I’m glad I have the unshakeable knowledge that I am strong enough to walk away from bad situations….eventually.

Darkness: I wish I’d realised sooner how much education matters so I didn’t waste so much time, and I wish I’d worked out what I wanted to be when I was grown up before I was grown up.

• Starlight: I’m glad that when I did realise, I was given the opportunity to do it. And if the path hadn’t been so winding, there’s a lot of beneficial things I’d have missed.

Shit pile: I wish I’d been able to get my personal/emotional crap together before now.

• Fertiliser: I’m glad I’ve realised that getting my crap together is within my own power and grasp, and I’m glad I have the determination and tools to do it.
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Zen Buddhist author. From ‘Peace is Every Step’:

“I have heard many stories about parents who have hurt their children so much, planting many seeds of suffering in them. But I believe that the parents did not mean to plant those seeds. They did not intend to make their children suffer. Maybe they received the same kind of seeds from their parents. There is a continuation in the transmission of seeds, and their father and mother might have gotten those seeds from their grandfather and grandmother.

Most of us are victims of a kind of living that is not mindful, and the practice of mindful living, of meditation, can stop these kinds of suffering and end the transmission of such sorrow to our children and grandchildren. We can break the cycle by not allowing these kinds of seeds of suffering to be transmitted to our children, our friends, or anyone else.”
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