As it is, dating is confusing for the average person. But when you have an Autism Spectrum disorder like Asperger's or Non-Verbal Learning Disorder, it can be downright harrowing. It's bad enough that we often have issues in everyday social situations, but add hormones and romantic feelings to the mix and we have a clusterfuck of epic proportions. But why is dating so difficult for those of us on the Spectrum? It depends on the individual, but here are some reasons why it's a pain in the ass for me...
1. Eye Contact
One of the symptoms of Autism and related disorders is an inability or difficulty making eye contact. I have had this problem all my life. When I talk to people, my eyes do not rest on them, rather they move all about the room, or stare off into space. I used to get in trouble with teachers at school because of this. People think I'm being rude to them. People misinterpret my inability to make eye contact all the time.
This is where dating comes in. All the 'experts' say, that when it comes to romance, that eye contact is key. When you make eye contact the object of your desire knows that you're attracted to them. Hence the problem, when you can't make eye contact, what's your intended paramour to think? Unless they're aware of your 'condition', will they assume you're not interested? When I met my ex-boyfriend, Scott, I had trouble making eye contact. He didn't know I had NLD, and thought I was displeased with his appearance, which was not true. I thought he was very handsome, I just had trouble looking at him because of the shit going on in my head.
So what can I do? I can practice eye contact with friends and family, I can practice in the mirror. Or I can just let my eyes roll around in whatever damn direction they want to.
2. Social Cues
When you have NLD or Asperger's you miss 'social cues'. Reading facial expressions is difficult, as is discerning the tone of voice. I can't tell if someone is being sarcastic or not, so sometimes when someone asks me out I think they're joking. (Though this could also stem from being teased a lot in high school, and thus no longer being able to trust people.)
Just yesterday, when I was conversing with a young man I rather like, I had trouble telling whether or not he was happy to see me. Even though he was smiling, I wasn't sure about his tone of voice. Did he actually want to be talking to me? Or was he just waiting for me to go away? Was I wasting his time? While I greatly enjoyed being in his presence, I found myself second-guessing everything. Second guessing doesn't help you when it come l'amour. In fact, it's rather hindering. When I can't read cues, I get distressed, I get confused, which is not conducive to the forming of a romantic alliance.
3. Social Graces
We're not rude. We're just stuck in our heads, so sometimes we forget social graces, such as greeting people or making polite inquiries as to one's health. We tend to talk about the same subjects over and over again, and sometimes we say things we're not supposed to. I'm unfortunately blunt. I once told Scott he had a zit on his back. Scott is such a vain man, and such a thing would send him into a frenzy. I knew this, and but let my impulses get the better of me. It ended in him calling me a bitch, and shoving me. While not all people are so unreasonably violent, saying the wrong thing can ruin any romantic prospects. So I have to work on my manners. Like I said, I'm not mean or rude, I just have poor impulses and am so lost in my head that I forget how to be a person and not a squirrel.
4. Hyper-Focusing
We hyper focusing on things, whether they be a specific object, subject or person. Basically, we get obsessive. We can annoy people this way, by talking about the same stuff over and over (see above). This can repel any potential lovers. Trust me, I know. Also, sometimes, when we fall for a person we hyper focus on them, coming off as creepy. I had an ex-boyfriend who displayed the symptoms of Asperger's who actually stalked me for several months following our break up. We get so wrapped up in what we're feeling, or what we're doing that we forget ourselves, and we end up doing something foolish. Look at the infamous "Chris-Chan". Christian Weston Chandler is a young man with high-function Autism who has acquired a reputation for stalking young women whom he desires to have as a 'sweetheart'. This has caused him a lot of grief, humiliation and a large page on Encyclopedia Dramatica. It's rather sad, and I do feel bad for him. I myself have gotten overzealous in the pursuit of love, and have made myself enemies and scared off the object of my affections. This is why hyper-focusing hinders any hopes of romance.
5. Emotional Imbalance
Sometimes we're either too numb or feeling too much. This affects all our relationships, romantic and platonic. People think we're either uncaring or crazy. We're not, we just have trouble gaging our emotions and their reactions. Therapy and medication helps, but not by much.
6. Anxiety
I don't need to go into this one too deeply, do I? It's obvious, anxiety severely hampers romance in all its fields. It makes dates difficult, and it makes sex incredibly awkward. Watch to anxious people try to have sex with each other. It's a total clusterfuck. Pardon the pun.
So there we have it. This is why dating is such a pain in the ass for me. And this is only the tip of the iceberg. I'm certain there's more brain weasels making it a chore for me to find love. So if you're interested in getting into my black skinny jeans, or I'm interested in showing you the Love Weasels, bear in mind, it's not you. It's me. Really. It's me. If it was you, I would say so.
Monday, August 29, 2011
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Desire and Despair
There is a very good and very obvious reason that when Neil Gaiman created The Endless, that he made Desire and Despair twins. They go together.
Have you ever wanted something, or someone? Everyone has felt desire at one point or another, it's only human. Desire can be a rapturous feeling, like riding a roller coaster. Desire can lead to creativity, life and all sort of wonderful things But desire has a dark side. It can be painful, it can keep you awake at night, when you see the object of your desire in another's hands, it induces feelings of anger and jealousy. People have done hideous things in the name of desire. Henry VIII is a prime example of how desire can lead to disaster and destruction. In the wake of his passion, many lay dead or heartbroken, including his wives, best friends and children.
So have you ever wanted something or someone, and gone to great lengths to obtain it, or thought about it constantly, made it the first thing in your mind, only to have it denied to you? It hurts. It hurts to have your object of passion denied you. When your heart has been ripped out and thrown on the ground only to be stepped on by uncaring, unfeeling assholes, is when Lady Despair take residence in your empty chest cavity.
Ah, despair. That gray-clad crone whose touch makes me think of freezing cold hovels, and dreary damp days. She lurks in cemeteries and refugee camps and she lurks in my heart.
Despair feels like wanting to cry, but having the tears freeze in your eyes before they have a chance to fall. Despair is like sitting by yourself at lunch everyday, because everyone thinks you're weird and won't talk to you. Despair is that feeling you get when you ask someone out and they look at you like you're a monster. Like sending a love note that gets ignored and ripped up, and you find the remains on the ground, knowing they've been unread. I can go to great lengths about what despair is like, because I know her like the back of my hand, it's like I've always known, it's like she's been by my side since the day I was born, waiting for me.
"Be happy now," she says.
"But I'll be coming for you sooner or later. I always come back,"
She always comes back. She is a constant. Desire comes and goes, settling in my heart and my belly, setting things afire and getting my hopes up with her promises and her insinuations. She's a tease. But when she's had her fill of me, she departs, taking everything she can, while her sister Despair creeps into my empty chest cavity and mind, making herself comfortable, giving me headaches, stomachaches and the longing to fall asleep and never wake up.
All this puts me in mind of a quote by Neil Gaiman, regarding that foolish emotion known as love, he writes:
Thank you, Mr. Gaiman, for perhaps the truest words ever spoken. It's true. If only he'd never once looked at me, perhaps I wouldn't be having tea with Lady Despair.
Have you ever wanted something, or someone? Everyone has felt desire at one point or another, it's only human. Desire can be a rapturous feeling, like riding a roller coaster. Desire can lead to creativity, life and all sort of wonderful things But desire has a dark side. It can be painful, it can keep you awake at night, when you see the object of your desire in another's hands, it induces feelings of anger and jealousy. People have done hideous things in the name of desire. Henry VIII is a prime example of how desire can lead to disaster and destruction. In the wake of his passion, many lay dead or heartbroken, including his wives, best friends and children.
So have you ever wanted something or someone, and gone to great lengths to obtain it, or thought about it constantly, made it the first thing in your mind, only to have it denied to you? It hurts. It hurts to have your object of passion denied you. When your heart has been ripped out and thrown on the ground only to be stepped on by uncaring, unfeeling assholes, is when Lady Despair take residence in your empty chest cavity.
Ah, despair. That gray-clad crone whose touch makes me think of freezing cold hovels, and dreary damp days. She lurks in cemeteries and refugee camps and she lurks in my heart.
Despair feels like wanting to cry, but having the tears freeze in your eyes before they have a chance to fall. Despair is like sitting by yourself at lunch everyday, because everyone thinks you're weird and won't talk to you. Despair is that feeling you get when you ask someone out and they look at you like you're a monster. Like sending a love note that gets ignored and ripped up, and you find the remains on the ground, knowing they've been unread. I can go to great lengths about what despair is like, because I know her like the back of my hand, it's like I've always known, it's like she's been by my side since the day I was born, waiting for me.
"Be happy now," she says.
"But I'll be coming for you sooner or later. I always come back,"
She always comes back. She is a constant. Desire comes and goes, settling in my heart and my belly, setting things afire and getting my hopes up with her promises and her insinuations. She's a tease. But when she's had her fill of me, she departs, taking everything she can, while her sister Despair creeps into my empty chest cavity and mind, making herself comfortable, giving me headaches, stomachaches and the longing to fall asleep and never wake up.
All this puts me in mind of a quote by Neil Gaiman, regarding that foolish emotion known as love, he writes:
“Have you ever been in love? Horrible isn't it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up. You build up all these defenses, you build up a whole suit of armor, so that nothing can hurt you, then one stupid person, no different from any other stupid person, wanders into your stupid life...You give them a piece of you. They didn't ask for it. They did something dumb one day, like kiss you or smile at you, and then your life isn't your own anymore. Love takes hostages. It gets inside you. It eats you out and leaves you crying in the darkness, so simple a phrase like 'maybe we should be just friends' turns into a glass splinter working its way into your heart. It hurts. Not just in the imagination. Not just in the mind. It's a soul-hurt, a real gets-inside-you-and-rips-you-apart pain. I hate love.”
Thank you, Mr. Gaiman, for perhaps the truest words ever spoken. It's true. If only he'd never once looked at me, perhaps I wouldn't be having tea with Lady Despair.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
What I've Learned About Love
"I learned love is like a brick you can, build a house or sink a dead body," -Lady Gaga, Judas
Truer words never spoken, Mother Monster. Despite being the advanced age of twenty two, I know very little about love. Even though I had my first boyfriend at the tender age of eleven, I am still woefully ignorant of how romance and dating works, at least in a conventional sense. I have my own methods of attracting a lover, and my own habits when it comes to personal relationships, some of which, have lead to disaster. The following is a list of the various lessons I have learned about that crazy little thing called love. Some of them came to me easily, but others, took me a little while to figure out.
1. Long Distance is a Bitch.
I've been in two long distance relationships, and both of them ended in disaster. The first came to me at the tender age of 17. I was dating a young man named Arthur, whom I had known in school. We both left the little town of Willsboro, and moved to Vermont, though on opposite sides of the Green Mountain State. We maintained a relationship for five months, and despite the fact he lived only three hours away, he never visited me.
My second long distance relationship, lasted four years. I met Scott at Anime Boston in April of 2007, and we ended the relationship in April of 2011. It was a very toxic romance, fraught with emotional and verbal abuse, and a great deal of stress. Contributing to a majority of stress, one of the factors that led to our inevitable downfall, was the the fact that he lived in New Jersey, and I live in Vermont. The distance was painful. When we were in love, it was difficult going long periods of time without seeing each other. It was difficult raising money to pay for the bus tickets, and when we did finally see each other, we were so emotionally stressed out, that every visit was a CATASTROPHE. Another problem, was that neither of us really knew what the other one was doing, inciting paranoia, and a shit load of mind games. Eventually, the long distance, combined with our personal issues caused our messy breakup. Lesson learned? Long distance sucks. At least it does for me.
2. You Can Be TOO Honest
I am a ridiculously honest person. I am honest to the point of telling you too much information, or hurting people's feelings with my lack of tact. If I keep secrets, I start to feel physically sick. As you can imagine, this often ruins relationships for me, especially romantic ones.
Scott wanted to know everything I was doing. He used my honesty against me. He knew I didn't like keeping secrets. So I'd tell him everything. I'd tell him everything I did, everything I thought, everyone I hung out with. I told him if guy hit on me, I told him if a girl hit on me. I told him if I was thinking of an ex-boyfriend, or if I was curious about dating women. Each time he'd get pissed, and when I ask him if he as mad at me, he'd say no, that he was glad I told him. Then he'd tell me to stop hanging around whoever it was that had displeased him by showing me more attention than he did.
People would tell me that I didn't need to tell him everything. It was none of his business. But I started to equate not telling him every detail of my life as lying. I'd feel sick and anxious. My candor was another factor that lead to our split. Lesson learned? Your lover doesn't need to know everything, unless it directly effects them, or if it's something really serious, like cheating or cancer.
3. Don't Put Up With Bullshit
Scott was emotionally and verbally abusive. Rather than getting the hell out of there early on, I stuck around, often fighting fire with fire by hurting him the way he often hurt me. I would push his buttons, because he'd play with my head. This wasn't right, and I am ashamed of how I behaved. I wish I could apologize to him, because I did love him and should never have hurt him. But he should not have hurt me either. His idea of love was to own me, to control me. He told me who I could talk to, he forbid me from wearing certain things, he called me names. He forgot my birthday. He was selfish 99% of the time. And yet I loved him, so I put up with him for years, hoping it would get better. I learned this lesson the hard way (though it could have been MUCH worse). If he treats you like shit, don't stick around for it to get better. Don't stay with him because you love him and you don't want him to be alone. Get the hell out, before you lose your mind or your life.
4. I am a One-Lover-at-a-Time Kind of Woman
After becoming single, I flirted. I looked at my options. I learned that I'd rather have one serious-ish lover than several not-so-serious ones. That's all I'm gonna say about this lesson, the rest is between me and Creator.
Truer words never spoken, Mother Monster. Despite being the advanced age of twenty two, I know very little about love. Even though I had my first boyfriend at the tender age of eleven, I am still woefully ignorant of how romance and dating works, at least in a conventional sense. I have my own methods of attracting a lover, and my own habits when it comes to personal relationships, some of which, have lead to disaster. The following is a list of the various lessons I have learned about that crazy little thing called love. Some of them came to me easily, but others, took me a little while to figure out.
1. Long Distance is a Bitch.
I've been in two long distance relationships, and both of them ended in disaster. The first came to me at the tender age of 17. I was dating a young man named Arthur, whom I had known in school. We both left the little town of Willsboro, and moved to Vermont, though on opposite sides of the Green Mountain State. We maintained a relationship for five months, and despite the fact he lived only three hours away, he never visited me.
My second long distance relationship, lasted four years. I met Scott at Anime Boston in April of 2007, and we ended the relationship in April of 2011. It was a very toxic romance, fraught with emotional and verbal abuse, and a great deal of stress. Contributing to a majority of stress, one of the factors that led to our inevitable downfall, was the the fact that he lived in New Jersey, and I live in Vermont. The distance was painful. When we were in love, it was difficult going long periods of time without seeing each other. It was difficult raising money to pay for the bus tickets, and when we did finally see each other, we were so emotionally stressed out, that every visit was a CATASTROPHE. Another problem, was that neither of us really knew what the other one was doing, inciting paranoia, and a shit load of mind games. Eventually, the long distance, combined with our personal issues caused our messy breakup. Lesson learned? Long distance sucks. At least it does for me.
2. You Can Be TOO Honest
I am a ridiculously honest person. I am honest to the point of telling you too much information, or hurting people's feelings with my lack of tact. If I keep secrets, I start to feel physically sick. As you can imagine, this often ruins relationships for me, especially romantic ones.
Scott wanted to know everything I was doing. He used my honesty against me. He knew I didn't like keeping secrets. So I'd tell him everything. I'd tell him everything I did, everything I thought, everyone I hung out with. I told him if guy hit on me, I told him if a girl hit on me. I told him if I was thinking of an ex-boyfriend, or if I was curious about dating women. Each time he'd get pissed, and when I ask him if he as mad at me, he'd say no, that he was glad I told him. Then he'd tell me to stop hanging around whoever it was that had displeased him by showing me more attention than he did.
People would tell me that I didn't need to tell him everything. It was none of his business. But I started to equate not telling him every detail of my life as lying. I'd feel sick and anxious. My candor was another factor that lead to our split. Lesson learned? Your lover doesn't need to know everything, unless it directly effects them, or if it's something really serious, like cheating or cancer.
3. Don't Put Up With Bullshit
Scott was emotionally and verbally abusive. Rather than getting the hell out of there early on, I stuck around, often fighting fire with fire by hurting him the way he often hurt me. I would push his buttons, because he'd play with my head. This wasn't right, and I am ashamed of how I behaved. I wish I could apologize to him, because I did love him and should never have hurt him. But he should not have hurt me either. His idea of love was to own me, to control me. He told me who I could talk to, he forbid me from wearing certain things, he called me names. He forgot my birthday. He was selfish 99% of the time. And yet I loved him, so I put up with him for years, hoping it would get better. I learned this lesson the hard way (though it could have been MUCH worse). If he treats you like shit, don't stick around for it to get better. Don't stay with him because you love him and you don't want him to be alone. Get the hell out, before you lose your mind or your life.
4. I am a One-Lover-at-a-Time Kind of Woman
After becoming single, I flirted. I looked at my options. I learned that I'd rather have one serious-ish lover than several not-so-serious ones. That's all I'm gonna say about this lesson, the rest is between me and Creator.
Saturday, August 20, 2011
An Insight into the Autism Spectrum
Those of us who have Asperger's and Non Verbal Learning Disorder are poised on a curious threshold. Unlike people who have severe Autism, we are not entirely confined within ourselves, though we are not wholly able to identify and immerse ourselves within the mundane world. This can prove difficult when it comes to living a 'normal' life.
Those who don't know of our particular condition often think we are ignorant, selfish or insane. They see us, having panic attacks in public, or hyper-focusing on a particular subject or object, and they think we are strange. They think our parents did a lousy job raising us. They notice when we don't make eye contact, or when we miss social cues, and think we're rude. When we say what's on our minds, even if it's tactless, they think we're mean.
My parents did not do a lousy job raising me. They did a great job considering the circumstance. Four kids, all of whom with their own problems. The relentless grind of poverty. They did what they could with what they had, and my sisters and I became intelligent, decent people.
I am not selfish or rude. I'm either so lost in my head that I forget where I am, or my emotions are ruling me. I can not hide my emotions well. I am not stupid, either. I've had teachers think I am, but I am hardly stupid, it's just that I learn things a little differently.
But worse than those who do not know about Autism Spectrum Disorders, are the people who think these disorders are fake. They assume that Autism, Asperger's and NLD, are just excuses invented by lazy parents. Or that the people who are directly afflicted, the diagnosed ones, are pretending, that they're really just losers who don't feel like being social, so they have to pretend they have a 'disease' to get out of behaving according to society's whims.
There are individuals who accuse us of using our disorder as a 'crutch', as an excuse. That we use it to garner attention and pity. That we revel in our disability, and use it as an excuse to do what we want.
I do not do what I want. I am not allowed to do what I want. While my NLD does explain some of my behaviors and feelings, I try my hardest not to use it as an excuse. I do not use it as a crutch. I know what I can accomplish and what I have difficulty doing.
We're stereotyped a lot. People think we're emotionless. That's not true. In my experience, I feel too much. I'm sensitive. Yes, there are moments when I may seem numb, but that's because I don't know how to process my feelings.
People think we're savants, we're all good at music or art. Not true, again. Some of us have a particular knack, but we're still like average people, we have our strengths, weaknesses and talents.
We're all different. Not every person on the Spectrum is exactly the same. We're like wacky little snowflakes. For some of us, noise is a problem, for others it is not. Some of us like to be touched and crave contact, and some of us not at all. Me, I like hugs. Hugs help. Being touched without warning does not. Warn me before you approach me.
Sometimes, I wish I was 'normal'. If I was normal, maybe I'd be a happier person. I wouldn't have to endure stares and gossip. I could go into large crowds, and have a job or even go to college. People tell me I can get a job or go to college, but I don't know. Maybe. Maybe.
Sometimes I have to explain to my own relatives what's wrong with me. They don't understand the anxiety, the rituals, the hyper focusing. Some of my friends don't understand. I've had people treat me differently once they find out. Or maybe I just think they have. That's the tricky thing. Sometimes I don't know what's real, and what I'm misinterpreting.
I don't always want to be around other people on the spectrum. Sometimes it feels like our triggers clash. Some of us don't like noise, and some of us make a lot of noise, hence there is some clashing. But, I try to be around others on the spectrum. I like talking to people who have the same issues I do, I don't feel so lonely. I like talking to parents of children who have Autism, because they know and understand just as well.
I make jokes about it. People think I'm being offensive, but it's my method of coping. If I didn't laugh, I'd probably kill myself. Because sometimes, having NLD is painful. It's so painful. The isolation, the confusion. The emotional rollercoaster. Relationships are hard. I make friends, but I can't keep them. I'm either distrusting, or I trust too easily and confide in the wrong people. I'm too candid at times.
I could spend hours telling you my particular quirks, but that would eventually aggravate me, and then my brain would start to splutter and stutter, like an old boat motor.
So I'm going to shut up. I'm going to shut up and hope you enjoyed reading this. You probably didn't. I wouldn't. It's much too dense for me. I have trouble reading dense things, sometimes.
Those who don't know of our particular condition often think we are ignorant, selfish or insane. They see us, having panic attacks in public, or hyper-focusing on a particular subject or object, and they think we are strange. They think our parents did a lousy job raising us. They notice when we don't make eye contact, or when we miss social cues, and think we're rude. When we say what's on our minds, even if it's tactless, they think we're mean.
My parents did not do a lousy job raising me. They did a great job considering the circumstance. Four kids, all of whom with their own problems. The relentless grind of poverty. They did what they could with what they had, and my sisters and I became intelligent, decent people.
I am not selfish or rude. I'm either so lost in my head that I forget where I am, or my emotions are ruling me. I can not hide my emotions well. I am not stupid, either. I've had teachers think I am, but I am hardly stupid, it's just that I learn things a little differently.
But worse than those who do not know about Autism Spectrum Disorders, are the people who think these disorders are fake. They assume that Autism, Asperger's and NLD, are just excuses invented by lazy parents. Or that the people who are directly afflicted, the diagnosed ones, are pretending, that they're really just losers who don't feel like being social, so they have to pretend they have a 'disease' to get out of behaving according to society's whims.
There are individuals who accuse us of using our disorder as a 'crutch', as an excuse. That we use it to garner attention and pity. That we revel in our disability, and use it as an excuse to do what we want.
I do not do what I want. I am not allowed to do what I want. While my NLD does explain some of my behaviors and feelings, I try my hardest not to use it as an excuse. I do not use it as a crutch. I know what I can accomplish and what I have difficulty doing.
We're stereotyped a lot. People think we're emotionless. That's not true. In my experience, I feel too much. I'm sensitive. Yes, there are moments when I may seem numb, but that's because I don't know how to process my feelings.
People think we're savants, we're all good at music or art. Not true, again. Some of us have a particular knack, but we're still like average people, we have our strengths, weaknesses and talents.
We're all different. Not every person on the Spectrum is exactly the same. We're like wacky little snowflakes. For some of us, noise is a problem, for others it is not. Some of us like to be touched and crave contact, and some of us not at all. Me, I like hugs. Hugs help. Being touched without warning does not. Warn me before you approach me.
Sometimes, I wish I was 'normal'. If I was normal, maybe I'd be a happier person. I wouldn't have to endure stares and gossip. I could go into large crowds, and have a job or even go to college. People tell me I can get a job or go to college, but I don't know. Maybe. Maybe.
Sometimes I have to explain to my own relatives what's wrong with me. They don't understand the anxiety, the rituals, the hyper focusing. Some of my friends don't understand. I've had people treat me differently once they find out. Or maybe I just think they have. That's the tricky thing. Sometimes I don't know what's real, and what I'm misinterpreting.
I don't always want to be around other people on the spectrum. Sometimes it feels like our triggers clash. Some of us don't like noise, and some of us make a lot of noise, hence there is some clashing. But, I try to be around others on the spectrum. I like talking to people who have the same issues I do, I don't feel so lonely. I like talking to parents of children who have Autism, because they know and understand just as well.
I make jokes about it. People think I'm being offensive, but it's my method of coping. If I didn't laugh, I'd probably kill myself. Because sometimes, having NLD is painful. It's so painful. The isolation, the confusion. The emotional rollercoaster. Relationships are hard. I make friends, but I can't keep them. I'm either distrusting, or I trust too easily and confide in the wrong people. I'm too candid at times.
I could spend hours telling you my particular quirks, but that would eventually aggravate me, and then my brain would start to splutter and stutter, like an old boat motor.
So I'm going to shut up. I'm going to shut up and hope you enjoyed reading this. You probably didn't. I wouldn't. It's much too dense for me. I have trouble reading dense things, sometimes.
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Shameful Scars: My history of self-harm
I wouldn't say it was an addiction. It's not like I did it everyday. It's not like it was a big secret. My closest family members knew, they saw me do it enough times. My friends knew, I'd told them about it. Therapists knew. My boyfriend knew. Maybe even a few teachers knew. And everyone who knew, always said the same thing "Promise me you'll never do it again". I'd promise, I'd swear, never again, never again, but then before I knew it, there I was, doing it again.
I started self-harming in second grade, though at the time I didn't know that's what it was. I would pull out my hair, either one strand at a time, or in little clumps, until I had tiny bald spots. My mom noticed, told me to stop. I could not stop. For years and years, any time I was anxious, frustrated or angry, I would pull out my hair. If I was anxious, I pulled it out strand by strand, carefully, removing the follicle. If I was angry, I'd pull it out in painful little bunches, forcefully, punishing myself.
I suppose I started pulling out my hair because I was anxious. Because I didn't know how to cope with my feelings. Maybe it has something to do with the Non Verbal Learning Disorder. I don't know. All I know, is that I don't do it so much anymore. Sometimes I do it without thinking, but I don't do it when I'm upset anymore.
There were other incidents of self-harm in my childhood. I once pressed a bottle cap into my thighs until tiny welts formed. I did it because I was frustrated and bored. I was nine years old and wanted to go swimming, but I could not. So I sat on the kitchen floor, and laid a newspaper across my legs, and pressed a plastic bottle cap into my flesh, ripping through the paper, and leaving imprints. Hours later, my mom noticed the welts that had formed. She asked me if I was digging into my skin with my nails. I told her no, I used a bottle cap.
This taste for self-harm carried into my teens. The first time I remember doing it, I was fifteen. A boy I had a crush on, and his friends, were teasing me after school one day, being assholes. Maybe they were joking, maybe they weren't. Either way, I stormed off, frustrated and hurt, and hid in the girl's locker room, where I took a piece of notebook wire, and scratched the fuck out of my arm. I was angry at them, angry at myself. It hurt like a bitch, but it felt oddly cathartic. Afterwards, I looked at the puffy, stinging scratches. I showed them to a schoolmate. She didn't say anything. She didn't show any concern for the fact that I just physically harmed myself. I worried about scars. But for years, there was only one, a tiny white line no thicker than a human hair.
I also had a habit for digging my finger nails into my arms, or into my hands, when I was angry, when I was being bullied, until I left little white crescent shapes in my flesh. I hoped to draw blood, because somehow, that would show the world just how angry I was. Even now, despite being 'recovered', I still lightly dig my nail into my palm if I'm annoyed. Not hard, never hard, but enough for me to silently express my feelings, especially if politeness restrains me from revealing my true thoughts.
I never had the balls to use razors. That's the stereotype, isn't? That all people who self-harm use razor blades. That they do it because they're so numb that they can't feel otherwise.
Maybe that's how some people do it. Maybe that's why some people do it. That wasn't how or why I did it. The problem wasn't numbness, the problem was that I was feeling too much, and wasn't sure how to express it. Or that I was angry and wanted to punish myself. Or that I that I wanted people to see that I was in pain, that I was hurting, and needed their support. And sometimes, sometimes, I just wanted to see if they cared what I did or didn't do.
I tried using a razor once. I made a tiny nick that didn't even scar. I mostly used my fingernails, or pins, thumbtacks, wires. I tried broken glass, but found, I was too scared to press down hard enough. I wanted to hurt myself, but I didn't want to die.
I made scratches, gouges. Sometimes I did it hard enough to bleed, hard enough to scar. It would burn and sting. I would attack my arms, my face, my breasts and stomach. I hate my breasts and stomach. I mostly attacked them or my face whenever I felt ugly. Sometimes I told people what the marks were from, other times, I let them assume that they were cat scratches. Sometimes people ask, but mostly they ignore it.
What triggered these brutal assaults? The first time I really did it bad enough to scar, I had just been dumped by a guy I was falling in love with. I did it in front of him. It was impulsive. I was angry at him, angry at myself for not being able to stay in a relationship. I wanted to show him how much pain I was in. The scar has finally faded, but for years, it ran along my arm, a pinkish-brown ribbon, reminding me of my shameful reaction to heartbreak.
From then on, I did it when I was fighting with my family, I did it during or after a fight with my boyfriend. I did it after being bullied online. I did it when I was off my medication and couldn't cope. Anxiety, anger, frustration, disappointment, humiliation. Those feeling swam through my while I did it. Those feelings triggered the acts of violence against myself. Then after, instead of feeling high, like some say you're supposed to feel, I'd only feel ashamed, stupid. I'd broken another promise, or I'd have to go to the hospital again. I'd disappointed my parents, my friends, my boyfriend.
I'd treat the wounds with bag balm. They didn't make band-aids big enough to cover them up. I didn't hide the scars with long sleeves, or makeup. I have friends with their own histories of self-harm, and they don't hide their scars either. What's the point? I don't hide the fact that I used to self-harm either, I'm rather candid about it.
How did I stop? How did I break free of it's stranglehold? It seems like it happened overnight, but really it was a few years progress. In the Windham Center they got me to admit I was addicted, though in reality, while I wasn't addicted to the scratching, I was perhaps addicted to the hair pulling, though as I'd explained countless times, it was most likely a compulsion related to my disorder.
But neither the Windham Center or any form of group therapy saved my sorry ass. Rather, I like to think I did it myself, with a little guidance from Creator. I started taking my meds (I was bribed into it by my sister with promises of visiting her in Baltimore), and stopped resisting my therapist. Things started to get better. Then, out of the blue, I joined Voice of United Spirit Singers, an intertribal Native American drum group. Without me realizing it, the drum began to heal my heart, putting me back together slowly, but surely.
The last time I self-harmed, was April 12th 2011. That day, my boyfriend of nearly four years, dumped me, because I had attended a party. Well it, was slightly more complicated than that, but it was the straw that broke the camel's back. It was two days before my 22nd birthday, and I was due to leave for Baltimore the next day. And here he was, calling me a whore, telling me he couldn't do this anymore. All the stress and fear of my impending flight, all the anxiety I'd been suffering, combined with the shock of someone I loved breaking my heart, made me snap. I got drunk and I self harmed again. I begged to go to the hospital. I was losing my mind. I don't remember what brought me out of it. Maybe it was Xanax. Maybe it was my father. I just don't know. I don't care, what did it. All I know is April 12th was the last time I ever self-harmed myself. I do not want to do it ever again, and I know why. The Drum. It is Voice of United Spirit that saves me from myself. And I know, that as long as I sing with her, I will be OK.
Special note- I wrote this for cathartic reasons. I do not endorse nor encourage self-harm as a method of coping. I urge all who do hurt themselves to seek help.
I started self-harming in second grade, though at the time I didn't know that's what it was. I would pull out my hair, either one strand at a time, or in little clumps, until I had tiny bald spots. My mom noticed, told me to stop. I could not stop. For years and years, any time I was anxious, frustrated or angry, I would pull out my hair. If I was anxious, I pulled it out strand by strand, carefully, removing the follicle. If I was angry, I'd pull it out in painful little bunches, forcefully, punishing myself.
I suppose I started pulling out my hair because I was anxious. Because I didn't know how to cope with my feelings. Maybe it has something to do with the Non Verbal Learning Disorder. I don't know. All I know, is that I don't do it so much anymore. Sometimes I do it without thinking, but I don't do it when I'm upset anymore.
There were other incidents of self-harm in my childhood. I once pressed a bottle cap into my thighs until tiny welts formed. I did it because I was frustrated and bored. I was nine years old and wanted to go swimming, but I could not. So I sat on the kitchen floor, and laid a newspaper across my legs, and pressed a plastic bottle cap into my flesh, ripping through the paper, and leaving imprints. Hours later, my mom noticed the welts that had formed. She asked me if I was digging into my skin with my nails. I told her no, I used a bottle cap.
This taste for self-harm carried into my teens. The first time I remember doing it, I was fifteen. A boy I had a crush on, and his friends, were teasing me after school one day, being assholes. Maybe they were joking, maybe they weren't. Either way, I stormed off, frustrated and hurt, and hid in the girl's locker room, where I took a piece of notebook wire, and scratched the fuck out of my arm. I was angry at them, angry at myself. It hurt like a bitch, but it felt oddly cathartic. Afterwards, I looked at the puffy, stinging scratches. I showed them to a schoolmate. She didn't say anything. She didn't show any concern for the fact that I just physically harmed myself. I worried about scars. But for years, there was only one, a tiny white line no thicker than a human hair.
I also had a habit for digging my finger nails into my arms, or into my hands, when I was angry, when I was being bullied, until I left little white crescent shapes in my flesh. I hoped to draw blood, because somehow, that would show the world just how angry I was. Even now, despite being 'recovered', I still lightly dig my nail into my palm if I'm annoyed. Not hard, never hard, but enough for me to silently express my feelings, especially if politeness restrains me from revealing my true thoughts.
I never had the balls to use razors. That's the stereotype, isn't? That all people who self-harm use razor blades. That they do it because they're so numb that they can't feel otherwise.
Maybe that's how some people do it. Maybe that's why some people do it. That wasn't how or why I did it. The problem wasn't numbness, the problem was that I was feeling too much, and wasn't sure how to express it. Or that I was angry and wanted to punish myself. Or that I that I wanted people to see that I was in pain, that I was hurting, and needed their support. And sometimes, sometimes, I just wanted to see if they cared what I did or didn't do.
I tried using a razor once. I made a tiny nick that didn't even scar. I mostly used my fingernails, or pins, thumbtacks, wires. I tried broken glass, but found, I was too scared to press down hard enough. I wanted to hurt myself, but I didn't want to die.
I made scratches, gouges. Sometimes I did it hard enough to bleed, hard enough to scar. It would burn and sting. I would attack my arms, my face, my breasts and stomach. I hate my breasts and stomach. I mostly attacked them or my face whenever I felt ugly. Sometimes I told people what the marks were from, other times, I let them assume that they were cat scratches. Sometimes people ask, but mostly they ignore it.
What triggered these brutal assaults? The first time I really did it bad enough to scar, I had just been dumped by a guy I was falling in love with. I did it in front of him. It was impulsive. I was angry at him, angry at myself for not being able to stay in a relationship. I wanted to show him how much pain I was in. The scar has finally faded, but for years, it ran along my arm, a pinkish-brown ribbon, reminding me of my shameful reaction to heartbreak.
From then on, I did it when I was fighting with my family, I did it during or after a fight with my boyfriend. I did it after being bullied online. I did it when I was off my medication and couldn't cope. Anxiety, anger, frustration, disappointment, humiliation. Those feeling swam through my while I did it. Those feelings triggered the acts of violence against myself. Then after, instead of feeling high, like some say you're supposed to feel, I'd only feel ashamed, stupid. I'd broken another promise, or I'd have to go to the hospital again. I'd disappointed my parents, my friends, my boyfriend.
I'd treat the wounds with bag balm. They didn't make band-aids big enough to cover them up. I didn't hide the scars with long sleeves, or makeup. I have friends with their own histories of self-harm, and they don't hide their scars either. What's the point? I don't hide the fact that I used to self-harm either, I'm rather candid about it.
How did I stop? How did I break free of it's stranglehold? It seems like it happened overnight, but really it was a few years progress. In the Windham Center they got me to admit I was addicted, though in reality, while I wasn't addicted to the scratching, I was perhaps addicted to the hair pulling, though as I'd explained countless times, it was most likely a compulsion related to my disorder.
But neither the Windham Center or any form of group therapy saved my sorry ass. Rather, I like to think I did it myself, with a little guidance from Creator. I started taking my meds (I was bribed into it by my sister with promises of visiting her in Baltimore), and stopped resisting my therapist. Things started to get better. Then, out of the blue, I joined Voice of United Spirit Singers, an intertribal Native American drum group. Without me realizing it, the drum began to heal my heart, putting me back together slowly, but surely.
The last time I self-harmed, was April 12th 2011. That day, my boyfriend of nearly four years, dumped me, because I had attended a party. Well it, was slightly more complicated than that, but it was the straw that broke the camel's back. It was two days before my 22nd birthday, and I was due to leave for Baltimore the next day. And here he was, calling me a whore, telling me he couldn't do this anymore. All the stress and fear of my impending flight, all the anxiety I'd been suffering, combined with the shock of someone I loved breaking my heart, made me snap. I got drunk and I self harmed again. I begged to go to the hospital. I was losing my mind. I don't remember what brought me out of it. Maybe it was Xanax. Maybe it was my father. I just don't know. I don't care, what did it. All I know is April 12th was the last time I ever self-harmed myself. I do not want to do it ever again, and I know why. The Drum. It is Voice of United Spirit that saves me from myself. And I know, that as long as I sing with her, I will be OK.
Special note- I wrote this for cathartic reasons. I do not endorse nor encourage self-harm as a method of coping. I urge all who do hurt themselves to seek help.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Rants and Ravings
I've been irritable lately. Maybe it's the stress I've been under, but regardless of the cause, I need to vent about some things that have been annoying me lately.
1. If you have facebook, and I imagine a majority of the world population with internet access, does, you must have noticed what I'm bitching about. Those little chainmails, that people implore you to post as your status for one hour, in the hopes of curing cancer. Seriously, they all say "Post this and we will be one step closer to the cure!". No. Reposting bland copypasta won't cure cancer. If you want to help cure cancer, donate to a cancer research foundation or something like that. Posting these stupid chainmails is futile. You think you're helping, but you're really doing nothing. Actually no, you ARE doing something, you're pissing me off.
2. Today, I was in Target, looking at the bins full of cheap items. I love these bins. You can find so many cute little things. But today as I was poring over these baskets, a woman was walking less than a foot behind me also browsing. You're probably sitting here wondering why this is pissing me off so much. Well, for one thing, I have personal space issues. Big ones. I don't like having strangers stand to close to me when I'm shopping. If I go to look at something and someone's already standing in front of it, I'd rather wait for them to finish up than have my personal space invaded. So with woman practically nestling herself between my butt cheeks, she was already pissing me off. Rubbing salt in the wound was the fact that she kept clearing her throat. Every 3 seconds. For fuck's sake, it's called a fucking cough drop. You can buy them right in the store! I can't fucking stand it when people are in public constantly clearing their throats and coughing. If my parents hadn't raised me better, I would have turned right around and told her to back the fuck off. I know she wasn't riding my ass on purpose, but it irritates me that a lot of people aren't aware of personal space when they're shopping. Maybe I should start wearing a sign that says "Autistic Person, Please Stay Back at Least 3 Feet".
3. Target's CD Return Policy. You can only return CDs if they are unopened and come with the receipt. Horrible policy. Most people return CD's because they listened to the album and didn't like it. No one buys an album, doesn't open it and then returns it. Target, are you fucking stupid?
4. Music Censorship. I'm an adult, thank you. I've heard all the naughty words before. And parents should be the judge of what their kids are exposed to, not the government. Last time I checked, this was still a free country and people were still allowed to make their own decisions about what they listen to, watch and read.
5. Lady Gaga's song Fashion of his Love. It sounds like bad Christian pop. Usually I love her work, but this song is one of her rare misses. Maybe I need to listen to it again, but my first impression wasn't a good one.
Well, that's all I can think of right about now. I'm still irritated, and this wasn't as cathartic as I had hoped, but oh well, it helps me practice my writing style.
1. If you have facebook, and I imagine a majority of the world population with internet access, does, you must have noticed what I'm bitching about. Those little chainmails, that people implore you to post as your status for one hour, in the hopes of curing cancer. Seriously, they all say "Post this and we will be one step closer to the cure!". No. Reposting bland copypasta won't cure cancer. If you want to help cure cancer, donate to a cancer research foundation or something like that. Posting these stupid chainmails is futile. You think you're helping, but you're really doing nothing. Actually no, you ARE doing something, you're pissing me off.
2. Today, I was in Target, looking at the bins full of cheap items. I love these bins. You can find so many cute little things. But today as I was poring over these baskets, a woman was walking less than a foot behind me also browsing. You're probably sitting here wondering why this is pissing me off so much. Well, for one thing, I have personal space issues. Big ones. I don't like having strangers stand to close to me when I'm shopping. If I go to look at something and someone's already standing in front of it, I'd rather wait for them to finish up than have my personal space invaded. So with woman practically nestling herself between my butt cheeks, she was already pissing me off. Rubbing salt in the wound was the fact that she kept clearing her throat. Every 3 seconds. For fuck's sake, it's called a fucking cough drop. You can buy them right in the store! I can't fucking stand it when people are in public constantly clearing their throats and coughing. If my parents hadn't raised me better, I would have turned right around and told her to back the fuck off. I know she wasn't riding my ass on purpose, but it irritates me that a lot of people aren't aware of personal space when they're shopping. Maybe I should start wearing a sign that says "Autistic Person, Please Stay Back at Least 3 Feet".
3. Target's CD Return Policy. You can only return CDs if they are unopened and come with the receipt. Horrible policy. Most people return CD's because they listened to the album and didn't like it. No one buys an album, doesn't open it and then returns it. Target, are you fucking stupid?
4. Music Censorship. I'm an adult, thank you. I've heard all the naughty words before. And parents should be the judge of what their kids are exposed to, not the government. Last time I checked, this was still a free country and people were still allowed to make their own decisions about what they listen to, watch and read.
5. Lady Gaga's song Fashion of his Love. It sounds like bad Christian pop. Usually I love her work, but this song is one of her rare misses. Maybe I need to listen to it again, but my first impression wasn't a good one.
Well, that's all I can think of right about now. I'm still irritated, and this wasn't as cathartic as I had hoped, but oh well, it helps me practice my writing style.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Book 3 of the Vow Renewal Weekend: Sunday
And here we are, at the third and final volume of the tedious and self-indulgent memoir I have embarked upon.
Part 1: An Autistic Squirrel
I woke on Sunday morning, to bright sunlight streaming into the small apartment. The day of the Vow Renewal. It was already sticky and humid and we had much to do before we left. We had to deflate the air mattresses, pack everything up and get dressed.
I dressed simply in a hot pink, nearly magenta, cotton and crocheted lace skirt that fell just above my knee, a black tank top and a pair of flip flops. I wrapped my large black and white gauze scarf over my shoulders like a shawl, and put on my jewelry.
For such a simple outfit, it had been such an odyssey getting it together. Months ago, when I first learned of the vow renewal, I had already begun planning what I would wear. The original idea was to make a sun dress, out of black cotton printed with cherries, but I couldn't find a flattering pattern. So then I had decided to make a skirt out of muslin, dyed purple, we'd even purchased the dye, but we never got around to it. So in the end, I decided to wear what I already had. It saved time and money.
Once dressed, I did my makeup. Concealer and powder to hide the sunburn on my nose, soft lime green eyeshadow, mascara, bright pink lipstick. The effect turned out out great. For once, my skin actually looked flawless. I was rather impressed with my appearance.
After everyone had dressed, and we had gathered up the deflated mattresses, our bedding and our bags; we loaded everything back in the car and left for the wedding. We stopped at Dunkin' Donuts for breakfast. Their breakfast sandwiches are pretty damn delicious, even if their coffee tastes like dish soap.
I don't remember much about the drive over, other than it being very warm. I was in a sour mood, mostly due to anxiety. I always feel out of place at family functions, so I can't help but feel nervous whenever I go to one.
We stopped at a country store to use the bathroom and pick up some chicken for the barbecue. I love country stores, especially ones in rural areas. They always have interesting things, like local products and novelty candy. This country store even had a little miniature golf course. I would have enjoyed playing a round, but we did not have the time.
When we arrived at the cabin, a few of the guests were already there. I felt awkward as I greeted family members, I don't know why. I'm just a socially awkward person, I suppose. Once I'm at my ease, I can be rather charming, but in the first uneasy minutes, I can be as about as exciting as an autistic squirrel. Actually, that does sound interesting, never mind. Ignore that simile, please.
I don't remember too much. This was all a year ago, after all. I recall doing the usual schmoozing, and socializing. I remember trying an ale, called Old Speckled Hen. At first I liked it, but then I found I had no taste for ale. I've always preferred hard cider, or as I've recently discovered, Smirnoff Ice. I couldn't finish it. I don't even think I finished a quarter of the bottle. In fact, as I was drinking, I was starting to feel surly, and agitated. This happens to me quite often. If I drink when I'm anxious, I end up in a foul mood. If I drink when I'm in a good mood, I end up giggly. Since I was already tense, being at a family event and all, you can imagine where my mood shifted. I put down the bottle, and didn't touch any booze for the rest of the day.
The ceremony was at noon. The minister had arrived, the whole family had shown up and my Aunt Jenny had changed into her wedding dress. She looked lovely. It was white, with an empire waist, and some beading. I told her she looked beautiful. My Uncle Ben wore a Hawaiian shirt.
Everyone was starting to head down to the scenic area where the ceremony would be held. I was still feeling all out of sorts, so I popped an Ativan, and joined my mother and sister to watch two people renew their vows.
Part 1: An Autistic Squirrel
I woke on Sunday morning, to bright sunlight streaming into the small apartment. The day of the Vow Renewal. It was already sticky and humid and we had much to do before we left. We had to deflate the air mattresses, pack everything up and get dressed.
I dressed simply in a hot pink, nearly magenta, cotton and crocheted lace skirt that fell just above my knee, a black tank top and a pair of flip flops. I wrapped my large black and white gauze scarf over my shoulders like a shawl, and put on my jewelry.
For such a simple outfit, it had been such an odyssey getting it together. Months ago, when I first learned of the vow renewal, I had already begun planning what I would wear. The original idea was to make a sun dress, out of black cotton printed with cherries, but I couldn't find a flattering pattern. So then I had decided to make a skirt out of muslin, dyed purple, we'd even purchased the dye, but we never got around to it. So in the end, I decided to wear what I already had. It saved time and money.
Once dressed, I did my makeup. Concealer and powder to hide the sunburn on my nose, soft lime green eyeshadow, mascara, bright pink lipstick. The effect turned out out great. For once, my skin actually looked flawless. I was rather impressed with my appearance.
After everyone had dressed, and we had gathered up the deflated mattresses, our bedding and our bags; we loaded everything back in the car and left for the wedding. We stopped at Dunkin' Donuts for breakfast. Their breakfast sandwiches are pretty damn delicious, even if their coffee tastes like dish soap.
I don't remember much about the drive over, other than it being very warm. I was in a sour mood, mostly due to anxiety. I always feel out of place at family functions, so I can't help but feel nervous whenever I go to one.
We stopped at a country store to use the bathroom and pick up some chicken for the barbecue. I love country stores, especially ones in rural areas. They always have interesting things, like local products and novelty candy. This country store even had a little miniature golf course. I would have enjoyed playing a round, but we did not have the time.
When we arrived at the cabin, a few of the guests were already there. I felt awkward as I greeted family members, I don't know why. I'm just a socially awkward person, I suppose. Once I'm at my ease, I can be rather charming, but in the first uneasy minutes, I can be as about as exciting as an autistic squirrel. Actually, that does sound interesting, never mind. Ignore that simile, please.
I don't remember too much. This was all a year ago, after all. I recall doing the usual schmoozing, and socializing. I remember trying an ale, called Old Speckled Hen. At first I liked it, but then I found I had no taste for ale. I've always preferred hard cider, or as I've recently discovered, Smirnoff Ice. I couldn't finish it. I don't even think I finished a quarter of the bottle. In fact, as I was drinking, I was starting to feel surly, and agitated. This happens to me quite often. If I drink when I'm anxious, I end up in a foul mood. If I drink when I'm in a good mood, I end up giggly. Since I was already tense, being at a family event and all, you can imagine where my mood shifted. I put down the bottle, and didn't touch any booze for the rest of the day.
The ceremony was at noon. The minister had arrived, the whole family had shown up and my Aunt Jenny had changed into her wedding dress. She looked lovely. It was white, with an empire waist, and some beading. I told her she looked beautiful. My Uncle Ben wore a Hawaiian shirt.
Everyone was starting to head down to the scenic area where the ceremony would be held. I was still feeling all out of sorts, so I popped an Ativan, and joined my mother and sister to watch two people renew their vows.
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