I sometimes feel as though my past is strangling me. I've tried counseling; it doesn't work very well, primarily because what the (neurotypical) therapists say is unhelpful to me (as a person on the autism spectrum who doesn't relate very well to the neurotypical perspective). The fact that they don't understand my point of view all that well is also problematic, as are their admonitions not to think about certain things (next to impossible for me).
I'm actually beginning to make a few friends (to my surprise) and so from time to time I mention excerpts from my past, but it's really hard for me to put it into perspective for them. When I tell them that my first marriage (total nightmare) was more or less arranged by my very religious parents, they just go, "What?????" They don't have the context. Meanwhile, people who've known me since I was a kid drift through the store and I get lost in the detritus of the past and the attempt to reconcile it with my present life.
I started to write a book about it once, but at the time I was still in serious conflict about some of the religious/spiritual issues. I tried desperately to salvage some of what I believed in, to justify it....and the result was a defensive, convoluted mess. My sister wrote a book (sampling liberally from what I had written), and her spin on it was that we had fallen into a cult and that she had been rescued and returned to true Christianity...not a point of view that I could share.
A LOT of people tell me that I should simply get over it and not think about the past. Move on, they say! That's easier said than done, when the contemporaries I grew up with come through my workplace, and I see the same struggle in them, some of them succumbing to drugs, others going as ultra religious as their parents, and others ....attempting some kind of a compromise? As though that were possible, heh. Some of them won't even speak to me or acknowledge my presence. We flap and struggle through life like wounded birds...some of us relatively unharmed after all, others maimed and crippled up....
So I think what I'm going to do, so as not to clutter this place up, is to create another blog for that purpose. I'll link to it from here.
===============================================================
And, an aside, while we're sitting here referring to spirtuality and religious issues. I'm considering the Friends, that is to say, Quakers. Pacificism is something I take seriously. The only thing is, I'm not sure there's a god, or that it matters, so probably I don't qualify, I'd think.
Sunday, June 18, 2006
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
People who scare me
(That is to say, almost everyone).
My manager scares me. I never know what in the heck she's thinking, and I've spent enough time watching her closely (as well as listening) to observe that she is not straightforward about what she is thinking. Most of the time she will not divulge what she truly thinks or feels about someone to their face. This frightens me to no end. I could screw up badly enough that she would be chomping at the bit to get rid of me, and yet she'd smile and speak politely to me? I have seen it happen...to others.... Help!!!!! Please, just *tell* me if I screw up, right when I do it! Then I can fix it, right then, before you all get mad.
Another manager scares me, because I kow that he's a very religious person. HIs life is centered around his faith. I actually admire that, but I'm agnostic. I have this uneasy sensation that if he discovered that, he would find things to dislike about me. :squirm:
Little kids used to scare me, because they're not mine and that made me uncomfortable. I don't know how to relate to other people's kids, just my own. I am, however, gradually becoming acclimated to the offspring of other people and they no longer intimidate me.
Druggies, particularly meth heads, are the human equivialent of a horror movie monster in my mind. These people are very, very unpredictable and about as illogical and disconnected as you can get. Potheads, on the other hand, are just amusing and fairly harmless.
Drunks. They aren't thinking clearly, therefore they might be dangerous.
Extremely well dressed churchy-looking ladies who are very very prim and proper with every hair in place leave me hopping anxiously. Anyone that anal is apt to be hard to please. Jehovah Witnesses are the benign exception. They're always generous with smiles and friendly waves, and they seem less...stiff and starched.
Big dirty looking guys with an unfocused gaze and hair flying every which way: are they dangerous? Perhaps. Definitely scary unless I know them.
Teenage boys full of hormones; I used to be almost phobic of them and young men in general. Now I'm old enough that they don't seem as threatening.
Gals who blab their mouths all the time with lots of silly crap, especially the ones who revel in picking apart the cosmetic flaws of movie stars. Geez Louise, if a movie star can't please them, what do they have to say about me behind my back?
Cheap women: firstly, they make my skin crawl. Secondly, this is a woman who will steal your man in a heartbeat without remorse, given half a chance. You cannot trust her...at all.
People who gossip continuously about anyone and everyone, loudly for all to hear. God help you if someone you know tells them something about you! On the other hand, they're extremely useful if you want to spread news quickly with minimal effort. Just be very, VERY careful what you say and that you word it in such a way as to be quite clear as to your menaing.
Most people who touch me without permission. My reaction is to jump or recoil as if burned. Eeek! You *touched* me!! There are a few people that I don't mind touching or inadvertently bumping me. If you touch me and I don't cringe, it's a compliment.
Groups of people: teenagers, crowds, cliques, etc. It isn't nice to feel reminded of one's outsider status. Besdies, they outnumber me.
But I think what scares me the most are people who act friendly to my face, and then as I walk away, I glance back and catch them looking at me in a not very friendly way. What do they really think? What will they do? The nasty thing about this is that you cannot confront them about it or get it out in the open since they're always nice to your face.
------------------
Now
------------------
One thing I did realize is that I tend to really like people who are direct and outspoken about what they think, even if it isn't what I want to hear. If I need to hear it, tell me. I'll get over the dismay or disappointment soon enough, and then the problem can be dealt with, or we can agree to disagree.
-----------------
And
-----------------
I like it when people make me feel safe or if they have a reassuring presence. That's very nice when the world is a virtual minefield of potentially frightening sorts.
(That is to say, almost everyone).
My manager scares me. I never know what in the heck she's thinking, and I've spent enough time watching her closely (as well as listening) to observe that she is not straightforward about what she is thinking. Most of the time she will not divulge what she truly thinks or feels about someone to their face. This frightens me to no end. I could screw up badly enough that she would be chomping at the bit to get rid of me, and yet she'd smile and speak politely to me? I have seen it happen...to others.... Help!!!!! Please, just *tell* me if I screw up, right when I do it! Then I can fix it, right then, before you all get mad.
Another manager scares me, because I kow that he's a very religious person. HIs life is centered around his faith. I actually admire that, but I'm agnostic. I have this uneasy sensation that if he discovered that, he would find things to dislike about me. :squirm:
Little kids used to scare me, because they're not mine and that made me uncomfortable. I don't know how to relate to other people's kids, just my own. I am, however, gradually becoming acclimated to the offspring of other people and they no longer intimidate me.
Druggies, particularly meth heads, are the human equivialent of a horror movie monster in my mind. These people are very, very unpredictable and about as illogical and disconnected as you can get. Potheads, on the other hand, are just amusing and fairly harmless.
Drunks. They aren't thinking clearly, therefore they might be dangerous.
Extremely well dressed churchy-looking ladies who are very very prim and proper with every hair in place leave me hopping anxiously. Anyone that anal is apt to be hard to please. Jehovah Witnesses are the benign exception. They're always generous with smiles and friendly waves, and they seem less...stiff and starched.
Big dirty looking guys with an unfocused gaze and hair flying every which way: are they dangerous? Perhaps. Definitely scary unless I know them.
Teenage boys full of hormones; I used to be almost phobic of them and young men in general. Now I'm old enough that they don't seem as threatening.
Gals who blab their mouths all the time with lots of silly crap, especially the ones who revel in picking apart the cosmetic flaws of movie stars. Geez Louise, if a movie star can't please them, what do they have to say about me behind my back?
Cheap women: firstly, they make my skin crawl. Secondly, this is a woman who will steal your man in a heartbeat without remorse, given half a chance. You cannot trust her...at all.
People who gossip continuously about anyone and everyone, loudly for all to hear. God help you if someone you know tells them something about you! On the other hand, they're extremely useful if you want to spread news quickly with minimal effort. Just be very, VERY careful what you say and that you word it in such a way as to be quite clear as to your menaing.
Most people who touch me without permission. My reaction is to jump or recoil as if burned. Eeek! You *touched* me!! There are a few people that I don't mind touching or inadvertently bumping me. If you touch me and I don't cringe, it's a compliment.
Groups of people: teenagers, crowds, cliques, etc. It isn't nice to feel reminded of one's outsider status. Besdies, they outnumber me.
But I think what scares me the most are people who act friendly to my face, and then as I walk away, I glance back and catch them looking at me in a not very friendly way. What do they really think? What will they do? The nasty thing about this is that you cannot confront them about it or get it out in the open since they're always nice to your face.
------------------
Now
------------------
One thing I did realize is that I tend to really like people who are direct and outspoken about what they think, even if it isn't what I want to hear. If I need to hear it, tell me. I'll get over the dismay or disappointment soon enough, and then the problem can be dealt with, or we can agree to disagree.
-----------------
And
-----------------
I like it when people make me feel safe or if they have a reassuring presence. That's very nice when the world is a virtual minefield of potentially frightening sorts.
Sunday, May 21, 2006
I, the health minded, formerly vegetarian food snob, the one who buys organic milk and eggs, who munches tofu (organic and locally produced of course) cold and all by itself, the one who disdains to buy or eat the majority of "food" in the store, am sitting here relishing a thick, juicy steak. I can't even defend it on the grounds of it being free range or organic, because it isn't. It's local meat (relatively- I think it's from Washington state) but it could easily be local feedlots for all I know. Frankly, right now I don't care. The words *Premium*Angus*Beef* are singing happily through my iron starved, protein craving brain.
This is the third day that I've been bloodthirsty for red meat. I could blame it on the guy (I'm assuming he was affiliated with beef producers) who cooked a whole prime rib in the deli and then sampled it out for the store's grand opening. At first, when I saw the hunk of meat laying on the cart and entering the oven, my reaction was "piece of beef", and I started visualizing where on the animal that big cut of meat came from. Some time later, when it was about half done, I was surprised to notice a flickering interest asserting itself. "I might try that? Hmmm. OK. I might try that..." By the time they determined that the still-very-bright-pink/red meat was hot enough not to be dangerous any more, I was practically drooling and having to restrain myself from hovering over it longingly. For hours I watched him cut it up into tasty inch sized cubes and pierce them with toothpicks and set them on a plate. Every time I had a chance to get a piece, there were people in the way. Finally, towards the end of the day, when the man seemed truly weary of pitching his product, I was able to snag one. Oh my, was that good! Yes! That hit the spot!
Ever since, I've been hungry for meat, and chicken just won't cut it. STEAK. PINK STEAK. (insert orgasmic sighs of pleasure and contentment.) I think my body is hungry for protein because I'm nursing. Heck, even the fat tastes good. And now I'm thinking that if I get a place of my own, I want to raise a beef calf, so I can have lots of this stuff, and know it was raised well and humanely. A Scottish Highland calf would be good, if I can find it. MMMMMMmmmmm.....
This is the third day that I've been bloodthirsty for red meat. I could blame it on the guy (I'm assuming he was affiliated with beef producers) who cooked a whole prime rib in the deli and then sampled it out for the store's grand opening. At first, when I saw the hunk of meat laying on the cart and entering the oven, my reaction was "piece of beef", and I started visualizing where on the animal that big cut of meat came from. Some time later, when it was about half done, I was surprised to notice a flickering interest asserting itself. "I might try that? Hmmm. OK. I might try that..." By the time they determined that the still-very-bright-pink/red meat was hot enough not to be dangerous any more, I was practically drooling and having to restrain myself from hovering over it longingly. For hours I watched him cut it up into tasty inch sized cubes and pierce them with toothpicks and set them on a plate. Every time I had a chance to get a piece, there were people in the way. Finally, towards the end of the day, when the man seemed truly weary of pitching his product, I was able to snag one. Oh my, was that good! Yes! That hit the spot!
Ever since, I've been hungry for meat, and chicken just won't cut it. STEAK. PINK STEAK. (insert orgasmic sighs of pleasure and contentment.) I think my body is hungry for protein because I'm nursing. Heck, even the fat tastes good. And now I'm thinking that if I get a place of my own, I want to raise a beef calf, so I can have lots of this stuff, and know it was raised well and humanely. A Scottish Highland calf would be good, if I can find it. MMMMMMmmmmm.....
Monday, May 15, 2006
White People with Dreadlocks
........................................................
Getting right to the point here, I don't think white people should put their hair in dreads. First of all, it looks nasty. They look great on black people , but I think that the *only* instance where I've ever seen them look attractive on a white has been in the movie "The Fifth Element". That cute redhead looked OK with them, and they weren't the fat ropey kind tied into a ponytail sticking straight out behind, like I've seen on other white people.
Secondly, it smacks of....more than imitation. It almost borders on parody to see white folks with dreads, wearing gangsta type clothes, listening to rap music. It looks just ridiculous, and this is coming from someone who grew up in inner city Chicago. It's particularly out of place in Rednecksville, Idaho, where if a black person comes into view, people gawk and stare and point and whisper: "Did you see??"
I'm not racist, either. This isn't about racism.
It's just that something in me sneers at this sort of thing, sort of like when people make "chinese stir fry" and add potatoes to it, or worse, ketchup. I mean, if they want to lightly saute vegetables and eat them with rice, fine. But don't call that shit Chinese. You put ketchup in it, it's ruined. And while we're at it, taco pizza??
I guess I just can't see emulating another culture in such a way as to make it look stupid or to seem disrespectful. Another example would be Christianized versions of Jewish feasts and holy days. Their spin on it is enough to make one want to scream and rend your clothing! Arrrgh!
I do realize that America's the melting pot and all that. I've probably eaten curry, borscht, challah, and chicken adobo all in the same week and not thought twice about it. It's just this indiscriminate, inaccurate, shamelessly random and halfhearted sampling (and then proudly showing it off as being from that culture) that irks me.
........................................................
Getting right to the point here, I don't think white people should put their hair in dreads. First of all, it looks nasty. They look great on black people , but I think that the *only* instance where I've ever seen them look attractive on a white has been in the movie "The Fifth Element". That cute redhead looked OK with them, and they weren't the fat ropey kind tied into a ponytail sticking straight out behind, like I've seen on other white people.
Secondly, it smacks of....more than imitation. It almost borders on parody to see white folks with dreads, wearing gangsta type clothes, listening to rap music. It looks just ridiculous, and this is coming from someone who grew up in inner city Chicago. It's particularly out of place in Rednecksville, Idaho, where if a black person comes into view, people gawk and stare and point and whisper: "Did you see??"
I'm not racist, either. This isn't about racism.
It's just that something in me sneers at this sort of thing, sort of like when people make "chinese stir fry" and add potatoes to it, or worse, ketchup. I mean, if they want to lightly saute vegetables and eat them with rice, fine. But don't call that shit Chinese. You put ketchup in it, it's ruined. And while we're at it, taco pizza??
I guess I just can't see emulating another culture in such a way as to make it look stupid or to seem disrespectful. Another example would be Christianized versions of Jewish feasts and holy days. Their spin on it is enough to make one want to scream and rend your clothing! Arrrgh!
I do realize that America's the melting pot and all that. I've probably eaten curry, borscht, challah, and chicken adobo all in the same week and not thought twice about it. It's just this indiscriminate, inaccurate, shamelessly random and halfhearted sampling (and then proudly showing it off as being from that culture) that irks me.
Monday, May 08, 2006
Waxing nostalgic and homesick....
I could buy and stock bird feeders until the stores ran out of stock...and never see a cardinal...although I might see cedar waxwings, which are almost as nice.
I could drive all day, and I won't see any cornfields..or soybeans, either.
I could search the forests and yards and edges of parking lots in vain- no mulberries.
I've yet to see a Farm and Fleet store here.
I could lay awake all night long outside, all summer long, and not see even a single firefly, ever. Once I thought I did see one, a few years ago, and I got really excited...but it turned out I was mistaken.
And even though milkweed doesn't grow here, I could plant it. It wouldn't matter, though...the monarch butterflies with their cool striped caterpillars wouldn't visit the plants.
Yeah, I'm homesick
After all these years. After busting my butt to get here and to stay here, I miss the midwest. I'm trying to tell myself that if I were there, I'd be missing all the great things that we have here that simply don't exist there. I guess that as we get older, we sort of miss what we grew up with.... :-/
I could buy and stock bird feeders until the stores ran out of stock...and never see a cardinal...although I might see cedar waxwings, which are almost as nice.
I could drive all day, and I won't see any cornfields..or soybeans, either.
I could search the forests and yards and edges of parking lots in vain- no mulberries.
I've yet to see a Farm and Fleet store here.
I could lay awake all night long outside, all summer long, and not see even a single firefly, ever. Once I thought I did see one, a few years ago, and I got really excited...but it turned out I was mistaken.
And even though milkweed doesn't grow here, I could plant it. It wouldn't matter, though...the monarch butterflies with their cool striped caterpillars wouldn't visit the plants.
After all these years. After busting my butt to get here and to stay here, I miss the midwest. I'm trying to tell myself that if I were there, I'd be missing all the great things that we have here that simply don't exist there. I guess that as we get older, we sort of miss what we grew up with....
Friday, May 05, 2006
An excerpt from today:
7 year old daughter looking through cake decorating book with brother: Daniel, do you like this cake?
son: No.
daughter: It looks like a circus! Don't you like it?
son: No.
daughter: Why not? Don't you like circuses?
son: No.
daughter: Why not, Daniel?
son (somewhat frustrated): It has clowns on it!!
daughter: Don't you like clowns?
son: No.
daughter: Why not? Why don't you like clowns? Don't you want a cake with clowns on it?
son: No.
daughter: Why not?
Son: I don't like clowns.
daughter: You don't like clowns? Why not? Clowns are nice!
Son (yelling): They're not nice, they're FUNNY!!!
***********************************************************
LOL...I agree with him...I don't like clowns, either. And it is their eerie gaiety that disturbs me the most. The sad clowns don't bother me at all.
7 year old daughter looking through cake decorating book with brother: Daniel, do you like this cake?
son: No.
daughter: It looks like a circus! Don't you like it?
son: No.
daughter: Why not? Don't you like circuses?
son: No.
daughter: Why not, Daniel?
son (somewhat frustrated): It has clowns on it!!
daughter: Don't you like clowns?
son: No.
daughter: Why not? Why don't you like clowns? Don't you want a cake with clowns on it?
son: No.
daughter: Why not?
Son: I don't like clowns.
daughter: You don't like clowns? Why not? Clowns are nice!
Son (yelling): They're not nice, they're FUNNY!!!
***********************************************************
LOL...I agree with him...I don't like clowns, either. And it is their eerie gaiety that disturbs me the most. The sad clowns don't bother me at all.
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
Disablity
Let me make something clear from the start here: I have an offical diagnosis of Asperger's Syndrome, an autism spectrum disorder that used to be thought of as rare but is increasingly more common than 'they' thought. It does affect my life in both positive and negative ways, and has had a profound impact on the path I've taken- largely due to decisions or actions that seemed rather small at the time, such as not making a phone call because I had a phone aversion/phobia. I'm not sure what it feels like for other people to be normal, but looking on it from the outside, you normal folks seem pretty boring to me, as a whole. So given a choice, I don't think I'd choose to be normal even if it were an option. I don't want a bland, white bread, 2 dimensional life, even if it is easier. Thank for the thought, though...really.
In that context, then, here is what I've been thinking about today: whether I could be called "disabled" or not. I function...with effort. I'm independent, even if it did take a damned long time for me to get that way (for example, I didn't get a driver's license until I was 30). Relationships.....uh, sore subject...but I don't think that's necessarily part of a criteria for being disabled, at least not if we're talking personal relationships. The main thing seems to be----> work.
I had a job about a year ago, working with an agency that provided services to developmentally disabled people. My clients varied from degrees of mental retardation (barely detectable to profound)to autistic (again, degrees) to cerebral palsy to spina bifida to I don't know what else....no mental illness, though...that wasn't our area of expertise. When I applied for the job, I has heard of Asperger's, and a fellow aspie friend had suggested I might want to check into seeing if I had it, too...but I hadn't as yet followed up on it or even given it much thought. I honestly felt that the failure of my life was due to laziness, or other people's actions (which to be fair, was certainly a large factor, too) or just bad luck. I wondered how other people could sustain the effort required just to keep themselves up (clean clothes, make-up, daily shower, clean car, organized life, all that jazz) and do it so easily, when it was such a gargantuan task for me. Again, I figured that I must just be lazy...despite the fact that I did more physical labor in a day than most of them did in a week. I'm getting sidetracked here...... So, anyway, I apply for this job, and I get it. The aplication asks if I'm disabled, and I check "No", because as far as I knew, I was just "not quite with it" and possibly lazy, but otherwise just motivationally challenged. The advertisement for the position mentioned the fact that disabled employees would receive a higher rate of pay, and there was also a poster in the building posting this fact, for all to see. I don't remember how much higher, but the difference was reasonably significant.
Well, after some exposure to autistic people (who I hadn't ever interacted with much before unless you count undiagnosed family memmbers) a nagging sensation got ahold of me, and it became clearer with every interaction: these people made *sense*!!! No offense, but most of you folks don't, to me. Your way of thought doesn't make sense to my mind. I realized that I had a connection, and that there were also behavioral similarities between my client and I. I didn't realize how I looked until I saw her as a reflection...exaggerated, maybe, but a reflection of many of my own traits nevertheless. I began to feel hanuted, and afraid that I would lose my job if my employers found out. I found myself defending my client from the other workers and getting my personal feelings involved...why couldn't they leave her alone except for the things that really mattered? Why should it matter if she doesn't make sense to them? They were constantly telling her to shut up, and that what she said was nonsense...and it wasn't, not to me. Some of it was profound.
Finally I went to a psychologist (actually, he may have been a psychiatrist...not clear on that) and he did in fact diagnose me with Asperger's. I informed my workplaces. They started putting me only with clients who were retarded and pahsing out interactions with other autistics- the only people I could really relate to or, to my way of thinking, really help. I dodn't ask them if they would change my wages to those of a disabled person, because it seemed awkward. That wasn't the reason I got diagnosed; I did it for my own peace of mind and to try to find out what the heck was the matter with me. I didn't want to seem greedy. At any rate, they didn't change my pay. Other disabled workers continued to get what they got, and I got the normal wages.
So my question is, was that fair or right? Should I have gotten the higher wages? Am I disabled in that sense?
I do know that my work was hampered by my AS. They frequently made me do socially awkward things, like spending an entire hour or more alone in a guy's house with him, or meeting clients for the first time by simply driving up to their house and knocking on their door (the thought gives me the shudders!!!) or watching a kid who was particpating in a relay race that involved mass balloon popping and another woman shreiking excitedly at the top of her lungs (instant anxiety attack material). I wound up quitting, because they refused to accomodate me and the stress of feeling more like a client than a worker was becoming intolerable. They seemed pleased.
At my current job, I seem to do OK. I have a good work ethic and now that it's familiar, I love being at work. I feel safe there. The thing is, I very nearly didn't make it there, either. I don't know how many times I almost walked out of that place! It tooks me months and months to learn what most new girls soak up in a matter of weeks. For the first few days, I actually ran away from the customers! ;-) Even now....if my co-workers and employers were decidely intolerant of my idiosyncrisies, they could probably make life bad enough for me that I'd quit.
The irritating thing is that given my I.Q. and actual ability, I'm performing way below what I'd *like* to. I mean, it's basically higher end fast food. Occasionally it is frustrating to feel so subservient in that setting when, had I had an education past 8th grade, my social status could well have been more or less equal to anyone there. I don't particularly care about social status though, which is probably a large part of why I have none. On the other hand, I feel like a peon, a nothing, and I don't like that, either. I was supposed to be an artist, or a doctor, or..something wonderful. And, look at me. Not only am I just a lowly deli worker, I'm a deli worker who has to struggle to perform well at her job almost every day. It's......I don't know....how else can I say it?
Let me make something clear from the start here: I have an offical diagnosis of Asperger's Syndrome, an autism spectrum disorder that used to be thought of as rare but is increasingly more common than 'they' thought. It does affect my life in both positive and negative ways, and has had a profound impact on the path I've taken- largely due to decisions or actions that seemed rather small at the time, such as not making a phone call because I had a phone aversion/phobia. I'm not sure what it feels like for other people to be normal, but looking on it from the outside, you normal folks seem pretty boring to me, as a whole. So given a choice, I don't think I'd choose to be normal even if it were an option. I don't want a bland, white bread, 2 dimensional life, even if it is easier. Thank for the thought, though...really.
In that context, then, here is what I've been thinking about today: whether I could be called "disabled" or not. I function...with effort. I'm independent, even if it did take a damned long time for me to get that way (for example, I didn't get a driver's license until I was 30). Relationships.....uh, sore subject...but I don't think that's necessarily part of a criteria for being disabled, at least not if we're talking personal relationships. The main thing seems to be----> work.
I had a job about a year ago, working with an agency that provided services to developmentally disabled people. My clients varied from degrees of mental retardation (barely detectable to profound)to autistic (again, degrees) to cerebral palsy to spina bifida to I don't know what else....no mental illness, though...that wasn't our area of expertise. When I applied for the job, I has heard of Asperger's, and a fellow aspie friend had suggested I might want to check into seeing if I had it, too...but I hadn't as yet followed up on it or even given it much thought. I honestly felt that the failure of my life was due to laziness, or other people's actions (which to be fair, was certainly a large factor, too) or just bad luck. I wondered how other people could sustain the effort required just to keep themselves up (clean clothes, make-up, daily shower, clean car, organized life, all that jazz) and do it so easily, when it was such a gargantuan task for me. Again, I figured that I must just be lazy...despite the fact that I did more physical labor in a day than most of them did in a week. I'm getting sidetracked here...... So, anyway, I apply for this job, and I get it. The aplication asks if I'm disabled, and I check "No", because as far as I knew, I was just "not quite with it" and possibly lazy, but otherwise just motivationally challenged. The advertisement for the position mentioned the fact that disabled employees would receive a higher rate of pay, and there was also a poster in the building posting this fact, for all to see. I don't remember how much higher, but the difference was reasonably significant.
Well, after some exposure to autistic people (who I hadn't ever interacted with much before unless you count undiagnosed family memmbers) a nagging sensation got ahold of me, and it became clearer with every interaction: these people made *sense*!!! No offense, but most of you folks don't, to me. Your way of thought doesn't make sense to my mind. I realized that I had a connection, and that there were also behavioral similarities between my client and I. I didn't realize how I looked until I saw her as a reflection...exaggerated, maybe, but a reflection of many of my own traits nevertheless. I began to feel hanuted, and afraid that I would lose my job if my employers found out. I found myself defending my client from the other workers and getting my personal feelings involved...why couldn't they leave her alone except for the things that really mattered? Why should it matter if she doesn't make sense to them? They were constantly telling her to shut up, and that what she said was nonsense...and it wasn't, not to me. Some of it was profound.
Finally I went to a psychologist (actually, he may have been a psychiatrist...not clear on that) and he did in fact diagnose me with Asperger's. I informed my workplaces. They started putting me only with clients who were retarded and pahsing out interactions with other autistics- the only people I could really relate to or, to my way of thinking, really help. I dodn't ask them if they would change my wages to those of a disabled person, because it seemed awkward. That wasn't the reason I got diagnosed; I did it for my own peace of mind and to try to find out what the heck was the matter with me. I didn't want to seem greedy. At any rate, they didn't change my pay. Other disabled workers continued to get what they got, and I got the normal wages.
So my question is, was that fair or right? Should I have gotten the higher wages? Am I disabled in that sense?
I do know that my work was hampered by my AS. They frequently made me do socially awkward things, like spending an entire hour or more alone in a guy's house with him, or meeting clients for the first time by simply driving up to their house and knocking on their door (the thought gives me the shudders!!!) or watching a kid who was particpating in a relay race that involved mass balloon popping and another woman shreiking excitedly at the top of her lungs (instant anxiety attack material). I wound up quitting, because they refused to accomodate me and the stress of feeling more like a client than a worker was becoming intolerable. They seemed pleased.
At my current job, I seem to do OK. I have a good work ethic and now that it's familiar, I love being at work. I feel safe there. The thing is, I very nearly didn't make it there, either. I don't know how many times I almost walked out of that place! It tooks me months and months to learn what most new girls soak up in a matter of weeks. For the first few days, I actually ran away from the customers! ;-) Even now....if my co-workers and employers were decidely intolerant of my idiosyncrisies, they could probably make life bad enough for me that I'd quit.
The irritating thing is that given my I.Q. and actual ability, I'm performing way below what I'd *like* to. I mean, it's basically higher end fast food. Occasionally it is frustrating to feel so subservient in that setting when, had I had an education past 8th grade, my social status could well have been more or less equal to anyone there. I don't particularly care about social status though, which is probably a large part of why I have none. On the other hand, I feel like a peon, a nothing, and I don't like that, either. I was supposed to be an artist, or a doctor, or..something wonderful. And, look at me. Not only am I just a lowly deli worker, I'm a deli worker who has to struggle to perform well at her job almost every day. It's......I don't know....how else can I say it?
Saturday, April 15, 2006
I think, or at least, I like to think, that I'm a reasonably forgiving and accomadating person. I don't typically harbor grduges or hate people indefinitely. (I will, however, admit to hating some people for shorter periods of time, perhaps a week or longer). Sometimes a person screws me over so badly that I simply have no interest in ever interacting with them again. It isn't necessarily that I hate them...just that I do not want the strain of dealing with them anymore or being reminded of the painful events that have occurred, or risking being subjected to yet more of the same. Very often, there's no hatred or animosity involved...just pain. With some people, it just hurts too damned much to see them or think of them or to replay all of it...I can't deal with it, so I wall them off from me. Of course, if I cared *very* much about the person, and I end up seeing them anyway, I may well act flippant and casual, like I could care less, and then once I'm alone again, fall apart. At least they haven't seen the pain, so I still have my dignity.
Once in a while, though, I do encounter a case where I seriously and deeply, vehemently, dislike someone: people who are gratuitously mean. Mean for no other good reason than that they're in a position to dish it out. If they're phony sugary nice as a thin skin over it, you can multiply my aversion by at least 10....
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A seperate, unrelated topic
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Propognosia (or, difficulty recognizing faces)
I could claim that it's because I rarely look at people faces directly for very long, and I'm sure that that is indeed a factor. The fact is, though, that I've been known to not recognize my own dad when I saw him in an unexpected setting. Big deal? No. This causes so many embarrassing social problems you wouldn't believe it. Much of my social recognition is based on factors such as clothing, hair style, scent, setting, color, large accessories such as eyeglasses, gait and other body movements, voice, body size and shape, etc. In fact, you could mark out the faces on most of the people I know and I could recognize them well if all the other factors were as usual. If I see someone in a dfferent setting, I may treat them as a stranger even though I've just spoken to them at length the day before...because I flat out do not recognize them. There may be a nagging familiarity about the person that I can't place....but I've had so many awkward encounters where I thought I knew soemone and didn't know from where, and it turned out that they were, in fact, total strangers (who were embarrassed and confused that I thought I knew them) that I have discontinued saying, "Don't I know you from??" all it takes is for someone to wear their hair differently, or dye it, or not wear a uniform, or for me to see them in a different place, to assume the status of a total stranger to my brain.
Now, if they walk up to me and say "Hi! (yak yak yak)" then usually the voice and other cues (scent, gestures, hints in conversation) will cue me in to the identity of the person within a few minutes. I try not to let on that I don't remember who they are in the meantime....
And, I don't think it's a memory problem. I have a photographic memory. The thing is, faces usually aren't in it unless I've seen the thousands and thousands of times, and possibly even if I have. They're blurry or absent, while other things, such as appliances left on or forgotten objects, are quite clear. I try to explain it, when I make a particularly embarrassing faux pas (such as recoiling violently when a friend comes up and touches or hugs me in public before I recognize them!), but I think it must still be offensive to some degree.
It's one of those Asperger's things that I don't really relish having.
Once in a while, though, I do encounter a case where I seriously and deeply, vehemently, dislike someone: people who are gratuitously mean. Mean for no other good reason than that they're in a position to dish it out. If they're phony sugary nice as a thin skin over it, you can multiply my aversion by at least 10....
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A seperate, unrelated topic
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Propognosia (or, difficulty recognizing faces)
I could claim that it's because I rarely look at people faces directly for very long, and I'm sure that that is indeed a factor. The fact is, though, that I've been known to not recognize my own dad when I saw him in an unexpected setting. Big deal? No. This causes so many embarrassing social problems you wouldn't believe it. Much of my social recognition is based on factors such as clothing, hair style, scent, setting, color, large accessories such as eyeglasses, gait and other body movements, voice, body size and shape, etc. In fact, you could mark out the faces on most of the people I know and I could recognize them well if all the other factors were as usual. If I see someone in a dfferent setting, I may treat them as a stranger even though I've just spoken to them at length the day before...because I flat out do not recognize them. There may be a nagging familiarity about the person that I can't place....but I've had so many awkward encounters where I thought I knew soemone and didn't know from where, and it turned out that they were, in fact, total strangers (who were embarrassed and confused that I thought I knew them) that I have discontinued saying, "Don't I know you from??" all it takes is for someone to wear their hair differently, or dye it, or not wear a uniform, or for me to see them in a different place, to assume the status of a total stranger to my brain.
Now, if they walk up to me and say "Hi! (yak yak yak)" then usually the voice and other cues (scent, gestures, hints in conversation) will cue me in to the identity of the person within a few minutes. I try not to let on that I don't remember who they are in the meantime....
And, I don't think it's a memory problem. I have a photographic memory. The thing is, faces usually aren't in it unless I've seen the thousands and thousands of times, and possibly even if I have. They're blurry or absent, while other things, such as appliances left on or forgotten objects, are quite clear. I try to explain it, when I make a particularly embarrassing faux pas (such as recoiling violently when a friend comes up and touches or hugs me in public before I recognize them!), but I think it must still be offensive to some degree.
It's one of those Asperger's things that I don't really relish having.
Friday, March 31, 2006
Random Sleep Deprived Bits and Pieces
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---->> It drives me crazy (and hurts my feelings, too, since I'm on the subject) when I'm bending over backwards to please someone or do my job or to perform well or just generally going out of my way more than usual in an attempt to win approval, and all the effort goes unpraised while something insignificant gets highlighted and criticized. I really hate to admit this, but there occasionally are times when I get invested in wanting to please people.
---> Now I know how my family feels.... :-( I'll try to lighten up.
---> Illegal immigration. Ya know, we took a lot of this country from the Mexicans, from the little bit of history I can recall. I have an idea. Why don't we ask Mexico to join the union? A lot of them end up here anyway, and why? Because conditions there are bad. At the rate we're losing farmland, we could use more of it, and I honestly think it could be a positive thing to join forces with Mexico rather than building walls and demonizing people who are only attempting to do the same thing our own ancestors did- to improve their way of life for their family. I'm not talkign about subjugating it, either. I think we should ask Mexico if they'd like to join the U.S. and be another state (or probably several more states).
--> I'm spending 8 hours a day on my feet, running around actively, and I'm breastfeeding. But I'm still not losing much weight. Huh?! Time to grease up the bicycle....
-->And another thing: I look ugly. People keep calling me a guy. It's getting old. My eye veers occasionally to the beauty products and makeup. Only problem, is, I have about as much of a clue about this stuff as most guys would, and I am seriously afraid to use it for fear of looking like a clown. Eeeeek! Besides, I hate the way it feels (from the few times other women have held me down and plastered my face). Do guys not mind the way it feels on their lips? Ick!
--> People, wear less perfume. Seriously. Half a bottle is way too much. Take the bottle with you in your car or briefcase or purse or whatever, -hell, tie it around your neck for all I care- and apply just very small amounts at a time rather than dousing yourself in enough to last the whole day and part of the next.
--> Things I want to see offered at the store: The health foody brand of chocolate that has endangered animals printed on the wrappers. That stuff is serious chocolate. Lundberg organic rice cakes with seaweed and tamari. Sounds awful? Well, I'm not a fan of seaweed myself, but I really do like this stuff. And, leeks! I wanted to make a nice leek soup, and there weren't any. No, I refuse to go to Safeway. Hey, I can dream, right? I never thought they'd carry my favorite type of soda (Blue Sky Ginseng creme) but they do now...and I never even dared to ask for it. :-)
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---->> It drives me crazy (and hurts my feelings, too, since I'm on the subject) when I'm bending over backwards to please someone or do my job or to perform well or just generally going out of my way more than usual in an attempt to win approval, and all the effort goes unpraised while something insignificant gets highlighted and criticized. I really hate to admit this, but there occasionally are times when I get invested in wanting to please people.
---> Now I know how my family feels.... :-( I'll try to lighten up.
---> Illegal immigration. Ya know, we took a lot of this country from the Mexicans, from the little bit of history I can recall. I have an idea. Why don't we ask Mexico to join the union? A lot of them end up here anyway, and why? Because conditions there are bad. At the rate we're losing farmland, we could use more of it, and I honestly think it could be a positive thing to join forces with Mexico rather than building walls and demonizing people who are only attempting to do the same thing our own ancestors did- to improve their way of life for their family. I'm not talkign about subjugating it, either. I think we should ask Mexico if they'd like to join the U.S. and be another state (or probably several more states).
--> I'm spending 8 hours a day on my feet, running around actively, and I'm breastfeeding. But I'm still not losing much weight. Huh?! Time to grease up the bicycle....
-->And another thing: I look ugly. People keep calling me a guy. It's getting old. My eye veers occasionally to the beauty products and makeup. Only problem, is, I have about as much of a clue about this stuff as most guys would, and I am seriously afraid to use it for fear of looking like a clown. Eeeeek! Besides, I hate the way it feels (from the few times other women have held me down and plastered my face). Do guys not mind the way it feels on their lips? Ick!
--> People, wear less perfume. Seriously. Half a bottle is way too much. Take the bottle with you in your car or briefcase or purse or whatever, -hell, tie it around your neck for all I care- and apply just very small amounts at a time rather than dousing yourself in enough to last the whole day and part of the next.
--> Things I want to see offered at the store: The health foody brand of chocolate that has endangered animals printed on the wrappers. That stuff is serious chocolate. Lundberg organic rice cakes with seaweed and tamari. Sounds awful? Well, I'm not a fan of seaweed myself, but I really do like this stuff. And, leeks! I wanted to make a nice leek soup, and there weren't any. No, I refuse to go to Safeway. Hey, I can dream, right? I never thought they'd carry my favorite type of soda (Blue Sky Ginseng creme) but they do now...and I never even dared to ask for it. :-)
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
Loath as I am to admit it, I'm beginning to come to the following conclusion: it is damned near impossible to single parent six children and do justice to anyone. In fact, I'm actually thinking it would be really hard under the best of circumstances, which in my mind would be: parents who really love each other very deeply and are the natural and commited parents of all six kids, with ample financial resources, a big enough house, out in the country with homegrown food and all that jazz. It might be pretty doable with extended family, if they were decent caring people who could be trusted with the children (i.e., not to hit them, sit them in front of a boob tube all day, etc).
Okay, so I'm feeling burned out. Look, I'm in a one bedroom house, which no matter how often I clean it, gets messed up again. Making them help me doesn't work, because as soon as I get one or two of them to lend a hand and we're a happy group, one of the others comes careening excitedly into view ("come and see this!!!") and disrupts things. I'm really trying to find a place of our own, but the only current possibility is a place half the size of this one, with no electricity or phone and possibly no water, either (well, duh, without power for the water pump, what good is the well?).
Moreover, the baby and I have both got a cold. He isn't sleeping well because his nose is stuffed up. Since the thought of having my kid sleep in a crib away from me is anathema, I don't get much sleep either. (I honestly don't know how people can sleep at all with their baby in another room. I'd worry all night long....)
Work, strangely enough, has become the solace from my homelife. There is a structure, and a schedule that always turns out pretty much as planned. It certainly isn't quiet there (they tested the fire alarm system today, eeeeek!) but it isn't the nerve-wracking stress of one impending disaster after another while you're trying to soothe the baby to sleep. The daycare provider dotes on the baby, and I can tell it isn't just when I'm there, because he's always happy and smiling when I come to get him...so while he's always in my mind, I don't worry, either. There is a rhythmn and a continuity to the work that is lacking at home, because I don't have the energy to enforce the sort of structure that I'd like to see here.
!! Charlie is crying!! :signs off:
Okay, so I'm feeling burned out. Look, I'm in a one bedroom house, which no matter how often I clean it, gets messed up again. Making them help me doesn't work, because as soon as I get one or two of them to lend a hand and we're a happy group, one of the others comes careening excitedly into view ("come and see this!!!") and disrupts things. I'm really trying to find a place of our own, but the only current possibility is a place half the size of this one, with no electricity or phone and possibly no water, either (well, duh, without power for the water pump, what good is the well?).
Moreover, the baby and I have both got a cold. He isn't sleeping well because his nose is stuffed up. Since the thought of having my kid sleep in a crib away from me is anathema, I don't get much sleep either. (I honestly don't know how people can sleep at all with their baby in another room. I'd worry all night long....)
Work, strangely enough, has become the solace from my homelife. There is a structure, and a schedule that always turns out pretty much as planned. It certainly isn't quiet there (they tested the fire alarm system today, eeeeek!) but it isn't the nerve-wracking stress of one impending disaster after another while you're trying to soothe the baby to sleep. The daycare provider dotes on the baby, and I can tell it isn't just when I'm there, because he's always happy and smiling when I come to get him...so while he's always in my mind, I don't worry, either. There is a rhythmn and a continuity to the work that is lacking at home, because I don't have the energy to enforce the sort of structure that I'd like to see here.
!! Charlie is crying!! :signs off:
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
I've come to the following (admittedly opinionated and generalized) conclusion:
White Americans don't particularly like or understand rice.
It's taken me a long time to grasp this simple fact, because as far as I'm concerned, plain steamed rice is GREAT, especially if it's jasmine rice. Yes, all by itself. Cold, even. Cold steamed rice with _nothing_ on it for breakfast, mmmm! :-) Rice three times a day, fine. Give me rice like that every day of the week and I'll still be looking forward to it. The notion of getting tired of rice is incomprehensible to me. I'm thinking that this has soemthing to do with the fat that my Filipino grandma helped raise me. She made excellent rice, every time, and we frequently did eat it cold, (or hot), three times a day. Rice was a mainstay, or a side dish, or a snack to be nipped at with fingers in passing, or all three. Even when my appetite for all other food lags, rice is one of the foods that retains it's appeal. Chicken soup with ginger and garlic would be the other. In my mind, rice occupies a place of respect and could almost be a food group all by itself.
Most non-Asians in the U.S. don't seem to see it the same way. Rice? Starch!! Carbs! Cover it with sauces or meats or obliterate it with "chinese" stir fry or douse it with soy sauce or grease it up with butter or flavor it with something or use it to add bulk to a soup or smear a sauce of canned soup mix over it, or worse yet, gravy. (ew!!!) Cook it so that the grains are slippery and seperate (how can you pick it up with your fingers when it's cooked that way? It doesn't feel right!). Spice it up or drown it. They might consider eating bread all by itself, but are far more likely to eat plain boiled pasta without a sauce than a bowl of plain rice.
How can they taste it when they do that? It's not that I think eating it with soy sauce is bad (so long as it's not a brown lump of rice sitting in a darker brown puddle) or that eating it with stir fry or adobo is incorrect. It's just, well, what in the hell is the matter with people that they can't like it by itself and seem so desperate not to taste it?
White Americans don't particularly like or understand rice.
It's taken me a long time to grasp this simple fact, because as far as I'm concerned, plain steamed rice is GREAT, especially if it's jasmine rice. Yes, all by itself. Cold, even. Cold steamed rice with _nothing_ on it for breakfast, mmmm! :-) Rice three times a day, fine. Give me rice like that every day of the week and I'll still be looking forward to it. The notion of getting tired of rice is incomprehensible to me. I'm thinking that this has soemthing to do with the fat that my Filipino grandma helped raise me. She made excellent rice, every time, and we frequently did eat it cold, (or hot), three times a day. Rice was a mainstay, or a side dish, or a snack to be nipped at with fingers in passing, or all three. Even when my appetite for all other food lags, rice is one of the foods that retains it's appeal. Chicken soup with ginger and garlic would be the other. In my mind, rice occupies a place of respect and could almost be a food group all by itself.
Most non-Asians in the U.S. don't seem to see it the same way. Rice? Starch!! Carbs! Cover it with sauces or meats or obliterate it with "chinese" stir fry or douse it with soy sauce or grease it up with butter or flavor it with something or use it to add bulk to a soup or smear a sauce of canned soup mix over it, or worse yet, gravy. (ew!!!) Cook it so that the grains are slippery and seperate (how can you pick it up with your fingers when it's cooked that way? It doesn't feel right!). Spice it up or drown it. They might consider eating bread all by itself, but are far more likely to eat plain boiled pasta without a sauce than a bowl of plain rice.
How can they taste it when they do that? It's not that I think eating it with soy sauce is bad (so long as it's not a brown lump of rice sitting in a darker brown puddle) or that eating it with stir fry or adobo is incorrect. It's just, well, what in the hell is the matter with people that they can't like it by itself and seem so desperate not to taste it?
Sunday, February 26, 2006
I've returned to work now, part time at present. I needed to go back, because I was losing the social skills... I enjoy working, even though it isn't prestigious or even vaguely important. Hey, the world just isn't going to end or even be much affected by a shortage of deep-fried deli food and ready-to-eat-sandwiches. I like the structure and routine, though, I genuinely do. Be nice if they gave me a raise- I haven't had one since I told them I was pregnant.
Ah yes, the baby. Charlie's the last one I'll have, and I don't think I've tried so hard to do everything right since my firstborn. It's like, since he's my very last chance, the very last time I'll hold my own soft, fuzzy headed little guy...I want to make the most of it. I want to nurse him as long as I can, upset him only when really necessary, play him classical music, read books to him, and just generally mess him up as little as possible.
Obviously this conflicts with working. So far, Tim and I have been staggering our schedules so he's always with one of us. This week, he's going to go to daycare for the first time for (gasp!!) about four hours. I've taken care to choose a place where they won't just let him cry, where he'll be held most of the time (I've watched her hold other babies- most places don't do that), and his older siblings go there, too. But I still feel guilty. :-(
When I was a kid, I took it for granted that all women had babies and all women stayed home with their kids, to take care of them. Women who didn't have kids were strange or must hate kids.
As a teen, I held the very arrogant opinion that all women should have children, that birth control was wrong, and not only should the woman stay home with them, but she should home birth, home school, feed the kids only natural home-grown food, and so on.
As a young woman, reality broadsided me, hard. I realized that with many men, if you don't bring in money, you have no status or respect. I felt like livestock, just breeding and feeding.
Now I'm trying to find a balance....and it isn't easy.
Ah yes, the baby. Charlie's the last one I'll have, and I don't think I've tried so hard to do everything right since my firstborn. It's like, since he's my very last chance, the very last time I'll hold my own soft, fuzzy headed little guy...I want to make the most of it. I want to nurse him as long as I can, upset him only when really necessary, play him classical music, read books to him, and just generally mess him up as little as possible.
Obviously this conflicts with working. So far, Tim and I have been staggering our schedules so he's always with one of us. This week, he's going to go to daycare for the first time for (gasp!!) about four hours. I've taken care to choose a place where they won't just let him cry, where he'll be held most of the time (I've watched her hold other babies- most places don't do that), and his older siblings go there, too. But I still feel guilty. :-(
When I was a kid, I took it for granted that all women had babies and all women stayed home with their kids, to take care of them. Women who didn't have kids were strange or must hate kids.
As a teen, I held the very arrogant opinion that all women should have children, that birth control was wrong, and not only should the woman stay home with them, but she should home birth, home school, feed the kids only natural home-grown food, and so on.
As a young woman, reality broadsided me, hard. I realized that with many men, if you don't bring in money, you have no status or respect. I felt like livestock, just breeding and feeding.
Now I'm trying to find a balance....and it isn't easy.
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
I think I've discovered something. A person is not comprised of or defined by their accomplisments or by what they say or how they seem...not really. It can seem that way though, and that's why we pass over a lot of gems without even realizing it. It isn't their popularity or who they're friends with or any of that.
The real essence of a person is their dreams...especially the ones that haven't materialized. In the detritus of broken dreams sparkles their highest goals, their ideals, their values, what they want most, what they desire most to give to the world. It tells more about who they really are than anything you could see from the outside. It is more than good intentions, a dream is the most powerful, potent part of you. Without dreams, what are we? Automatons, androids, moving bodies with no depth or soul. It's the most vulnerable, intimate part of us. I always feel a sort of fear whenever I speak out loud of my hopes and reams, as if by birthing them into the outside world via speech, they'll be endangered or jinxed somehow. I feel this way even if I'm only talking to the goats. It's that private, that personal.
I guess that's why, when I want to be close to a man, when I'm seeking to reconnect or to fall back in love with him to to find some appeal or questioning the future of the relationship, I ask him about his dreams or goals. What does he want? What does he see when he looks into the future? What is the goal? If the answer is absent or displeasing (for example, the Vietnam vet whose goal was to build and live in a house made out of sandbags) my interest wanes.
This isn't to say that pipedreams are enough; they aren't. There should be some effort to realize at least some of it (I don't think it's really possible for us to attain the entirety of it, or they'd cease to be appealing). But the dreams contain the seed of a person's character.
And broken or unrealized dreams make a person vulnerable, and therefore lovable (noone ever fell in love with the suit of armor). Don't be ashamed because it didn't work out or because you had to choose between two things andleave one behind, or even that you never started to try. The fact that it crossed your mind *is* worth something.
The real essence of a person is their dreams...especially the ones that haven't materialized. In the detritus of broken dreams sparkles their highest goals, their ideals, their values, what they want most, what they desire most to give to the world. It tells more about who they really are than anything you could see from the outside. It is more than good intentions, a dream is the most powerful, potent part of you. Without dreams, what are we? Automatons, androids, moving bodies with no depth or soul. It's the most vulnerable, intimate part of us. I always feel a sort of fear whenever I speak out loud of my hopes and reams, as if by birthing them into the outside world via speech, they'll be endangered or jinxed somehow. I feel this way even if I'm only talking to the goats. It's that private, that personal.
I guess that's why, when I want to be close to a man, when I'm seeking to reconnect or to fall back in love with him to to find some appeal or questioning the future of the relationship, I ask him about his dreams or goals. What does he want? What does he see when he looks into the future? What is the goal? If the answer is absent or displeasing (for example, the Vietnam vet whose goal was to build and live in a house made out of sandbags) my interest wanes.
This isn't to say that pipedreams are enough; they aren't. There should be some effort to realize at least some of it (I don't think it's really possible for us to attain the entirety of it, or they'd cease to be appealing). But the dreams contain the seed of a person's character.
And broken or unrealized dreams make a person vulnerable, and therefore lovable (noone ever fell in love with the suit of armor). Don't be ashamed because it didn't work out or because you had to choose between two things andleave one behind, or even that you never started to try. The fact that it crossed your mind *is* worth something.
Sunday, February 05, 2006
I don't know how to classify this or define it. What do you call it when friends you've had for years turn cold and congealed at the very sight of you for no good reason? I haven't wronged them; in fact, I see them only infrequently, and one of them I hadn't seen for months until just a few days ago.
I think it's my haircut.
The plan was to get it buzzed right down to my scalp with just enough length left to show that I'm not bald. That's what I wanted. But when my SO heard of my impending haircut, he begged me not to cut it too short. So instead, I had her use that awful, practically unbearable razor-comb (the sensation and sound of it drives me nuts!) over the top and to leave it about an inch long. The sides and backs got clippered short, none of it as short as my original plan. He still freaked when I came home...
Since the haircut, several people have called me "dude", "sir", or have used other indications that they are not positive of my gender but they think I'm male. I suppose this should upset me, but instead I find it amusing. A lot of other people, especially women, squint their eyes and look at me with a very unpleasant expression...hate? suspicion? loathing? It's clear that they think I'm a dike. This amuses me, too; except, now I have just the faintest taste of what life must be like for people who actually are gay. I knew our area had a lot of homophobes- I just didn't know how many there were. Oh well. I don't need them anyway.
But it really stings to be treated that way by people that you like and have been friends with for years. I have to keep revising the files in my mind, transferring people that I thought were my friends into the "Aquaintances- you goofed, they weren't friends after all" file.
I think it's my haircut.
The plan was to get it buzzed right down to my scalp with just enough length left to show that I'm not bald. That's what I wanted. But when my SO heard of my impending haircut, he begged me not to cut it too short. So instead, I had her use that awful, practically unbearable razor-comb (the sensation and sound of it drives me nuts!) over the top and to leave it about an inch long. The sides and backs got clippered short, none of it as short as my original plan. He still freaked when I came home...
Since the haircut, several people have called me "dude", "sir", or have used other indications that they are not positive of my gender but they think I'm male. I suppose this should upset me, but instead I find it amusing. A lot of other people, especially women, squint their eyes and look at me with a very unpleasant expression...hate? suspicion? loathing? It's clear that they think I'm a dike. This amuses me, too; except, now I have just the faintest taste of what life must be like for people who actually are gay. I knew our area had a lot of homophobes- I just didn't know how many there were. Oh well. I don't need them anyway.
But it really stings to be treated that way by people that you like and have been friends with for years. I have to keep revising the files in my mind, transferring people that I thought were my friends into the "Aquaintances- you goofed, they weren't friends after all" file.
Friday, February 03, 2006
Indigo Blue Raw Jagged Edges. At first it's nauseating olive green and screaming orange, alternating with apathy grey and suicidal black. The green is wavy and seasick. Orange is spiky. Grey is like an foggily endless plateau. The black is like a hole waiting for me, like a gaping mouth ready to swallow me up if I stumble into it, reeling like a drunk. Bursts of hope flare hot pink and then subside into the harsh and wan yellow glare of reality.
When those subside comes the indigo and darkness black. The bleakness grey stays. Other colors mean nothing.
After a time, a long time, in fact- they merge and coalesce and the view clears. It hovers inside like a small but omnipresent cloud.
When those subside comes the indigo and darkness black. The bleakness grey stays. Other colors mean nothing.
After a time, a long time, in fact- they merge and coalesce and the view clears. It hovers inside like a small but omnipresent cloud.
Saturday, January 28, 2006
Wow, is it ever snowing out there! It looks like we're going to get some real winter after all. My second son is out there making a snowman; from the looks of the snowball he's rolling, a big one. Um, OK, I just peeked out the window again, and now I'm a little concerned. He's rolled that snowball down out of our yard and across the street into the vacant neighbor's yard, and it is now HUGE. I'm wondering if he'll even get it back across the street. To roll it back up into our yard, he's going to need help. I have to give the kid credit, though. Nathan always seems to have grand plans, and he quite often surprises me with what he can accomplish. (another peek)
It appears now that his goal is to roll the snowball not into our yard but into that of the neighbor girls that my boys play with. There are several other started and abandoned snowmen in that yard with children sitting atop them throwing snowballs at one another. Meanwhile, Nathan is industriously heaving the snowball in that direction. It's now almost as big around as he is tall! A guy came by with a small tractor and snowplow and helped him roll it when it got flat on one side and hard to roll. Nathan is like that- he seems to inspire people to like him and pitch in with him, due to his raw enthusiasm. And sure enough, he's rolled it to the other children and they've now gathered around patting it into place and making it spherical. All I can see of Nathan is his head with a green hat peeking over the other side. ;-)
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It sort of makes me think. I end up not even starting a lot of stuff because I plan it out extensively, think on it, and I want to make sure that all the setbacks have been foreseen and solutions found for them. Sometimes I don't even talk about these dreams and goals, they just fester inside of me like so many dead embryos. Every new day, rather than shimmering with possibilities, haunts me with its passage of time; one more day that I haven't reached for what I wanted, that I've been too cowardly to pursue it. I guess I should take a clue from my son and just go for it?
It appears now that his goal is to roll the snowball not into our yard but into that of the neighbor girls that my boys play with. There are several other started and abandoned snowmen in that yard with children sitting atop them throwing snowballs at one another. Meanwhile, Nathan is industriously heaving the snowball in that direction. It's now almost as big around as he is tall! A guy came by with a small tractor and snowplow and helped him roll it when it got flat on one side and hard to roll. Nathan is like that- he seems to inspire people to like him and pitch in with him, due to his raw enthusiasm. And sure enough, he's rolled it to the other children and they've now gathered around patting it into place and making it spherical. All I can see of Nathan is his head with a green hat peeking over the other side. ;-)
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It sort of makes me think. I end up not even starting a lot of stuff because I plan it out extensively, think on it, and I want to make sure that all the setbacks have been foreseen and solutions found for them. Sometimes I don't even talk about these dreams and goals, they just fester inside of me like so many dead embryos. Every new day, rather than shimmering with possibilities, haunts me with its passage of time; one more day that I haven't reached for what I wanted, that I've been too cowardly to pursue it. I guess I should take a clue from my son and just go for it?
Saturday, January 21, 2006
Ah...the floors. The floor tiles throughout the store, including the deli/bakery, have been ripped up, exposing ugly blackish gray concrete with the old adhesive stuck to it. I noticed today that the main store has pretty new beige tiles laid down. They're shiny and nice. Guess what kind of tiles we get in the deli? None. That's right, we don't get new tiles. They going to paint and coat the bare concrete for us. Isn't that sweet? Pardon me for saying so, but I'm inclined to think that the deli girls work harder on their feet than most of the other employees. Our job is high pressure and requires a lot of constant action as well as lifting. It isn't really surprising that I developed chronic hip pain, but I am appalled that they would give us nothing but concrete to stand on!! I mean, maybe I have a sense of entitlement, but I actually sort of feel that if one area in the store needs extra cushioning or floor mats or whatever, it's that deli. Whatever meager cushioning was provided by those old tiles, they should've been left in there if we weren't going to get new ones. Employees in chronic pain are not productive workers....I guess they don't care, or maybe they haven't thought of it. :-/
It just doesn't look like a sustainable long term work prospect for me...
I was misinformed. We are getting new tiles just like the rest of the store! Rant over.
Friday, December 30, 2005
Now that I'm not working.....I feel more reclusive than ever. It is getting to the point where even the thought of going to the grocery store is...not fear imspiring, but...unattractive. I don't feel like seeing other people, and it isn't because I'm depressed, either. It just isn't appealing.
Also, without the constant social drain on my energies and coping mechanisms, I feel more creative and alive (internally), less like a robotic drone. :nods: It's nice.
Alas, I can't keep doing this unless I find a way to make it pay....
So I need to find some sort of employment either in tandem with my usual workplace or instead of it. I'd like something less social, more physical/utiltarian/results oriented. My current thought of the day is to work just one or two days a week at my old workplace and apprentice as a finish carpenter or drywall finisher. In fact, I wouldn't mind regular construction/framing, but I'm not sure I could find anyone willing to hire a 5' 2" tall woman who usually weighs 120# at the most.....maybe it's possible...I definitely don't mind working.
Except, what I really wanted to do with my life was *ART*. I don't want to wait until I'm old, and even then, I won't be able to do anything but just tread water unless I find something better paying to do....
Also, without the constant social drain on my energies and coping mechanisms, I feel more creative and alive (internally), less like a robotic drone. :nods: It's nice.
Alas, I can't keep doing this unless I find a way to make it pay....
So I need to find some sort of employment either in tandem with my usual workplace or instead of it. I'd like something less social, more physical/utiltarian/results oriented. My current thought of the day is to work just one or two days a week at my old workplace and apprentice as a finish carpenter or drywall finisher. In fact, I wouldn't mind regular construction/framing, but I'm not sure I could find anyone willing to hire a 5' 2" tall woman who usually weighs 120# at the most.....maybe it's possible...I definitely don't mind working.
Except, what I really wanted to do with my life was *ART*. I don't want to wait until I'm old, and even then, I won't be able to do anything but just tread water unless I find something better paying to do....
Thursday, December 29, 2005
My baby is now externalized! (is that a word?) Charles, 7#, 7oz, born 12-20. He is nice, sleeps for several hours at a time, but seems alarmingly small/frail.
The C-section went well, and overall I feel 200% better than I would have after a regular birth...but getting tubes tied was unexpectedly more painful (recovery-wise) than I thought it'd be.
Meanwhile, the bitchiness that was a constant tone of my pregnancy has evaporated, and in its place, I just feel....vulnerable...and creative. It's very hard for me to sit still and rest like I'm supposed to, and I keep overdoing it and hurting myself. Life seems too full and open with things to do....
The C-section went well, and overall I feel 200% better than I would have after a regular birth...but getting tubes tied was unexpectedly more painful (recovery-wise) than I thought it'd be.
Meanwhile, the bitchiness that was a constant tone of my pregnancy has evaporated, and in its place, I just feel....vulnerable...and creative. It's very hard for me to sit still and rest like I'm supposed to, and I keep overdoing it and hurting myself. Life seems too full and open with things to do....