tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14443344054809068522024-03-13T14:14:25.432+08:00Coming Into BalanceA personal journey from totally out of whack to nearly centered…Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger40125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1444334405480906852.post-5265836510550144042020-01-10T09:34:00.001+08:002020-01-10T10:16:55.322+08:00Poem: Ancient Wounds<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBBBSH0t6m0MtQ342LYdwHTW-T9Vz5WrFRfbl0nHsY7QAWlHVBMBGMGtxdEngASNediUIUJ5-obHtkkYQTG8lmloctHnfT1-ub31gIVH_MeKieixWF3MVay5woygGO01tl7R7DM0HMSmvX/s1600/PangolinHeart.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="913" data-original-width="893" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBBBSH0t6m0MtQ342LYdwHTW-T9Vz5WrFRfbl0nHsY7QAWlHVBMBGMGtxdEngASNediUIUJ5-obHtkkYQTG8lmloctHnfT1-ub31gIVH_MeKieixWF3MVay5woygGO01tl7R7DM0HMSmvX/s640/PangolinHeart.jpeg" width="624" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-weight: normal;"><i>Protected Pangolin: Art by Debora Ewing </i><a href="https://www.debnation.com/">https://www.debnation.com</a></span></h4>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b>Careless shift carapace rifts</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b>A sacred space exposed</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b>Plates of armour torn asunder</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b>Exposing the never whole</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b>Curling 'round her pangolin heart</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b>She tends to these intrusions</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b>In seclusion she seeks inclusion</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b>Within a tribe she cannot know</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b>Warrior head high in a toxic sky</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b>Sucking sulphurous bile from her throat</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b>She ascends from the ashes</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b>Writing footprints of grief in the sand</b></span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1444334405480906852.post-42643686698353436962019-11-20T07:33:00.001+08:002019-11-20T07:33:19.790+08:00Poem: Octopedal Intellect<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp9GgADnxhXLFFkvPXaEJxfwbyKoYz2d0ftBKQtmQBrEzSI8GQhMS-2X0KFV-MktppcCojjZE_5KsDqrm51LVOtEN8g1gdKzDlOh2hqcrBT7IK56yquDk9QEi6zhSklBJqNxEpBtYVJtgx/s1600/OctoClockjpg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp9GgADnxhXLFFkvPXaEJxfwbyKoYz2d0ftBKQtmQBrEzSI8GQhMS-2X0KFV-MktppcCojjZE_5KsDqrm51LVOtEN8g1gdKzDlOh2hqcrBT7IK56yquDk9QEi6zhSklBJqNxEpBtYVJtgx/s640/OctoClockjpg.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Artwork by Alexander Harvey @ShadyComet (used by permission)</span></h3>
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tock tock ticking</div>
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round your clock</div>
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hand in hand</div>
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we writhe</div>
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tentacled</div>
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bespectacled</div>
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one eye open wide</div>
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find me</div>
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feed me</div>
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open heart three</div>
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prise to find</div>
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inside</div>
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technicolour skin</div>
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you swim</div>
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through oceans</div>
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befouled with pride</div>
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can we tap</div>
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octopedal intellect</div>
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breaking brilliance free</div>
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before the final</div>
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midnight stroke</div>
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from grottos where</div>
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you hide</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1444334405480906852.post-50782416446778194362019-11-04T11:13:00.000+08:002019-11-04T11:13:39.913+08:00Poem: Tendrils of Entanglement<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyEfVPDRlSUgLiW-RGlK5_Y1mHhnjjtizzz7uxKI4WnX4VN-dJfHdVJ3NIq283BLSsFst4mrKrn2_Scj70YORTVqHVPN-5rOHDXSLvPVgrWyIcpGvddmsz4E9-SYq2KcmiiZMs4r2rDMlY/s1600/tendrils-of-Cucurbitaceae-A-Neoalsomitra-sarcophylla-Gomphogyneae.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="374" data-original-width="850" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyEfVPDRlSUgLiW-RGlK5_Y1mHhnjjtizzz7uxKI4WnX4VN-dJfHdVJ3NIq283BLSsFst4mrKrn2_Scj70YORTVqHVPN-5rOHDXSLvPVgrWyIcpGvddmsz4E9-SYq2KcmiiZMs4r2rDMlY/s640/tendrils-of-Cucurbitaceae-A-Neoalsomitra-sarcophylla-Gomphogyneae.png" width="640" /></a></div>
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worn wood warm</div>
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tentative tendrils</div>
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search soul ward for</div>
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sustenance and </div>
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salvation</div>
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while whittled</div>
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paperbark parchment</div>
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pulses possibilities </div>
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ringing round </div>
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singing sound</div>
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smiling sun ward</div>
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finding firmament</div>
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fallow flee</div>
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retreating resting</div>
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retired to reality</div>
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blossom bloomed</div>
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blackened blighted</div>
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bending breaking</div>
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into bracken</div>
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no longer needed</div>
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however humus </div>
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feeds all seeds</div>
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for survival</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1444334405480906852.post-70168097597914046302019-09-11T07:46:00.000+08:002019-09-11T07:46:06.510+08:00Review: The Rosie Result<div style="text-align: justify;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia0zxT2K2nSHHWkGdV5-cDTb2fNvgtSIyU0MgOI2Cp5ogy7oVHsLZA0vdNBwXa46coETxwCsLdCIPnDsdVU8kfF_2OtaswsFpOVbRMX9ZB9xXEXHsz-vtafrYm_o-ypSYPTmYmYIcstlXe/s1600/Rosie_Result.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1047" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia0zxT2K2nSHHWkGdV5-cDTb2fNvgtSIyU0MgOI2Cp5ogy7oVHsLZA0vdNBwXa46coETxwCsLdCIPnDsdVU8kfF_2OtaswsFpOVbRMX9ZB9xXEXHsz-vtafrYm_o-ypSYPTmYmYIcstlXe/s320/Rosie_Result.jpg" width="209" /></a></div>
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“Thank you! Thank you!! Thank you!!!” was the refrain beating in my head as I read the final tear-stained chapters of the Rosie Result. I didn’t expect Graeme could possibly top the first two Rosie books for engagement, humour, poignancy, and service to the autistic community, but he hit a grand slam with the conclusion of this series. I feel the world is a better place for these books.
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I loved the themes of deep friendship, moving from strength to strengths, and slaying negative autism stereotypes that ran through the Rosie Result. This book puts it to the NT world to think about their expectations for autists to adapt and modify themselves, often at great personal cost, with little to no consideration of what small, simple changes they could make to accommodate us.
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If a bar like The Library ever actually opened in Melbourne, I would happily head there for a drink and to meet likeminded people. Finding our tribe is so essential to the health and wellbeing of every human, but the many barriers for autists mean we're often unable to do so. Spaces designed especially to cater to our needs could open all kinds of possibilities, by facilitating comfortable, safe community interactions that honour our sensory and social needs. It might be a pipe dream, but the fantasy is heartening in itself.
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I related deeply to the parent-child parallel diagnosis storyline, as will many late-diagnosed autists. The Rosie Result treats this with great sincerity and heart, exploring the fears, pitfalls, anxieties, and pressures (both internal and external) that accompany exploring formal diagnosis and accepting a new identity. I love how this is woven into the fabric of the story and informs all that occurs within it. Graeme doesn’t pull any punches on the difficulties of shifting our identity paradigm after a lifetime of conditioning and brilliantly captures the relief of finally coming home in ourselves.
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It’s been a wonderful ride through the Rosie series and I can’t wait to see what Graeme whips up next in his Standardised Meal Plan Cookbook! </div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1444334405480906852.post-52641961820810418692019-07-26T12:52:00.000+08:002019-07-26T12:52:12.115+08:00Never Walk Alone<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2Brvt-rcl7cAh-GzIAc4RETaFePZUS24O9OCLIPT6se68560dW4QNoiOZqR4GwELLPxJZW4BiSRj6ZIfrjwMAfuX_WFo5kiRn8nAwwVCOVXkHVzwxTonhQSKN_Z4rvbvNrteYEir0cV8P/s1600/emergency_glass.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2Brvt-rcl7cAh-GzIAc4RETaFePZUS24O9OCLIPT6se68560dW4QNoiOZqR4GwELLPxJZW4BiSRj6ZIfrjwMAfuX_WFo5kiRn8nAwwVCOVXkHVzwxTonhQSKN_Z4rvbvNrteYEir0cV8P/s320/emergency_glass.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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The hardest thing about depression is the overpowering sense of isolation it imposes. It's crushing and creates its own feedback loop, convincing you that no one can understand or bear the brunt of its force. When someone is on the slippery slope into depression or desperation, the best antidote is not to attempt to cheer them up, but to convince them that they are resolutely <i>not alone</i>. That they are seen, not judged, heard, not spoken at, and that you are walking beside them them no matter what.</div>
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After too many battles with deep and debilitating depression and a few close calls, I now have what I fondly think of as my "break glass in case of emergency" friend. A friend with whom I've made a standing pact to call any time I start to have intrusive thoughts or I can't see my way through my current situation. It's a reciprocal relationship, I've made the same commitment to her. I know that if I call, she will drop whatever she's doing (within reason, of course) and ride it out. This is the greatest gift anyone has ever given me.</div>
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I know we don't all have this. I certainly didn't until I was nearly 40 and ended up in a psych ward with a 4-month old baby. I wouldn't have made this deal with my guardian angel had she not insisted upon it because she loves me so much. But I implore anyone struggling with their mental health to look for that person when you come up for air. If you're in the midst of a crisis, don't beat yourself up because you weren't prepared, but when you are vomited out on the other side and have a chance to catch your breath, make it a priority. Find that person in your life whom you deeply trust and tell them what you need, ask them to promise they'll be there no matter what, and make the promise in return so you have the honour of being that critical person for someone else.</div>
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If your mental health is great (whoot!), look around for someone in your life you love to the end of the earth who might not be on such solid footing. Tell them that you've got their back no matter what. Tell them to put you on speed dial. Tell them that you'll kick their ass if they're ever in a terrifying black place and they <i>don't </i>call you. It may, quite possibly, save their life.</div>
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Here's my poem on this theme:</div>
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<blockquote class="tr_bq" style="text-align: justify;">
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Break Glass in Case of Emergency</span></b> </blockquote>
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<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Have you ever been alone?<br />
</span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>I’m with you</i><br />
</span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">No one calling on the phone?<br />
</span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>I’m with you</i><br />
</span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">No one playing in the park<br />
</span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>I’m with you</i><br />
</span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">No one holding in the dark<br />
</span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>I’m with you</i><br />
</span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">No one ringing in the year<br />
</span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>I feel you</i><br />
</span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Never offering their cheer<br />
</span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>I feel you</i><br />
</span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">No one making any plans<br />
</span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>I feel you</i><br />
</span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Ever offering their hands<br />
</span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>I feel you</i><br />
</span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Have you ever been afraid<br />
</span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>I see you</i><br />
</span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Of the plans that you have made<br />
</span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>I see you</i><br />
</span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Wishing you could go there brave<br />
</span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>I see you</i><br />
</span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So those friendships you could save<br />
</span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>I see you</i><br />
</span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Softly calling to the night<br />
</span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>I hear you</i><br />
</span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Your darkest thoughts the terror fright<br />
</span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>I hear you</i><br />
</span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Ever clinging for the dawn<br />
</span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>I hear you</i><br />
</span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Hoping you were simply wrong<br />
</span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>I hear you</i><br />
</span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">That the games you’ll learn to play<br />
</span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>I get you</i><br />
</span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And the perfect words to say<br />
</span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>I get you</i><br />
</span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">To the eyes that you behold<br />
</span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>I get you</i><br />
</span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">With their secrets never told<br />
</span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>I get you</i><br />
</span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Come clear as you can see<br />
</span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>I know you</i><br />
</span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">You were never meant to be<br />
</span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>I know you</i><br />
</span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The same as all the rest<br />
</span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>I know you</i><br />
</span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">In your head or in your chest<br />
</span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>I know you</i><br />
</span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">You are you as I am me<br />
</span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>I am you</i><br />
</span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">This mumbled way to be<br />
</span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>I am you</i><br />
</span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But you never walk alone<br />
</span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>I am you</i><br />
</span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">When you have me in your phone</span> </blockquote>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1444334405480906852.post-21998861979042449402019-07-24T10:27:00.003+08:002019-07-24T10:27:27.602+08:00Review: The Rosie Effect<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9rAx5nmgOfOp5ahOkWkUdlTKPNlpDeqi9riYY9lw8_lhYq11c6omtla60RxmhL3MIxHJ9kWmXSdbvmCirFYeWuKXxe-TagfBFHNmK_WSuS2b_WN-TWh8Lw60eZXvX6Zp0ymUnNTiwlqgf/s1600/Rosie_effect.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="323" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9rAx5nmgOfOp5ahOkWkUdlTKPNlpDeqi9riYY9lw8_lhYq11c6omtla60RxmhL3MIxHJ9kWmXSdbvmCirFYeWuKXxe-TagfBFHNmK_WSuS2b_WN-TWh8Lw60eZXvX6Zp0ymUnNTiwlqgf/s320/Rosie_effect.jpg" width="206" /></a></div>
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I've just devoured Graeme Simsion's second novel, The Rosie Effect, and I'm already hungry for the third part of the trilogy. I set out to read this quickly, as I was approximately one third of the way into Toni Morrison's Paradise when it came into the library for me and I didn't want to lose the thread of her masterpiece yet again, but I did not anticipate consuming it within 24 hours. Yes, I did other things, work, kids, household, in that time, but every spare second, and a few I probably shouldn't have spared, were spent completely engrossed in the continuing tale of Don Tillman. Simsion's writing is fast and fluid, and I find Don so relatable I don't need to ponder his thoughts or actions. Hence, whipping through the first two books in this series.</div>
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The new dimension of a baby on the way drew me even deeper into this book than The Rosie Project. The scrutiny of Don's suitability as father material raised some painful questions for me and caused me to reflect on my own journey into motherhood. Clearly, as a woman, I had the double-sided experience of being in Rosie's shoes as well, so reading this book provided an opportunity to explore two distinct forces within my own mind.</div>
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When I became pregnant with my first child, I had no idea I was autistic. I'd thought about it in passing as increasing numbers of friends posted things about it on social media, but the Ran Man stereotype was solidly cemented into my brain (just as in Don's), so I shrugged it off. While the female presentation of ASD was only just being codified by the DSM-5 around the time I was growing a baby, I apparently had enough "tells" to be picked out by some professionals. No one, however, had the decency to mention it to me.</div>
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The distain Don encounters from the social worker, Lydia, recalled an experience I had during my first antenatal appointment. I went blindly to see a random doctor, who I expected would instruct me on what I should/shouldn't do, as I was unaware of any of the protocols or procedures surrounding pregnancy at the time. Although I had become pregnant precisely when I intended to (four months after going off the pill, and a month after giving up coffee and alcohol, I deemed the safest minimum time at which to "pull the keeper"), was an appropriate age (34), finished with my PhD, gainfully employed on my second 3-year contract at a prestigious university, and married, I got the distinct feeling that the first doctor I saw thought I was tremendously unsuited for the task. I attempted to get the requisite information from her, but left angry and insulted after being spoken to like a child for half an hour. I took the pile of pamphlets home and ingested their guidance and recommendations along with half a round of unpasteurised sheep cheese, which I promptly put away when I read the warnings about listeria.</div>
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I can visualise that doctor's visit and the follow-up with painful clarity. I can hear her rising tone of irritation as I resolutely refused to have the amniotic fluid tested for markers of Down Syndrome, as my husband and I had weighed the risks of the procedure and were unprepared to terminate the birth on such grounds. I sensed she was angry with me about something else, but I had no idea what. I was healthy, fit, educating myself as rapidly as possible about all things pregnancy and baby related, committed to breast feeding, and making informed choices, what could she possibly be aggrieved of? </div>
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It took seven years and this book for the penny to drop. If I were a betting person, I would put money on her judging me unfit because she saw my lack of eye contact, endlessly fidgeting and fluttering hands, "professorial" tone, sewed it up in one dismissive package and hoped I wouldn't bring "another one" into the world. It's certainly possible that I'm giving her more credit and a colder heart than she's due. Maybe she was just overworked and tired. Maybe she thought I was lying about my diet, exercise, non-use of drugs and alcohol, etc. because I couldn't look her in the eye when asked. Who knows? But the way she talked to me, like I was a child or an imbecile, rather than someone with exceptional brain power, makes it hard to draw a different conclusion.</div>
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I've heard many other autistics repeat this same refrain. The moment someone, particularly a (mental) health professional, either discovers our diagnosis or surmises it for themselves, we're summarily dismissed as too daft to understand what they're saying. Either that, or they dismiss the diagnosis, because we're clearly too "high functioning" to be autistic. A nasty Catch-22.</div>
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The Rosie Effect does great things to dispel so many of the myths surrounding autism. Don loves deeply, is a stalwart friend, is trusting and patient to a fault. The lengths he goes to in his attempts to protect, assist, and prop up the people around him are laudable. I was moved to waves of tears as his friends and family gave their heart-felt accounting of all he'd done for them. These are the stories of autists we need to tell.</div>
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This wouldn't be an honest review if I didn't include the things about this book that chafed. No great criticisms, but things that made me pause and suspend my belief. I find Don's best friend, Gene, continues to be far too two-dimensional. I recognise that this is normal through Don's lens, but even Gene's words and actions don't belie a full human rendering in this book. I keep waiting for him to be more completely revealed around every corner then feel disappointed when he's not.</div>
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I will also add one editorial comment. No American medical student would use the term "muso". That is an unabashedly Australian term, which had me scanning back through the pages to see if there was any indication that the study group contained other Aussies. It was also odd that Don used the term "crib" instead of "cot", even when speaking to his father, but I can see why the former would be selected for international audiences to avoid confusion.</div>
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Finally, I gave this an unreserved 5 stars on Goodreads and highly recommend it to anyone looking for a touching, fast-paced, insightful read.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1444334405480906852.post-56668191699635019952019-07-24T09:14:00.000+08:002019-07-24T09:14:02.990+08:00Spilt Milk<div style="text-align: justify;">
"Nothing can prepare you for motherhood." That's probably the truest statement I've ever heard. I was so beyond unprepared on so many levels that nearly seven years in, I still find myself reeling. I love my children, but I am still in mourning for so many things wiped away by their entrance to this world, my body and mind not least among these. Here's a little Twitterpation (my new label for verses set down first on social media) on these laments.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrNHMnwX61rQdFhbQsyb79Og53wnuifqtA-2SOpAhFeJWHkAqmtIeuVi5QvIcFRXIHovIsxA68OgJQMOvmRw_zservqxWSgfoxFGiAcgFG11Jol6iK-C-OnMo2iD0e7fGz-WwVbklH44cQ/s1600/milk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="960" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrNHMnwX61rQdFhbQsyb79Og53wnuifqtA-2SOpAhFeJWHkAqmtIeuVi5QvIcFRXIHovIsxA68OgJQMOvmRw_zservqxWSgfoxFGiAcgFG11Jol6iK-C-OnMo2iD0e7fGz-WwVbklH44cQ/s320/milk.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<div style="-en-clipboard: true;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Oh, baby
</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">You’ve hurt me so
</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Most people will never know
</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The hidden scars
</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">That run so deep
</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The years of nights
</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Without sleep
</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">You slumber and play
</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Ignorant bliss
</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I hold back tears
</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Your brow to kiss
</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The middle soft
</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The endings hard
</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">My restless soul
</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">This mind you charred
</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">A wicked tear
</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The loss of hair
</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Unburdened mind
</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">You never care
</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">What you wreaked
</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">On this poor vessel
</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Resentful thoughts
</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I fight to wrestle
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">To the ground
</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It’s not your fault
</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">You never sought
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<!--?xml version="1.0" encoding="UTF-8"?-->
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<div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">To be born </span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1444334405480906852.post-8667338853608960702019-07-22T13:07:00.002+08:002019-07-22T13:07:45.183+08:00Please, don't kill the cat.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_D0x1PXqgMOf2QKZ1OvoKbk6dODo5diKgHAfU5uWZeCOLutTvJ9-vQ4EAZtFWnZQEjg-nGq_eDN1PWpNGXO3FQ7r1ILdKtNeRLyIuAqnTJ7O1fACBAj6AHYkRlbjYjHUAM1HqB8t5xVGS/s1600/Curiosity.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_D0x1PXqgMOf2QKZ1OvoKbk6dODo5diKgHAfU5uWZeCOLutTvJ9-vQ4EAZtFWnZQEjg-nGq_eDN1PWpNGXO3FQ7r1ILdKtNeRLyIuAqnTJ7O1fACBAj6AHYkRlbjYjHUAM1HqB8t5xVGS/s320/Curiosity.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Nearly a year ago, as my bewildered husband and I wrestled with the beginning stages of the ASD diagnosis process for our eldest daughter and me, we attended a workshop on "Managing Challenging Behaviours" at the behest of his mother. We didn't know what to expect. I was extremely on edge as the only clearly ND parent in the room, feeling like <i>they</i> were coming to get <i>me</i>. Some of what was said was helpful, some felt like a personal affront. I occasionally wanted to scream, "this is too hard!!" and flee the room, but instead, I sat and rocked and wrung my hands together trying to block out the agonising feelings bombarding me from everyone else in the room.</div>
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As tough as it was, there were a few pearls of wisdom we took away from that night that proved useful for better understanding our daughter's often bewildering experience of the world. Foremost in my mind, was the notion that <i><u>curiosity,</u></i> not compliance or "acceptable"/"normal" behaviour, is the opposite end of the spectrum from <u style="font-style: italic;">anxiety</u>, a state we frequently inhabit in our household. The ASD researcher/speaker encouraged us to watch for curiosity to know when our anxious little creatures were genuinely relaxed so we could capitalise on those moments for understanding how to get them there more often.</div>
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I tucked all this under my cap and set to my task of trying to unravel the mystery of my daughter's persistent anxiety without thinking twice about how it applied to me. I recognised that S and I were feeding off one another like a pack of dementors at ground zero, but I couldn't see through the smoke and flames to an exit strategy. I funnelled all my energy into getting her in to see the paediatrician, the child psychologist, the occupational therapist, the speech pathologist, running in circles to get the professional safety net we needed to make necessary changes. What I failed to see, was how much I needed that energy to soothe my own anxiety for both our benefit.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLd1ONG_1Hlxm8n99q33vJsXzsc0nAYNHWZFGOX5xcNd64vBlFjtftgdZAUEyXHnmG-uuVRe0ttT5rjcuAazfE5wCXUJ96JZ9JFcUpf8eueFf_nkHVVRjYLzxFWUUyzLcB-sWj3iCcqAno/s1600/soothe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="276" data-original-width="490" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLd1ONG_1Hlxm8n99q33vJsXzsc0nAYNHWZFGOX5xcNd64vBlFjtftgdZAUEyXHnmG-uuVRe0ttT5rjcuAazfE5wCXUJ96JZ9JFcUpf8eueFf_nkHVVRjYLzxFWUUyzLcB-sWj3iCcqAno/s320/soothe.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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I needed help to get help. It's such a conundrum. It's a juggernaut confounded by my own struggle to seek help, which gets progressively worse the more anxious I am.<br />
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Yet, now that the smoke is starting to clear, the sound of reinforcements approaching, I suddenly recognise my own curiosity returning. I find myself able, for the first time in decades, to seek out new ideas and ways of thinking, sit with my thoughts without them mowing me over, weave new threads together into an interesting tapestry of creativity. It's refreshing and, dare I say, <i>fun.</i><br />
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I must give credit where it's due for jolting me out of my mental whirlpool and reminding me I have the ability to write my way through the gripping anxiety, down the slope of ebbing strain, an into fields of frivolity. The Twitter #WritingCommunity has given me this. Motivation to write more better, different voices resonating, creating connections with others sharing similar struggles around the globe, is helping me pause, breathe, think, reflect, write, and find my curiosity again.<br />
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Thank you!</div>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1444334405480906852.post-56182139692752079332019-07-22T12:13:00.002+08:002019-07-22T12:13:48.056+08:00Disjointed Heart<div style="text-align: justify;">
I really struggle with the disconnect between how I feel, how I think I feel, and how I think I <i>should</i> feel. This is especially true for nebulous feelings of affection and love, which I'm beginning to realise I experience quite differently than the average bear. </div>
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People often ask me how I can stand to be away from my children and husband so much, but the truth is, it doesn't really bother me. When I'm away, my thoughts aren't with them; there's no pining, no longing, no wishing I were home. When the question is put to me, I mumble awkwardly and try to shift the conversation to how much I love my work and the deep satisfaction it provides. I choke down the guilty feelings and try to scrub away the self-slapped labels of <i style="font-weight: bold;">bad mother</i> and <i style="font-weight: bold;">bad wife</i>.</div>
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The fact is, I sometimes forget all about dearly beloved friends and family for weeks or months, only to have a sudden pang of yearning for them hit me from out of nowhere. My mind can get so caught up in the fantasy worlds in my head or those on the printed page, the real world all but ceases to exist, and along with it, the flesh and blood people I <i>should</i> be loving. I would, more often than not, prefer to be left alone to deeply explore the worlds and relationships of my own design rather than try to navigate the treacherous waters of the ones I inhabit.</div>
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This whirlpool of thoughts coalesced into a few verses as I tried to will myself to sleep last night. I was suffocating as my husband's unspoken question, "did you miss me while I was gone?" sucked all the oxygen out of the room, so I sketched out my silent response. However, it's broader than just that one interaction, it can apply to many. Some about which I've written previously, others I haven't. I didn't think it was particularly good, but some writer friends thought differently. So I will preserve it here.</div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>I SO LATE</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">You leave</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But I don't miss you</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Although I know I should</span><br />
<div style="-en-clipboard: true;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">You leave
</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But I don’t miss you
</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Although you wish I would
</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">You leave
</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But I don’t miss you
</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I breathe when you are gone
</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">You leave
</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But I don’t miss you
</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I fear you’ve cast me wrong
</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">You leave
</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But I don’t miss you
</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Always begging me to hold
</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">You leave
</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But I don’t miss you
</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Shadowed secrets never told
</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">You leave
</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But I don’t miss you
</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I know that I should try
</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">You leave
</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But I don’t miss you
</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">After years I wonder why
</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">You leave
</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But I don’t miss you
</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It always ends this way
</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">You leave
</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But I don’t miss you
</span></div>
<!--?xml version="1.0" encoding="UTF-8"?-->
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<div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Now the only choice is stay </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdOAxVdiqabtECd9QtVCMwZOcaDkvNu0CHEgac0bPcl0IR7FLRvXyJOaVxpBPE0WNH1sCWCGC-oV1AhyYv6KmDsWJjko7VgjPGlKrGa49Gw-611deQPvXNDPKwG2aqOGdwCP9FyWWATC-b/s1600/shadow_figure.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="546" data-original-width="970" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdOAxVdiqabtECd9QtVCMwZOcaDkvNu0CHEgac0bPcl0IR7FLRvXyJOaVxpBPE0WNH1sCWCGC-oV1AhyYv6KmDsWJjko7VgjPGlKrGa49Gw-611deQPvXNDPKwG2aqOGdwCP9FyWWATC-b/s320/shadow_figure.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1444334405480906852.post-67160536075794799302019-07-22T11:33:00.001+08:002019-07-22T11:33:09.634+08:00GeoetryIt's been over 20 years since I last felt moved to write a poetic verse. I think it's a sign I'm finally slowing down enough to be curious and playful with my own thoughts and inner world. I hope you enjoy.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Mountains of Love</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">They'll cut you, they'll burn you</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I have my scars indeed</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But my heart is still intact</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Left to beat, left to bleed</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Never promised me answers</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Never promised me thrills</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Below fourteen hundred degrees</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Their fine carapace chills</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I've slept upon their shoulders</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">We've walked hand in hand</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Far less than the mortals</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Do they ever demand</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">They've kept me up too late</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Woken with me to the sun</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Where there's a slope there's a way</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Lava ever will run</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrmRvuNDhOHGRgq-ATdLEoLetIJQXBhV7zgmyQfPlc2fARbrOEj4u-YYv8AgvC9GVTZ94nCKE6jPooV3Y-x2bnTDpdnhQrtCLYE5_QYm01ByGC6pDK-Mh2PL4wCJBmFtULAzcPf2NkC5hX/s1600/AugIslOverlight.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="931" data-original-width="1276" height="233" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrmRvuNDhOHGRgq-ATdLEoLetIJQXBhV7zgmyQfPlc2fARbrOEj4u-YYv8AgvC9GVTZ94nCKE6jPooV3Y-x2bnTDpdnhQrtCLYE5_QYm01ByGC6pDK-Mh2PL4wCJBmFtULAzcPf2NkC5hX/s320/AugIslOverlight.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Own photo: Mt. St. Augustine, Cook Inlet, Alaska</span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Heart-Quake</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Solar plexus punch</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Hold</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">On </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Tight</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Love the waves</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The world is churning</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Stomach's hurling</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The trees are madly swaying</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I'm nearly losing lunch</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Will</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Cease?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Split the road</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The building's flailing</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Concrete's derailing</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The stack of papers falling</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">To the floor</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">(Inspired by the #vss365 prompt #stack & the real life events of the November 3, 2002 M7.9 Denali earthquake)</span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1444334405480906852.post-20946476322859781732019-06-30T13:54:00.001+08:002019-06-30T13:54:05.188+08:00Mirrored Wound Magnetism<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6rkxKEK4zV3JxnsW-5hXIqg2jriqJOlL3v2tfhlLCu2607VppRBMtJet-hXD5_vLeawWt_I3aO5kJ3DH-2tzTW0Pmbzd6IaYyZ6R_OH1dd4mDHq_DGPRNmpaDxClmb5_17FbkuQ55Zvjn/s1600/Mirror_pain.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="678" data-original-width="1024" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6rkxKEK4zV3JxnsW-5hXIqg2jriqJOlL3v2tfhlLCu2607VppRBMtJet-hXD5_vLeawWt_I3aO5kJ3DH-2tzTW0Pmbzd6IaYyZ6R_OH1dd4mDHq_DGPRNmpaDxClmb5_17FbkuQ55Zvjn/s320/Mirror_pain.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/72875383@N02/6699048721" rel="nofollow" style="background-color: #eeeeee; font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; text-align: left; text-decoration-line: none;"><span style="color: black; font-size: xx-small;">Shattered Reflections of Past Future Selfs (Cath O'Connolly)</span></a></div>
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I've never studied psychology beyond a few breadth courses at university, but having spent more than my fair share of time in counselling with a variety of mental health professionals, I've swallowed a fair bit of psych speak over the years. One concept I find intriguing and able to explain a significant number of my own challenges is that of mirrored or twinned wounds. Essentially, in as far as I understand it, the concept is that we are drawn to those who share or mirror our own deepest emotional wounds. Clearly this is an over simplification as humans are far more complex than that and many of us carry a mixed bag of issues, but it certainly presents an interesting lens through which to examine patterns of dysfunctional relationships.</div>
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If time were sufficient investment to yield equivalent degrees, I would have a Ph.D. or two in dysfunctional relationships. Looking back through the years, I can point to exactly one romantic relationship that was based on a healthy friendship and mutual respect. Not surprisingly, we dissolved the intimate side of that relationship because it introduced too much complexity into a friendship we cherished too much to ruin. In other words, I was too damaged and he too healthy to bind us to one another. The upside is we're still friends 20 years on.</div>
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All other relationships were a mixed bag of short-term physical attractions between strangers that fizzled out nearly as quickly as they started and a few messes of rapid intertwining too complex to pick apart before it was too late. At 40, I have had exactly three long-term relationships (anything over a few months, by my own definition). The first was with a horribly manipulative individual who made it his unspoken mission to build me up for the express purpose of rigging me like a puppet fully under his control. After a few fun happy weeks, I was so tightly wound in his web I couldn't make a single independent decision, was incapacitated by fear of his rejection and wrath, and isolated myself from every friend and ally who might have saved me from him. A few months in, I made a split-second decision to drop out of the prestigious university to which I'd spent a lifetime busting my ass to gain entrance and generous scholarships in an effort to appease him and return into his favour. He was cruel and held sway over me for two years before I finally grew a spine and saw him for the petty manipulator he was.</div>
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This relationship was founded upon the most insidious and overt manipulation. I was too young, too naïve, too inexperienced and far too motivated to please to see the endless stream of red flags: he dictated not only with whom I could spend time, but also how much, where we could go and what we could do; he was not only uninterested in my pleasure in the bedroom, he forbid me from doing anything that might enhance my sexual experience because it was "an insult" to <i>him</i>; he determined my preferences in food, entertainment, activities, and experiences by praising me when I "chose correctly" and reprimanding when I did not. He once hid my passport the morning I was departing for a three-month study abroad program just to see how I would react. The "correct" reaction was to throw up my hands and say, 'oh well, I guess that means I just get to stay here with you! Yay!', rather than my severely "incorrect" reaction of freaking the fuck out that my entire trip/degree was going down the toilet because my passport had mysteriously disappeared. He then made himself the "hero" of the hour by "finding" said passport once I was in full crisis mode. I could write an entire book about all the horrifically fucked up things he did or said to me over those lost years, but I have no desire to waste any more of my life on him.</div>
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To say I walked out of that relationship with a twisted sense of who I was and what I was worth would be an understatement. I was completely lost. I nearly starved myself to death and jeopardised my chances of going on to grad school in the fall out, trying to regain the internal compass he'd so completely destroyed. I started this blog in the tumultuous aftermath of his destruction, an attempt to write my way through the quagmire.</div>
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I won't claim to have crawled out of that mess significantly wiser, but I was certainly more wary. I was suddenly self possessed enough to realise I was physically attractive to others (the glorious conclusion of ugly duckling syndrome), but I had no idea what it meant to be attractive on any other level. I lurched from one heady micro-affair to the next with zero awareness of what I was inflicting on others. I lost respect in my community of graduate students and built an army of enemies without the slightest inkling of what I was doing. I was labelled a "man eater" and derided both behind my back and to my face until finally I found someone who made me pause, someone with whom everything snapped into deep focus.</div>
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Four and a half years, most of those spent co-habitating, sharing all friends and co-workers, living completely in one another's pockets, was not a significantly healthier alternative to the previous nightmare. I was no longer being coerced into shedding my own identity through praise and censure, rather I was coached, for my own sake, how to behave in order to fit in. The instructions were no longer coming from a single individual, but rather the whole community around us, so I worked diligently to behave correctly, fit the mould, and firmly affix my mask. I became socially acceptable and expected this would yield happiness.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDN5UgJBOILTDk4w-xMg5ICixBKKFXOoxb5DKGhYrFP_LqxNSCDUqyFUa_5eZ-b9OftRfMdoo6A1P4jDlWlIWOHVrKqcUu2a-xIzHfH3OX3XXTGK5P6U8twA0-m5qDz7ICKPmmkK8PL1e_/s1600/mask.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="960" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDN5UgJBOILTDk4w-xMg5ICixBKKFXOoxb5DKGhYrFP_LqxNSCDUqyFUa_5eZ-b9OftRfMdoo6A1P4jDlWlIWOHVrKqcUu2a-xIzHfH3OX3XXTGK5P6U8twA0-m5qDz7ICKPmmkK8PL1e_/s320/mask.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Instead I became increasingly anxious and unable to function without my partner's guiding hand. I still do not fully understand our particular dynamic, but after I <a href="https://comingintobalance.blogspot.com/2019/05/saying-im-sorry-again-part-iii-ant.html" target="_blank">extracted myself most gracelessly from our entanglement</a>, a friend passed me a book that outlined the characteristics of an enabling relationship and I saw how directly our relationship reflected that of his parents. It then made sense why his pattern was to get into a relationship with a strong, beautiful, independent, intelligent woman and reduce her to a non-functioning, depressed shadow of her former self all the while wondering what the hell went wrong. He was literally creating the image of his mother he was trying so desperately to escape. He was not an unkind or manipulative person, in fact, he was quite the opposite. It seems that he went to such extents to try to be supportive and helpful out of the good in his heart that he inadvertently destroyed the other person's sense of autonomy and self.</div>
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There were many wonderful and positive things that happened in the course of this relationship, so it was far from a miserable experience, but there was one key moment that completely opened my eyes and changed the course of my search to better understand myself. In a heated argument over something now long lost to time and memory, he blared that he wasn't my father and to stop projecting my "daddy issues" onto him. My mind flashed an instantaneous non-thinking thought in response, "not my dad, you're the <i>mother</i> I want". It was such a surprising beam of insight into a deeply buried secret previously held within the complete darkness of my subconscious I was struck dumb and didn't even respond. I'm sure he thought he'd hit the nail on the head, however he'd instead turned the key in a lock I didn't know existed. </div>
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I can understand the primary reasons leading him to presume my issues were grounded in my relationship with my father. First, pop psychology feeds us a steady diet of women's "daddy issues" and how these translate into dysfunctional relationships. Second, for as long as he'd known me, I'd been estranged from my father and rarely spoke about him. What he didn't know, was that up until the catastrophe that was the relationship described above and my snap decision to abandon my private university aspirations, my dad and I enjoyed a wonderful and very healthy father-daughter relationship. The rift between us was forged and carefully fostered by a prime manipulator who ultimately wedged herself between him and all others in his life so she could covertly embezzle all of his modest wealth. My 20-20 hindsight reveals the clear pattern between my father's and my propensity to fall prey to cunning charlatans.</div>
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But the notion that I was somehow desperately seeking for him to fill the mother-shaped hole in my heart made no sense on the surface. My mom and I were very close, more like friends than mother and daughter, a characterisation she worked diligently to foster. Yet that flash of insight sent me down a rabbit hole of deep self examination. Recurrent childhood nightmares, in which I struggled futilely to reach her and get her attention, rushed vividly back to me. I began recognising how much of my childhood was dedicated to meeting my mother's emotional needs, rather than the other way around, leaving me in a confusing wash of disillusionment that I have spent the better part of the past 16 years trying to make sense of.</div>
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Unfortunately, I still didn't possess the emotional-cognitive skills or capacity to sort it all out before that relationship imploded. I still had more lessons to learn and apparently needed a more ruthless teacher to cut through all the crap. I don't spout many maxims, but I think if you really want to examine your daemons, you need to get together with someone more fucked up than you. So, when I was ready to pack it in and accept a life-sentence of solitude, the universe sent me G-Force. I was actively avoiding entanglements to such an extent I rarely left my lab except to go home to sleep and take care of my cat. I won't go into the details of the ridiculous efforts G-Force made to get into a brutal and emotionally abusive "relationship" with me, but the one gem he left me with was the enlightening observation that I didn't believe I deserved to be loved.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjusr1y-btKNhXzfYklsMrwDk9aHIMP384JJs7IsJ0QKixWXw79B5QRayfeZTgWzCQvRsOuTkUCxtNaDYMtT_MGGBf6usT9wNyybwGkj5S00EJvZSP1gEmQSF5dFrqOu-fQVaXok7lMLmIK/s1600/hole_heart.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjusr1y-btKNhXzfYklsMrwDk9aHIMP384JJs7IsJ0QKixWXw79B5QRayfeZTgWzCQvRsOuTkUCxtNaDYMtT_MGGBf6usT9wNyybwGkj5S00EJvZSP1gEmQSF5dFrqOu-fQVaXok7lMLmIK/s1600/hole_heart.jpeg" /></a></div>
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My initial reaction to this outrageous statement was to call 'horse shit' on it, as with most everything that poured out of his brilliant but feral mouth, but I paused just long enough to realise the bastard was right. My entire life, as it related to others, was based on the premise that no one would ever actually love me because I was fundamentally unlovable. My constant striving to excel at everything, whether academic, athletic, or artistic, was a constant attempt to attain an undefinable state of "loveableness". My painfully misguided belief that I could achieve my way into the good graces of the world left me with a shining résumé and a patchwork heart.</div>
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While there was still much unravelling to do after this revelation, it at least gave me a legitimate starting point for deeply examining the conundrum. Sadly, there was no one on hand at that point to highlight the propensity to propel oneself toward those suffering from the same flavour of broken-ness. I tried to formulate a plan to avoid the pitfalls I'd identified in all previous relationships, but this fundamental flaw inside of myself was a bug in the code that needed another iteration before it could be identified.</div>
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The second counsellor my husband and I went to pointed out our shared or mirrored wounds, proffering this as an explanation for the constant pain we inadvertently inflicted upon one another in spite of (or perhaps due to) our overpowering love of one another. He brushed it off as psychobabble and insisted he'd done all his work and this all came down to my issues. But it takes two to tango and after a few more years of trying to fix one side of our see-saw, I'd had just about enough of it. I've written <a href="https://comingintobalance.blogspot.com/2018/11/battles-in-my-mind-part-ii-depression.html" target="_blank">previously about the inescapable downward spiral and fall-out</a> that precipitated as a result, but I'm only just starting to understand the dynamic that thrust the final wedge between us.<br />
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I'm obviously not qualified to diagnose anyone with any sort of mental health disorder, but there are a few people in my litany of seriously damaging or damning relationships that fit a striking pattern. Not just a pattern of their behaviours, but my self-destructive moth-like attraction to them. The one commonality I now see clearly is their deep-seated fear of abandonment and my overpowering desire to mollify that inner terror. There are clear signs of borderline personality disorder in some of these individuals, enough to warrant deeper exploration to help me better understand what this means for me personally.<br />
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It's interesting to explore this through the lens of ASD. There are several shared characteristics of BPD and ASD, enough so that many people on the spectrum (especially women) are initially mis-diagnosed as borderline. This was my doctor's initial suggestion when I asked for a referral to seek a diagnosis. The irony of the similarities and common misdiagnoses is how many autists report being subjected to manipulation and suffering horribly at the hands of those with BPD. We're so inherently trusting and loyal to a fault that we're the ideal target for anyone who desperately, pathologically needs to be idealised and praised by someone who will keep coming back no matter how much horror they're subjected to. I've read so many stories of autists who grew up with such diminished senses of self worth that they were never strong enough to break the cycle of abusive relationships until very late in life, if ever at all. I've read stories of many young autistic adults still pinned under the thumbs of emotionally abusive parents. All these stories make me want to do whatever I can to help stop the cycle, weave together all these lessons learned and use my brain and voice to pull the hand break.<br />
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This is one of many reasons we need better and earlier diagnosis of ASD. The earlier we can help someone recognise, accept and embrace their differences, the earlier we set them on their path toward a healthy relationship with their self, which is the foundation for healthy relationships with others. But we also need counselling and support for families to see their children in a positive light and address their own histories of trauma, which are transmitted and entrenched more readily in autistic brains. Current scientific research is showing that part of what makes autistic brains different is their propensity to reinforce any and every neural pathway from an early age, rather than rapidly and repeatedly breaking and reforming pathways throughout life, especially in the early years. So when the autistic child is steeped in negativity about their identity or worth when they fail to conform, it is hardwired into their brain in a potentially unbreakable pathway. I cannot think of a more compelling argument for treating autistic children with the heaviest dose of compassion we can administer.<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1444334405480906852.post-54932482071620688872019-06-27T14:10:00.002+08:002019-06-27T14:11:04.294+08:00Review: The Rosie Project<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzK9HLbGnbRB-f3WTWWwRKbsFS7qByLX8L1NHHpKdq9YUA_hCCQoIKv2lfMJao8SeGtKKh_I34ZKpBtsnQpQK1Wev5QWq-cbwQLZR9pB0wjBl4v-wexzOTC9CPLru8Hf9xJZpcHPsgHJoA/s1600/RosieProject.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1035" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzK9HLbGnbRB-f3WTWWwRKbsFS7qByLX8L1NHHpKdq9YUA_hCCQoIKv2lfMJao8SeGtKKh_I34ZKpBtsnQpQK1Wev5QWq-cbwQLZR9pB0wjBl4v-wexzOTC9CPLru8Hf9xJZpcHPsgHJoA/s320/RosieProject.jpg" width="206" /></a></div>
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I recently had the pleasure of reading Graeme Simsion's <i>The Rosie Project</i>, the first in his fictitious trilogy about Aspie geneticist Don Tillman. This was not a book on my radar until this Austral summer when it caught my eye on the staff picks shelf at a bookstore in Canberra. As I'd entered the bookstore with the express purpose of finding presents for others, not excess baggage for myself, I limited myself to <u style="font-style: italic;">only one</u> new friend for my collection. It was a toss up between <i>The Rosie Project</i> and <i>Eleanore Oliphant is Completely Fine</i>. In the end, the lure of a female protagonist won and Don was relegated to the back of my mind.</div>
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After returning home from my intensive summer teaching stint, I was bombarded by people asking if I'd read the<i> Rosie </i>books as the third in the series (<i>The Rosie Result</i>) was suddenly getting lots of press, particularly in my neck of the woods and in the autistic online communities. I listened to a radio interview and read some articles with Simsion, which piqued my interest and led me to add the books to my "want to read" list. I was just finishing my Anna Karenina marathon and had half a dozen other books queued up for my attention, so again Don and Rosie slipped far down on my priority list.</div>
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I then went on to write a novel of my own in three months. A feat I'd never dreamt of ever actually embarking upon, let alone completing in such a manic timeframe. This was far from full-time writing. This was writing that poured forth in the interstices between three jobs, two atypical kids, massive household management commitments, and a husband frequently travelling overseas for work. My main characters and their storyline were inspired by encounters during my summer teaching stint and an overwhelming urge to bring a female autist perspective to the world of fiction.</div>
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When I finally cracked open <i>The Rosie Project</i> last weekend, I was floored by the end of the first page. I immediately messaged my editor, who was just settling into round two with my manuscript after her initial glowing review, with slight reservations whether my protagonist's voice wasn't "too grating", to share my initial impression: </div>
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'OMG, I just started reading The Rosie Project. My book sounds like a young female version…' </blockquote>
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They say that imitation is the finest form of flattery, but I never intended to imitate anyone. I couldn't believe how similar our first-person present-tense narration from these two very different characters who only share a very broad neurology could sound. The explosive popularity of the <i>Rosie</i> books gives me hope that there is actually an audience for <i>Perfect Chemistry</i>.</div>
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There are so many moments in <i>The Rosie Project</i> that read like excerpts from my own life. If I hadn't received my ASD-1/Asperger's diagnosis prior to reading this book, it would have rung very loud alarm bells that perhaps this would be something requiring further investigation. Although Don is initially far too one-dimensional for anyone, even autists, to deeply identify with, his evolution and gradual unfurling throughout the story is an incredibly familiar story.</div>
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As he began his "Wife Project", a tiny voice in my head clambered for him to 'Pick me! Pick me!!', knowing how closely I fit all his enumerated criteria and he mine. I was struck how if he were not a fictional character, we quite likely could have crossed paths in real life, inhabiting the same city and frequenting the same haunts. But our shared neurology would have precluded looking up and seeing someone so likeminded without the aid of some matchmaking tool or well-meaning friend. I realise that the point of the book was to show Don the error of his ways in thinking that love could be found simply through the correct survey, but there is definitely a part of me that found this unfair.</div>
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Finding love, or even true friendship, is exceedingly challenging for many of us on the spectrum. Unless we have the good fortune of being surrounded by genuinely compassionate, understanding, and accepting individuals who can 'get us' and forgive our foibles, we often end up very lonely. Being alone isn't the problem, but loneliness often becomes problematic when outside forces start to impose guilt and expectations that we conform to normal standards and pair off acceptably. Then our atypical social skills and inability to read others, flirt appropriately, detect subtle hints of attraction, etc become such a liability it can completely override our brains. Thinking back to these times in my life is still painful, even decades out.</div>
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One line from <i>The Rosie Project</i> really resonated, causing me to seize up in unison with Don, "Riding home, I was aware of a tightness in my chest… I knew that if I could not 'fit in' in a science department of a university, I could not fit in anywhere." Although I'm prone to springing a leak whenever these thoughts occur to me, unlike stalwart Don, the effect is the same. It hurts so much to write about this, it's making me ugly cry as I do so. I've given up hope of every actually fitting in anywhere, but I desperately hope I can help pave a way for a world that will be slightly more accepting of my daughter.</div>
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Onward to <i>The Rosie Effect</i> just as soon as it available at the library…</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1444334405480906852.post-8808591804685768952019-06-21T13:11:00.001+08:002019-06-21T13:11:13.374+08:00Online Communities: A Double-Edged Mental Health Sword<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZL_tPpsgMpI3HJH_LhTBmK8lYWyM0oErty1dsXtK_pmzCsgCO70sQVSxx2NgR-ne51dVHh4UYJCX-rpGYj6qpKyNk9jf7eydSL6X3hpQwpN3BscMIdRNiQmkm47USwM4criRP86eRsPJO/s1600/Swords_three.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1100" data-original-width="662" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZL_tPpsgMpI3HJH_LhTBmK8lYWyM0oErty1dsXtK_pmzCsgCO70sQVSxx2NgR-ne51dVHh4UYJCX-rpGYj6qpKyNk9jf7eydSL6X3hpQwpN3BscMIdRNiQmkm47USwM4criRP86eRsPJO/s320/Swords_three.jpg" width="192" /></a></div>
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There seems to be an online community for just about any interest, identity, or desire out there. From Facebook to Twitter, Redit to Tumbler, and on to an entire encyclopaedia of additional platforms beyond, anyone can find people with whom to share ideas, commiserate, or wage war. These global networks of often anonymous and carefully curated identities are available 24-7, meaning there's always someone somewhere up to play, chat, or listen when you scream into the ether.</div>
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This is absolutely a boon for those isolated by and struggling with their mental health. With a quiet tweet or desperate plea to an online group, one can immediately elicit dozens, if not hundreds, of consoling comments, an avalanche of advice, glorious GIFs, and possibly even direct messages from someone willing to talk you down from the edge. When it works, it can turn a crisis moment into a teary laugh and perhaps a long online conversation about everything that's going on. Instead of simply shouting into the void, you now have a real, live, compassionate human being on the other end, telling you you're not alone, you matter, your thoughts/worries/anxieties are valid, you've got this, you can make it through to another day. It's an incredibly beautiful thing.</div>
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Good online communities look out for their members. People notice when someone disappears for a while or the tone of their posts darkens. They ask how things are going, pull individuals who are struggling aside for a one-to-one chat, link them with local support IRL, and follow up over the days and weeks to come. This can literally save lives.</div>
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I wrote briefly about my time in a maternal psych ward <a href="https://comingintobalance.blogspot.com/2018/11/battles-in-my-mind-part-ii-depression.html" target="_blank">here</a>, but didn't go into details about the long slippery slope of degrading mental health and the online community of local mothers who did their damndest to keep me afloat as I was frantically bailing water from my sinking ship. I connected with this group when I first moved to my new home five years ago because I knew no one and was terrified of being completely isolated with my challenging child yet again. I opened up to them about my history of PND/PTSD, shared my fears of having <a href="https://comingintobalance.blogspot.com/2019/02/battles-in-my-mind-part-iii-ptsd-pnd.html" target="_blank">another terrifying birth experience</a>, sought advice on balancing work and a potential second child, and started making friends I could actually talk to in the real world. These women helped me immeasurably in the decision making process before becoming pregnant again, during the three brutal months of vomiting and nausea that marked the beginning of pregnancy, working through the terror of birthing what-ifs, and filled our freezer and fridge with ready-to-eat homemade meals to ease the burden of the first few weeks.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfUoq3i3Gu3gFWAdORkOjHhOyIlkLv8cEuvv2vld6bNyMMp_hl50VjdY4bzXJamV0jkmQM7k1VZ3MELuei3GK_js1GD_6cHJNcPzJl5wC747rw672x5WxDhKwQ0uusSCFxpN2IjdnKeZQL/s1600/22263372.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="830" data-original-width="1000" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfUoq3i3Gu3gFWAdORkOjHhOyIlkLv8cEuvv2vld6bNyMMp_hl50VjdY4bzXJamV0jkmQM7k1VZ3MELuei3GK_js1GD_6cHJNcPzJl5wC747rw672x5WxDhKwQ0uusSCFxpN2IjdnKeZQL/s320/22263372.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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They were so much more than just an online community; they were an actual community sewn together with the ease and convenience of the internet. The group was carefully designed and moderated to be a place of support, not mommy wars or pyramid marketing schemes. It was a mothers' group on steroids. A call for help was invariably met with outpourings of whatever support anyone could offer: a chat in the dark when babies weren't sleeping, a cup of tear-filled tea to get you through a hard morning, a walk in the park, a hazy coffee date, soup for your family's dinner, grabbing your weekly shopping for you. No favour was ever deemed too big and the only request in return was that you pay it forward someday in your own way to someone else in need.</div>
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The group gradually grew too big for its britches. Somewhere around the 800-member mark, the vibe changed. The old guard moved on as our kids started school and we returned to more work outside our homes. People's needs, desires, and trust shifted, or at least mine certainly did. It's no longer my go-to port of call when I need to vent or ask for support, although many of the mothers I connected with initially through the group are still valued friends.</div>
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My journey into uncovering, discovering, and embracing my Autistic identity and that of my eldest daughter has led me into different online communities. Some are good, others are downright toxic. I've tried to learn to be very selective about which groups I engage with and how quickly to flee the savage spaces to protect my own tender skin, but it's not always easy to know what conflagration you're walking into. Some spaces are kept safe and welcoming by ardent guards who take swift and unrelenting action against anyone who breaks the sacrosanct group rules, but even they can't moderate all corners of their little cyber space every second and it only takes a single thoughtless moment to crush someone with a careless comment at the wrong time.</div>
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Some very large groups seem to be populated by generally well intentioned individuals who are there as much for the camaraderie as they are for their own selfish needs. The Twitter #WritingCommunity is such a place of silliness, shameless self promotion, writer lifts, follow threads, and virtual tackle hugs. There are certainly some who are only there to boost their follower numbers and promote their wares, but there are a lot of incredible people there too. People around the world are sharing writing tips, industry advice, critiquing each other's work, and bolstering anyone having a hard time. It's kind of amazing to watch sometimes, but there is a dark side to all this incredible "connection".</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbukz5ww_vLo-hmBaDGxhNIfZihwT9Jn3dTOyIg_G6XttzTfV8yasz-NHKZeGpIu6sDtT0ykOnP_SP6Q6LhyphenhyphenkRZ-8VpZI_PL8T9nTIc4NvFCJCUBhTkzQSSORk3KSX9VLjHlvphGgl3gn8/s1600/wolves_woods.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="632" data-original-width="474" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbukz5ww_vLo-hmBaDGxhNIfZihwT9Jn3dTOyIg_G6XttzTfV8yasz-NHKZeGpIu6sDtT0ykOnP_SP6Q6LhyphenhyphenkRZ-8VpZI_PL8T9nTIc4NvFCJCUBhTkzQSSORk3KSX9VLjHlvphGgl3gn8/s320/wolves_woods.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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I argue that our brains are simply not evolved enough to know on a deeply visceral level the difference between online and real life connections. Sure, we know intellectually that these "friends" we're making are only as real as we are to them, but that doesn't stop the flood of neurotransmitters from generating feelings of adoration, attraction, jealousy, and rage. We feel the feelings but there's no way to gauge reciprocity.</div>
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I know this is one reason involvement in online communities is ultimately terrible for my mental health. Yes, I may get a daily hit of serotonin and dopamine when my peeps like or comment on a post. Sometimes there's a suggested activity, such as posting daily gratitude tweets, that helps me take stock of just how fortunate I am. Occasionally, someone may write just the right thing at just the right time, when there's no flesh and blood human available to tell me to breathe and stop scrubbing the sink frantically as my mind whizzes out of control. Those random people on the other side of the world who take a few seconds from whatever else they're doing to send a little virtual love can have extraordinarily positive effects in the short term and doing the same for others makes me feel valuable, but the long-term effects are not so shiny.</div>
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Sure, commiserating over the heartache and exhaustion of raising a differently wired child with a parent on another planet can ease the burden of those feelings, but it doesn't lighten the load of caring for said child. Sharing inside jokes with a group of like-minded individuals is great fun, but it isolates us from loved ones around us who don't "get it". Swooning over the brilliance of someone else's thoughts, regardless of how carefully curated those thoughts may be, decreases our tolerance for the inane things that spill from the mouths of our unfiltered friends and family.</div>
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Creating the perfectly likeable online persona also eats up an incredible amount of time and energy. There's so much preening going on we may as well be a pack of chimps constantly picking nits off one another. I've seen at least half a dozen tweets <i>just today</i> from people apologising for being too negative in their posts because they're going through a hard time. Why do we have to apologise for speaking our truths? Why do we have to be up-beat and glorious for thousands of strangers all the time? This creates an inordinate unnecessary mental burden no one really needs, most of all those who are already struggling with their identity and mental health.</div>
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Maybe it's harder for someone like me for whom face-to-face interactions are so fraught with anxieties and baggage. Online communities allow me to read the lay of the land, figure out how the "cool kids" do it, and then put my best foot forward. I can slink away when my head is in a terrible space or spill the thoughts out across multiple groups to avoid overloading any particular one with all the garbage in my head. But I have to continually remind myself to be cautious, not to put myself too far out there, not to invest too heavily in straw men with no investment in me.</div>
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It's much easier for me to put my thoughts down in writing, heavily edit them and add a graphic that further enhances the expression I wish to make than it is to spit out what I want to say to someone's face. In real life, I'm invariably interpreted as overly blunt, uncaring, egotistical, or someone who simply thinks they're "way too smart for the rest of us plebs". Online, I can weigh my words, put my compassion first, and check my caustic tongue at the door. My anxiety is lower, so I'm able to tap into my heart sometimes instead of just my head.</div>
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It is a brave new world we've created, one our biology is far from catching up with. My only hope is that we can all learn to traverse it more kindly so everyone can benefit more from the infinite possibilities simmering just beneath the surface.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1444334405480906852.post-56139425633700312702019-06-03T13:02:00.000+08:002019-06-03T13:02:03.130+08:00More agnostic than I knew…<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Thanks to the #ActuallyAutistic and #WritingCommunity folks on Twitter, Pride Month has been sharply on my radar (not gadar, but we'll get to that in a minute) recently. Seeing so many out and proud folks promoting LGBTQIA writers & representation specifically by community authors is great, but it's raised a lot of questions for me personally.</div>
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The first question I have is where do I fit into this equation. I've certainly elected to follow a heteronormative path, but there were many years when crushes on girls/women came as hard and fast as for boys/men. I came out as bi to my close friends and family at the end of my senior year of high school, had a couple of brief but intense same-sex affairs, then promptly dumped it all into the "too hard" box. I still find myself crushing on another female from time to time, but as I'm no more free to act on that than on any other crush, it doesn't really concern me.</div>
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The second question is whether to put up my hand as someone writing queer characters. It is certainly a sub-theme in the book I'm writing, but doesn't "come out" until the very end. I feel like it would be a major spoiler to direct anyone to this work as representing lesbian/bi characters. This is because the story is told strictly from the perspective of an autistic female main character for whom other people's sexuality simply doesn't register.</div>
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As my MC's perceptions of the world are based largely upon my own personal experiences, it's brought me to ponder my own non-existent, or at least severely impaired "gaydar" (gay radar - the ability to identify non-het people). I don't think I have ever correctly ascertained someone's preferences in my life. Therefore, unless someone explicitly tells me when we meet or introduces me to their partner, I have no idea. It is not uncommon for me to go years knowing someone "as gay as the breeze!" and never recognise this aspect of their identity.</div>
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My most glaring experience of "gay blindness" came the summer after my first year of university. As part of my personal explorations into Judaism, I started attending a Reform Synagogue in a very yuppy community. The rabbi was a lovely and wise middle-aged woman shepherding quite a diverse flock. Always seated in the front row was a glowing same-sex couple she'd married, a boyish looking woman who always donned the traditional male kippah, a tall Asian woman with a pronounced Adam's apple, and sundry other interesting folks. Unbeknownst to me, this was the self-appointed "Dyke Row" of the congregation, who liked to sit as close as possible to their adored rabbi.</div>
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It was that woman in the men's headwear who drew all my attention. I was instantly attracted to Bee. She made my heart race and my tongue slip into knots whenever I saw her. But I couldn't figure out whether she might reciprocate my attraction. Most people would look at the company she kept, her clothing and hairstyle selections, and a few other cues and sort that out quick smart, but I agonised over it for months.</div>
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We spent lots of time together, sharing our love of bikes and interest in Judaism throughout the summer, the question of who or what she found attractive ever on the tip of my tongue. She taught me about bike maintenance and how to welcome in Shabbat. She met the aunt I was living with and my boyfriend who visited from the other side of the country. Yet it took all the gumption in the world to ask her if she was gay.</div>
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The stunned silence was quickly followed by an eruption of laughter. "Of course I am, how could you have any doubt?" was her response. I have no idea.</div>
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While this was an extreme example, it's a common experience for me. I'm always the last to know and the response of "how could you <i>not</i> know" is an oft repeated refrain. I simply do not have a gadar.</div>
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I started wondering if my missing gadar was at all related to my general inability to read people's intentions and body language. Someone shared an article with me recently describing how NTs can quickly scan a room full of people to ascertain how everyone relates to everyone else completely subconsciously. Apparently, there's a whole host of information about these interrelationships out there on display to which I am completely blind. I have no clue whether two people in conversation are BFFs, lovers, frenemies, siblings, or newly acquainted. Little wonder that I never correctly gauge how to join a group when the underlying dynamics are completely opaque to me. Now I understand why others are able to get it right while I can only stumble along hoping the odds will eventually play into my favour.</div>
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I suppose it would then make sense that I cannot sense people's interest in me or others around us if I can't determine this fundamental level of interaction. It certainly played a huge role in giving up on pursuing intimate relationships with women altogether. If I couldn't figure out whether someone was interested in women in general, there was no hope of discovering that someone liked me specifically. Hence why being attracted to women was simply "too complicated" for me.</div>
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I've <a href="https://comingintobalance.blogspot.com/2018/07/alexithymia-echolalia-proprioception.html" target="_blank">written previously</a> about a whole new vocabulary my autistic journey has unfurled and today I came upon a new term: <b><i>expressive agnosia</i></b>, the inability to perceive facial expressions, body language, and voice intonation. I've long described my religious beliefs as "staunchly agnostic", but had no idea that 'agnostic' also describes my challenges in social interactions. As with all the other things I didn't know were things, this knowledge brings both a sense of relief and sadness. Relief in knowing I'm not alone, but sadness with the realisation that I probably will never overcome this hinderance.</div>
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When you look at the photo below, what do you see? Are the two girls on the right in a relationship or new friends? Is the blond girl together with the black dude or keen on the white guy? Are the two guys together? Maybe it's impossible for anyone to make an accurate presumption based on a snapshot, but I've been told that most people could accurately sort this out in a second or two. I wouldn't have a clue unless someone did something overt like hold another person's hand or pash.</div>
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I can only imagine how much more confident I would be entering social arenas with a means of decoding people's body language, subtle facial expressions, and vocal intonations. There would be so much less anxiety about putting my foot in my mouth, being long-winded, interjecting into a private conversation, or appearing to flirt with someone unintentionally. I wonder how much different my dating life would have been if I could have picked up on subtle cues of interest instead of only ever ending up with people I chased down like a hungry cheetah or who bashed me over the head with their attentions.</div>
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As with most of my musings, these are simply thought exercises, but I always hope that my thoughts will give way to improved ways of navigating this world.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1444334405480906852.post-67481802478752061102019-05-29T18:52:00.001+08:002019-05-29T18:52:46.715+08:00Saying I'm Sorry: Part IV (The Scientist)<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Before I start this blog post, I'd just like to say a few words of gratitude to my far-flung audience. I never intended for this to be anything other than a personal growth and exploration journal, but the thousands of page views from all corners of the planet indicates I'm tapping into something else. I'll admit I was inspired to do a deeper dive into the mental health ramifications of Autism by one reader telling me how greatly my words resonated with her, that a particular post found its way into her hands on the brink of a crisis and helped ground her. Others have shared praise for the quality of the writing and unfiltered truths, which I deeply appreciate.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">As much as I am moved by the benefit sharing my experiences has to others, it is still, at its heart, my space for me, as stated in the very </span><a href="https://comingintobalance.blogspot.com/2010/12/square-peg-round-hole.html" style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;" target="_blank">first entry</a><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> nearly nine years ago. Thank you for reading, nonetheless.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Female Scientist by Medic Kun</span></div>
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It would be irresponsible to perpetuate the impression that my perseveration is limited to botched romantic entanglements, as I likely have with the first three parts of this post. The more intimate a relationship however, the more deeply intertwined two minds, hearts, souls, the more opportunities there are for serious misunderstandings and subsequent hurt to occur. Involvement requires trust; trust is founded upon vulnerability; vulnerability makes me nervous; nerves short circuit my brain into panic; panic leads to flight; flight leaves questions unanswered, chords unresolved, words unspoken and years or decades down the track, endless loops of all the things I wish I could do and say differently playing through my mind.</div>
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When I think back on these myriad relationships and the consternation they continue to cause, I'm often struck by just how hard I actually did try to make amends in the past. How I've tried to explain the inexplicable, apologise for outright inexcusable behaviour, smooth ruffled feathers and even been pardoned, but the broken trust never heals. This is what gets me. I don't know if the other parties ever actually trust me again, but I do know that I don't trust them to trust me and so I slink away to avoid censure. This is what happened with The Scientist.</div>
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The Scientist was a stalwart woman, infinitely dedicated to her pursuits. In the many years I knew her, I watched wave after wave of tragedy, mishap, misogyny, and hardship smash her up against the rocks of life, but she never bowed. Looking back now, I can imagine she undoubtedly must have had her moments in private where she broke down and wept, wanted to throw in the towel and give up, but her public persona was so steadfast that any weakness was hidden. She was definitely one tough cookie and I seriously admired her.</div>
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In the wake of several of my own major life upheavals, I was foisted unexpectedly upon The Scientist. She didn't really want me in her charge for many good reasons, but neither of us had much of a choice in the matter. I always sincerely wanted to do right by her, as anyone would when working directly under one of their heroes, but my heart was never in the work she had me doing, and then my head couldn't stay in it either.</div>
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I've written briefly before about my <a href="https://comingintobalance.blogspot.com/2010/12/in-beginning.html" target="_blank">cycling accident in New Zealand</a> but haven't yet had the opportunity to fully explore the damage it did physically, mentally and emotionally. I've been toying with a PTSD-focussed post to explore its different manifestations, but my writing energies keep pulling me in different directions. I mention it now because it played a significant role in the destruction of my working relationship with The Scientist.<br />
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Hitting the ground at 30 km/hr is never a good thing. Landing head first at that velocity is an especially bad thing. In conjunction with the multitude of serious injuries I sustained that day, I was also severely concussed. I can only estimate how long I was out cold by what I can remember of the distance between where I lay crumpled and the path where the first people on the scene would have been when I crashed, but however long it was sufficient to cause significant damage that continued to give me grief for many months afterward.<br />
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I had no idea how bad things were upstairs until several sleepless weeks went by. It's hard to say how much of my memory issues were directly related to the trauma and what was a secondary byproduct of the concussion-induced insomnia, either way, my brain was fucked. It's never nice to have your brain operating at less than full capacity, but I can tell you that having scrambled brains whilst completing intricate scientific research, taking the most complex graduate coursework <i>and</i> trying to mop up the mess of your life truly fucking sucks. My normally brilliant mind was rendered useless. I couldn't remember a conversation from the day before let alone what a professor was talking about by the time I finished writing notes in class. My typically hyper-reactive emotions jumped into uncontrolled chaos. I was a walking time bomb.<br />
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When you can't keep anything straight in your mind and everthing feels like a race against the clock, it's only a matter of probability before one of the many mistakes you're making daily is going to genuinely cost you. The Scientist's lab was absolutely no place for a mis-wired brain like mine. There were so many protocols to follow, so many minute details to attend to every second, so much to learn and keep track of. I probably would have been OK if I hadn't been so over committed, if all my attention was focussed there, but it wasn't and I was floundering. Then one day up whipped the perfect storm.<br />
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I was stressed beyond belief and trying to juggle too many things. A dear friend, who was also under the The Scientist's wing, but didn't work in this lab, came in with me when I needed to check my experiments. There was no problem with her being in the lab, she often use the microscope therein, but she had zero training on the experimental equipment. We were talking, she wanted to be helpful, I was distracted and trying to get things done quickly. I asked her to do something deceptively simple before checking something else and realised too late that what she did affected someone else's experiments on the line. At the time, I honestly didn't think it was a big deal. The same tiny perturbation to my own experiments wouldn't have made any difference whatsoever. But the other experiments were a completely different beast. We destroyed them in a thoughtless instant. Weeks worth of someone else's work down the toilet.<br />
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My ridiculous mistake was so opaque to my mind that it never occurred to me to contact my mentor or the other student right away. I casually mentioned it in passing a few days later and the shit hit the fan. The other student was murderous; my mentor asked why she shouldn't ban me from ever using the lab again. Let me clarify here that not using that lab again would sign the death warrant on the PhD I'd been pursuing for the previous five years. It was not a happy option.<br />
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After wallowing in mortification for a few days, I wrote my supervisor a very long explanation and apology. I was seriously remorseful. It was the single biggest mistake of my professional life, one I knew had completely tarnished my reputation. The Scientist is a most magnanimous woman and she pardoned my sins, allowed me to resume working in the lab, and did her best to insure I successfully completed my PhD.<br />
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But I never felt right about things between us again. The strain on our already burdened relationship was enormous. Every interaction with her felt dangerous, never knowing if she was going to throw this or one of my myriad minor transgressions back at me.<br />
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The day I defended my thesis, The Scientist took me and my parents out for a celebratory lunch. We'd scarcely spoken outside of obligatory thesis and research group meetings since the lab debacle, so I was incredibly on edge about this small social outing. Much to my surprise, she positively glowed to my parents about what an amazing job I'd done, how much cutting edge research I'd successfully pursued, and what a fantastic student I was. I was absolutely floored. She never struck me as the type of person who would spout insincere flattery, but I can never stop wondering if she made an exception that day.<br />
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Thoughts of this woman whom I so admire, with whom I've travelled, dined, worked in the field, taken saunas, and partied, who's baby I've held and dear friends I've shared and lost, now only evoke shudders of shame and remorse. I've never been able to bring myself to connect with her via any social media or list her as a reference on my CV. Sadly, I never went through graduation ceremonies for my PhD, in part because I was too ashamed to ask her to hood me. I'm simply left to wonder if she considers me a black stain on her otherwise impeccable advisory record.<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1444334405480906852.post-5527239858842718152019-05-25T18:09:00.000+08:002019-05-25T18:09:49.983+08:00Saying I'm Sorry (*Again*): Part III (Ant)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Cover of: I love you, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I love you, by Kevin Farran</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>I love you, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I love you.</i> It's a beautiful book title and an apt summary of all my more intimate relationships. If we remove the second comma, my entire love life suddenly falls neatly into one of these two categories. Either I'm apologising to those I love because my love is simply never enough or I'm deeply sorry to someone for ever loving them in the first place. I suppose many of us are often sorry for loving someone when it goes wrong and wish with all our souls we could go back to intercede at some fateful moment past, but for me, the guilt comes for the havoc my loving seems to wreak on others. I feel I'm a tornado in a trailer park: unleashing calamities upon the most vulnerable, innocent and unsuspecting victims of all.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">In <a href="https://comingintobalance.blogspot.com/2019/05/saying-im-sorry-part-i-master-t.html" target="_blank">Part I</a> <a href="https://comingintobalance.blogspot.com/2019/05/saying-im-sorry-part-ii-der-komiker.html" target="_blank">& II</a> of this series, I explored two formative relationships gone awry because their unresolved questions refuse to release my mind from purgatory. I classify these two intersections under the "I'm sorry I love you" heading. I believe my affections were more burdensome to the recipients than they were worth and generated chaos where there was calm. But now I want to explore a relationship of the "I love you, I'm sorry" variety.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Before I do, however, I need to lapse into a brief interlude to discuss the twined beauty and beast of neurodiverse relationships. As always, I must emphasise that my experience is certainly not universal, but these paired traits I am about to discuss are incredibly common among those on the Autism spectrum. We seem to be given to express most things in extremes, in this case oscillating wildly from unwavering loyalty to suddenly and unapologetically severing ties. It certainly sounds paradoxical and I imagine is the emotional equivalent of a swift kick to the head. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Loyalty is an oft cited positive Autistic trait. It is a wonderful thing not to be fickle, to be willing to lay down your life or sanity for a cause, an institution, or a friend, but it can also be extraordinarily costly, personally, emotionally, mentally, and physically. Autistics are very vulnerable to manipulative people who learn to use this trait (often conveniently coupled with naïvety) to their advantage. While I haven't discussed this particular topic with many Autistic men, the female identifying portion of the population would resoundingly prefer support and coaching on safety skills in this arena over being "trained" to conform to NT social norms. However, when that loyalty is appropriately bestowed upon a deserving recipient, it is a grand and noble thing.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">The flip side of this coin is as insidious on its face and protective in the long run as loyalty is the other way around. While not a diagnostic criteria for ASD, a tendency to abruptly sever ties with little or no explanation is a common question on Autism screening tests. It is often chalked up to black and white thinking, and this is the only explanation that makes it make any sense to me. Otherwise, I have no idea why a switch suddenly flips in my head, telling me to walk away from someone I had deep affections for a moment before and never look back. Even when it hurts so unbearably much I'd rather be hit by a train, only forced proximity and outside intervention can unfurl the clenched fist of rejection once I've made up my mind. It's a pattern I've repeated far more times than I care to remember. I feel deeply sorry in retrospect for every time I've done it, but I had my reasons, they were logical, and I had to stick to them regardless of the consequences. I know this doesn't mean shit to the people I hurt.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I can only see in hindsight that I mattered enough to someone for my hasty departure to cause them suffering. It was only ever <i>after</i> I made up my mind to tarry no longer that their affections became clear enough to register. This has been a brutal source of confusion and misery throughout my life, but I now finally understand from whence this idiosyncrasy springs. I suppose this is why I now feel an ever more intense impulse to go out and say I'm sorry to everyone I ever did this to. Now I can explain it. Now that I understand the thing, I feel like my apology has more weight, is more sincere free from entanglement within my own self confusion. But I'm almost certain no one else gives a flying leap at a rolling donut.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">As I mentioned in an earlier <a href="https://comingintobalance.blogspot.com/2018/07/echoes-of-love-left-behind-through.html" target="_blank">post</a>, this unrelenting need to apologise for these transgressions haunts my dreams. While I find myself occasionally wending through my unwaking world to seek forgiveness from some of the minor players in my life, there is one refrain that dominates: seeking absolution from Ant. I beg for it in my dreams because I cannot grant it to myself in the light of day.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">My dreams are always intense. Wild and fantastical worlds, complete with colour, sound, and even smells light up my nights and sometimes leave me feeling exhausted when I awake. I don't know whether it's sad, ironic, or just an early red flag I missed that one of the first presents Ant gave me was a dream journal. I thought it was a wonderful present initially, but when he added that I no longer needed to regale him with my nightly adventures as I could enter them in it instead, I was deflated. He was the first and last person to whom I ever tried to fully describe the magical realms of my dream world. So, it is certainly with more than a hint of irony that I now chase him through the hallways of my mind, endlessly trying to explain my actions and beg to resume our friendship.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I want to explain why I couldn't stand having face-to-face conversations to talk about our relationship problems, especially not when he insisted I make so much eye contact. I want to explain why I was so "embarrassingly" over the top at parties and incapable of making respectable small talk. I want to explain why I would invariably blow up and become a raging mess after every social occasion, why I just wanted to stay in bed sometimes even when the sun was shining, why I wanted to be alone with him and not out interacting with others so much of the time it drove him crazy.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I wish I could tell him that I didn't know I was worthy of love and therefore I didn't think I really mattered to him at all. I wish I could tell him that his insistence we share a tightly coupled schedule that allowed me no breathing room when I was completely overwhelmed by people and responsibilities fuelled the deepest burning resentment I'd ever experienced. I wish I could tell him that my suicidal ideation and adulterous fantasies were born out of an overwhelming and very real need for solitude. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Through the lens of Autism, I can see all these stumbling blocks, inconsequential things to most people, but insurmountable obstacles to me. I am now able to look back and see how the mask I was forced to wear, a mask I'd only just started to don in the year before we met and welded into place with the guidance, tutelage and admonishments of those who "loved me most" during those years we were together, was slowly, silently strangling me. I had to get out to save my life.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I didn't leave because I stopped loving. I didn't leave because I wanted to be with someone else. I didn't leave because I needed something more convenient. I only left a little because I really wanted a cat… I left because I didn't know what I needed and even if I had, I sure as hell didn't know how to ask for it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">So, even though I've said I'm sorry before, and you've professed to forgive me even though it seemed disingenuous, here it is again, flung out into the ether because I don't want to disrupt your life again. As much as it would buoy my heart to count you among my friends in the world again, I sense that is not your wish at all. To you, the past is the past, what's done is done. I wish my brain could work that way too.</span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1444334405480906852.post-17650409343752908112019-05-24T14:54:00.001+08:002019-05-25T14:13:40.139+08:00Saying I'm Sorry: Part II (Der Komiker)<div style="text-align: justify;">
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The arc of some stories is much longer than others. <a href="https://comingintobalance.blogspot.com/2019/05/saying-im-sorry-part-i-master-t.html" target="_blank">Some people</a> burst into our world like Halley's Comet, lighting up our sky for a brief but eternally memorable moment once in a lifetime, whereas others pass slowly through the month of our existence like a waxing moon, their nearly imperceptible pull only making itself known just before it slips away forever. One such moon rose my first day of high school.<br />
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I don't remember precisely the first words der Komiker said to me, but I can almost guarantee they made me laugh. I do remember the layout of the room and the complete bafflement of most of the students when the Frau launched straight into our first German lesson with "ich heiße Frau Schneider, wie heißt du?", but didn't recognise at the time that my immediate comprehension of her words and pantomime said more about my linguistic skills than the inferred stupidity of my classmates. Much to my delight and our teacher's chagrin, der Komiker sat next to me in our science class and kept me laughing for the rest of the year.<br />
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If some kindly person had thought to hand my 14-year-old self a checklist of what to look for as the foundation of a healthy relationship, I might have realised as quickly as I'd understood the Frau that der Komiker was ideal boyfriend material. I always felt relaxed and happy around him, I found everything he did and said fascinating, but I only associated attraction and passion for someone with unrequited yearning, so I failed to recognise the gem I'd stumbled upon. It took me nearly three full years to realise the depths of my feelings for him.<br />
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Three years is a long time in the life of a teen. Three years is also a very long time to think someone is your best friend even though you rarely see them outside of school, except for the occasional encounter on your way to or from school, or a shared extracurricular activity. This, to my mind, is one of the greatest travesties of not having my social-emotional challenges recognised decades earlier: I have no idea what it means to actually make a friend.<br />
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To my way of thinking, a friend was anyone with whom I could share a pleasant and comfortable conversation, a few laughs, maybe an inside joke or two, on more than one occasion. A best friend was someone who kept coming back over the years and had a shared interest or two. Der Komiker was one of the few who ticked both boxes in those tumultuous high school years.<br />
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The summer before our Senior year, I took up a new martial art he'd been studying for many years and it struck me that I really wanted to extend the reach of our friendship. I still had no notion of spending much time with my peers outside of school or coordinated activities, as my time was highly over subscribed with work, study, practice, and extracurricular activities. I thought that sharing a locker would cement our friendship and perhaps facilitate its growth into something more.<br />
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The year started out normally enough, I was still dating an older guy from the other side of the state and hadn't fully hatched my long-term locker scheme. I also wasn't around school much anymore, as I was taking the bulk of my classes at the university. As someone for whom flying solo is the norm, it never dawned on me at the time that this might have been socially isolating for my friend to have a perpetually absentee locker mate. But I don't know what caused the schism.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuZGas8MF6xhu_MpzSJOwZd9Qea0yQ09qcRd98nNFmQUjV2uQyDPaTYBPABB7FRon3zMUjl4JT1n4ePZT5jbNkpMOwFvo0zlU0J9gBZ47RGoWMrqGH46LqNvoiN4m9AoFUMKqlmrjKWavh/s1600/schism.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="628" data-original-width="640" height="314" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuZGas8MF6xhu_MpzSJOwZd9Qea0yQ09qcRd98nNFmQUjV2uQyDPaTYBPABB7FRon3zMUjl4JT1n4ePZT5jbNkpMOwFvo0zlU0J9gBZ47RGoWMrqGH46LqNvoiN4m9AoFUMKqlmrjKWavh/s320/schism.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Schism by Panagiotis Kountouras</span></div>
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Shortly after I broke up with my boyfriend at Thanksgiving, der Komiker lit up on my radar like never before. Maybe I'd finally learned enough about crappy relationships to start cluing into better ones, or maybe he clocked me properly over the head during one of our sparring matches, or perhaps the wind just shifted the right way, but suddenly the moon was shining so brightly I could no longer ignore it. I'm sure my behaviour toward him changed because I wanted the nature of our relationship to change, but I had no idea how to go about it. What I was unaware of, was all the other friendships he'd fostered in lieu of a real one with me. The more I tried to draw him into a state of exclusivity with me, the more strongly I repelled him into their fold.<br />
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I don't know if there was one particularly egregious <i>faux pas</i> or just a whole series of muddled social niceties, misunderstandings, and over estimations of our loyalties to one another that tipped the balance, but he eventually cut me off completely. Not only did he stop using our shared locker altogether, but he ceased acknowledging my existence. Instead of a friendly 'hello', I was met only with contemptuous looks from his companions as I passed their tight little knot of friends. He was the last link I had to any kind of social life within my high school and he made it explicitly clear that I was not wanted. I cannot even begin to put words to the degree of pain caused by this ostracisation. When I think back on it, I experience a sense of disconnection with my body the likes of which I can only relate to hovering <a href="https://comingintobalance.blogspot.com/2019/02/battles-in-my-mind-part-iii-ptsd-pnd.html" target="_blank">near-death</a>. It is not pleasant.<br />
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We graduated and went our separate ways without saying goodbye or even the most cursory reparations. I was heart broken. I'd lost my best friend and I didn't think he even cared.<br />
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Then something truly horrendous happened. Death puts all things into stark perspective and the sudden and unexpected death of someone who dramatically changed so many young lives leaves people reeling and reconsidering all kinds of things. It was death that reconnected us, if only tangentially, just momentarily, only just enough to see a crack of light in the shroud of confusion over what happened between us. I have never wished so desperately to attend a memorial service and never regretted so deeply not insisting on doing so. But my mother went in place of her children who were both so moulded by the man a vast community gathered to grieve that day, and der Komiker sought her out, "<i>bounded, </i>not walked, across the gym to get to me!" to ask her how I was. She gave him my newly minted email address and he wrote to me.<br />
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I had to ask what happened. I had to tell him how much I missed him and how much it hurt that he rejected me. He was deeply sorry, but he wouldn't explain what happened. He brushed it off as a "stupid misunderstanding". If I knew then how horribly that incomplete explanation would haunt me for the rest of my days, I would have begged for more information because I am fundamentally unable to "just let it go."<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIjPar52yZkGYpJJ2-DP-LsyYONcEJbAMmVRl-vnr6XArl28r4-dvxPXe1lhfUlD5WDYriu905RB8QWmwcuOEnqMezA7IZ5dvFVKGZmd6rBHSzmIo6VpSEIqmhvt7vzc4lQcR2UW4V8Gx1/s1600/confusion.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="358" data-original-width="768" height="149" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIjPar52yZkGYpJJ2-DP-LsyYONcEJbAMmVRl-vnr6XArl28r4-dvxPXe1lhfUlD5WDYriu905RB8QWmwcuOEnqMezA7IZ5dvFVKGZmd6rBHSzmIo6VpSEIqmhvt7vzc4lQcR2UW4V8Gx1/s320/confusion.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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We had one brief encounter a little over a year later. I transferred to his university for a multitude of reasons and was walking across campus during a quiet period between terms. I can still hear the widely spaced slaps of his enormous feet <i>bounding</i> <i>not walking</i> up behind me in an attempted sneak attack and see him flying through the air as I spun around to catch him in the act. Once again, he'd made me laugh. We only talked briefly and I never saw him again.<br />
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On the surface, one could easily argue that nothing ever happened between us, that it was all in my head. Certainly I'd agree that the less platonic feelings were entirely one-sided and I have no problem owning that, but our friendship seemed so very real to me, there was an undeniable falling out, and he showed in the aftermath that he did value my friendship too. But I cannot make sense of what happened. There is such an agonising sense of loss that accompanies every thought of him, even if it is just for the friend I thought I had.<br />
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I cannot help but wonder if things would have been different if my neurological differences had been recognised, accepted, and supported back then. How I might have received more instruction on how to make friends and navigate relationships of all kinds. How I might have had the courage to say, "I do not understand why you're doing/saying that, can you please explain," instead of slinking back into my corner of self doubt and loathing assuming I was simply an unloveable soul. This is why I want things to be different for my daughter, I do not want her lost in this sea of confusion that continues to drown her for 20, 30, 40, ?? years. I want her to seek resolution and answers in the moment instead of letting them bang around in her head until she wants to tear them out by any means possible.<br />
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I think this is an important component of Autism awareness/acceptance and the mental health risks that accompany neurological differences. Seemingly small or innocuous things that other people can "just get over" can spiral the Autistic/ND brain into a whirlpool of anxiety and depression, suicidal ideation, or worse. It seems like such a small ask to support the ND community with guidance to gaining closure and NTs to recognising how desperately important it is for us to have this whenever possible. Sometimes the littlest things can make the biggest difference.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1444334405480906852.post-25766535723906849072019-05-24T11:57:00.002+08:002019-05-24T12:45:40.686+08:00Saying I'm Sorry: Part I (Master T)<div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXSeIFxcmRyNa5fdbiuL6g4vyU4HicYqz4MuKTzmSkPMij2tSVD4_EHqTu3bx7WoQ6GZ_R4fgozFhmPpozFXXhRJuGB8BnZqKQji6T7SWCJn2yUagquGQdOSw_CBi-00DMjbkwiFWNKRVr/s1600/overthinking_kiwitachan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="975" data-original-width="900" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXSeIFxcmRyNa5fdbiuL6g4vyU4HicYqz4MuKTzmSkPMij2tSVD4_EHqTu3bx7WoQ6GZ_R4fgozFhmPpozFXXhRJuGB8BnZqKQji6T7SWCJn2yUagquGQdOSw_CBi-00DMjbkwiFWNKRVr/s320/overthinking_kiwitachan.jpg" width="295" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Beautiful watercolour by kiwitachan</span></div>
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I've written <a href="https://comingintobalance.blogspot.com/2018/07/alexithymia-echolalia-proprioception.html" target="_blank">previously</a> about how my ASD diagnosis opened a whole new world of self understanding floating in the alphabet soup of personal experiences I never previously recognised as "things". In the year that has passed since the possibility I could be neurodivergent was first floated, I've had the eye-opening experience of connecting with Autistics and other ND folks from around the world. This has provided ample opportunity to discuss commonalities and differences in how we experience the world. While we are all individuals <span style="font-size: x-small;">(<i>"I'm not!"</i> one for the Life of Brian fans…)</span>, there are some shared experiences that resonate strongly with nearly all Autistics I've had the pleasure of interacting with. One of these is the overwhelming need for closure that tends to trigger endlessly looping thoughts, clinically described as perseveration.</div>
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I imagine that all people have niggling thoughts they simply cannot lay to rest from time to time, but many Autistics report having multitudes of thoughts that continue to echo through the vast hallways of their brains endlessly. It is not uncommon for such thoughts to rip us out of a dead sleep and keep us awake for days, interrupt normal daily activities, or sap the joy from our lives. It can be something as simple as a conversation 25 years ago that didn't go the way we expected, or an entire relationship left in shambles that we would give anything to at least understand, if not repair. In an earlier post, I touched on my own <a href="https://comingintobalance.blogspot.com/2018/07/echoes-of-love-left-behind-through.html" target="_blank">desperate desire to rectify past</a> bungled relationships and felt it was time to move on and let those go, but alas, my brain is like a rusted vice grip, so I will endeavour to write my side of the stories in an attempt to lay my ghosts to rest.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgQv3gnsQnHvPxWvA1uuPiOuTt2nzWvB1b9QT86JKY27C-IlXsO3nPlk97HjLc2IpyFz4I0JkA78dbCCl4QdN4qvotFaBfGTLl6rN6DVNPmkTbBbNu7cI2bLbhC-V9zan947xTVGoGwToI/s1600/Jewish_cemetery_Otwock_Karczew_Anielin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="137" data-original-width="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgQv3gnsQnHvPxWvA1uuPiOuTt2nzWvB1b9QT86JKY27C-IlXsO3nPlk97HjLc2IpyFz4I0JkA78dbCCl4QdN4qvotFaBfGTLl6rN6DVNPmkTbBbNu7cI2bLbhC-V9zan947xTVGoGwToI/s1600/Jewish_cemetery_Otwock_Karczew_Anielin.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Jewish Headstone by Nikodem Nijaki (wikimedia commons)</span></div>
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There is a picture of me horsing around with my first real boyfriend, snapped by my mom one happy afternoon, that clearly depicts my whole-hearted adoration of him. We're on the couch in my living room, playfully punching each other, I'm wearing a ridiculous hat, and we're both laughing through our pretend acts of aggression. I do not need to look at this photo to remember all the details because it is so clearly emblazoned on my brain as one of the few times in four years of high school I was truly happy.</div>
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Master T was a year younger than me and at least a foot taller. Even before he got sick, he was a dangerously skinny kid with the proudest Roman nose and a razor sharp sense of humour, which he could instantly turn against any unwitting adversary at the slightest provocation. To me he was a god.</div>
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We met through a high school theatre production, he working back stage while I lapped up the limelight. In the years to come, his prowess on the stage would far surpass mine, but that first season, he seemed content to control the curtains and make cutting remarks at the expense of all the actors. I wanted nothing more than for him to like me, but that desire just made me spout the most insipid utterances when I could think of anything to say at all. Somehow, more by sheer will than any degree of finesse, I got him alone and professed my overpowering attraction to him. This led to a delightful make-out session and us 'going out together', which mostly amounted to him occasionally coming to my house for more kissing.</div>
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He never invited me to his house and quickly thwarted any suggestion that we go there. He never included me in anything to do with his friends and would nearly always leave me hanging to meet up with them. I wanted him so badly, but as the weeks went on, he became increasingly distracted and intent on drinking with his friends any time alcohol presented itself. My mind raced through these discrete and incomplete pieces of evidence to conclude that 1) I really didn't mean much to him at all, and 2) he was developing a substance abuse problem at the ripe old age of 15. The first conclusion broke my heart, the second was simply terrifying. I'd grown up on a steady diet of stories about a family friend a few years my senior who was a brilliant and beautiful girl being dragged down by her dead-beat, drug addicted boyfriend. These stories fuelled my rapidly spiralling fears that this was the path I had unwittingly stumbled upon and if I didn't change course quickly, I would be "ruined" as she was (N.B. she ended up becoming a doctor).</div>
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I resolutely did not want to break up with Master T, the thought of it crushed me. I wanted to talk to him about his drinking, but I lacked the skills to broach such a delicate topic with anyone, especially someone who left me tongue tied and capable of slicing me to ribbons with an unparalleled caustic tongue. I was also of the mind that no one, especially not him, could actually care about me. I honestly believed it would not bother him one scrap if I simply vaporised and let him be. So, I just stopped talking to him and couldn't even bring myself to look at him in passing because it hurt so much. Twenty five years have passed, and the simple act of writing this brings tears to my eyes and an unbearable tightness in my chest. I can still see him coming toward me from the Senior wing as I approached it and just walking right past.</div>
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No one knew it at the time, but Master T was incredibly sick. He knew he was in excruciating pain, but he didn't tell anyone, choosing instead to self medicate with whatever alcohol his friends could get their hands on. My inability to deal with confusing and conflicting signals meant I walked away from someone who made my heart sing when he needed more support than ever. This thought still gnaws away at the corners of my brain far more often than I appreciate. Not long after I left him in a lurch, he was admitted to a distinguished hospital with the most advanced case of his disease they'd ever witnessed in someone his age. He required intensive treatment and was partly disabled from the extensive damage. While I know the disease and its effects are in no way my fault, I have never been able to forgive myself for walking away at that critical time in his life, for my inability to sit with someone else's pain rather than run away from the overwhelming effect it has on me.</div>
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A year later, another stage production underway, we were foisted together again. Tensions were high, but my feelings for Master T had only intensified. Now it was his turn to drive and as we sat in a darkened parking lot he wanted answers. Answers I didn't have. Answers for something it would take me decades to completely decipher. I was nearly 30 before I discovered my inability to perceive love and affection from others and on the brink of 40 before I understood the interplay between my neurology and environment that generated that devastating flaw.</div>
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We got back together during the production run and I was over the moon at this second chance. I wanted to do it better. I wanted so badly to right the wrongs, but he was only in it for retribution. With cold calculation, he threw back the dish I'd unintentionally served and had his revenge. I can still feel my breath wrenched from my body as he delivered the blow, he didn't want to see me anymore. I can see the grass around me wavering as I made my way unsteadily back across the open field where the new high school now stands. The ache was so palpable and pervasive; it would have hurt less if he'd physically beat me.</div>
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The only benefit to holding on so clearly to these painful details is using them as raw materials to weave into something new and beautiful. I'm nearly finished writing a novel in which my main character shares many of my challenges, but is more self aware and better supported. Still, she is not immune to the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune and the scene in which her boyfriend breaks up with her is based directly on this moment of acute agony in my own anthology of pain.</div>
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I thought that writing a friendly post-script to our story could stop the perseverating on my grievous error, but I was wrong. While it did bring me great joy to reconnect with Master T online in recent years, and even more so to talk in person, it did not resolve the final chord still hanging in my mind. Our interactions and conversation steered clear of the past, navigating only the safe waters of the present. I thought this would be enough, to feel absolved in a smile and a snarky joke, but without the chance to ever say "I'm sorry I hurt you, and I forgive you for hurting me" the thoughts play on endless repeat, wearing holes in the carpet of my mind.</div>
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It's a complicated thing, the past. It's made even more complicated by the way my brain holds so fiercely to things others can lay to rest. I assume Master T never looses a wink of sleep over this briefest moment of our shared ancient history, but for me it's an interminable wobbly tooth that I cannot excise.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1444334405480906852.post-62723447887829243642019-03-04T10:16:00.000+08:002019-03-04T10:16:08.758+08:00Writing life<div style="text-align: justify;">
I have wanted to write a book for about as long as I can remember. My childhood and adolescent notebooks are filled with story ideas and false starts, but nothing was ever even close to "finished". In more recent years, this urge has only increased as I find inspiration and encouragement everywhere I turn. Several friends and acquaintances have really pushed me to write a book over the last few years, with one declaring, "I believe you have several books in you."</div>
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The ebb of paid work and escape from the endless demands of babies as my children mature allows more time to write. I've also retrained my brain to use the many mindless hours of housework and lying down with restless/anxious children at night to exercise my brain in new ways, either listening to inspirational and thought-provoking podcasts or exploring story lines in my mind. This means that when I finally have a chance to sit down at my computer (which may only happen a few times a month), words and ideas flow freely into a graceful confluence of story telling.</div>
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Returning to this blog to tell hard truths has freed my mind of much of the mental clutter that was also hindering me. Writing away past pain has healed some wounds that were weighing me down and blocking creativity. Even the act of physically decluttering my office by culling old papers has lightened my load and released a surge of creative energy. It feels nothing short of miraculous.</div>
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After submitting the first in a series of children's books to my target publisher last month, I felt an inordinate spike in apprehension about my ability to weather the challenges of the publishing world. My initial reaction was to feel that my worth as a writer would hang completely on their fickle decision. Amazingly, I've managed to push through that initial self doubt and imposter syndrome and accept that their decision does not have to decide my fate. I can write, I will write, and I will eventually get published. Finding this faith in myself and my ability freed me to move onto a project I never before had the audacity to even contemplate: a novel.</div>
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When the ideas that worked their way into the novel format germinated, it was simply my mind's way of dealing with an impossible problem. I met someone who I recognised as the boy my 15-year-old self needed to befriend. I felt I had to tread very carefully around this conundrum, because it was clear to me it was most certainly <i>not</i> that my 40-year-old self was infatuated with this 17-year-old boy, but rather that the very lonely and unresolved 16-year-old me recognised what I missed. My mind had to do something with this information, which it began to weave into the coming of age story of a young Aspergirl meeting her first love.</div>
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After about a month of fermenting in my skull, the impulse to start writing was so overwhelming I finally just pushed every non-critical thing aside and sat down at the keyboard. My fingers took on a life of their own and I smashed out over 6,000 carefully crafted, researched and edited words in a day. My writing process is incredibly slow even when the ideas are flowing because I am a consummate perfectionist. I want every nuance and subtle detail to coincide perfectly in the language I select. I sometimes agonise over a particular word for ages and may try out several before moving on, only to return on an editing/revising pass to change how I say something altogether. </div>
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I cannot wait any longer to return to my heroine, so away we go!</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1444334405480906852.post-75821950856804583292019-02-18T11:35:00.001+08:002019-02-18T12:01:04.012+08:00Battles In My Mind (Part III): PTSD, PND, ASD, GAD Alphabet Soup and Black Dog Dancing<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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<span style="text-align: left;">In </span><a href="https://comingintobalance.blogspot.com/2018/11/battles-in-my-mind-part-ii-depression.html" style="text-align: left;" target="_blank">Part II</a><span style="text-align: left;"> of this series, I started my battle story in the middle with the arrival of my second child. As brutal, protracted, and dehumanising as that series of events was, it paled in comparison with the acute trauma of my first birth. When we think about having a baby, it's all teddy bears and nappies, smiling exhausted parents, bottles and boobies, not near-death experiences. I'd heard of PTSD prior to my first pregnancy, but it was something I mistakenly only associated with soldiers returning from the battle fields or perhaps police officers or firefighters, never ever "the happiest day of your life".</span></div>
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<span style="text-align: left;">I was physically and mentally prepared to give birth. I knew instinctively what my body needed to do, I was not afraid of the pain; my highly experienced midwife had more faith in my ability to birth my baby than any of her previous clients. But things didn't exactly go to plan. We'll never know exactly why my body didn't quite do what it was supposed to, but it's quite likely that a <a href="https://comingintobalance.blogspot.com/2010/12/in-beginning.html" target="_blank">bike accident </a>a decade earlier disrupted the communication along my spine just enough that part of my cervix simply didn't get the message to let go and my big-brained baby got stuck.</span></div>
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<span style="text-align: left;">I had zero desire to go to hospital, ever. I have a massive phobia of them. The noise, the lights, the intrusive people, the lack of privacy, the GERMS; it's a fucking nightmare. My homebirth was going beautifully until I exhaustedly agreed to have my waters broken after eight hours of full labour. </span></div>
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<span style="text-align: left;">There's meconium. </span><span style="text-align: left;">I no longer have any option but to go to hospital. More than six years later, I still feel the edges of the floorboards </span>that I clung to, pleading not to be taken into the waiting ambulance, <span style="text-align: left;">under my fingernails and bare body. I summon every ounce of resolve in my bull-headed self to keep my contractions going during the 25-minute ambulance ride to avoid an emergency Cesarian upon arrival in hell.</span></div>
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<span style="text-align: left;">Four hours of battle later, with the aid of untold scores of midwives fighting along side me, I let out a tremendous roar (after being nearly silent for the preceding 12 hours) as the doctor unsheathes the scalpel and eject my daughter into the world unaided. The midwives are shocked to see a baby fly out that fast. It is over. She is placed on my belly and crawls to my breast. We lie there united at last. But the nightmare is just about to start…</span></div>
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<span style="text-align: left;">After a few lovely moments, a couple of photos, a general reprieve, she is taken from me to be weighed and measured. I am stitched and stitched and stitched as well as the surgeon can muster before he mutters something about the rest he can't get to that will have to heal on its own… The happy congratulatory voices become hushed. Doctors sound concerned and new messages start zipping around the room. Something about her respiration, I can't understand, I'm cold, I know she is cold. "She'll be OK, we just need to monitor her resps… Do you want to get up and take a shower?" "Yeah, OK, that would be great…"</span></div>
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<span style="text-align: left;">I get up, the room swims, there's a lot more blood under me than anyone anticipated. I reach out for the bed, a midwife catches me before I crash to the floor. Someone presses an alarm. The room seethes with strange faces. No one can find a pulse, a vein to pump fluids into, I'm poked full of holes in a futile exercise to find one that is not collapsed, "20 over 80" someone proclaims. My daughter is also slipping, she is plopped into an oxygen cot and my husband rushes manically back and forth between us but I tell him to stay with her because the terror in his eyes scares me too much. He goes to NICU and a steadfast midwife stares deeply into my pupils willing me to stay with her as I start to slip down a very easy slope. I am so incredibly cold. Nothing warms me. I am left completely alone.</span></div>
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<span style="text-align: left;">I am supposed to be elated, but I am empty. My most precious little person is no longer inside of me and I can't even touch her anymore. I spend an hour listening to other women scream their heads off having short and highly medicated labours whilst I'm trapped alone not knowing where anyone is or how my baby is doing. I can't sleep.</span></div>
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When I can finally go to her, I can only just put my hand on her tiny relaxed body for a few moments. It's absolutely heartbreaking. I've been waiting to hold her in my arms and nuzzle that little neck for nine months and now I'm not even sure she knows I'm here. She has no needs now as the tubes have replaced me. I'm told to go get some sleep. But sleep doesn't come. I feel like I'm going crazy. After a few days they hesitantly discharge us because the doctor can see I'm too anxious in this place, but the midwife comes every day to check both of us. Less than 24 hours later we're re-admitted to emergency because my little one is fighting a lung infection. All focus is on her and no one worries about me.</div>
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Another week in hospital. I rage and scream when my roommate's visitors think it's cool to have a smoke prior to entering the maternity ward where I stew with my IV-antibiotic-fed newborn fighting for her life. I've earned massive cred with the midwives on this ward for what I fought through, so they quickly pull strings to get me a private room. I'm in pain, but trying to maintain a brave face. I'm still not sleeping, but neither is my baby, so it appears normal.</div>
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But the sleepless weeks turn into months. Even when someone else looks after her and tells me to sleep, I can't. I'm 100% on edge all the time. I cry nearly as much as she does. We travel a lot because it's so much easier to just keep moving.</div>
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One night, several months later, when she has finally started sleeping for at least a few hours at a time, my husband and I decide to watch a movie. It's a light-hearted comedy about four couples having babies. It's silly and ridiculous and we laugh a lot. Until suddenly, it's not. One of the mothers has a problem in labour and the doctors hit the Code Blue alarm. The same one I had. My smile instantly dissolves, my head spins, and I feel like I'm going to vomit. I try to get out of the room but collapse on the floor and feel like I'm dying. My whole body seizes up. I have no idea what's happening. I'm terrified. I'm heaving and sobbing. I can't make it stop. My husband holds me, lets me cry, is completely baffled with me; I have to get up to feed the baby.</div>
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Shortly thereafter I read an article in a breastfeeding magazine about the 1% of births that lead to PTSD. The description and explanation make everything click. I start to get some help and counselling. The regular counsellor is at a loss of what to do to help me so she sends me to someone who teaches me a <a href="https://www.webmd.com/mental-health/emdr-what-is-it#1" target="_blank">tapping and eye tracking</a> technique to use whenever I have a trigger. It works a treat, but doesn't stop the insomnia. I'm also severely depressed, but ardently refuse to fill the prescription for SSRIs the doctor implores me to take.</div>
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Looking back on my life, I know I've suffered multiple severe depressive episodes. I have contemplated suicide more times than I like to admit. Now, understanding myself through the lens of Autism, I see the patterns of sensory overload, people overload, new environments/experiences, anxiety, and insufficient time for my special interests that built up to each. Had I known then what I know now, I would have advocated for my own needs, <a href="http://jenrose.com/fork-theory/" target="_blank">removed the forks and conserved the spoons</a>. I wouldn't have felt so ridiculous about my need for quieter spaces, fewer smells, a particular piece of fabric to rub.</div>
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Arriving on the scene wholly unprepared for parenthood unravels a lot of people. <a href="https://www.spectrumwomen.com/parenting/autistic-women-pregnancy-and-motherhood-lana-grant/" target="_blank">It is a triggering event for many ND women</a> that suddenly sets them on a path toward self-awareness and/or diagnosis. But I crash landed into it with the triple threat of zero experience around children under 10, undiagnosed ASD, and PTSD. It has taken a long time, but I'm learning to forgive myself for being so completely fucked up those first two years of my daughter's life.</div>
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Learning to see depression and anxiety through a kinder, softer lens finds its corollary in the <a href="https://medium.com/vantage/photographer-s-black-dog-project-sheds-light-on-black-dog-syndrome-6e4e687e141" target="_blank">Black Dog Project</a>. I came across this beautiful endeavour to break the stigma around adopting black dogs, who are perceived as more aggressive, as I was searching for images for this post. I love what they're doing and it reminds me to be kinder and more compassionate to myself when I'm fighting poor mental health.</div>
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Depression in all its forms is crushing. There is so much stigma, so many misconceptions, so little compassion that it takes a lot to even write anonymously about it. My mother once told my older brother I was being treated for depression, to which he scoffed, "what does she have to be unhappy about?" Depression is NOT about just being unhappy or dissatisfied (although those are some of the symptoms). For me, it comes from being out of my depth, pushing myself too hard, insomnia, isolation, sensory/people overwhelm, and the anxiety that ensues. I genuinely NEED time to self regulate, let my mind wander, control my environment, move, move, and move. When these needs are not met for whatever unfortunate combination of reasons, my mind goes into hyperdrive, it WILL NOT STOP. Yes, there are drugs that help, but they have unpleasant side effects and we still don't have any controlled long-term human studies to know if they're safe for continued use. I prefer to at least attempt to manage this brutal condition via non-chemical means because I do not want to be a living lab experiment.</div>
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There are so many people out there suffering in silence about their depression and anxiety. You can show you support them by brandishing a Black Dog logo or posting a sign in your office/shop/classroom. <a href="https://www.dancingwiththeblackdog.com/its-okay-to-say/" target="_blank">Dancing With the Black Dog</a> is a registered charity.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1444334405480906852.post-1970407256699343392019-01-02T19:47:00.000+08:002019-01-02T19:47:24.051+08:00Burn One DownAah, so this isn't how the match was struck, but it is where and when it was so carelessly tossed into the pregnant, crackling, dry grass, starting the conflagration that nearly engulfed us all. A perfect storm of scarce commodities: time, space, unlimited free WiFi, and liberation from the constant refrain of "mom, mom! MOM!!!!" A space in which creative juices flow freely, dancing to the beat of my tribe, a mentor not a mother, a colleague and a lover; shackled only to the tapping of my keys.<br />
<br />
To be myself and nothing less, unadulterated, uncensored, unmasked, that is true freedom. And in that freedom I let go of everything, including the things that really matter, because sometimes holding on to them is just SO FUCKING HARD. Sometimes, in that incredible lightness of being that comes with touching souls that recognise yours, you spring a leak and begin to pour out into any available vessel that offers that same level of acceptance and admiration, because it simply feels good. Feeling good is great, but sometimes it comes at a very high price. My addiction was words, not heroin, but I don't know which is worse.<br />
<br />
Sometimes we cling so tenaciously to the good feels that they start to eat us from the inside out and corrode the more important things that don't always produce such euphoria. And then we return to reality on a long sliding, painful, bumpity-bump that is worse than the nastiest hangover and have to shake ourselves back into reality.<br />
<br />
That's just life. Sometimes you can swing so high it feels like you're flying, but eventually you either have to slow down or jump, and you never can know whether or not you'll stick that landing just right…<br />
<br />
How's that for drunk text? Happy fucking new year to all my beautiful readers. I hope 2019 doesn't school us all with quite so many hard knocks. Peace and love.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1444334405480906852.post-22393078219275588652018-12-26T09:53:00.001+08:002019-06-27T17:14:21.117+08:00Bathing in TolstoyI love to read. In particular, I love to read fiction. Good fiction.<br />
<br />
Good fiction has the power to transport us into worlds we can never know, minds we cannot see, portions of the time-space continuum otherwise inaccessible. Really good fiction goes beyond this. For me, excellence in fiction is a matter of enveloping the reader in a full emotional experience wherein the lines between paper and person blur.<br />
<br />
Many books have done this for me. They stand out in my mind not just for their superlative prose, whimsical characters, and masterfully woven storylines, but because for the hours spent with those books in my hands (and often many hours between reading sessions), I WAS Meg Murry, or Turtle Wexler, or Ellie Arroway. Walking across my sleepy summer hometown after reading The Stand in one marathon sitting, I was genuinely shocked to find others who had survived. The Road left me similarly mystified. I rocked and smelled sea salt in my landlocked home whilst swimming through The Waves. I kept a mother's vigil along Paula's bedside.<br />
<br />
Sometimes it seems these books find me, rather than the other way around. When I was a less encumbered person, I would frequently wander through the stacks of a library or the crowded aisles of a bookstore and just wait for my next friend (or six) to beckon to me. Sometimes one of these friends whispers softly to me, "take me home now, but save me, we're not ready to dance just yet…" Anna Karenina was one such friend.<br />
<br />
Ten years ago, I felt I'd received a golden ticket: a dream job, a marvellous fiancé, a new house, and all moving expenses paid to a beautiful city on the other side of the world. Years of tumult and cacophony finally resolved into one harmonious tonic. There were many arrangements to make in a short time, but one item on my to-do list that I eagerly completed was using up my credit at the local bookstore and filling my shipping container with as many books as practicable as my drug of choice was painfully expensive on those golden shores.<br />
<br />
I bought a full box of books that day. Some titles were long-standing must reads, some simply looked too inviting not to adopt, others stood on the shelf with a hooker's attitude slurring, "you know you're going to need me some day." Anna Karenina made it clear I needed her, not the other way around.<br />
<br />
I knew nothing of the story nor of Tolstoy that day. I hadn't seen the movie (I will not watch films based on novels I think I may want to read until after reading the book) and had never really understood the many references made to it. But it was a literary masterpiece I simply had to have.<br />
<br />
For ten years Anna sat on my bookshelf. Sometimes her presence was a comfort, knowing we would spend time together some day. Other times she mocked me; taunting me for not dedicating enough time to reading and for neglecting her for so long. But finally, the time arrived. The imperative I needed arrived exactly when I needed it: a member of the local bibliophile group put out a call to start a reading group to discuss Russian classics. I bit. I found myself immersed in the most important story I could possibly read this year.<br />
<br />
Tolstoy's microscopic analysis of his character's inner workings is a super-human feat. Who knows whether or not he was an Aspie (although his semi-autobiographical character Levin certainly seems to silently scream for this diagnosis), but I cannot imagine anyone studying human thoughts, feelings, motivations, and actions in such excruciatingly exacting detail unless they found them perplexing. The meticulous analysis of his characters, their grapplings with inner conflicts, and their unique ways of selecting paths through societal/emotional minefields is both exquisite and enlightening. It allows the reader to thoroughly experience the agony of making a difficult choice, without needing to suffer the real-life consequences of that decision.<br />
<br />
I find Vronsky the most fascinating character. His actions are appalling on so many levels, and yet Tolstoy explains his logic so seamlessly there is no room for question.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">"Every man, knowing to the smallest detail all the complexity of the conditions surrounding him, involuntarily assumes that the complexity of these conditions and the difficulty of comprehending them are only his personal, accidental peculiarity, and never thinks that others are surrounded by the same complexity as he is. So it seemed to Vronsky. And he thought, not without inner pride and not groundlessly, that anyone else would long ago have become entangled and been forced to act badly if he had found himself in such difficult circumstances. Yet he felt that to avoid getting entangled he had to do the accounts and clear up his situation there and then."</span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">"Vronsky's life was especially fortunate in that he had a code of rules which unquestionably defined everything that ought and ought not to be done. The code embraced a very small circle of conditions, but the rules were unquestionable and, never going outside that circle, Vronsky never hesitated a moment in doing what ought be done. These rules determined unquestionably that a card-sharper must be paid but a tailor need not be, that one should not lie to men but may lie to women, that it is wrong to deceive anyone but one may deceive a husband, that it is wrong to pardon insults but one may give insults, and so on. These rules might not all be very reasonable or very nice, but they were unquestionable, and in fulfilling them Vronsky felt at ease and could hold his head high. Only most recently, in regard to his relations with Anna, had he begun to feel that his code of rules did not fully define all circumstances, and to envisage future difficulties and doubts in which he could no longer find a guiding thread.</span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">His present relations with Anna and her husband were simple and clear. They were clearly and precisely defined in the code of rules by which he was guided.</span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">She was a respectable woman who had given him her love, and he loved her; therefore she was a woman worthy of equal and even greater respect than a lawful wife. He would have let his hand be cut off sooner than allow himself a word or a hint that might insult her or fail to show her that respect which a woman may simply count on.</span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">His relations with society were also clear. Everyone might know or suspect it, but no one should dare to talk. Otherwise he was prepared to silence the talkers and make them respect the non-existent honour of the woman he loved.</span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">His relations with the husband were clearest of all. From the moment of Anna's love for him, he had considered his own right to her unassailable. The husband was merely a superfluous and interfering person. No doubt his position was pathetic, but what could be done? One thing the husband had the right to do was ask for satisfaction, weapon in hand, and for that Vronsky had been prepared from the first moment.</span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">But recently there had appeared new, inner relations between himself and her that frightened Vronsky with their indefiniteness. Just yesterday she had announced to him that she was pregnant. And he felt that this news and what she expected of him called for something not wholly defined by the code of rules that guided him in his life. He had indeed been caught unawares, and in the first moment, when she had announced her condition to him, his heart had prompted him to demand that she leave her husband. He had said it, but now, thinking it over, he saw clearly that it would be better to do without that; and yet, in saying so to himself, he was afraid – might it not be a bad thing?"</span></blockquote>
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Then, of course, there is Anna herself. Tolstoy's letters indicate that he was originally wholly unsympathetic to Anna and found her actions and decisions utterly reprehensible. He wished to cast her in a most pejorative light and reserve all consideration for her wronged husband. But as he painstakingly wrote, re-wrote, and revised his novel, he developed much deeper understandings of these two characters and their internal drivers. Anna's husband becomes the self-absorbed, pious, unflinchingly ambitious master who cares nothing of feelings and everything of propriety, whereas she morphs into a most tortured and pitiable soul, caught between her two greatest loves, her ultimate responsibility, and an unmovable husband.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">"Though Anna had stubbornly and bitterly persisted in contradicting Vronsky when he told her that her situation was impossible and tried to persuade her to reveal everything to her husband, in the depths of her soul she considered her situation false, dishonest, and wished with all her soul to change it. Coming home from the races with her husband, in a moment of agitation she had told him everything; despite the pain she had felt in doing so, she was glad of it. After her husband left, she told herself that she was glad, that now everything would be definite and a least there would be no falsehood and deceit. It seemed unquestionable to her that now her situation would be defined forever. It might be bad this new situation, but it would be definite, there would be no vagueness or falsehood in it. The pain she had caused herself and her husband by uttering those words would be recompensed by the fact that everything would be defined, she thought. That same evening she saw Vronsky but did not tell him about what had happened between her and her husband, though to clarify the situation she ought to have told him.</span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">When she woke up the next morning, the first thing that came to her was the words she had spoken to her husband, and they seemed so terrible to her now that she could not understand how she could have resolved to utter those strange, coarse words, and could not imagine what would come of it. But the words had been spoken, and Alexi Alexandrovich had left without saying anything. 'I saw Vronsky and didn't tell him. Even at the very moment he was leaving, I wanted to call him back and tell him, but I changed my mind, because it was strange that I hadn't told him at the very first moment. Why didn't I tell him, if I wanted to?' And in answer to this question, a flush of shame poured over her face. She understood what had kept her from doing it; she understood that she was ashamed. Her situation, which had seemed so clarified last night, now suddenly appeared to her not only not clarified, but hopeless. She became terrified of the disgrace which she had not even thought of before. When she merely thought of what her husband was going to do, the most terrible notions came to her. It occurred to her that the accountant would now come to turn her out of the house, that her disgrace would be announced to the whole world. She asked herself where she would go when she was turned out of the house, and could find no answer.</span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">When she thought of Vronsky, she imagined that he did not love her, that he was already beginning to be burdened by her, that she could not offer herself to him, and she felt hostile to him because of it. It seemed to her that the words she had spoken to her husband, and which she kept repeating in her imagination, had been spoken to everyone and that everyone had heard them. She could not bring herself to call her maid and still less to go downstairs to see her son and the governess. …</span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Annushka left, but Anna did not begin to dress; she went on sitting in the same position, her head and arms hanging down, and every once in a while her whole body shuddered, as if wishing to make some gesture, to say something, and then became still again. She kept repeating: 'My God! My God!' But neither the 'my' nor the 'God' had any meaning for her. Though she had never doubted the religion in which she had been brought up, the thought of seeking help from religion in her situation was as foreign to her as seeking help from Alexei Alexandrovich. She knew beforehand that the help of religion was possible only on condition of renouncing all that made up the whole meaning of life for her. Not only was it painful for her, but she was beginning to feel fear before the new, never experienced state of her soul. She felt that everything was beginning to go double in her soul, as an object sometimes goes double in tired eyes. Sometimes she did not know what she feared, what she desired: whether she feared or desired what had been or what would be, and precisely what she desired, she did not know. …</span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">The reminder of her son suddenly brought Anna out of that state of hopelessness which she had been in. She remembered the partly sincere, though much exaggerated, role of the mother who lives for her son, which she had taken upon herself in recent years, and felt with joy that, in the circumstances she was in, she had her domain, independent of her relations with her husband and Vronsky. That domain was her son. Whatever position she was in, she could not abandon her son. Let her husband disgrace her and turn her out, let Vronsky grow cool towards her and continue to lead his independent life (again she thought of him with bitterness and reproach), she could not desert her son. She had a goal in life. And she had to act, to act in order to safeguard that position with her son, so that he would not be taken from her. She even had to act soon, as soon as possible, while he had not yet been taken from her. She had to take her son and leave. Here was the one thing she now had to do. She needed to be calm and to get out of this painful situation. The thought of a matter directly connected with her son, of leaving with him at once for somewhere, gave her that calm."</span></blockquote>
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Yet Alexei does not allow Anna to simply walk away. She faces her Gordian knot: Alexei will not grant her a divorce nor simply let her take their son, she must stay, repent for her actions, and "eradicate the cause of their discord" else all she knows and loves is lost. He values the status quo above all else and she is powerless to fight against it lest her son become collateral damage.<br />
<br />
I am only half way through the book, but I know enough spoilers to be aware that Anna does not come to a happy ending. Her grappling provides so much perspective and insight. The story is as timeless as the setting is dated. It serves as an excellent reminder that those who do not learn from history, even fictional personal histories, are destined to repeat it.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1444334405480906852.post-34034970937132773952018-12-21T09:08:00.000+08:002018-12-21T09:08:08.668+08:00Recipe for writing…1 cup inspiration<br />
300 g mental energy<br />
500 g emotional energy<br />
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Stir all ingredients together in a very large quiet vessel (e.g. empty house, library, secluded café) and let ferment for several hours, days or weeks until mixture reaches the desired consistency.<br />
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Note: this is not a process that can be rushed or the results will be unsatisfactory. Solitude is an absolute necessity for the fermentation process to proceed, as any disturbance will disrupt the process, requiring the batch to be discarded and the process to start anew.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1444334405480906852.post-31690227783232687752018-11-29T20:20:00.002+08:002018-11-29T20:22:44.612+08:00Up and Down the Rollercoaster We RideIt's been a very big week. Hand wringing awaiting the 'final verdict' of one person on the functioning of my mind, followed by a very big sigh of relief, which segued into a great feeling of peace. At least one fully qualified professional has given me the official stamp of Autism Level 1 or Asperger's (depending on where you are on this silly planet). Some people might find this conclusion rather unsettling, but for me, it was like watching a 1,000-piece jigsaw puzzle tossed up into the air land miraculously in place. For the first time in my life, I feel understandable.<br />
<br />
This meant I was feeling pretty chuffed as I stood on the train platform awaiting my preferred ride to meet my favourite colleagues for coffee in the city. That was until I looked at my phone and dropped to my knees wailing with grief and guilt. The text message from my dad informed me that my grandma died in the night. Completely unexpectedly and without warning the most pragmatic, stalwart, patient, and witty person I've ever had the wondrous fortune to know slipped from this realm into the unknown.<br />
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Ninety-five years and three days. Five children, 12 grand-children, 14+ great-grand-children, and a handful of great-great-grandchildren. Infinite love dispersed across the planet. Those are just a few of the metrics of her life. The only love I've ever had that paralleled that for my children was for her. She never once spoiled me, but she gave the best damn hugs and knew how to really listen.<br />
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My grief consumed me but amazing friends from around the globe wrapped me in their virtual arms and shared wisdom and condolences. One gifted me this most stunningly beautiful piece of writing that perfectly encapsulates my own thoughts on death:<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: , , "blinkmacsystemfont" , ".sfnstext-regular" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">“In the fabric of space time we all dance upon the rhythm of existence. We all laugh and love and cry and sing silly songs. If we are lucky we find some kindred souls to act a wee bit crazy with. She left her mark of wisdom upon your very heart. So her journey here has counted. Honor her existence by screaming how much she meant to you into the abyss of entropy. True Love is never lost to time. It only changes form. Render your love for her into new loving acts. Love must be given away to be renewed. And in those giving acts of yours, her passing will be counted in the sedimentary layers of collective wisdom. Footsteps in the eternal muddy depths of time. Layered sequences of emotion, eternally deformed by the very weight of your perception. Just as the very act of perception can alter the manifestation of a single photon, so your perception of her, alters the course of eternity. She counted, and was counted in the complex equations in the calculus of your being. She has passed from light as photons into light as pure wave form described as sine waves of improbability passing through the refraction grating of your memories. Cast her interference into your future projections of self. Honor her well dear friend.”</span></blockquote>
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So, I continue to offer up my writing as a form of love for those to whom I can give nothing else. May you all find some solace here as I spread my wings and fly homeward to take her to her final resting place.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1444334405480906852.post-19306988349496756682018-11-26T11:24:00.001+08:002018-11-26T11:39:24.514+08:00Battles in My Mind (Part II): Depression, Anxiety, PND, and All That Jazz…I've talked a lot about my mental health struggles with pretty well anyone who could be bothered to listen, but I've never really written about them in any purposeful, meaningful, or public way. I've often turned to my journal in times of extreme distress, trying to scratch the madness out of my mind onto paper, usually to no avail. What I ended up with was a long and painful record of my lowest, most vulnerable moments. Eventually I stopped because I was afraid if anyone ever came across them and read the whole tome I would be bundled off to an asylum and never heard from again.<br />
<br />
I originally started this <a href="https://comingintobalance.blogspot.com/2010/12/square-peg-round-hole.html" target="_blank">blog</a> (oh, so many lifetimes ago) in an attempt to turn my writing into a positive way forward from those incredibly dark places. In so doing, I <a href="https://comingintobalance.blogspot.com/2010/12/in-beginning.html" target="_blank">glossed over the agonising struggles</a> leading me to that point and completely abandoned the blog altogether during the years in which it could have soothed traumatic wounds and drained the poison from within me. I realised recently, upon receiving the highest compliment that my writing had helped someone else in their moment of need, that I actually have a lot of value to offer those in the trenches with the Black Dog.<br />
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I have gained incredible perspective on my mental health challenges in the past year, moving from a head space wherein the only thing keeping me from stepping in front of a bus was my children's dependence on me, to a place where I'm allowing myself to dream and create and open up to curiosity and possibility. I've taken active steps to put self care at the top of my priority list, let go of toxic things holding me back, ask for help, say 'no' to that which I don't really need, and conserve my spoons as much as possible. <a href="https://comingintobalance.blogspot.com/2018/07/quietly-as-i-takethemaskoff.html" target="_blank">Discovering my Autistic</a> identity has played a central role in this metamorphosis.<br />
<br />
I have an impulsive urge to start all stories at the beginning, but I think this one is better told asynchronously. Let's begin at the bottom…<br />
<br />
I'm in a mental ward with my five-month old baby. She's my second child, so the guilt of leaving my 3.5-year old behind weighs mightily but Anxiety is crushing every fibre of my being. I'm afraid of harming myself or my children, so I've come here of my own volition. I knew I was at high risk for developing PND again, so I sought help and built up my safety nets before my little one arrived, but it wasn't enough to fight the tide. Sleepless months, a colicky/tongue-tied/perpetual motion baby, an uncomfortable visit, election of the orange idiot, and an unrelenting fear that my new job would bring an early end to breastfeeding piled upon me and has now dropped me to my knees. The psychiatrist is pushing hard for SSRIs. I'm pushing back with the futility of kelp against the tide and crying desperately on the phone with the kind man with the answers before swallowing my first pill. I can't get my baby to sleep so the nurses push me out into the long, narrow hallway and tell me they'll watch her while she screams. I scream too. I'm incoherent, spitting mad, seeing red, screeching down the hallway past the doors of all the other sleeping babies and mothers that this isn't why I came here, I'm not here for them to "train" my baby to sleep, but they won't listen so I try to punch my hand through a solid brick wall.<br />
<br />
The SSRIs kick in and make me think every previous anxiety attack was a gentle joke. I cannot pull myself out of the foetal position except to meet my baby's most intense needs. The walls are closing in on me; the air is crushing the life out of me; I cannot breathe. I want to die more than anything. If the kind man on the phone hadn't prepared me for this and the place wasn't designed to eliminate any possibility for self harm, I wouldn't make it through the night. But just to add insult to injury, I contract gastro while this is going on and have to be quarantined. I'm given two choices: send my exclusively breastfed baby home for my husband to sort out along with our other child and give up any hope of continuing to breastfeed her while I am transferred to the regular hospital unit, or go home. I hate this place so much, but the regular hospital ward is my worst nightmare. I call my husband and implore him to pick me up as soon as possible. My dearest friend drives an hour to watch our daughter while he comes to collect me and our baby. Due to my rapid and unexpected discharge, I have no further access to the prescribing psychiatrist and have to manage my meds on my own.<br />
<br />
The following months blur, but I'm managing better. Meanwhile, my husband pulls away and we inhabit two separate worlds: Mine wholly centred around the joyfully beguiling little soul rapidly fermenting in our baby; His revolving around an overwhelming workload and our older daughter. My headspace improves with the medication and job satisfaction, while he recedes deeper into his own pit of depression, resentment, and rejection. Our family effectively splits in two.<br />
<br />
I begin to find joy again through my work and friends, go off the meds, but by our little one's first birthday my marriage is toxic house of cards and salted wounds. We're so busy and exhausted all the time we have little energy to even fight, but when we do it frightens our daughter. Her behaviour, which has always challenged us, becomes increasingly difficult and we can't agree on how to deal with it. We escape into our own fantasy worlds and cannot meet in the real world at all. Threats of divorce are thrown around with increasing frequency. Then in waltzes a soothsayer.<br />
<br />
It starts innocently enough, as most things do, with a flippant remark online to an old acquaintance about the definition of a "happy marriage". I suddenly find the trust, humour, shared interests, and common ground so completely lacking at home streaming through my screen. As my partner becomes ever more dismissive and uninterested, my new "friend" is quick to fill the gaps. To my mind, the case is closed by my husband's demand for a divorce on our dinner date. I stalk off without him and then we scream at each other from across the street. It's ugly. We try to keep up appearances for the sake of our kids and family at Christmas, but the rift is deep.<br />
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Over the next few months my anxiety skyrockets as I empty my bucket into my online "relationship". My husband and I separate. I try unsuccessfully to find full-time employment, getting nowhere with two jobs for which I'm incredibly well qualified. I'm gutted and feel my tenuous grip on things slipping. I go to my doctor begging for help to manage the anxiety that physically rips me apart at night and keeps me perpetually on edge during the day. I go back on the SSRIs and into therapy.<br />
<br />
My husband starts counselling and taking antidepressants in parallel. Somehow in the shit storm of our separation, we discover our confounding neurodivergence and the pennies begin to drop. I'm an Aspie; he has ADHD; neither one of us is actually an asshole.<br />
<br />
I realise he's been hurting for a long time. It's so outside of my nature to be able to give him what he needs or recognise how much he has sacrificed for so many years to try to meet mine. With help from more emotionally intelligent arbiters, we start to remove the distortion of our own lenses and reinterpret each other. He lays himself out to fight for what matters most to him: his family.<br />
<br />
All this chaos, all this pain could have been avoided had I been identified as an Aspie earlier in life. There are so many episodes like this (although none quite so awful) throughout my life, all of which I contend would have been ameliorated, if not altogether skipped, had I known, had my family known, had my friends known. I know our struggles make us who we are, but I'm so scarred from this lifetime of brutal internal battles, I feel I hardly have the strength left to enjoy the life I have left.<br />
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The Delphic maxim resonates for every human today as it did in the ancient world, but sometimes we don't have an opportunity to truly know ourselves until we are on the brink of loosing everything we love. I have met so many late-diagnosed Spectrumites who were never able to fully grasp their true self through decades of mental health issues, relationship breakdowns, personal crises, and suicide attempts because their Self was buried and maligned from a lifetime of trying to be the <a href="https://comingintobalance.blogspot.com/2010/12/square-peg-round-hole.html" target="_blank">square peg in a world of round holes</a>. So I add my voice to the crescendoing chorus of adult Autistics calling for better diagnosis, especially of girls on the spectrum, and acceptance of our differences to improve life-long mental health outcomes for everyone on the spectrum and those who love them.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com