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|Thu, 08-10-2006 - 10:40pm|
I'm an Aspie. I'm undiagnosed but it answers all the questions about why I didn't get what I didn't get for years and years. All these people all over, society they're called, assuming things about one another, age, personality traits, feelings, without substantiation, drives me crazy. Turns out they can tell and I can't. How perplexing and annoying. My sister was always telling me, "You should have assumed that." It's become a dirty word. But she has her comeuppance, and it's most appropriate.
Her son was recently diagnosed with AS. But now she picks my brain about him all the time. She read the description of it and found that the boy who reminded her so much of her sister fit the profile, and therefore so did the sister. Like I can help her, though, really... Childhood was a blur of confusion. I can only liken it to a person left to develop their own language being expected to describe that childhood in English. Even if you've learned enough English to function, would a life lived speaking of things in your own language ever quite translate?
But of course people learning English insist it's a bear to grasp, making it the ideal metaphor... When they have trouble, they explain the quirks and oddities, the perpetual inconsistencies of the language for their difficulties. The idioms, the random connotations, the enormous social influences. Find a person who doesn't function like everyone one else, and they blame the person. Blame us for not blending in automatically with a society full of quirks, oddities, inconsistencies, random associations, enormous social chaos. It's a world where every diverse quality is cherished only so long as it can be seen with the naked eye. And where almost no one really speaks anyone else's "language" but everyone is expected to want to and to fake it if they don't do it naturally. You don't lie and act like the other robots, they hunt you down. At best, they boot you out.
Not being labelled as a child is a mixed blessing. Because I hate to think what my sister is doing to her son, making such a fuss. She really makes a huge fuss out of it. But I went on for years slipping through the cracks, no one knowing, everyone blaming my parents for my "issues", my parents blaming themselves. I'm the youngest of 9 and was expected to just pick everything up the way my sister did. She was jealous of the attention I got for being a problem. I was jealous of her ability to get up, dress like other people, and fit in without trying.
I still have social trouble. I still stay on the outside because I always ended up there and metaphorically speaking, I've built myself a nice little woodland clubhouse out here. I seriously have this mental image of a world that resembles some neatly clipped country slub and I live with the interesting people in a place like the Neverland complete with a little house built of twigs and twine. It's darned cute. I may draw a picture.
I have strong opinions about it all, a share of bitterness for years spent thinking something was wrong with me, hoping without support that I was just a different sort of person instead of a screwed up adult who was once a forgotten shy kid. I realized recently that since I read about AS I have slowly evolved, or rather my thinking has, into the thinking that I am just a different sort. The depressed sinking feeling that no one would ever understand the real me has changed into the reassurance that they won't... but that I now feel confortable enough not to try and make them. The trouble is I now don't like them to try and draw me out... eh, well, life is challenge, I guess.
So as not to frighten you all, which I have probably already done, I am a 33-year-old woman with a great husband and 3 fascinating and exasperating kids. They try my patience but I have learned an incredible number of skills to help when patience flags. I have learned to separate myself from the source of frustration and to ask for help. I confess I have never held a job as circumstances have spared me the necessity. I like to think I could cope with it. I mean to try someday. I write, paint, draw, sew, read, play a pennywhistle (the simplest instrument I could find), sing (in the car), listen to music, like to identify voice actors and live action actors in film and tv, like to construct things and fix things (not necessarily good at it)... I make up stories for the kids, I have a lot of hobbies. I have a positive outlook on life that sparks partially from seeing the worst and knowing there's hope anyway.
Just when I think I don't have it after all, something reminds me that I do. This pleases me. I'm not a hyochondriac after all, not jumping to conclusions, not finding an excuse, not just a screw-up. I am me. I like me. I just do. I'm neat. I get a kick out of me, I'm not bloody boring.
Oh, had you all heard about AS and art, something about not being creative? Poots on that. We are so, too, creative. Bleah.
Pleased to meet you all, I may not come back. I've spouted an awful lot and may be too embarrassed.