I am Still

I am still fighting self-instilled rules in my head.
I still bounce back and forth in thinking I can change the essence of me.
I still guilt myself into thinking something is wrong that needs altering.
I am still me.

I am still hurting from simple words spoken by another.
And still wonder what words that I speak cause harm.
I over evaluate my utterances, my actions, my unspoken thoughts, still.
I am still me.

I am still processing the concept of love.
I am still processing the concept of anger.
I am still baffled and cornered by both: the romantic and the raging.
I am still me.

I am still trying to understand how to be in this world.
I am still desperately alone in my isolation.
I am trying and trying to move out into the place of union, still.
I am still me.

I am still within myself, lost and searching.
I am still in a rainbow of thoughts.
Still, still, still drowning in the avenues of constant awareness.
I am still me.

I am still battling the voices that are never spoken.
I am still listening to a scenario in my head that doesn’t exist.
I am still defending myself before the enemy arises.
I am still me.

I am still giving it my all to become that which I am not.
I am still following the rules blindly that cause disaccord.
I am still trying to please those whom can’t be pleased.
I am still me.

I am still longing for passion and magic.
I am still searching for a place to call home.
I am still a traveler starved.
I am still me.

I am still questioning how one lives asleep when she is awake.
I am still wondering where the other piece of me exists.
I am still reaching for the star inside of me.
I am still me.

I am still questioning the places people go to seek comfort.
I am still exploring my own mind’s temporary truths.
I am still watching as observer as the world seems all but illusion.
I am still me.

I am still hoping and hoping and hoping for something or someone.
I am still wondering where he or it or we are.
I am still twirling in a whirlwind of open confusion.
I am still me.

I am still to the crying voice in my seasons.
I am still to the pounding heart in my chest.
I am still. I am still. I am still.
I am forever still me.

~ Sam Craft, Everyday AspergersPhoto on 4-19-14 at 6.42 PM

Standards: A Long Time Coming

kind

I love how in life, messages, like the quote above, come to me at the perfect time. I have had a hellish year. I avoid that word, but in this case it’s the most effective descriptor I can find. I shall counter balance it with my giddy spirit and lots of love! I promise. Plus better to face the truth of events and be done with it. Gather the happenings under my hemline, sit with them, and then release. Like a whoopee cushion.

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I have reclaimed and re-found my giddy self that was lost about this time last year with the onset of the first of many challenging events. The little-happy-loving girl in me went into hiding, for the most part, and became the fierce warrior she needed to be. I can’t say I enjoyed myself much at all in the last twelve months, except in brief moments, in between the intervals of extreme spiritual, mental, and physical exhaustion.

A lot happened that I won’t go into, as I steer away from discussing others’ personal lives, beyond my own. But on the scale of stressful life occurrences, you know those common stressors, well let me just say I encountered many; if not in full, than to the point of hovering around at the perimeters of the feasible happenings.

Limbo is a great word to describe where I have been for a year.

One of the greatest benefits of this recent journey is I have ended up with a vast understanding of what I will and will not put up with in regards to befriending others. It took me long enough to figure this understanding of ‘standards’ out! Over four decades to be precise.

Here is what I now know of MY STANDARDS:

First off:

It’s okay not to like someone and choose not to associate with that person. This is not a reflection on me as a person. It does not mean I am impatient, imperfect, or have a low tolerance. It does mean that I am recognizing my comfort-zone. I am not recognizing limitations. There is nothing limiting about me. I am setting boundaries with people who affect my energy to a degree where it affects other areas of my life and my interactions with loved ones.

Because I have this capacity to see into people, to read people at a psychological and/or spiritual level, I tend to steer right passed what is blatantly infront of me (addictions, abusive behaviors towards me, RED FLAGS, HUGE RED FLAGS) and forgive someone of EVERYTHING, upon initial meeting, and continually, as needed. I will forget about a person’s current negative behavior, rationalize his/her actions, or not even notice danger signs or the fact that I am extremely uncomfortable with him/her.

I understand now that I cannot help nor connect with everyone. I know, it sounds ridiculous. But sometimes those of us with huge hearts get a bit askew in regards to reality. In truth, some people are, excuse my language, really messed up.

Some people are just too far beyond my capacity to sort out. Not that I have super powers or anything, not that I am a fixer or helper. But because I am kind and open-minded, I sometimes fool myself into thinking I can be friends with anyone. While I think I can feasibly see the light and potential in most, I certainly don’t need to take on someone who substantially drains the living life blood out of me! There are crazy, really crazy, people out there who will harm me, if given the chance. I need to bind myself to this idea, and face that reality.

It’s okay to have standards! (repeat three times)

STANDARDS for a person I choose to associate with:

1) Not delusional

2) Predictable and Reliable

3) Apologetic when aware he/she has trespassed against someone

4) Vibrate at beneficial energetic level most of the time; I know not all people crave this, but I know myself

5) Honest, trustworthy, has integrity, non-manipulative, etc.

6) Not sexually intrusive or acting perverted

7) Doesn’t demean a gender, sect, denomination, or creed

8) Loves him or herself, and, if not, is self-aware enough to work on getting to this place

9) KIND, KIND, KIND; this means they don’t have ANGER issues. I do not like people who blame, judge, or point fingers. And that’s okay. I can be kind but not fond of people. I can love but don’t have to include everyone in my life.

10) Doesn’t disappear and abandon our relationship over and over; I don’t care what the reason, I don’t want or need that in my life.

11) Cares about self and other people

12) Avoids passive-aggressive behavior

13) Doesn’t use body, sexuality, or images of self in attempt to get what he/she wants

14) Has looked at their issues; isn’t perfect, is even far from perfect, but is self-aware and willing to work on betterment

15) Doesn’t suck my energy, use me in any way, or expect things of me beyond basics (like similar things as listed on this list)

16) Truth seeker

17) Non-clingy

18) Doesn’t do either of these extremes: worship me (put me on pedestal) or degrade me (criticize me in attempt to feel better about him or herself). I don’t want to be on someone’s mind ALL the time. I want him or her to have a life. And I don’t want to be the object of desire or loathing.

19) Doesn’t monopolize my time and attention

20) Has something to offer. I am not picky. I mean a smiling face and a good heart is a fine offering.

The Power of One

meeeee

I have undergone tremendous growth. The type of transitions wherein some unknown force pulls the fighting body whilst self is kicking and screaming and begging for retreat. In recent days, I have endured countless bombardments of self-esteem. Acts, which are best described as, infused with angst, confusion, and distaste. Each repeated occurrence brought on by events in which I, as self, directly submitted. As if I was, in a place of some higher part of being, orchestrating the mayhem to illustrate a lesson that a part of me had avoided, but in retrospect surely required.

In the previous days, I have been quite the proverbial doormat, I confess. Vacant, in respect to the manner in which I allowed and, I dare admit, sought out people to be a mirror to my attributes of self-doubt and self-loathing. As it was, I chose to partake in uncomfortable exchanges. I allowed my esteem to be penetrated by forces that weren’t for my benefit; at least, not beneficial in the short-term. (For in the scheme of life I am one who upholds that the self can render all happenings to blossom into some sort of benefit, even if minute in size. Just as the scale of emotional evaluation leans towards the element of intense agony, there on the other side is room for benefit always, or at least the feasible creation of benefit.)

As aforementioned, I was a doormat. I don’t know if I have always been such a symbolic representation of an open invitation to trample all over said self, or if this way of existing is something I adopted based on prior occurrences of heartache. I assume, and could likely prove, I was definitely a doormat of sorts, decades before this moment; yet, I believe, based on a collective history, in the past I had established a set of standards and ideal ways of treating myself beyond that era.

Regardless, in the last days I reverted back to a time that is best described as reclusively in a state of self-admonishment, isolation, degradation, and grasping. Think desperate.

I reminded myself, whilst observing my actions and behaviors during the last month, of the person I was that lived during a time period where I lacked all grains of self-esteem and self-worth. A time when I pleaded for my cause of worthiness, while simultaneously drowning in a self-inflicted pool of disbelief of my delegated case. My self was lost. I was lost. And I forgot who and what I was.

Most recently, I found myself here, in the laps of proving and searching for validation of who I was for weeks, one after the other, fixating on a person to provide a valid representation of my worth. It was ridiculous to view my actions from afar, as observer twice removed with her palm smacking into her forehead. Undoubtedly, through it all, the houndings of surrendered esteem boggled and brazened my mind.

During these ordeals, I kept myself honest, explaining to my significant other what was happening, and exploring the shadow aspects of myself that were surfacing. My journey was a reliving of sorts, the trespassing into that of the last of the baggage of my past. A torrential place where I’d had hovelled up close to anyone for any cause, in order to attempt to feel alive and loved, a time period where if I were to be beast my tail would have been quivering between my legs and my voice quaking for attention. In these days of long ago and now more recent, I sought to be lifted by another person, to be recognized and celebrated, to be adored, and to furthermore be adorned.

The repercussions of my recent travelings cannot be explained in-depth, as the process entailed an exterior and interior part of this self, so greatly complex and unsubstantiated, that any evidence excavated and presented formidably here would fall short. That is to say that in an attempt, even in the greatest attempt, to explain what has transpired, I would be omitting far more than I was telling, not out of purposeful intention, but out of the incapacity to scribe what has no words: an experience beyond me.

I was submitted, by my purposeful actions, though much torture; again, not by any one source, or even by many, but by a collaboration of events transpired as a result of my higher-self renderings and doings.

In the end, if there be end, as I stand here now, I am much shattered and broken out of the shell of the past, reborn anew into a distinct stronger self. I have been granted ample means in which to review my behavior and ample paths in which to take said happenings and graduate myself from a degree of shame and regret to a higher plane of reasoning and vast understanding.

I am donned in gratefulness for the renderings by said higher power. Yet, in all truthfulness, I cannot and will not omit the aspect of feeling tremendous relief over the passings of such days. I am glad to be back home, if home be the word. For though I am much more grounded and made aware of my circumstances and previous choices, the place in which I landed, where I rest in this moment, feels unfamiliar and unexplored. As if I had been transported from a state of much confusion to a state of much clarity, only during the process of the journeying, the earth in which I previously stood had been altered and replanted with indigenous bearings, yet unknown to self.

I don’t understand…

1. I don’t understand manipulation; I mean I understand the definition of it; I can render it dormant in myself, stop it before it even surfaces. So I recognize its coming. But I do not understand manipulation in completion. It seems that much of the world functions as a whole by manipulating the environment and events in hopes of gaining a perceived outcome. I don’t like that attribute or any semblance of that attribute in myself. In so being, I constantly am evaluating and reevaluating my motivation in attempt to weed out any sprouts or seedlings of manipulation. Thusly, I am in a nonstop state of deep analysis of self in effort to be that which I wish to represent as truth and goodness, even as I exist in a world full of trickery.

2. I don’t understand pointing the finger at someone outside the self. Yes, I understand cause and effect. I understand it so well, indeed, that I see the flurry of possibilities and renderings in every circumstance I perceive. I see in black and white in a sense, but not in a segregated way. I see nothing as entirely right nor anything as entirely wrong. I see both sides; and I see what is outside those two opposing sides, in the middle, above and below. There isn’t any way of proving anything, as all is scaffolded off of a non-original thought positioned in my brain by some eventual found pattern or discovery. Pointing a finger is declaring I know. When I know I know little to nothing of this world. Pointing the finger is proclaiming I am correct, when no such person exits that is in complete correctness. I become exhausted in thought, as I wish to exist as many: to blame fully, to counter, to get irate, to live in a place in which I am both innocent and justified in action. But I cannot go there. I try. I try to don the same robes as the majority, and I am immediately succumbed by feelings of suffocation, regret, and a sense of ‘wrong.’ If I was to point a finger at all, it would be inwardly at self, in having found myself attached to a societal rule of blame as a result of turning away from self-responsibility and adhering to a false individualized and limited self-perception.

3. I don’t understand friendship. Being with others confuses me. I am often giddy and overcome with joy when I first engage with an old friend or new friend. I laugh a lot. I take on my friends mannerisms and way of being. I become less of a me I know little of, and more of this other I seem to suddenly understand a lot about. I am a sponge of sorts, soaking up what is in my immediate environment. Empathic, perhaps. Psychic? I don’t know. It almost seems biological at times, as if I can feasibly metamorphasize not into butterfly from caterpillar, but from one shape I had adopted to the next before me. I often smother another with my attention, wanting, and what appears to be love. But I know not what I am actually doing. It feels like a reunion of sorts, a coming together after eons apart. Only, when we again separate, I am left bewildered by my actions, and again wondering who am I. Worse, I doubt my genuineness, my authenticity, my essential being. To watch myself as observer morph and remorph is both baffling and disturbing. I long to simply be as stagnant one not taking on the persona or emotions of another. But as hard as I wish, I remain some tangent unborn onto self, and reborn in true form as another.

4. I don’t understand love. I have tried and tried and tried. I feel great bonds. I feel great affection. I feel admiration. I feel a like-vibration of sorts that brings on kindred feelings of sameness, recognition and home. I understand over-thinking about someone. I understand longing and wanting someone. I understand the bodily sensations of erotica. Yet, I do not understand the concept of love. I would declare with accuracy I love my children because yes, I would die for them. But is dying for someone love? If so, whom else would I die for? And I would further claim with accuracy I love my good friend, but why would be the next question. Is love based on standards of behavior, on me feeling good and safe, on me feeling lifted and self-validated in my existence? Most seems evident of selfish ego-needs. And so I become wrapped in confusion again of love. If it’s just a knowing and a feeling, then I have this type of ‘love’ a lot. If it’s a desiring to connect, then I have this too. I believe I could romantically love anyone, given the proper setting and environment, the proper influences through the years. I can be taught to love based on what I have been exposed to. I can be taught to choose another as my lover based on what I have collected as truisms. What if I love everyone, and that is the way it is? What if that is my confusion? In trying to separate and delegate and segregate love, I am left lost to myself. For I love but know not what for.

5. I don’t understand people. People confuse me. They can be so warm and generous at first. So available. So real. So genuine. And then they go into hiding. I overwhelm them, I think. It’s my nature to pounce out, to attach, to bleed out my soul, to engage, and to get so very excited upon connecting. I give and I give fully. This me, this all of me. And then I retreat to a place of deep regret. For again I was taken in by the beginning dance, this place of first greeting and meeting that I took for real and everlasting. You see, I stay the same, very much so, in this manner. I stay the same in my ability to love even though I know not of what love is, and in my ability to be me, even as I know not who I am. It is such a dichotomy of twisted thoughts that I seek harbor and refuge from my very brain. But the truth is I do understand me, in all my predictable unpredictability, I am the same. I am loving. I am real. I am me. And when others go someplace else beyond themselves, I am overwhelmed with confusion and self-blame. What did I do this time? Why can’t I stop myself from being SO me? Why can’t I accept that what is now won’t ever last that eventually the place where we meet as two complete souls joined in gleefulness will wear down. That I will be back to myself, wondering what went wrong.

6. I am naive. I know some people prefer the term innocent or unworldly. Of just plain kind and good. But the truth is I am naive. It doesn’t matter how many times I experience and re-experience a similar event; it still turns out the same. I still am baffled and surprised by the end result. You mean I let that happen again? You mean I was betrayed, tricked or cornered? How? Indeed my eyes are wide open. My brain is on high alert. But somehow my heart is in the lead. We follow my heart. This beautiful child-like love and we just can’t help ourselves. We fall with her, into her way of being, and we think this time we are okay. This time it’s alright. This time trust. Trust. Trust. Trust. I don’t know how to stop trusting. For I cannot see what I am not.

No One Need Say

No one need say what makes me tick or toc; I am what I am and I cannot change.

I can rearrange my thoughts and ideas, even alter my appearance. I can adapt new formulas, conditions, and ideals, even if I call them not these things. I can detach, reattach, release, let go, cling, fall forward. I can be a bountiful fool or a subject subjected to the demise of self; both relevant and in accordance to my own doing. I can surrender. I can go on bending knee to some source heartedly debated by dictators and pauper too. I can question my own doings and my own authority. I can cower backwards syndicated by onlookers’ gasping fear. And I can cower forward, a victor to self, and self alone.

I have choices, true. But they all lead back to the sameness. This being of me. This one left undone and unraveled, yet, precisely returned to where I remained before. I am a free mason in a sense, endless possibilities existing; though each road seems wearily the same, unremarkable and exhausting. To be outside myself is to be in a world that makes little to no sense. For I do not understand these motives, beyond that which appears to be selfish-desire to alleviate isolation of form.

For if in wholeness we live beyond surviving, strive in our being as unified one, then why are so many orphaned and left unsheltered, alone, bleeding out for justification of existence?

I do not know. I do not claim to know. I know not who I am, where I am going, why I am here, or how I was put here. Dropped, I suppose. Down to this torrid earth and submerged in an ocean of unfamiliarities. I long to grasp, to hold, to clutch, to blend, to become addicted to something other than thoughts. I have not the means to be without escape. And none of us seem to be different in this quest: to dive away from where we are.

There is pretending, yes, lots of games that temporarily make way for relief of the agonizing isolation. And there are the pretenders who know not what they do. But dutifully terrifying is the pretenders who know, who alleviate their own suffering through transpiring to make the others suffer more wretchedly. The tricksters, the gamblers, the demons risen. They terrify, in a sense, not because I recognize them fully but because I do not understand them in fullness. I do not relate to the carved-out ones, the angelic robes cloaked over the absence of core.

They frighten, the predators, the villains, the schemers, debaters, and those that call themselves the governing ones. For how they dictate causes demise after demise, and they feed upon the souls of meek. They teach, say they preach, that openness and vulnerability is weak. That secrets are just. That hiding and mystery are profound sweetness. They teach that I am wrong in my longing to share, to connect, to breathe. To finally breathe. They hammer with their cloven-hooved-heels, bang the very corners and edges of self, and lead the light to believe in falsehood. Masters of segregated isolation.

In their twisted perverted ways, I am found entirely faulty, my foundation itself built with inadequacy.

How can I live in a world of such gross falsehoods and appear as the same?

I cannot.

And so it is my burden to be singled out; found, even beneath the temporary masks I don. For to tread in this world, I take on the power that is them, their errors, their ways, their ever approaching doomsday. I walk as if for someone else, and not myself. Because to walk as me would be unseen and unapproachable.

In being here, in this place, I move in this way, their way: as a bit of him and a bit of her. I become the reflection of the scattered dust, much akin to the specks of iron forming shape to magnet. I stick. I absorb at molecular level. I become reframed. And here I wait, unidentifiable and beyond truth.

Stifled in wonderment, deep buried confusion, longing for the curtains to fall, the masquerade to end, the music to cease, so that no one need remain alone in such delegated foolishness.