385: Navigating the Female Aspergerian Mind

“Samantha Craft,” M.Ed. has served as an educator for adults and children, a spiritual counselor and an advocate for individuals with special needs. She holds a teaching credential and a Master’s Degree in Education, and has completed multiple postgraduate courseworks in the field of psychology and counseling. Currently, under the penname of Samantha Craft, she manages and authors the well-circulated blog Everyday Aspergers: Life through the eyes of a female with Aspergers. Her prolific writings depict the multifaceted daily life of an adult with Asperger’s Syndrome. Samantha maintains contact with people across the world touched by ASD and serves as the founder of an online support group for adult females on the autistic spectrum. She resides with her husband and three sons, (one with ASD), in the state of Washington.

This article may be duplicated for professional use in an educational setting and for family members in the home setting. Please keep contact information on the page. The works are copyright protected and not meant for duplication for groups or presentations. Copies of the edited and complete article can be found in the future publication of Annals of Psychotherapy and Integrative Health.

Navigating the Female Aspergerian Mind

Chances are, because of the lack of available resources in regards to Females with Asperger’s Syndrome, an undiagnosed female with ASD has slipped under the radar of many professionals. With today’s growing rates of autistic syndromes, any professional established in the field of mental health therapy would benefit from careful examination of the complexities of Asperger’s Syndrome, as it pertains to the female experience. Until recently, little to nothing was known about the female with Asperger’s, as most, if not all, current diagnostic tools are geared toward and develop based on the male genders’ characteristics of ASD. The simplest of signs that might indicate the female representation of Asperger’s to a practitioner are often misunderstood, misdiagnosed, denied, diluted, or unnoticed.

As a result of under-diagnoses, a large majority of females on the autistic spectrum are reaching adulthood as survivors of multiple emotional and physical traumas. Because limited resources and tools are available for working with the female client with Asperger’s, professionals sometimes fall back on what has worked with clients who do not have ASD, regardless of the fact that Asperger’s is not a mental health condition, but a neurological syndrome. More often than not the practitioner treats the symptoms and not the condition, focusing on the obvious comorbid traits of Asperger’s, such as depression and anxiety, without full consideration dedicated to the whole of the person, in particular the fact that he is working with an individual who views the world somewhat different from the mainstream client. Though the professional has the client’s best interest in mind, in some cases the professional’s overall lack of education and limited know-how can be not only non-beneficial for the client with ASD, but detrimental to the psyche. Wherein the astute practitioner recognizes the challenges at hand in regards to the female with ASD, he seems to be a rare minority.

Considering the sensitive nature of the female with Asperger’s condition, an individual whom has likely often found herself a subject of alienation, ridicule, suspicion, doubt and abuse, it is vital for the professional to understand the power she holds to make or break her client; especially the client’s feasible outlook on seeking out further assistance as pertains to her emotional well-being. In example, females on the autistic spectrum develop both conscious and subconscious strategies in their attempt to function affectively in a world which often appears unpredictable and potentially volatile. Oftentimes, a female with Asperger’s is using all of her mental and emotional resources to merely survive and navigate the social world. In response she is fatigued and over-taxed. If a female is partaking in mental health therapy, and the therapist suggest to her that she change or adjust some of her coping mechanisms, for example seeking out strategies to decrease verbal processing, the suggestion itself has the potential to create increased anxiety and feasibly shutdown the client’s ability to remain focused and present. Aspects of the unexplored “Aspergerian” mind can present challenges and/or roadblocks that the practitioner does not necessarily encounter in therapeutic dialogue with ‘typical’ clients, e.g., those presenting with mental health illness without a neurological condition. (I avoid the word ‘disorder’ entirely, in regards to Asperger’s Syndrome, as it is my firm belief that just because one functions outside the perimeters of the current majorities’ collective agreement of norm does not by the process of negation establish a select group as abnormal or having a disorder.)

In understanding the female’s (with Aspergers) mindset is uniquely different from the majority of mainstream society, including her capacity for complexity of thoughts, intense mental connections/scaffolding, and advanced logical sequencing, and taking into account the potential effects of a lifetime of repeated humiliation and abuse, it is advisable for the professional to consider the (ASD) client’s trauma may reach far beyond what is considered the typical depths of post-traumatic stress. Add this to her tendencies for sensory-stimuli overload, and the female with Aspergers will likely exhibit an instinctual flight-or-flight response to any new situation; especially those pertaining to vulnerability and emotional intimacy. Other factors hindering the benefits of therapy include the client’s ability to recreate her self-presentation based on how she perceives the professional perceives her. Often a master actress, the female with Asperger’s has developed a toolbox of masks enabling her to move in the world undetectable to the naked, untrained eye. Here in the client-practitioner relationship, the client is likely to mold into the persona that she believes best fits the comfort-level of the professional, moving within the room of therapy just as she moves in the exterior symbolic rooms of her life. A professional, unstudied in the elements of the female condition of Asperger’s, is apt to miss the nuances of a given client’s chameleon qualities, overlooking the client’s subtle changes in representation of self or wrongfully assuming the client is resorting to trickery and sabotage.

The female with Asperger’s, while extremely witty and intelligent, exhibits continual emotional fragility. In some cases this is hidden behind emotionally-detached humor or within the guise of a persona she is currently exhibiting; e.g., she may imitate a character on television. Though she is emotionally vulnerable, she is capable of hiding herself from other people and is keen in her honed ability to detect social norms and acceptable behaviors of a given situation. Given her nature and character, one word or mannerism from the practitioner may be overanalyzed and/or perceived by the client as a threat or criticism. Misinterpretations, distrust, or a number of other variables, can lead the client to shutdown (emotional withdraw), meltdown (emotional outburst), retreat into imagination or fantasy, recreate the presentation of self, and/or switch from a state of emotional presence to logical analysis. When the client is triggered by the professional and responds accordingly, the quality of the therapeutic relationship is adversely affected. Unlike the mainstream client, a woman with Asperger’s may never trust a professional once she believes she has been misinterpreted and/or criticized.

As a professionally diagnosed female with Asperger’s, in reviewing my own experiences in therapy, which encompass a decade-long-span of individual, couple, small-group and large-group interaction, incorporating a cornucopia of therapeutic techniques and theories, my most damaging experiences occurred when the practitioner was neither vulnerable nor authentic, a perceived-lacking from my point of view, that affected my capacity to connect at a humanistic-level with the practitioner. The best scenarios, in my therapy experience as the client, occurred when the professional was free of dogma, restrictions, and rigid-habits, and able to see through my mirage of disguises. In truth, I don’t think this ever happened, the best scenario that is, and that I, in actuality, through the process of vigorous self-help and psychological self-studies and applications, became my own psychologist by trade, primarily implementing Transpersonal Psychotherapy and elements of Logotherapy.

Based on my own life experience, the deep-level of understanding of my own Asperger’s condition and the personal interactions with other females on the autisitc spectrum, I have developed a list of what I would have liked to have seen, given the means and opportunity to time travel back as a client or to time travel forward as a practitioner. In recognizing each therapist has his unique style, I offer this as a list of suggested ideas, my hope and intention being to provide others the opportunity for a beneficial client-practitioner relationship.

List of Ideas

380: Star Poop and the Naked Boy-Toy!

Reader Beware: This is an example of what goes on in my head. (If you are bored, scan down to the end. Where my husband made a remarkable revelation!)

I was curious about some “things” and so I asked some random questions, as I seem to have a direct line to the collective unconscious of something or another; if you are comfortable with Carl Jung, let’s go there to the expansive wave of collective thoughts—the whole hundredth monkey theory.

If you are comfortable with inner-awareness, let’s go there, into the deep spaces of my untraveled mind, the pieces I have gathered from multitude of sources, and pinned together into a cohesive, almost understandable oneness.

If you like the idea of aliens in space beaming down prophetic knowing through the crystal in my cranium, let us travel there, into the ameba of oneness, or in this case the enema of oneness.

(You know in a bad comedy how they hint to the dumb audience what they were referring to, and you are part of this assumed “dumb” audience, and you say to your partner, or buddy, or invisible ghost friend: “Like I couldn’t figure that out on my own.” Well I kind of feel like a producer of a bad comedy, with me as the star, and I truly don’t want to direct you to why the word “enema” connects to the title, so I won’t. But just thought I’d pause to explain, as that is why you tuned into this channel I am supposing. Oh, and if you think I think you are a dumb audience then you are, but if you don’t think that then you’re not. It’s all a matter of perspective.)

Or how about angels and God, those are fun places to venture, as there are always four camps it seems: the believers, the objectors, the debaters, and the unattached (aka: zen, enlightened, or I don’t give a hooting fricken chicken’s butt).

I wonder why that four-camps theory doesn’t work with the whole alien theory—there doesn’t seem to be the fanatical thing attached to alien theories, (unless you’ve been beamed up, of course)—maybe because they don’t threaten man’s perception of reality. Maybe green little men are easier to comprehend than God/Creator/Life Force. “I mean look at how huge the universe is! Aliens must be somewhere,” Earl said. With me responding, “Yeah, who cares about how the universe got here! There must be aliens!”

Perhaps you are comfortable with hovering spirits or guiding ancestors, in that case these are some pretty smart relatives and ghosts I have about.

Or perhaps, you liken the appeal of genius-aspie, as you yourself are on the spectrum or married to someone with Aspergers (lucky, lucky you!); and the whole genius aspect is intriguingly-comforting in that “I am so awesome” kind of way, or in that “at least she’s got that going for her” way.

Ideally, you think this is all utter nonsense, babblings of a mad woman who has falling off her rocker and can’t get up and has no device to contact the aliens to beam her up, or voice to beckon the spirits or angels, and no means to direct the hundredth monkey to fly down for rescue. Ideally, I say, because, how you see me doesn’t much matter. You will interpret me. I have no control over that. And honestly I don’t want to control you, unless you are chocolate; then I would like to control you and digest you. And that’s where the fun is, in eating you as chocolate, and in knowing in this moment in space, that you see in me what you see in yourself. Hehehe, you are so ________.

It doesn’t matter if you think I am a nutter. But if you are having trouble deciphering who you are, please insert chocolate.

Recently, I am thinking that I become magically transformed by your perception of me. If this theory is true, as some sages claim it to be, then somewhere I exist as a thousand replicas… time travel in its purest form!

(Remember, way up there, in my first big paragraph, I mentioned I was curious about some things…well I haven’t forgotten to get to the end of that point. I am sort of time traveling in my mind from one thought to the next, but eventually I will get to the place I was originally headed. Or not.)

I spoke to a special friend today, I call second mom, because she is so fabulously sweet. She actually counts me as one of her daughters, which makes me think she seriously is deranged—which is further proof we see in others who we believe ourselves to be.

My second Mummy (for my UK readers, Mummy instead of Mommy—comedy producer doubting audience) was the victim of my verbal spillage. I HAD to tell her most of what had happened to me in the last three weeks (Verbal Vomit.) The whole time I spilled, another “better,” and much more spiritually-matured part of self, I call the observer (or sexy goddess, depending on my mood) watched with a Buddha-grin, as I was split into two distinct forces: 1) my inner guru/semi-saint and my 2) excited-aspie-persona; then someone came and sat behind the observer watching all of us: the observer, the guru, and the aspie. Sometimes they all merged into one, and other times the guru and aspie were sparring, while the observer remained cautious. And the guy behind the observer, he resembled my angels and laughed at me. When I think about how I was able to see the man behind the man behind the me, my head hurts.

(I think as the observer as a man; no stereotypical reasons I can offer. I likely have God-abandonment issues. But the person watching the observer, I think she is a woman. So ultimately the she-me is in control; until I start to think about who is beyond her. Then I need a brain-enema.)

I decided spilling my thoughts onto my sweet mummy was liken to a little girl who had just opened a bunch of presents (toys) and has a strong desire to share them ALL at one time. And thusly, quite dynamically and swiftly, in a span of two hours, I ended up burying my dear sweet one into a huge gigantic heap of toys.

In the end, she was under a massive pile of wooden toy blocks, because figuratively speaking, I had built a gigantic castle right on top of her sprawled out body. Way down low, beneath the block castle, peering up from the moat, was dear second-MUM! While I swung from the castle turrets hollering with glee: “Hello down there!” (wearing a purple princess dress). We surmised, together, that this was okay, me burying her and spilling upon her and such, as I let her keep, after some discussion, not a Stretch Armstrong doll, not a Six-Million-Dollar-Man doll, not a Donny Osmond doll, but a Rob Lowe doll, to play with and make her very own. With this she was giggly-happy, my seventy-year old second MUM… She was especially happy after I mentioned the imaginary Rob Lowe doll was completely naked! Yes! Naked. As I’d removed all of his clothes.

Yes, this is my life. And I kind of like it.

As my self-proclaimed second-mom and I were speaking, before I buried her completely in my new found toys, I had mentioned about a previous vision; and my special friend, very special indeed to be buried in my toys, well she said the vision I retold to her helped her a lot. The vision I had, which I shared partially a ways back, was a breaking point for my personal healing, much like my mum’s naked boy-toy.

In this past vision, I was shown a room, a vast room filled with a thousand people. There was a stage, and each person took his or her turn getting on stage and saying what he or she thought of me. Not all of them, as even with the ability I seemingly have to STOP TIME, I didn’t want to hear the lot of them. And so, through this vision, I listened through the visual representation of imagery. And in so doing, in being there in this vision, I was taught without word, but through energetic form, that each person in the room, every single one of them, had a unique individualized view of me.

I understood, instantly and with great inner depth, too complex to relate in words of any longevity, that no two people’s perspectives of me would ever be the same. That for another to perceive me as the “real” or “actual” me was an impossibility. I was further shown that in choosing what perceptions of me seemed to be the true perception of who I was, I would have to draw some sort of imaginary line of separation. I would have to choose. For instance, would I take the top twenty who spoke great of me? Or the bottom ten that spoke ill of me? The ones in the middle? The ones with mixed feelings? Or the perceptions that they had at a different moment, say next week, or next year? When they left the room and their life experiences changed, would I still want that same perception? Was I willing to define myself by ever-changing dependent variables, and more so base my sense of worth, and emotional state, even vibrational energy, on the ebb and flow of the perception of masses? On examining this room, I was able to come to the conclusion that the thought of basing my identity on so much uncertainty and constant variation, was not only exhausting, but entirely unpredictable and unreliable. In seeing this, and drawing swift recognitions, I accepted I would rather be something simple, something I could hold onto and embrace. I would rather be a light—nothing more and nothing less. And beyond that perhaps nothing, even the nothingness behind nothing. Here I was able to accept that I was all of these perceptions of the people in the room and at the same time I was none of them. I existed somewhere unattainable in between, in the infinite space between two whole numbers, the never ending decimal.

(End of powerful vision, and start of brief intermission.)

The only issue with my identity I am having now, beyond the sparring guru and aspie, and the endless observers that alternate genders, and the God-abandonment issues, and… is that as of late, I seem to morph into different personas depending what life force is perceiving me, (who I am talking to or nearby), and sometimes animals, like monkeys or my dog, or even my pet cedar tree, Fred. This can pose a huge problem; I mean what if I am in close proximity to a pole-dancer?

And finally, what my main point was, some seven pages ago, is presented below. The lingering questions I had answered by the life force of something or another, whom doesn’t care what I call it, as long as I understand the whole non-attachment thing. All of this I was mostly shown in the span of a five-minute drive home. I tried to recapture the thoughts/vision/knowing with the help of the monkeys, but we have obviously had one too many bananas. And so I offer you, what the observer of the observer of the observer, aptly titled: Star Poop. And in which I thought later, after typing this all out: The Crap that comes out of my head and stars’ butts.

*******STAR POOOP*******

My question: “Am I creating a need for others to suffer by wanting to be of service to others?”

Yes, however the truth is in the words you choose to use, not in your intention.

If your intention is to truly serve, then where is this foundation?

If the foundation is love, then the need is based on love.

Therefore, remove only the remaining attachment of the word “need” and replace with the word “open,” and you may simply restate: I am open to love.

This, “open to love,” can mean many things, including open to service, if you deem partaking in service a form of giving love.

Likewise, if you say you “need to create,” and this is from love, then you are “open to creation.” Love works in this same manner, as being open to creation, though love is the foundation of all. So when one speaks: “I am open to love,” he is thusly “open to creation,” and open to anything he deems beneficial under the umbrella of love.

If one then asks: “But what of this love?,” and in so doing recognizes readily that even love then has boundaries, for surely he thinks one cannot love while creating hatred; then he has met the point of openness in which he might ask: “Let me be open.”

In this state, a state without need, and a state without the boundaries of love, (as love is a concept created for union and not division, and love is subtracted in the sight of separation), than one is better able to comprehend the vastness of open.

For is not “one being open,” imply open to any “thing;” in one being open to anything, he is thusly the distinguisher of fear, and thereby recognizes that love can be manifested in what would previously have been deemed “hatred.” For all are our teachers.

If hatred is a teacher that pulls us out of self and closer to egoless, or our true being state, then hatred surely is love.

This is to say: Turn the other cheek, but in turn, turn the other as well: the hidden cheek of humility.

It is not enough, to choose to turn away in physical form. To turn away in spiritual form, the mirror of illusion peering outwards into the mirror of illusion, and therefore releasing the thought before thought of self, is to truly turn away. Or in other terms, to turn forward and into self, by turning out of self, this is the measure of turning the cheek: to turn the various views of self long enough to render no self. In this state you are truly open to love, and there by an empty vessel for hatred.

Here, in this state of openness, you become openness, and in turn in being open, you are being self. This is a circle, as all life is, and without circle life is not.

Next question: “Did I tell a truth that wasn’t a complete truth, and is it better to speak the whole truth?”

A truth spoken from the heart with no intention, desire, or need, except to love, is a truth.

This does not mean the truth is a complete truth to the speaker or the receiver of said truth, it means it is a truth formed of love.

In opposite measure is truths formed from the stem of fear. All truths formed from the stem of fear, particularly the darker virtues of fear, included but not limited to greed, need, and attention, are stemmed from a place of falsehood.

To truly speak in truth the words spoken must in all ways reflect the interior intention beneath the words spoken. (The inner core of the being speaking.)

Therefore it is more “ideal” to say “I hate you,” if this is the truth of the vibration beneath a word, than to harbor this belief of truth (to keep within you the belief of hating). Because here, once spoken and declared, the truth is seen and digested and vanishes. Wherein if a person was to say “I love you,” whilst angry and in an inner state of dislike or non-congruence—which is all hatred is: an inner-state of non-congruence with self (not other)—then the truth would be buried and fester like poison in the body.

So why is it safe to utter the word hatred?

It is safe to say “I hate” because truth as the will-doer (person forming words) sees fit to match his inner state (core).

Better to say, “I am in a state of fear, or unrest, or uncertainty” than “I hate.” But still to say, “I hate you,” is in superior position in ranking the out-spring (core to spoken form) of emotion, than to say, “I love you,” or “I like you,” and not mean this utterance.

Uttering any non-truth from a base/foundation of fear is a true falsehood. Here even falsehood is accompanied by truth, as truth can be found in all measure.

However, in considering another scenario in which a one, rather feverish for another, withholds his love, by uttering, “I like you,” instead of “I love you,” perhaps because the other, he believes would hesitate, fear, or erupt with the mention of “love,” or perhaps because the social perimeters do not dictate that this person would be approved, for example, if he says “love” to another already “attached” or committed to another; in this case, if the person mutters “like” but resonates below, at the core, as “love,” but he chooses to do so out of “love” (not fear), then and only then, seeing he mumbles a replacement out of a core of love, then this can foster a truth.

This is what could be deemed a partial-truth, if the truth is stemmed from a core of love, as a mother not telling her daughter she appears unsightly; in this way she holds her tongue, which is best to do in all manners of appearance. In so doing, if the motherly figure replaced this truth of perceived non-beauty (which is a falsehood in and of itself, but used as scenario nonetheless, as seemingly relevant), in this way we say, all things stemmed from love, rather a truth in completion or truth in partial, become truth in totality. In after thought most mothers view their daughters as pure beauty; a better example may be a man peering at a former love-interest.

It is often the case, accordingly, that when one witness connects the words to truth, the other connects the words to truth simultaneously, when done in love.

Therefore, all things stemmed in love are truth, all things stemmed in fear are false.

Just as falsehood is an illusion, as fear is an illusion.

And anything stemmed in illusion births illusion.

So to state that the falsehood even exists in the perimeters of discussion, states the illusion is of some substance, and contradicts our speaking; but nonetheless negates the polarity of truthfulness, as we are speaking a truth stemmed from love, though the truth not be in totality, it resonates from the core of our being, presenting itself in exact foundation of what we perceive as self or we.

Next Question: “Are lies bad?”

All lies, except lies stemmed from love, without fear, are falsehoods, and therefore illusion.

All lies stemmed not from love are stemmed from fear. All lies stemmed not from love are thusly illusion.

There is no lie that can be told that does not have an element of fear, if the believer recognizes the uttered word as lie; this indeed contradicts the previous discussion, but only in manners of extreme theological inquiry. In truth, if lie is spoken to protect, serve, lift, support, without intention to manipulate, trick, deceive, or benefit, then this lie can be manifested as truth, if the receiver accepts the true inner core of the speaker that radiates love.

In this way lies are an illusion, but stemmed from the core of radiating love, and therefor transformed into living truth, some lies are perceived as truth. This is the only way lies transform—from love. It is the only way anything transforms: from love.

In considering the immediate question, “Are lies bad,” then it is important to distinguish the concept of “bad.” For no bad exists unless wished into existence for higher purpose, not by receiver, or wisher, but by collective; in this way no singular is responsible for bad, as no singular can be responsible for bad, as anyone labeled “bad” is a product of the collective environment of “we,” stemmed from either the majority of love or the majority of hate.

That is what “to love thy neighbor” means; for if you do not love your neighbor from an inner core of love, then what do you create, what do you stem, what do you feed the environment, to this created one?

If not love, there is either absence of love or the illusion of hatred. Others drown, if others would be, in the illusion of hatred, a toxic poison that breathes at the necessity of false illusion, to prove time and time again, through all veins of reason and travel that yes, indeed, in the illusion of hatred there is suffering.

Thusly, the liar and the lie are the same, both illusion formed and stemmed from the majority of fear, with love blocked out and extinguished, waiting in the shadows for the illusion to vanish.

For even illusion exists in thought and form, though not fluently recognized in planes of existence.

Therefore where you are, you have taken down a way of perceiving that doesn’t readily belong to you, and never has. Your perception of lies is neither here nor there, as it cannot survive here.

******

In another plane, perhaps depicted as the thought of distant stars, or say ye angels bright, then this concept of hatred exists, but only as collected thoughts from what could be said exists below.

Therefore when you embrace hatred, you in essence take in the wasteland of your own thoughts; once given to the stars for depletion, but stolen back for false comfort, for only false comfort arises from stealing falsehoods.

In this way hatred can be seen as the pollution of one world leaking into the other and being stolen back for sake of stealing, when the real culprit is the illusion of fear, unseen and untouched in the depth of the core.

Displace the illusion of fear from core, analyze and hold the fear, digest and demolish the fear, and eliminate fear at a soul-level, say earthly-level, and there exists no need for a wasteland of hatred, and then there “be” nothing of overflow waste to steal from.

Think this when you hate: You are stealing the waste of stars.

All the brightness, the nutrients, and “goodness” have been passed through the bowels of the stars, and you are receiving the manure.

Thusly, anger exists as an illusion, but in star-form as a teacher, for what can grow from manure but the finest of gardens.

In this way there is no judgment in anger, or hatred, as anything stemmed from fear, or the collectors of fear, is illusion, and beyond illusion, nothing is judged in totality or in separation: all is as is and unfolding as decided before the unfolding of time.

In this way do not judge your neighbor, rather turn the cheek and take in the waste they have collected for fertilizer for your very growing.

Feel this manure as illusion and nothing more, but gather the existence of the dimmed stardust and take this into you for your greater good.

In this way when you wish upon a star, wish for the waste of the star before the light. As you are already the light.
You are already love, and the waste itself, the nurturer of the soul in solid-star form, will un-yield you to this beauty, collecting the images of self in the other, as the anger stemmed from illusion of fear, as the illusion of self stemmed from love.

In conclusion of the complexities of this answering, we say, indeed YOU are a truth stemmed from a lie, but the lie that vibrates from the core of love, for your protection, for your safety, for your guaranteed security—for to stare into the beauty of us, and what you be, would to be again the star, only exploded with rapture.

In this way, count on your own star-sister and star-brother to be your nurturers, either in love or in the illusion of hatred. For either way they turn you into the light of you and teach you of your fullness. Take readily the hatred, until the illusion of hatred is turned into love, and the stars (we be) no longer need to filter and digest what was never you to begin with.

*********

“I keep thinking to myself, how do you do that? I mean who’s got that much shit to say?” ~ My husband, after I recited this post.

343: How I long to be the sun

How I long to be the sun…

I am such a dichotomy of prisms, multi-faceted in a way that confuses me, the observer.

I keep looking into myself and finding only tunnels, web-like hallways leading in all directions. There is such mystery here, and clutter. I am an open book, but not to myself. I am an open book to only that which I let out and that which I allow in. Even as I share so much, I hold eternity inside. I worry, when I have all the reasonings harvested of why not to worry. I fear, when I have all the reasonings set out of why not to fear.

I am this pendulum; this constant pendulum. I know not what moves me, but I am continually moved. At times I feel I become the person you are. At times, so many times, I lose the person I am. I absorb the world, all of the ingredients brought into me; and then I am left, in my loneliness, both awe-inspired and drowning in pain of recognition.

I see too much. I feel too much. I know too much. And there is no remedy.

I am the heap of pain that one carries on his shoulders. I am the sorrow of the mistress. I am the angst and guilt of the destroyer. I am the pillager weeping at the joyful bounty. I am the child in the glee-filled park. I am the mountaineer on highest peak. I am the widow crying at the grave. I am the tie tightened around my very neck, chocking me from the outside, to match the fury of pain within.

I am enveloped in need and then enveloped in release. I am tortured by thoughts and misery, and then let free by understanding and the depth of beauty. I am unstable, yet stable in my instability. I am consistent in my varying degrees of emotions. A spit-fire of desire brought to tender knees by only the touch of your words.

I am affected by all and none. This silence speaks to me. And the loudness hurts. I am the fury in your eyes. I am the heartache in your bosom. I am that raw pain that eats away at you. Time and again I rise, some mercenary to the many; unable to stop my vengeance; my need to take revenge, to beat the rhythms of my own soul down.

I am anger. I am rectification. I am renewal. I am lust. I am all this and more. And they merge and spin inside of me, claiming their take, and taking more than was offered. I eat of myself, devouring the agony.

If only I could find a way to balance the esteem of you with the esteem of my own being. If only I could find a way to stop the pain you feed me. Your naked trembling fear. To unchain the leash that takes me to the dark side of my own moon.

How I long to be the sun, the perfect sun shining overhead; and then with one touch, without consequence, to set free with flame this yearning for rescue.

~ Sam 3/20/13

334: I Am The River

I am not sure where my head space is. Or where my head is for that matter. I tend to ascribe to the Buddhist teachings that we don’t exist, as we can’t see ourselves in totality… Ever! And so, like the rest of me, my head has mysteriously disappeared.

Lately, some part of “Me” has been noticing I am much more aware of my environment. It seems that for decades, until now, I have skid past life and missed much of what happens around me on a day-to-day basis. Kind of like a first time ice-skater skidding on her butt so fast and so far that when she stands she doesn’t reckon she notices anything, except the full-heated rush of blood to the face, the cold butt, bruises, and torn pants.

Life seems like that for me, right now. Like I spent some four-decades plus skidding on my butt on the cold ice, only to just now discover that there are bleachers, chairs, and waiting areas, and even snack bars!

Today, everything is more clearer, as if, finally and at last, somehow I figured out I could step off of the ice, and even remove my ice skates. I cannot explain it any better.

Just recently, I am beginning to notice things I never ever did before. Patterns for starters, like the patterns in puddles, and patterns found in the streaks on the road after it rains, and the patterns in the shapes leaves make after falling. I am starting to notice patterns everywhere. I somehow managed to spend years not recognizing things that are right in front of my face.

I am going through many ah!ha!, look-at-that!-moments; It is similar to how I never understood about how a flower only lasts so long and then dies, even if it is in a pot of soil. I used to think a flower would last forever. It wasn’t until my twenties that I made the connection. While all around me flowers were blooming and dying. I just couldn’t see it or comprehend the process.

I have discovered, that at like faces, I cannot remember scenery. I cannot grasp the completeness of my surroundings. I am in a way in some type of visible matrix, in the center of an ever-changing energetic playing arena.

I cannot remember the order of houses when I drive down streets, the order of streets, the order of trees; I can’t remember where I saw the fire hydrant or where that one street was I once turned down. I just can’t. I have this incredible mind, but it cannot grasp the simple things, or at least not hold onto them.

I am finding great comfort in painting. Well, truthfully comfort isn’t the appropriate word, as the painting process itself is excruciatingly emotionally. So much energy and purging comes up. I go through cycle upon cycle of feeling, and have sensations of intense energy, both beneficial and exhausting. And no matter how hard I concentrate, I do not know what the painting will look like until it, the painting itself, is done.

As I have said early, when I paint, I am waiting for what is inside of the canvas to emerge. I feel this presence there just waiting to be uncovered and discovered.

And that is how I am seeing life now: That behind everything and everyone is this universal light and love waiting to be recognized and recovered, waiting to be held for its beauty alone.

I am much like a young child in so many ways, in so many “good” ways, able to see the same street again and again with new eyes.

Everything is shifting. Like the image of me in the mirror, my world is not stagnant.

Life to me is a river of sorts, and I am carried daily.

Instead of thinking I have fallen and am endlessly sliding on the cold ice, I can see I am very much alive, awake, and full of newness, the same newness that exists everywhere.

Interestingly enough, when I first delved into painting a few months ago, my angels (Holy Spirit) spoke to me and said with a camera I would be able to see images (spirits and souls) in my paintings.

This is truly amazing for me, as I am finding more and more “messages” and “signs” in my paintings. On this post I have shared one of my most recent paintings. It went through hours of transitions.

I love this painting. I see this as a spiritual being, me, in which essence and energy attaches. I am able to look at this and find peace. This painting is how I see the world. What I take in shifts and changes depending on the angle, my mood, the people and events around me, and the energy of the moment.

There is a beautiful energy here.

Gratitude is immeasurable. I am gratitude.

I exist as joy and thankfulness. And I embrace all parts of me, however imperfect or fabulous they are deemed.

I know, that like the images I am creating, in my painting, and through the limited scope of my mind and eyes and senses, that everything is always changing and shifting. There is no need to pitch down a tent upon myself and force, or, better yet, try to force myself to be this way or that way for this purpose or for that purpose; because soon, none of what is now will exist.

I am a river. My life is a river. Silly to try to capture a river.

Blessings and Light,
Sam

329: Oops! I did it again! Who the Beep Am I?

This little girl who lives inside me was crying today.

And through the tears, I started punishing myself saying, “This is ego; don’t go feeling sorry for yourself.”

Until I remembered that by focusing on ego, I simultaneous give ego power!

One of the things weighing heavy on my mind is this chameleon presto-chango act I do.

As chameleon, I have perfected several degrees of metamorphosis. I do this by mimicking someone else (real), a character (tv), or the stereotypical characteristics of a specific role (detective/when I was 8).

I’m quite good at imitation; I can pretty much take on any role to perfection.

It’s like a hidden talent. A type of hidden talent that seems like it would come in handy, like double-agent-Jacquelyn-Smith-from-Charlie’s-Angels handy. But it doesn’t. It just pretty much sucks.

Case in point, when I first moved to the state of Washington, two and a half years ago, I meet a spiritual teacher I admired.

Bingo! Bingo! Bingo! Some part of my subconscious brain screamed, upon the acquaintance of this lady; and then, without telling me, some part of me set about to transform. Not to be her exactly. I mean I didn’t want to live in her house or steal her husband; that’s kind of loony, fatal-attraction-psycho-scary. But a piece of me did mean to clone her using my body. Hmmmmm.

In regards to this one woman, I learned how to mimic her voice, how to dress like her, and then studied to become a spiritual counselor, just like her! Surprise. Turns out I make a pretty good spiritual counselor. And, even after I tossed her persona out, I kept her cool, mellow voice. Bonus!

I think this self-discovery of self acting out a role that is not actually true self, has to be one of the oddest sensations known to mankind. And you can't really debate me, unless you've experienced this; and if you have experienced this taking on of roles without your conscious knowledge, then I am certain you would agree with me about the oddness factor, anyhow.

For all you non-chameleon types, the presto-chango experience is akin to being possessed by another life form or like being in a drunken spell for several months, and wondering what you did during those black out moments. Only you never black out completely, just a part of your awareness does. Maybe it's like waking up and finding out you have had a third hand for a few months but didn't even see it or know you were using it.

How, with my keen observation and analytical skills, I could not see my very own self doing something so obvious confuses me.

I imagine, beyond my ability to see, somewhere inside of me is a tug-of-war, where the participants are fighting: This way; be like her, be like her! No this way; be like her, be like that!

Which leads me to today.

Lately,I have been having a lot of spiritual experiences.

I am woken about three in the morning to vivid spiritual lessons. I am still half-asleep, but very aware that the lessons are occurring. But before I awake fully, most of everything is erased. Sometimes it’s poetry, other times images, sometimes Biblical verse. Also, I have been having powerful prose just pour out of me. And I have felt grand moments of serenity, peace, and healing. All of this is divine, in and of itself; the only trouble is that a part of me, that subconscious part, has been latching on to a new role; that of guru, or seer, or prophet, or even martyr. And it doesn’t help that my mom, who is always overly proud of me, bless her heart, is sending me links to saints!

And it all kind of sucks big time. Because that role of a seer, unlike suburban bimbo bunko player, is super serious and frankly no fun at all. And yes, I did the suburban bimbo bunko player part well, until I realized the acting had just about crushed the whole of me.

Oh, poo poo, crap, yuck-o!I so don’t want to drive down another road of roles again! “No way!” she exclaims. She being me, and flipping off ego, to boot.

To get sucked down the hairy drainpipe of yet another role will kill me. And this one role of the perfect seer is just too much.

I was already too serious (INFJ, Idealist, Cancerian, Only child, Aspie)…label Queen I be. How could I get more serious?

Crap! Where am I?

Damn it! (ahhhhhhh)

I’m tired of this role playing. I’m just plain tired. I’m turning in my costumes for good. I don’t care if the rest of me protests. I just can’t live anymore pretending. And if my brain won’t listen to me, then I’ll just have to take measures into my own hands.

Today was a step in the right direction. I figured out what I’d been doing, again. And then did something to symbolically stake my claim for change. I am happy. I am relieved. And I am excited… Unless, of course I am a seer channeling Shirley Temple and perfecting the role of a twelve-year-old, which is pretty darn possible.

And just to think two days ago, I was wondering if since I’ve been married and had kids, if I could still join a nunnery, and if my kids could live there, too, and my husband could have those special type of visits. I figured, likely not.

Here’s what I did today! So twelve and so loving it!

Hugs and big juicy kisses ~ Sam

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