I worry that my life sounds too strange; too many quirks, and weird events. James Frey, apparently didn’t think his life which was so much more decadent than mine was decadent enough. Couldn’t get into his memoir; unlike Augusten Burroughs’s Running with Scissors which I devoured in several wonderful hours.
Sometimes I feel like a Lifetime movie of the week. Hey, you want rape? Here I am. You want an abusive live in lover; there was Zachary, want this? Want that? Here I am. Central Audio Processing Disorder? I’m one of the best listeners I know but I miss words and whole phrases.
I write about my problems and how they were blamed on my having been adopted. Damn it, they weren’t. I truly liked being adopted. No, I was used to it; I always knew so it wasn’t a big deal. But some many people tried making it into one. The easy answer; go for it when nothing else fits.
Wasn’t going to blog today or tomorrow. But the pain med is kicking in, so…If you haven’t read the two posts below, read them first. have nothing to do with this, but…
I have had an interesting life; sometimes a great one; sometimes it plain sucks. Almost always a difficult one. I am the Princess of high anxiety and panic attacks; I am the person my mom always called “my own worst enemy.” I am the person who went to grad school and finished with a 3.8 cum and an “outstanding evaluation,” and didn’t think it was good enough.
Want to hear something really really strange? The two jobs I had been offered were defunct due to Newt’s Contract with America; too many therapists for the elderly already, that’s me being ironic, and the clinics had closed almost before they were opened. I went to Europe for most of the summer and when I came back was too ashamed to go to the placement office at school. Though my cum wasn’t perfect; I had a reputation as an intellect and great writer. I wasn’t either. At this moment I don’t understand or feel shame; tomorrow may be way different.
I was damn good: sharp and could always see something that made people in awe of me. Aspergers can be a great gift if you know how to properly harness it. Sometimes I amazed myself with my ability to do, and to see what others could do best and guide them to it. I could only be a manager because I was incapable of doing grunt work, or much paperwork unless I understood exactly why it had to be done. Not that I knew I had it; suspected for a long long time. All the other diagnoses seemed off; just a bit.
I’m known, even in my corner of cyberspace for asking good questions. I ask good questions because I don’t see the obvious answer. More usually I see it but can’t understand why another better system isn’t being used. Sometimes I need rules; most times I break them, and not too many bosses have complained.
Going to grad school was a horrible idea; it took my belief in me away. Yes I know: A 3.84 cum and an “outstanding” field placement final evaluation isn’t shabby. I felt worthless.
I put so many obstacles in the way of going to the damn placement office because of some misguided shame, the one defense without a positive side, that I became paralyzed. There were some other problems that seem laughable in retrospect. Will save them for another time.
I coordinated some projects for a non profit organization. Too easy: interviewing, researching, training volunteers. It was so me. Then why did I go back to the nursing home?
The rules had changed; most of the forms were different. I was a good social worker; I knew how to help the residents. But my supervisor hated my intakes. I went into depth. I forgot that we had changed into a factory. My death summaries were always unacceptable. How could you screw up a report on a life,or shell of one, in the home? Have no idea, but somehow I always did. “Resident was bed bound in a persistent vegetative state.” “Resident would go to the beauty shop once a week. She was an active participant in almost all activities which she would go to with her very close friend Vera. Her family was supportive and would visit her weekly.”
Had to make both of the above into a full page. I would fill the second with the wrong details; and nobody could ever explain how to make the first into a full page; family and/or friends would visit or not visit. Somehow the details about her life before the stroke were always wrong. Yet I had always gotten them right before. Hadn’t lost a zillion brain cells.
Paralysis or doing too much were familiar modes to me. I felt so much shame and yet I have excelled in almost all my jobs and my three careers. People sought me out; they wanted to know me. I never truly understood why.
I was the worst waitress in American history, but the rock stars and truck drivers who frequented the all night coffee shop I worked in gave me incredible tips because I was pretty, and flirtatious. But I never knew that I was a good flirt. I never knew so many wonderful things about me.
I saw but I didn’t see; I heard but I didn’ t hear. I kind of knew that I was pretty because so many people told me so. Friends would tell me that people would stare at me; I never noticed. Or if I did, I thought my blouse was open and my breasts were exposed. Could have happened; I was oblivious.
Some of you know how obsessive I am; my real life friends will be happy to provide anecdotes about having to drag me away from the computer or just my apartment
This post is hard because despite my apparent risk taking, and my flaunting rules and stuff, I am scared that you will think I’m damaged goods; or you won’t like me.
I think I have written about how I have always felt half a beat off. Literally. I can sway to music; look good dancing, but I can’t learn the steps. There is much that I can’t learn; I have made my peace with that for there is much that I can learn.
Probably originated the term “thinking outside the box,” or somebody coined it for me. Damn I couldn’t even color in the box. That was a learning disability. I have many. Sheet I would have pictures and images in my blog, if only I could properly upload them.
When I read Queen Bitch’s post on her nephew with Aspergers, I left a long comment, and then thought I just outed myself. Must put it in Courting. When QB said that her nephew wouldn’t give answers because they were so obvious, I knew that I had found a boy like me.
Obvious answers; the one answer not in the test; standing too far from people, not understanding exactly what personal space means, not getting up to help clear the dinner table at a party because somethings off, something I still can’t fully explain.
For every two people who found me weird, three found me exciting and enticing. Something about a pretty face, a body in perpetual motion. I have almost always had more male friends than women friends; they seemed less judgemental or maybe just obviously enjoyed my company more. the ADHD? Probably spun from the real problem. The only other real problem is the learning disabilities, and they too are probably offshoots.
I am lucky; my family was better than incredible. Though my dad “only wants you to be perfect,” and that didn’t help. The man was a CPA; New York City checker, yes, and ping pong champion, in his wild and crazy youth.
No, it was I who had the wild and crazy youth, and my parents stood and watched, happy that I who had been so miserable from 10-15, was happy , but scared for the uncharted territory that I was in. My parents knew that I had problems even when experts would say “adoption,” or “lazy” or ‘borderline cerebral palsy. My parents were amazing; my father told me how glad he was that I was rebelling against him; otherwise I would have rebelled against the world. Didn’t take the fun out of it; though much of the time I was panicking over something or another.
Pot made me more normal; I could think like other people. It wasn’t abusive or self medicating as much as it was learning how to socialize. I’m not talking about socializing with stoners or slackers though I had a fondness for certain boys who were…
I rode a bike, swam, skated and ice skated from an early age; I had and have small motor problems. In the aptitude tests in high school, I scored in the top five percent in everything but the bottom five percent in spatial relations. Somehow I find that funny. But I’m organizationally illiterate. Until recently I couldn’t spell; now that Google has an amazing spell check, I’m getting lazy. I understand the difference now, and I see why I can’t learn to spell some words.
Don’t let anybody tell you computers are bad; if they had been around in this form earlier. No, I can’t let myself go there. They organize me, and help me be able to write in so many more ways than a word processor, and a spell check. They keep the document. Gmail does just about everything a clerk would do, and damn did I make a bad clerk. Actually I never had a clerical job; I made sure to stay away from them no matter what my dad said.
I felt responsible for my boyfriends problems because I added so many of my own. I never really got why any guy would want to stay with me after learning how irresponsible and weird I was. I have been the opposite of irresponsible for more years than I want to count. Still weird, and that’s fine with me.
In the 80’s I took writing clases and wrote about a girl, her three best friends and Manhattan. Half the time they were doing something Manhattany, the other half the time talking about actually doing things. My teachers all urged me to submit them. But did I?
There’s so much more that needs to be said, but I hadn’t planned on writing today. I’m spent, and my keyboard is in slow mode. Think I don’t sound Aspergery enough. That’s a thing about Aspergers; it often doesn’t show. It’s not just the brilliant tax attorney with a billion twitches nor is it Autism. It’s just enough to screw a person up because “ya seem so normal; when ya don’t seem spacey, weird, retarded, and more.”
Me, I’m a voice of Aspergers, and I was the Princess of the night, Princess of Lamna Signa Delta at my first college. If you know that combined frat/sorority, you most probably knew me. Unless your friends thought up something similiar and oh so clever. Feel blessed to have begun college at a time when I could just be me and be accepted.
Can’t be bitter about the past; have to plan and look to the future. While society has to change its views; I don’t have the luxury of sitting around for 20 years waiting for that.
Now that I truly understand what the problem is, I can deal with it. Tune in next week or in a month for an update. Don’t want to make this a blog about adoption and Aspergers though that would be a catchy title.