Lichen Sclerosis

If lichen sclerosis was a disease that caused a mans penis to shrink, rare or not, there would be massive funding and teams of doctors working to find a cure. But because it affects women, there is no funding, studies or research.

Lichen sclerosis has no cure and no known cause. It is a helpless, frustrating, cruel and painful disease. Start talking about it.

Repressed Memories and other musings

Hmmm, methinks I am starting to resemble one of those guests on Oprah who survived hideous and heinous abuse and lived to tell the tale. Shortly after calming and dealing with one calamity, another hydra rears its ugly head. Really? You have Got to be kidding me? How much fighting and fixing must one person endure?

My subject de jour is Repressed Memories, a term no one relishes or wishes to encounter. A repressed memory is when the body and brain become overwhelmed by some sort of traumatic event, either observed or experienced. The mind body simply cannot handle the emotions, pain and content and thusly shoves said memory into some dark recess of the psyche where it either sits, grows and explodes or quietly inflicts insidious injury and disease upon the body.

With me, basically, I had a number of "triggers" or events and incidents which somehow told such memories to surface and be dealt with. Yikes, there is nothing pleasant about dealing with R. Memories, she says as she shudders and recoils.

My triggers: I found a therapist, thus a safe place where I can reveal, I recently had close contact with my parents, my home life is calm and steady, I've grown frustrated with certain body illnesses and got tired of half my body being numb and distant.

Whilst I have always been "aware" of the physical and sexual abuse, like the layers of the onion, I had only dealt with the outer most ones. Sure enough, the fiercer, most painful events lie buried the deepest.

The only way to heal from RM is with alcohol, drugs or talking about it...in a sense pulling out and revealing the event and....so sorry to say...feeling what was surpressed. True, I am older now, more mature and have learned from each of the dozens of times that I have done this before....it still does not make it any easier.

I am, once again, fighting a horrendous battle with shield, sword and fist. I am physically and emotionally compromised as my world slowly turns upside down and shakes.

Wish me well

Autism or Abuse

What a tangled web. I'm trying to decipher and separate out my autism issues from my abuse ones. Ugh, seems like my Aspie symptoms were at 95% and abuse 5.... Now things have completely reversed themselves. Reality has gotten slipperyer and I need to get into gear. I have a good semblance of what I need to do to get healthier so I'm out of bed and up and moving.

In addition to get outside, I need to write about what ails me, otherwise it just sits and festers, that damn murky pond. I can't sit idly by and just examine and watch, I need to move through it, around and over it. I need to shrink it by carefully removing one clump at a time. It may not appear that I am hard at work, but I most certainly am.

Low Tide...after effects, unable to understand words

It's low tide and so much more is visible, in the mucky sand.

I often use words that I don't comprehend. Instead of my brain producing a verbal/ logical definition, I get visual images. For instance, the word "suffer" has cropped up frequently these days, but I don't understand the word. My brain gives me a visual scene....suffer is...being a small child of four, with my father looking down at me, tears streaming down my cheeks, his index finger pointed barely an inch from my face. He is angry, well, his teeth and lips are angry, which is what I "see", and his hot, angry breath is poofing all over my face. That is what I understand of the word, "suffer".

In the same light, "neglect" is empty cupboards, an empty house and parents with broken arms.

My abuse took many forms. I have been struggling with words to try and explain. The only two words that give an accurate...semblance to my childhood, are "severe" and "extensive". My therapist has been helping me sort things out. In my head, I was subjected to four different types of abuse:

Neglect- which means my daily basic needs were not met, ie, food, heat, clean clothing, basic nutrition and hygiene plus, somehow I think some degree of love or affection might be in there.

(I write this all out in hopes of getting a better handle on things. Trying to figure it all out here folks)

Daily Physical Abuse-which I categorize as the "mundane" and ordinary hitting with objects, hands, hair pulling, you know, the stuff most of my siblings and I endured on a daily basis.

Sexual Abuse- I think that one is self-explanatory...otherwise known as incest

Physical Abuse that was done to me, alone with my sadistic father, otherwise known as torture. Oh, I understand that word extremely well.

This latter category is the one currently afloat. I have quite an emotional outpouring regarding the fact that my dad choose to "play" torture games with me, alone, at night, in the basement. He...delighted in finding new ways to inflict pain upon my physical body. I have, among other things, cigarette burns all over my body from those days. Without need of even trying to look, I can honestly tell you I have a burn on my back, slightly below and to the right of my left shoulder blade. I know this...because in the remembering there is pain. The hurt will probably go away as the "psychological" wound heals. Experience tells me that it will get a little better, less painful, everyday for about five days. Just like a real wound, the memory burns and needs to heal in about the same amount of time. When the injury initially happened, I was forced to suppress and repress the pain. I did...now, I want to heal....one small wound at a time.

I'm fine...just laying low these days....watching the waves ebb and flo...playing in the muck.

Oh yeah, the years 7-9 I have termed the "dirt age". At that time my entire life turned upside down and I turned to smoot. The visual of how I saw my self: a small girl, covered in dirt, black smoot and slime, encased within a clear, kid-sized clear bubble...staring at my hands and knowing that I will never be clean. Severe and extensive bout sums it up. I'm working...I'm therapitizing. I'm fine

Aspergers and Super Powers

It really isn't far fetched in the least, to consider the abilities of Aspergians to be super. Think about it. I have superb hearing due to my oversensitivity, excess neurons, and can hear a pencil drop from, not just across the room, but from another room in my house. I have detected engine noises that have thoroughly surprised my auto mechanic because most NTs do not notice such subtle change in engine sound and vibration.

One of the reasons that I am an excellent massage therapist, is that I hear high pitched sound when I come to an area of the body that is injured. I detect old and new injuries alike. I can tell when appliances are "acting up", need repair or are on the verge of calling it quits, all with hearing alone.

Until I needed glasses for reading, I had exemplary eyesight, both direct and peripheral, detecting subtle movement even out of the corner of my eye. I have a photographic memory which gives me the super ability to recall rooms and places, in great detail, years later. I need only read a page of a book once and I immediately absorb the information...if it is a subject I am interested in. My focus is very narrow and I can easily observe the minute path of an ant that crosses my path as well as veering the car, ever so slightly, as to avoid running over wooly bear caterpillars meandering through the middle of the road.

As an artist, I have the ability to look at a color, even a complex one with many different shades, and replicate it. It's as if I see and my brain can pull apart and separate out each individual color. I can look at a small child under five and know exactly what age the little person is in months. This one isn't 100%, but I am sure I average 75% or more.

My touch receptors are always in high gear. I can pick up a piece of clothing at a second-hand store and feel the....characteristics and age of the previous owner. I don't look at is as psychic mumbo-jumbo, rather I simply have double the usual sensory interceptors and feel much, much more than most.

On the down side, I get a little insect bite and my whole body overreacts. A pinprick sometimes feels like a small stab wound. Back to the positives, hugs from loved ones are one of the greatest gifts as I feel them throughout my entire body, almost to my core. Another psychic sensation of premeditation would be when I come down with a cold or flu, I feel those little, minute physical changes hours or days before I even look sick.

My overly zealous sense of smell allows me to smell the coming of a rainstorm and tell exactly what is cooking at the neighbors house, if their window is open. Standing in a crowd, it's easy to figure out who is wearing the perfume, baby powder and heavy sweat. Figuring out when the garbage needs to be taken out, when the bird cage needs cleaning or if something has "died" and gone bad in the refrigerator needn't be done by sight alone.

Ahh, the smell of Spring, Summer , all the seasons herald the changing of the seasons with ease. I can walk through the neighborhood and pick out individual flower species. Lilac, alyssum, lily and rose all beckon me with their sweetest of scents.

Looking at the relatively average abilities of someone with Aspergers, one can...most easily say, Aspies have Super Powers!

Sitting on the Fence

Fence-sitter: someone who takes a position of neutrality or indecision and therefore lives in a state of confusion and ambivalence

I am not a born fence-sitter but I decided to try it out as the situation warranted it. I abhor sitting on the fence, observing action all around me, being stagnant and mostly, getting all those man splinters up my ass. Really, I was not made to sit on such contraptions.

I would rather throw myself onto a smoldering fire than be forced to sit still and wait for someone to come put out the flames. By nature, I am black or white. Fence sitting is am all-grey, patient sport.

You can't say that I failed to try something new, different and vagrantly uncomfortable. Did it. Done.

Now on to real living.

Speechless...Survivor of Sexual Abuse, Incest

I was, most effectively, rendered speechless by my autism and by my father. They both stole my voice to the point that I was a silent afterthought, the quiet one in the corner, back turned and all but invisible. The mere idea of speaking up for my self never existed...till now.

I shudder to think of the cavern where I had to stuff all my screams and squash all my thoughts. Words piled thick and high packed into every minuscule crevice and pinprick. How quickly I believed and was taught about my sheer worthlessness. Oh, I actually did have some redeeming value but it was in my body, not my voice. A thousand threats, a hand at the throat and hands covering my mouth quashed and destroyed my little voice...all I was left with was the ability to cry, albeit silently, to myself.

I wonder about what I wish I could have said, would have said, if I had been baled or allowed. Father made me be stifled and mother sure as hell enforced it. I was a walking zombie being pushed one Way and then the other. I had no worth. It's sad how an adult, a parent can maim their own child so.

My father always so angry and raging that the entire room would feel hot, sick and on fire. I comprehended the word "enraged" at a very young age. I spent my time trying to quickly move away from the fire and not get stepped on or caught. I practiced invisibility with little success. I hid within my self. Maybe I knew words, inside...but mostly I drew pictures, doorways, tunnels and escape routes. I tried not to walk through my room, the cavern of words and screams lest I go deaf from the noisy din. My hands grew tired as I pressed them so tightly over my ears.

Silence, ah, silence was to be avoided lest I hear my self and all that which had to remain unspoken, all that was stuffed within.

Torture was a sadistic game, my father used to play. He found a multitude of ways to inflict pain, including the rubber hose. His best one, one of his favorites was the rubber mallet. It leaves no marks and inflicts bone jarring pain. I distinctly remember him smashing toes so hard, I could barely walk. Worse yet was when he slammed the heels of my feet so the pain shot clear up my spine. He thoroughly enjoyed finding new ways to keep my silent.

He broke and busted my body and stole my voice. I'd like to think there is a special kind of hell for people like that.

No longer will I be silent, for silence and denial perpetuates and protects perpetrators. If we stay silent, they will just continue. I will speak of incest and sexual abuse. I will not cower in a closet with hand over mouth anymore.

Do not give power to the words by refusing to speak them.

Hear me!!!!!!!!!!!

Acheiria...momma has a dream

Is it really so much to ask? I wish for my son to be able to write with a semblance of ease. Born minus his writing, dominant hand, our family struggles to make this one, simple task feasible! Is that really so much to ask? I cringe in frustration and slight disbelief. Okay, major disbelief that my son be denied such a mundane, necessary function.

Daily, we have been working and figuring on ways to make this happen. The current strategy in the forefront is the new "oppositional post" prosthetic that allows his left palm to hold a pencil.

The next step is to figure out how to affix or secure a writing surface, whether it be a paper affixed to the wall or a dry erase board on the fridge because son lacks....hmmm, doesn't sound right. Younglink has an anomalous arm and it cannot turn at wrist or elbow. Try writing without being able to manipulate your wrist. It is a mighty challenge. Thus, we work on figuring out what type of writing surface we can manipulate upon which Younglink may write with ease. The surface item would be used at home and at school, when he becomes comfortable using little helper at school in front of his classmates. First, we have to brainstorm n that project.

Once that is complete, diligent daily writing will be needed to strengthen the muscles in his little-used left arm. In addition, we have secured another "team member" from the school special ed staff, who will be specifically address Younglinks self-esteem with his helper.

Why are we doing all this? One, my boy needs writing skills to complete homework. Two, he is very much afraid that kids will laugh at him if he uses his prosthetic. Hmmm, you know, he has spent his whole frickin' life being stared at, so I see where he is coming from. Three, writing is a basic life skill, a no-brainier...who would have ever thought it could be this, This extremely complicated!!!Really????

Anyway, Partner and I are committed. We work on this every single day. I hope we are making progress......sigh

More Spring Growth and Insight

I marvel that I can step outside, into the sudden 77 degree weather sans any external protection. Gone are the cold, dark days of winter where the mere thought of venturing out gave me chills. Then, I required layer upon layer. Now......it's just me and my skin. Every instance when I step out the door, a hundred new sensations along with insights that softly blow and twirl all around me.

The out doors has grown less harsh, more friendly. As if I walk out the door, into the arms of a warm friend that envelopes me.

I don't need all the protective devices once necessary. The times of living in perpetual cold and longing have passed. I've cast off the old and the useless. There is nothing left to hide from or be afraid of.

The storm has passed. I am alone, on the rock.

Confusion

I wish I knew what was right and what is wrong. Wish I could tell the good guys from the bad. How do you know you are doing enough? When to stop? When to concede? When to fight?

What are the signs, symbols and guideposts that say acceptance, try and fix or give up?

That whole serenity prayer is interesting...but how does one know?

When you can only see as far as your outstretched hand, how do you know you are going in the right direction or down a dead end?

How do you know when to hold tight, when to loosen the line and when to let it go?

How do I know when I should stand, take a step, lie down or kneel?

Days sometimes reek of confusion so I choose inertia but even inertia can be problematic.

How do you know when to knock, just stand at the door, walk away or burn that bridge? How do you accept that there are no answers only more questions, summations and guesses?

How can you tell when it's your fault, his fault, their fault or no ones to blame?

How do you know that you are trying too hard? When your heads bleeding? How many attempts do you make, to fix a broken vessel? To change what you have done for years?

Where are the signals? Give me a sign

I have more questions than answers. I don't know that anyone else, has the answers I seek.

Sigh

You Wonder

Every time I come down with an illness or ailment, I wonder what I did wrong to cause it. I blame my self for either doing something wrong or not doing enough right. Bad things happen. I stand arms outstretched and eyes shut tight, perpetually rolling dice feet firmly planted on the world I created.

I did this. I made this happen. I deserve to suffer because...because...I let that happen.

I love to listen to the night as no clouds are in my way. All clear, the riverboat captain says as the seven year old girl is trapped on the boat, the stinking, smoke belching boat that is steaming full speed down the river, into the rapids. Even from such a great distance, she can hear waves pounding on jagged rocks. Oh, she knows her fate alright. Don't let her fool you, she ordered this boat.

I thought it would be a fun adventure...

Slamming into the rocks, heaving and hoeing, engine still running full steam. Splinters and paddles flying up in the air, no sound save her own soul weeping away. And then came the thunder, the caconic bombs and the big man, angry, chases her around with a broom, no a paddle in his tight fisted hand. And she quakes as she shivers as she runs in the spray, in the rain, in the cascade of her life breaking apart.

She stops, just to breath, to listen, to hear, searching for the telltale footprints that always stalk at night, when it gets quite, before dawn breaks, and she freezes, is frozen, choosing the death of paralytic fear over feeling such pain. She becomes one with the numb...losing her self to save her so and she crashes both hands together as if a wish might break the spell of this dream, the remembrance of how her life crashed, caught fire, sank and burned...with her mistake. Remember, she ordered the boat set sail.

At night, even the trains are muffled, soft, distant and unobtuse.

Just a little torture...concrete jungles

Today was a more unusual day as we ventured two hours to the Big City so little guy could get his prosthetic custom fit. My, what a jungle the city be! Sensory Overload would be a serious understatement.

For one thing, peoples don't talk or make gestures. They honk their horn if they want you to know something. They hit the horn to signal their arrival, to tell you to quickly move this way or that, or to announce their mere presence. The actual vibrational sound, of said horn, is set at a decibel level to startle and quickly illicit a response. Yes sir, I jumped and startled every single time I heard that harsh, short cronk. Horns are meant to annoy and perturb, I get that. They work. I heard more car horns in one two hour period than I heard all last year in my small town of seven thousand.

The sirens of ambulance, police and fire rip-roared every five minutes or so, causing much alarm and consternation as I craned my neck searching for the source and direction of the emergency. I always felt like I was in the way, yet I was standing still watching, observing these furious, frantic dances.

I secured a brilliant, albeit claustrophobic vantage point as we were sequestered in a small room with big window, two stories up in the down of town. Most amusing was the watching and twittering of people scampering this way or that, always rushing to something mighty important. I observed the women in high heeled shoes as every step looked as if to be painful, body contorted in an unnatural stance as their eyes scanned the littered concrete for traps, gaps, cracks and gum.

Exhilarated were the students, dressed in black scrubs being freed from their studies for a spell or two. Yakking and gabbing, they caressed the crusty and crude out-of-doors as if suddenly freed from a mighty, stark prison. They scampered and skipped, not a high heel in sight, not even aware of the pitfalls of crack and gum.

In the cars, the mundane vessels of personal transport were the chewers and eaters who drank as they talked on their cell phone and smoked. Nervous glances at stoplights checking for competition, curiosity and safety. I marveled at the colors of the cars and the peoples, all shades from light to dark and back again.

The constant sound, flashing of lights and horns, movement of people's and wheels caused me great gratitude...that I nary live there. It is no wonder I spent so many years ailing. The environment is Aspie toxic.

The Sounds of Spring

The transforming of the seasons, from one to the next, is truly a miraculous series of intricately timed events effecting the hundreds of living, breathing things. Somehow the crocuses feel the gentle warming of the earth first. Each and every bulb feels the same sensor go off at the identical time. The synchronicity is rather amazing.

Species dictates timing as the maples are the earliest to bud. There is one in the east part of the yard with the other being due west, yet they hear the same beating of the drum. Mighty oak and his two dozen minions, in my yard, all wait, holding their breath, holding back until everybody else has burgeoned , lest someone steal their price for being last. The pines just be happy with every needle dancing in the wind and caressing sunshine, gently splaying as they toss.

My ears perk up, alight and twitch searching for the songstresses of the sky. One dozen, count them, 12 Sandhills cranes with 6 foot wingspans traversed the sky nary 170-200 feet above my head, low on a plane all their own, searching for a thermal to spiral on, to rise and soar to the heights.

Orange, chunky robins call late into the darkness and alert all to morning with incessant songs. The chickadees have gone, gone, gone, replaced by pale goldfinches praying the sun will turn their grey back to gold. Woodpeckers sound, rap and attempt to attract a mate. Their hollow empty drumming still carrying well throughout the leafless limbs.

Warm and caressing is the soft, sporadic bits of wind that flow and lightly scurry, in no hurry. The powerful blue of the sky has scattered all the clouds into oblivion. Leaves rustle and tussle knowing their dehydrated forms are no longer needed for cover and they soon will meet their maker. The lawnmower silently trembles with anticipation, for Ol Blue loves nothing more than to chew leaves and spit them to the curb.

The green, green carpets of moss spreading, growing, gulping up the surface in a mad dash to beat the leaves and overtake the soil before the grass even has a chance.

I can stand, feel and observe dozens of tricklings of transformation taking place within my own yard. Spring is truly miraculous. Every single thing is changing before my eyes and ears.

We Look So Normal...disbelief

There are pluses and minuses to being an Aspie. One positive, we can pass for NT. One negative, we can pass for NT. It has been most interesting to observe my two sons and their disabilities. Eldest, my Aspie has had a much rougher, more challenging time than his younger brother. Eldest needed much more attention, understanding and modifications, but, he looked so darn normal. His superior intelligence helped him get the grades but further pushed others expecations higher. One can only see his challenge if they engage him in social interaction or ask him what an emotion is.

Teachers especially, failed to understand and at more than one school, he was relentlessly punished for not being able to speak, for making odd noises, and for being unable to perform like the others students due to his sensory issues.

Younglink, on the other hand, who was born minus one hand, gets most people's to fall all over him offering assistance, help that he sorely does not need or want. Whilst it be true, he does have to tolerate stares, curiosity, questions and the imbeciles, overall, his journey is easily within his reach. He was born equipped with a vibrant, social personality. He disarms all with his charm and tenacity.

As an Aspie mom, with two challenged boys, I have had a most unique perspective. Things are not always as they appear.

A few people, whom I have shared my autism with, have been in utter disbelief. I have gone from a very low functioning person, to the being I am today. I am quite high-functioning and frequently, mostly, offer no physical signs that I am different.

Conversations and small talk flow with some ease these days. I am no longer consumed by overwhelming chaotic emotion. I dress fairly typical and have learned to walk amongst the others, blending in. One way someone would notice my difference is if we were engaged in a long conversation preferably about a passionate, emotional subject. The other avenue of discovery would be to see the real me that I keep hidden. Ask about my social interactions in any given week. The answer would be 3-4 conversations of five minute durations or less. All my favorite activities require solitude or being within my domicile with family.

It is quite a dichotomy. I'm not singled out or made fun of, as long as I keep my mouth shut. People don't stare at me unless my paranoia is flaring. When I bow out of engagements due to stress or shutdown, others may get suspicious of my autism, more likely they'll just figure it's a ruse.

The people I have shared my Aspergers with have been stellar. I need help with small, everyday things like filling out forms, writing checks, dispelling confusion. When I need help, if someone does not already know of my autism, I tell them. The response has been warmer and friendlier than expected. I believe it s human nature to want to help one another.

I hope my writing , this post has helped:)

Now I dwell, as I remember

Some of the long hidden, shoved aside pain has surfaced. I'll keep telling myself it's a good thing as I weep. I won't deny myself healing by trying to hide and cover my pain. I like to share my pain, or at least write about it. It be my medicine.

Rape is a...special kind of pain. It tears apart and diminishes self, mightily. I am looking at things long ago hid. I always knew when the attacks started, logically, just never allowed my self to feel them.

I don't like basements and workbenches especially at night. I don't like black and silver radios with broken antennas turned on to cover the noise.

It took me...quite awhile..to be willing to remember. Must be that whole, "I'm in a safe place now and got support thingy." Its okay to remember...now.

I'd complain to my mom that I wasn't feeling well and that I hurt here and there. She'd take me to the doctor, never let him examine me anywhere but my ears and throat. So, I started getting strep throat every few months. She never left me alone with that doctor. She knew I might talk...about the things in the night.

Almost overnight, I was forced to be more sequestered. I was let outside to play, much less frequently. You see, I wanted to talk. I actually remember..now...searching...wanting to find someone who would believe me because I figured out it wasn't normal. It was wrong,

I laugh, because I never rembered trying to find someone to listen before this moment. I actually tried saving my self.

My dad was infuriated...a mixture of sweet talking and threats. That was my childhood...see it going up in smoke? And he would smoke.....and he would burn me. Punishment.retribution. He always tried to cover his tracks. And it worked.i could be bought, silenced and had. Night after night, more often than naught.

I'm sure to have nightmares tonight. Oh well...healing happens. Thanks for reading. Thanks for believing. Finally, finally, I speak

Surviving childhood abuse

There are some things in this world that are wrong, and some things that are heinous. Anyone who rapes a child, is the lowest form of scum. They do not make prisons cruel and inhumane enough for child molesters, that is, those few who actually end up being arrested.

This sadistic behavior, the odds of a child being sexually abused is 1 in 4 for girls and 1 in 6 for boys. One out of every five children is sexually abused. That number is far too high and the practice of looking the other way for fear of addressing the issues has gone on way too long.

It's time to speak up, step out of the closet and put our collective foot down. The more we talk about it, the less of a stigma and secret it becomes.

I was an innocent, vulnerable 7 yr old, when my father started raping me. Not only does sexual abuse destroy a child's sense of self, physically but it erodes away their emotions, sense of safety, security, trust and often, their future.

The molester is a destroyer who hurts a child in The worst possible way. That child is forced to spend time hiding not only from the horrendous physical pain but from themselves. They quickly grow to hate and despise their own bodies. They learn to keep secrets, keep hidden and that it's not the crime that is heinous, but themselves. The abused, the small ones, believe that this pain they brought upon themselves. The abused are the ones full of shame and remorse, not the perpetrator.

Sometimes it is so easy to spot the grown ups who were the victims. They carry themselves with worthlessness visible to the naked eye. Some seek comfort in food, in obsessions, addictions, in hoarding and hiding.

No one probably ever had an inkling, that I was being molested by my own father. Who does stupid shit like that? It's called incest. I remember when I first heard that word. Omg, I was nine years old and a couple schoolmates were talking behind me and stoically, I listened. They were laughing about it in disbelief. Quite suddenly and dramatically, I realized what was going on in my house, with my father...it was wrong.

Memories flood in moving pictures.

So I go home and tell my mother. I ask her if she had ever heard of that word. The look on her face, a mad mix of awareness, bewilderment and concern. I was sent to my room until dad got home. I heard them arguing in the bedroom. My fathers vehement denial. Yeah dad, I was just making it alll up.

Mom believed him. In tears and visible shaken, she told me she believed him. I was never to speak about it again. I kept telling her different facts, in a rather logical, perplexing way, but her ears shut, her eyes got distant and I was punished, sent to my room.

I remember the horrid feeling, I got that day, when I realized I had tattled and the nighttime excursions would not end. Night after night of being dragged out of my bed, to the basement, would surely continue.

I remember feeling....how I had lost my mother...that day. It was my one chance, and I blew it. See, that ol blame thingy creeps back.

Mom didn't believe. Dad kept raping me. Life just got a whole lot worse.

It's no fun being hurt, being helpless, being raped by a parent. It can fuck up your whole life and way of thinking.

I'm in therapy. I am getting better. I am healing. I release the past. I have forgiven my rapist, by my choice. Don't live and perpetuate secrets. Tell someone. And if that person doesn't believe you, tell another and another, find someone who will believe.

Spring, time to adjust to the season

Everything is born anew, in springtime northern Michigan. In one days time, the temperature changed 35 degrees to a high of 75. The windows were virginally opened and I ventured out sans my parka.

The air is incredibly strange, heavy, thick and full of warmth. Everything smells of foreign or forgotten scents. There is an odd openness and deep sense of overexposure. It promises to be days before my body and my autism adjust to this abrupt change of scenery.

Mostly I ponder, which is Aspieslang for processing and analyzing. I have to pull out my old bag of tricks and strategies to help me along. Spring is an old dance with a new partner. Once again, I am not the same person, in the same position or temperament that I was but all of six months ago.

My life seems to change, grow in leaps every few months or so. I'm a brand new critter trying to figure out how to prowl.

I think I may be photo/ sun sensitive as my face has broken out into a horrendous, rash the past couple of days. This may be due to my medication. I will be discussing this troubling symptom with my doctor later this week as even minimal sun exposure lights my face up in an unpleasant bumpy condition with deep red discoloration.

I slowly adjust when my external world transforms. I have to take little steps each day and reorientate to my environment. Today, it was brief forays into the yard and this whole open window, strange air thingy. Tomorrow it is another step or two.

As an aside, I am up at midnight spending a couple of hours cooking cabbage rolls. My recent dietary changes have left me mighty hungry and quite willing to spend my late night hours securing vittles.

Sleep well. Be good to yourself. Allow others to help you, as much as you help them.

The Problem with being a Rescuer

In analyzing this whole rescuer scenario, I see a major problem. If one holds fast to the virtues of rescuing, then to allow anyone to help them (rescuer) would be an outward sign of failure. The rescuer, by very definite of title and role, cannot let anyone in to Their problems or issues. Outside help may be offered but no one is allowed inside the inner sanctum of saving, everyone else but themselves.

It sounds like quite a conundrum, because who doesn't need assistance even once in awhile? Doesn't ones shoulders simply ache with the pleasing pressure of others burdens plus their own?

I remember how insanely difficult it was to even acknowledge my troubles and inner turmoil, much less having the courage to voice them.

Hmm, i finally reached my breaking point and really had little choice but to hold out my out stretched hand. Everything crashed at once. Now, I am in learning mode, working on balance.

I wore my previous title well and with honor. Now, I have retired the tiara. Helping is a two way street. I can travel in both directions.

Oldest Daughter Syndrome, The Resucer

During my lifetime, I have come across a handful of extremely useful rescuers, who all happened to be oldest daughters in their family. I, myself, am the oldest daughter in my brood and can heartily attest to the fact that I was my mom's #1 helper. If she had any problems or stress, I was the one she hauled out of school to fix things.

Oldest D's are excellent at fixing any problem and keeping the peace, to the exclusion of their own happiness. Having a rescuer as a friend or mate is ideal, for the other party. Whilst having someone bend over backwards to help me and meet all my needs is a truly wonderful gift, it is not fair. Support is a fabulous thing but fairness trumps feeling good. Rescuers choose to get the short end of the stick as they only find value in themselves from helping others.

When my mother stopped needing my, after I had moved away, I lost all of my value. Thus I picked up a husband who needed a mighty rescuer. After exhausting all my resources and falling into physical and emotional degradation, I had to call it quits. I could not fix him. At that point, I was so rundown that I could not even fix meself. I lost and it felt like the ultimate of failures. My self-worth had eroded, atrophied and completely disappeared.

So, I tried again. I found jobs that would allow me to help others. I became a nurses aide and once again, was riding high on my value as a person, after all, isn't that why my parents had me, to help them? For years, I had no sense of myself as a person unless I was helping someone else. Looking back, I walked the wrong path of thinking. Now, I try something new.

This road is shiny, new and completely unused, but I am going there. It is a road whereby I am the only being of any importance and my needs come first. Time to figure out what those are exactly. Ahh, a ticking clock, I must examine this more closely, for I am at a complete loss as to what makes me tick. A few steps farther, a blossoming tree with indiscernible fruit. Say, what is it that I desire to bring to fruition? Another one of those, "this needs a much closer look."

The path is unkempt with rogue boulders, overgrowth and brush. I'll have to brandish me machete, if this is the way I choose to go.

Being the oldest daughter meant being on call 24 hours a day. It meant examining and triaging the wounded, calming the neurotic, prostituting the sexually deviant, helping and caring for everyone else. I became nothing, absolutely nothing, unless I had a problem to fix. No more.

I owe it to myself to find out who I am, other than what someone else needs me to be.