The Sky is Falling

...said the spider to the fly



Sometimes I get words, phrases that pop up out of nowhere and I am clueless as to what my subconscious is trying to tell me. So I grab the words, fling onto paper...or blog... And extrapolate.

The visual... I see myself standing on a small, almost too tiny rock, in a vast, wide-open desert. I am barefoot. My jeans are tattered, almost shredded in parts and the sky, the flat two-dimensional sky, white and azure blue, has broken into crisp, sharp-edged, puzzle piece shaped chunks. It falls all around me with varying thuds and smashes.

No idea what it means.
Things change. People grow, evolve. Maybe the past is just a paste we use to seal the cracks on the wall. Maybe knights really do ride white horses. Maybe the ground really Is solid if I step offside this rock. Maybe the sky has always been falling and I'm just now seeing what is light and right.
Old, false ideals fall away.
Maybe is time to see myself, in the light, in the absence of light.
I am my own mirror. I can see my reflection, now.
I'm not who they tried to make me be.
I'm just me....no apologies, no curses, no put downs. Maybe I'm okay as I am.
Outstretched one arm, one hand, feeling for the warm glow in the dark
Bottled up emotations and stringy random thoughts that break and coalesce.
I stand in a large room. Fragments, ribbons of thought-forms all around...like a library where someone took the books and cut each into small paper chapters, sentences, words. Afloat in the air on invisible strings, quivering with the slightest breeze or breath or blow.
Fascinating.
I reach out, ever so slightly and gentle grasp the frail parchment...."Acknowledge" me......I read, I hear, I release and let it soar to a higher point. Once read, understood, let go, comprehend, I understand.
"for the tiger knows her own tail". "Hold still...hold tight....some things, never let go".
I could watch the papers ebb and gently flow for hours.


But I'm pulled back to the desert. I outstretched my arms to my sides. Night rises with white, radiating stars and it swirls all around me, the darkness of speckled midnight blues. It does not engulf me...for I am a vibrant figure of brilliant white. The night embraces me, respects me and we stand together.
I belong here. I am...in place.
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Cast no shadow...leave no doubt

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

I'm starving

Every now and then...I realize how much I am starving. Sometimes it's when I'm furiously rifling through the kitchen pantry for food....but that is not my true hunger.
I used to feel guilty every time the furnace turned on...and I'd have to wager whether or not my physical comfort was worth a few more pennies.
I grew so used to suffering, I didn't even realize there was anything but...discomfort.
It's useless to think, pray, say that you need or want something, some feeling, emotion, touch, comfort...when previous asking produced empty stares and eyes of disdain.
Maybe comfort is the right of every human....maybe I'll believe that...some day.
I'm starving. I am pretty sure I have always been....maybe it's okay to say now.
Maybe this is progress??

Making friends...or not...the state of the people

One of the biggest drawbacks of being Aspie and Abused is...when I feel the most turmoil, I am least able to connect with anyone outside myself. This is that proverbial lose-lose situation I have forever experienced. When I need the most help, I am least capable of going out and finding it.
I love carrying double-edged swords, that swing both ways.
Autism and PTSD have robbed me of one of the things I most value...my ability to work, to financially support myself. Relying on someone else Sucks, always has, always will. Being helpless has never suited me but is the only cloth I've been given. A double bind that never stretches or breaks..its always there. And it always hurts. Its one of the times where I rekindle my father hatred....and question the whole fairness bullshit.
THIS just does not seem right no matter which way you turn it, toss it or smash it against the wall. I wrestle and fight it only to give up in realitys light. Not being able to work is always failure.
I don't know why so much was ripped and taken from me with such vehement, violent force and finality.
Obviously, or so I've heard, I did nothing to deserve this, but yet I live in fates slobbering stench.
You think I'd be used to the orphan tale and being forever unloved and uncared for...but no. Every now and then it's just more pronounced.
Some things...you just never get over.
My hands are tied....my hands have always been tied.


I'm not in therapy enough but I can't change that either. Everything costs money and I have none.
I wanted to hang up on the social security worker who called to tell me, short of an appeal and court order, I will never receive disability...I was upset and couldn't respond, but I forced out an "can I call you back?" Unable to process. Everything in me screamed "hang up" so this strange woman wouldn't hear me cry, but no....I had to comply and push my fucking upset self to cry and mutter into the phone. Yeehaw, just another fucking daily hurdle to jump over.
God, I hate so many things about my ailments and "condition" and I'm so fucking helpless to change any of them.
Well, I've reached my personal best. This is just how it's going to be...probably forever. Wish me well as I sit in the rocker, staring absently out the window at the ever present storm.

They Don't Make Bandages Big Enough

It's true...they don't.
How do you mend and repair decades of damage? How do you protect and heal wounds of ages? I think I'm beginning to realize the scope of my injuries. And they are massive.
Day in, day out physical and sexual assaults do mighty damage, especially in the young, vulnerable, formative years. Sometimes I think my therapy and work towards healing...realistically...will never be complete. Maybe I'm destined to be walking wounded. Maybe the extent of what I suffered will only be diminished, softened, and narrowed.
Lord knows, I put effort, full-time into closing the gaping wounds. I wonder if I will ever truly be made healed and whole again...if I ever was.
How do you fix....or do you just throw hands in air and run half-naked in the street and simple accept that maybe this is your personal best. This is how far I have got. This is the furthest I can go. They just don't make bandages Big enough.
Somehow, someway, I've got to make the best of this life. Maybe I fight too hard and just need a rest, a respite for the daily grind of trying to make sense of it all and putting pieces back in their place.
The pieces, like shattered glass, poke and bleed, scattered willy-nilly throughout the vacant warehouse. The warehouse empty, vague and frightfully silent...asking nothing...giving nothing.
How many times can you smash the glass, mend and glue, and smash again before you just fucking give up and set it on the shelf to collect dust? Maybe the dust can soften the jagged edges. Maybe the glass just needs to realize its okay to be broke.

Maybe children without love need to just move on and carry the broken in a soft, gentle, canvas bag.
All is never lost. Maybe some try too hard.
Maybe it's all a dream from which we cannot shake ourselves awake.
Maybe I wonder what it's all for. Few can understand the logistics, the prices and the wounds of this ongoing battle, that I Did Not start, but must fight in.
I never said it was fair, soldier. I never said we would win.
Be brave and ever valiant.

Validation from my Big Brother!

This is my beautiful sister AMY MURPHY with me somewhere in Michigan visiting (before she passed) Grandma Koprowski.  We were "Mutt & Jeff" growing up -being born only 15 months apart, we shared everything as constant companions.AND as the oldest boy and girl from a family of 10 ! siblings -  we took care of the younger ones w/diapers, helping Mom & Dad w/feeding and teaching them to walk/run/ride bikes etc...... BUT we also relied on each other and loved each other very much... AND TODAY: I love her even more today as I have been blessed to have FINALLYbeen given the truth that her years of pain were NOT her choice........ Thru it all - AMY has ALWAYS given me her constant love and support. I feel ashamed that I did/could NOT have HER strength and courage that she has constantly gifted me. This year, 2013 AND my forward years to come - are for you Amy ~ all haters need to get to church, face the truth and heal within..Everyone makes mistakes. Amy - I hope you can forgive mine...........XXX to You AMY.

Therapy Hangovers and Such

Therapy was, to put it mildly, Awesomely Intense, this week. It was one of those session in which much transpired in huge, cathartic ways. Groundbreaking, revealing and highly exhaustive, are other words that come to mind. A therapy hangover, is when you require days to process and rest and regain use of your numb head. Very similar to those alcoholic hangovers of my youth.


I don't think I have ever had therapy that was that emotionally intense. My eyes are open and my voice is strong...and lilting, here and there.
A few days later, I see changes in my self.

I am rounder, more fully three dimensional. It beats that two dimensional piece of paper the size of a gum wrapper I was a few months back.
I feel like my IQ jumped up to college level. I think in multi-dimensions, in that my thoughts form pictures/ visions that are layered.  Like....I was going for a walk and I suddenly thought, saw and felt that Now is a good place to be. Standing in the Now, not moving, just being aware, I could see the present moment unfold into a circle all around me. The past, the present and the future were all within the Now. I didn't need to move toward the future. I needn't look back into the past...it is all the same, represented in this very moment of Now.


Then I saw myself as the nucleus of an atom with electon orbits. Every now and then, sometimes with warning, other times completely without, an electron smashes into the nucleus.


I noticed how many translucent layers there are between myself and a new, recovered memory. There are many. Uncover, discover, draw within visual range, within hearing, into view at great distance, nearer, nearer, touch/ body memory range, back out for more processing, closer inspection, in the palm of my hand, I own it, it's mine. Those would be the layers.
I take up more space.

I've grown accustomed to my odd behaviors. Things that used to panic or scare are ho hum, average me. Flashbacks, mutism, visions, are just part of my package. I've gotten more relaxed and at ease with myself.
I've gotten...noticed more of my personality. It's like I can see and sense myself as a more rounded person with many moods, emotions, varying feelings, flexibility and the like.
I like myself more. I'm guessing that has something to do with that whole acceptance thingy. I am much, much more patient and Mostly less easily rattled except when the sprinklers in the produce department unexpectedly spring on at 8 am as I'm reaching for that red pepper. Yikes, I hope they got that one on video. I haven't jumped that quick and far in quite some time.

I think I understand myself better. I'm getting that the behaviors and mannerisms aren't figments of my imagination or feeble attempts at drama or attention. In an odd way, I feel more real. I've never made stuff up...but I used to strongly accuse myself of making stuff up, because Really? Really? How could such...madness be true?
I believe in me. I'm a good person.
I'm a very good person. I believe

More thoughts on a clean house

Why is a sink full of dirty dishes encite anger, wrath and subsequent punishment? I mean...I just don't get it...I've never gotten it and I never will. Why does a messy floor or a basket full of dirty clothes make people turn so goddamn angry?
Is it because when I am asked to do chores, I feel like that little kid again, trying to earn my parents love and approval?
I swear, the words that most echo thru my head are "clean your room", "vacuum that floor", "pickup those dirty clothes"....etc. is that really the way parents should be remembered? I felt like such a tool. I refuse to instill such remembrances upon my kids.


I know it's probably my PTSD talking.....dirty dishes+cluttered table= losing love and favor=feeling worthless.
Really? Is that my lot in life? Is this my worth? My ability to clean and pick up after myself?
Fuck that shit.
I'm tired of living by someone else's warped rules of worthiness. If that's my main value, I don't buy it. I'm not a child who needs orders and direction. Im tired of being maid and servant. Maybe I like a half-cluttered room overflowing with this creation and that project. I'm a visual thinker. If it isn't in my field of vision, it doesnt exist. More fodder for my ideal home as being one large room, with partial walls. My seat, the central location would allow me to survey and keep in sight all that is going on.
Hmm, I have seriously entertained the idea of using paper plates and plastic forks, cept I'm a tree hugging Aspie who can't tolerate plastic silverware or the idea that a tree had to die for me.
I'm just a strange bird who doesn't need the paper at the bottom of her cage cleaned religiously.
Just continuing to clean out the garbage of the past. Trying to make sense of the damnedest things.

Just a nother day in the life

In two months, I will be picking up my son from prison and bringing him home. 30 long and painful months of seperation and incarceration, for both of us, will be over. I actually try not to think of it too much as I readily burst into tears at the prospect. I fear the nightmares in which my sleeping brain says he is already home and I awake to find it only a dream. I busy myself with the mundane and profane, anything to help keep me anchored in the here and the now.
I can't even imagine the overwhelming emotional cascades that are sure to come. The seperation, his imprisonment....was the most painful terror I had experienced in my adult life. We have made it this far. Hang in there, Son, we are almost there.
Another week of battling back the flashbacks of incidents long past....horrid, wretched films of scenes...no one should ever witness, much less, be a part of. Therapy continues to be key to my "success" and a cornerstone of my waking life. I'm tackling some heavy duty, long standing, deeply rooted issues. Yikes. Therapy is a love-hate relationship, fer sure.

I suddenly realize how sequestered and non social I have been this past month. I have only engaged in conversations with my immediate family and therapist. I haven't been out of the house enough to interact and run in to my friends and neighbors for any in depth conversations. Funny, I frequently don't notice my lack of social interaction but once every couple of months. I look back and I've really just been off on my own, not even seeking outside connection. Such is the autistic life, eh?
Awareness, like integration, isn't all it's cracked up to be. Overrated, is another word that comes to mind. What good is awareness without the capacity to change? Small steps and leaps of faith. Awareness seems to start the internal motor, the impetus to want to change, to be better, more improved and dareisay, happy?
I am an introvert...probably the most introverted person you will ever read about or know. I'm so internalized that I don't often really grasp my distance from the outside, "real" world, but once in a very great while. I've grown uncomfortably accustomed to my aloneness, to the point where it no longer frightens me. It's just who I am. I operate within my full capabilities, nothing more, nothing less.

A Notso Clean House

Here's the thing: the State of the House is never more important than the State of the People Living in it.
I seem to be repeating childhood patterns. When I was a kid, the most important thing was a clean house, which was a figment of my parents feeble imaginations having 7-10 children living in a small three bedroom.
Getting my parents "love and affection" meant I had to clean this room or that to perfection. It didn't matter that I was hungry and sick most of the time, cleaning house and doing chores was the priority...and the biggest reason I was punished. I never could get it right. I never knew what their expectations were. Lofty and out-of-reach springs to mind.
There were too many people, in too small a house with too many children being, well, children.
The State of the House was always more important than the health, well-being and happiness of those living in it.
Unfortunately, I seem to be reliving my childhood...making sure the dishes are done and the floor is clean...lest I get punished or incite the anger that makes me tremble in fear of that incoming smack.
My priorities are and always have been very different.
A house is just a house.
People are more important.

My PTSD...definition and triggers

My PTSD has been "acting up". I've had at least one major trigger a week for the past three weeks. It may not sound like great frequency...but it is. Each incident causes overwhelm distress that lasts for days.
As I was talking about one of my recent triggers with my therapist today, I had a visual image of  my PTSD.  PTSD is like...having a small, quivering, naked monster inside. It's covered with layer upon layer of light, near invisible, curtain-like veils..which should be heavy-duty blankets and tarps...I wish.
Anyway, everytime the PTSD monster gets "awaken", it runs amok and rampant, hitting panic buttons and slamming into walls. It takes days for the monster to feel safe again and crawl back under its thin layers.
My triggers, the things that set off the monster, are unique to me but others with PTSD can have very similar ones.

* Sudden, unexpected loud noises
*Angry voices (it doesn't necessarily have to directly involve me. I could walk by a couple arguing and the monster awakes just the same)
*Dishes and furniture being dropped, slammed around
These three triggers, in particular, where especially common growing up. They were much too often followed by me being physically hurt. When I hear them...I cringe inside and the monster shakes and reawakens the inner terror that I felt, often as a small child. The inner terror, omg..it's....hmmm, like laying naked, vulnerable and completely helpless and you are waiting for the smack, the hit, the punishment. It is pure terror, raw and unprotected.
Other triggers are kinda complicated. Touch, which I often welcome, can incite my monster, depending on who it is, where they touch, how much pressure is used, my current state of mid, etc. My back and shoulders are most sensitive to invasive touch and pretty strictly off limits. Never, ever pat the top of my head. Hugs are almost always welcomed and adored, unless you are male or I don't like you (Aspie honesty at its finest). I need to be able to visually see and be present (not off dissociating/ daydreaming...happens lots) before any touch is initiated. I carry a host of protective body postures that I use to help protect me and fend people off. I have "angry eyes" and leave me alone stares, I employ when need be. Problem is, some people can't read.

Prevention, prevention, prevention. I go to great extremes, mostly daily, to avoid triggers and painful PTSD reactions. Once it awakens, there is hell to pay...for me...for days. Destressing and calming back down oft turns to a 24hr affair until its done. I can and have often become completely nonfunctional for days at a time after being triggered. I do my best to avoid....but I live in the real world and shit happens.

For Gods sake, be nice...no, nicer and kinder to me and anyone else you know with PTSD. You have, now, maybe, some small idea of how much we suffer.

And for goodness sake, never stop offering warm hugs! Dammit:)