We sit on the precipice. Our legs entwined dangling off rock. I am cradled in his arms, warm and safe, quietly observing the chasm spread before us. It was as if the grand canyon shook off the reigns of it's beauty and favored becoming a desolate pit. The expanse of it stretched beyond the what the eyes could take in. "The Lady of Shallot has a deplorable habit of taking hostages." I tell him. "You really should go."
He holds me tighter, his only response. I listen to the quiet beat of his heart, and relish the soft rise and fall of his chest. A light breeze curls around us. My hair slides across his shoulders moved by gentle currents of air. I open my eyes and face the unfathomable chasm spread before us. I don't want to see it.
His hand squeezes mine. "It's time" he tells me. I feel his breath on my neck. Pink flushes into my white knuckled grasp as my fingers gently uncurl. I consider the bent metal object I had been clutching so tightly. "Why a spoon?" My silent thoughts spoken aloud echo in the desolation. Why would anyone choose such a tool to fill in such wreckage?
"Because change is slow. It won't happen overnight. But, it will happen." He answers as he aids me in scooping in the first spoonful of scorched earth. It tinkles like the sounds of chimes touched by wind and shimmers as sprinkles of sunlight as it descends down into nothing.
"It's all so bleak." I tell him. My hand shakes wanting to drop the spoon. Watch it turn end over end and fade into the deep well of dirt and nothing.
"Only if you let it be."
I take a spoonful of dirt and I drop it in. It fans out, descending as a cloud of dust. I scoop up another, and yet another. I see something tiny, small as a grain of rice, wriggle out of the pores of my skin. It squirms down my leg and falls unto singed burnt rock. A small piece of my self hatred crawling away, disgusting and maggot like. Detached, I watch it go and take in the charred landscape surrounding. "There's so much loss."
"That deficit is not yours but that of what you perceive to be missing."
"How do you not feel the loss of something tangible. When all there is devastation and void?"
He takes my hand and we spoon in one more cloud of dust. It dances in the breeze,glitters in the light and sounds like children's laughter. I put my hand absently down onto the rock beside me. I flinch. Instead of dust I feel grass, soft and alive. I look at these small green sprouts flourishing in my world of destruction. Some dark part of me stirs. I feel more alive with it's awakening. I trace my hand over the tender leaves of grass. The corners of my mouth twitch as I think of tearing them for the ground and burning them. I let the urge pass and I feel it coiling inside me. Waiting. I close my eyes, shudder, and sigh. Peace again. I leave the delicate signs of life to grow and continue to spoon dust into the void.
Heavily drugged, someone was talking to me. I faintly recognized the sound of words but not the words themselves. I couldn't move for the world positively swam in a haze of color. My throat burned. My stomach newly empty, it's contents freshly pumped. I succumbed once again to heavy sleep. The voice above me became a gentle lullaby. Syllables mere stepping stones as I danced into dream. The world turned in silent oblivion that Thanksgiving day.
It's been four years since I've been that low. But, that once was enough. The term scared straight comes to mind. Such an abysmal a failure are the systems we mirthfully convince ourselves help people. Once you catch a glimpse of what help entails, you'll never let yourself traipse that dark path again. You may have thoughts, but they will forever remain only thoughts thereafter. Too dire are the consequences. Unless, being denied food, sleeping on a hard bench and being drugged to incapacitation around positively disgusting masturbating men strikes your fancy.
Holidays have become dangerous curves in my landscape. Expectations of incredible joy mingled with a seed of demon nightmare. My family wields a blade, sharp and ready by Thanksgiving. By Christmas the meat cleaver becomes a sword. I am blamed for everything beyond my capacity. I am the bringer of all worldly woes. A hell bound whore, deviant scum and a abomination meant to be aborted. I am reminded and reminded. I remember my grandmothers grand imaginings. From outside the closet door, she spoke to me in the tune of verse that exists in no bible. She penned her own holy book. I believed it to be factual and law. In that prestigious document, she tore hope and dream from my being. I lay curled at the bottom of the closet, clinging to the small bit of light coming from the door crack and I listened. I absorbed. I believed. Her most toxic bile. Worst of all I believed. I was God's mistake to be corrected only in flame. Born of rape I should not be. My mere existence caused great family ruin. My every social faux pas a sin. As an aspie I make many social blunders and they are constant. She would set light to every instance to illuminate my every social failure. She damned me to forever question my every word to another person. To live in fear of simple speech. I am type cast in their lives as an unfeeling lunatic meant to be caged if not destroyed. Destruction is their innate delight and they do it well. I keep my distance as a result.
Children are meant to dream very large unfathomable dreams. I remember lying in bed and wondering what love felt like. What did it feel like to be really truly loved? Is love even real? To this day I remain unsure. I dreamt of things children should have. I dreamt of someone to hold me when I cry. A person who would simply allow the sadness to fill me and to hold me through it. To touch my hair and to show me they didn't hate me once my tears ceased. I dreamt of a life without constant consequence. No more scalding water. Never again waking to a pillow over my face as I slept. I dreamt of what might lay beyond our home, our town. My world was so closed to what lay beyond. My family disallowed me to have friends and to later date insisting it was just a way to invite the devil into your home. My life was restricted to my room and an 8 foot privacy fenced back yard replete with barbed wire garnish on top. That was what I knew of the world. I dreamt of travel, of other places and of simply more. I dreamt of a friend to share those things with me and the knowledge of how to make a friend. I wanted a friend most of all.
Holidays are very empty days. Christmas morning my boyfriend unwraps his gifts, the dog is given a special treat and then it's a day of tv and waiting. I pace a quiet home while my boyfriend lies comatose. I wait for the world to come back to life from it's underground state. It's a day of little to quiet the thoughts. Those thoughts can get bad if I let them, but I won't let them. Never again. I try to stay busy. I start a hundred creative projects. Keep the mind busy above all.
This year I have managed Thanksgiving, albeit very drunkenly. Not a great solution, but a seductively quick one. My Christmas this year, for the first time perhaps ever, had traces of life. I had a list to give to this year. I got three gifts from co-workers, a parade of treats from clients, and a very nice gift from a fellow fotc fangirl. My home is decked with Christmas cards from my fotc fan family. Christmas morning I awoke fevered and sick to find Christmas greetings from someone I never expected. Very slowly little sips of my dreams are trickling in. I am becoming more numb to the rule of my family. They read me the riot act Christmas day and I was able to let it go. Actually let it go. Their hold is weakening and my resolve to cling to broken people lessening. I dream of a place where the child and the adult version of me meet. I hold her as she has always wanted, as I still want. I hold her with total acceptance. I tell her how wonderful life will be. How wonderful she is, for she really is. How she is not wrong and most of all that she should just hang on to see it all. It will happen for her, for me, for us. It's slow, but it will be. So hang on. I tell her. Just... hang... on.
Or... Why I choose to hang out with Flight of the Conchords Fans instead...
Despite my overwhelming adoration for Tori Amos, I must say I have never felt comfortable amongst her fans. Here a few reasons. A bit of compare and contrast if you will.
Fotc fans are unlikely to behave this way even if we were featured in a concert video. Nor, would we use the words "Get back to f-cking porno with your herpes ass."
Why can't Tori fans just get along?
There's not some sort of dancing problem at fotc shows. Tori fans are really bothered by other fans dancing. There are countless videos to display just how annoying said dancing is.
Did I mention, really, really bothered? Granted, we are super white with no rhythm. It is probably for the best we do not dance. However, I really don't see what it hurts. Blasphemy! I know! If they aren't blocking your view though... I can't say as I understand the sentiment against it.
Overall, I must say hanging with fotc fans is easier on the soul. Not that there aren't great Tori fans out there. There are! They just aren't in the front row. Who is in the front row you might ask?
Hmm... best be getting my herpes ass back to porno rather than taking my chances in the front row. My odds for survival in porno are much higher.
This video makes a very clear illustration of how much anxiety a typical Aspie lives with. If you ever wonder why I worry sooooo much. Here it is. The only thing I disagree with is obviously, she has had access to medication. I have not been offered that by any doctor I've seen. True, I am currently getting care from the local free clinic so I may not be receiving the best. Yet, even when I pursued psychiatric help in the past for this issue, I was not offered medication. The general consensus, I have been told, is that medicine is of no help to those with Asperger's. Everything else in this video, in my opinion, is dead on. The analogy of the feeling of speaking a different language when talking to others really grabbed me. That exactly how I feel! Hope you find this video as informative as I did.
Are you a man? Do you have an overpowering urge to have Jemaine Clement pick you up? Then I want to hear from you! This section open for comments. I completely understand the urge for a female, but for a male I am at a loss. Inquiring minds want to know!
I remember the dark look Andy shot the two boys laughing riotously in the back of the class. "There really isn't anything funny about this." he scolded as he continue to remove the pieces of smashed science beaker from my hair and scalp. "Who throws glass at people?" he sighed shaking his head. I think it was that small act that made me look more and more his way after that. He was my nerd in shinning armor.
Andy was a nerd then. He would joke and others would roll their eyes, except me. I would laugh. I cherished those dorky jokes. I was happy just to be around him, to talk to him now and then. I wasn't ready for more. Just having him glance my way every so often, it was enough and I was content.
My mother and I were on our own for the first time that year. We had moved to a small farming town with a population of 2oo. A tally which I believe included more pigs than any one would admit. Up until that point we lived in a very large house, with much of our extended family. To leave the violence, abuse and havoc and see only open fields was sacrosanct and divine. Instead of yelling, I now heard the wind sweeping through fields of cotton. Oh, and also the sounds of pigs. There really was no getting around the pigs. Other than the atrocious smell, it was very peaceful at first.
I was in 8th grade, when I met Andy. My first time in public school. I could finally cast off the trendy buttoned to the throat collared shirts and ankle length homemade skirts from my days of private southern baptist schooling. I started finding the real me. My school clothes for that year were dramatically different, and quite by accident they were all black. It was a good year all in all, even if I was a lot like this.
By freshmen year, my web of fragile happieness shattered. Something intangible shifted in Andy. The dorky jokes were gone. He fit in more. It changed nothing. To me, he was still the sweet boy that picked glass out of my hair. I still had someone to dream about and that's all I wanted.
His cousin, the school janitor, began to notice my interest. She ripped the secret out of me one day under the guise of friendship and a trip to the movies. She began to meddle. His sister began to meddle, followed by much of the town. I suppose they simply had nothing better to do. They began to arrange scenarios for me that always ended in confusion and pain.
They had him retrieve me at a extra curricular event at a nearby college. He walked well ahead of me, so fast I could not keep up. He even ran at times. They sat him at the same table at the restaurant that followed. His back turned for the entirety. I simply immersed myself in my book ignoring his disdain. I received the same turned back at a school dance that I was persuaded to go to. He remained turned around in his seat the whole dinner prior. When it came to take pictures with your date, he hung back and I went up alone. I left soon after in tears and humilation. The meddlers beckoning to me the next morning that, "he really wanted to dance with me and that I shouldn't have left." I was talked into making him some of my art, which he ripped to shreds in front of me, blithely tossed in the trash and walked away.
The last straw came when Sylvie offered to take Andy and I to the local connivence store for snacks. Andy drove and she stayed ducked down in the seat the whole time. It was weird for both of us. She was apparently attempting to make it look like we were on a date. I was met by his cousin, who was in on it, in the stores parking lot. "What was that?" I asked. The ruse was explained to me as I caught the look of pure hate in Andy's eyes as he went to the store. Something in me finally snapped at that point. 3 years of this, but I had finally had enough! The owner of the store had been making benches, my eyes flashed on the 2x4 left unattended in the parking lot. I hefted it and swung in a matter of seconds. His cousin ducked, the board connecting with only the brick of the building. The cheap wood shattered. I now had a stake.
"I thought you liked him!" His cousin exclaimed skirting around the other side of the minivan.
"I did." I said lowly and calmly, stalking after my prey. A smile touched my face but not my eyes. I was in a very dark place. I felt powerful for the first time in my life. The fear gracing her features filled me like wine, giddy and lovely. "Not anymore", the low calm voice returning.
"I was just trying to help!" she called out, scrambling to the other side of the minivan.
"Help?" I giggled. "You crushed me at every turn. Who did you help mortal?" Now I was seriously creeping her out. It was fun. I no longer needed to hurt her. Passive to the core, I couldn't have except in that first moment of anger and that had past. The mind games proved to be a much more delicious a revenge and all I needed to back her down.
I turned around and saw my company at the counter ready to depart. I leaned over the hood of the van still working the eerie smile. "Don't even breathe in my direction again..or..." I ran the sharpest part of the stake down the curve of my cheek, following it down the line of my throat. My eyes slipped closed. My head thrown back in a sort of ecstasy as I took in a shuddering breath and let out a little moan. I paused with the stake held above my heart. My eyes opened dazed as I giggled. I laid the stake on the hood of her car reverently, carefully. Smiling brightly, I turned to the others exiting the store,ready to depart. "Are we ready?" Sunshine and light, all traces of my dark menace vanquished. For her benefit, I smiled the half baked smile once more over my shoulder before settling myself in the truck for home.
The small town rumor mill began to turn. "She's a witch!" "She has bodies buried under her house!" Everyone was talking about that; "girl that wears black every day." All school bullying for the first time in my life immediately stopped. I no longer had to endure my belongings being coated in pig feces. No more greetings of "Ugly bitch!" as I walked down the hall. My locker carving of "Ugly freak" remained, but that only served to make finding my locker most convenient and I no longer minded.
By senior year my love of fantasy fiction and horror had grown. I undertook writing my own novel and that's how I spent much of my time not involved with Andrew Lloyd Webber music and reading. My look began to evolve as a complement to my taste in fiction. I happened upon The Sandman Series, immediately falling in love with the characters "Death" and "Delirium". I borrowed Death's neat eyeliner, complete with curly mark under one eye.
I began exploring medieval dress as well. Capes followed and I donned feathers in my long, thick hair giving me an ancient badass vibe. I thought of this look as "Sorceress chic" and wore it often wandering through the town, walking staff in hand. The sounds of car doors locking as unfamiliar townspeople passed became as peaceful as windchimes in the breeze. I had distance from their cruelty. Who knew peace could be purchased in a ren faire catalog and with a momentary lapse of judgement? Oh yes, fear me little town! I'm cautiously carrying a bug in a jar outside that I don't have the heart to squish but, I'm doing it in a cape so it's scary! OOoooOOOooohhhh! Small town people... How delightful!
