This is about how I grudgingly...unexpectedly...found a good psychologist.
During the first week of December, 2005, I have my second visit with a psychiatrist. Our first visit consisted of: me stating symptoms, her recommending a med.
I decide that I am comfortable with her because she is very direct and to the point. I'm not in the mood to say very much...I'm getting pretty shut down...so it's nice that the conversation stays to a minimum.
The purpose of the second visit is to check in, let her know if there have been any side-effects or changes in symptoms.
This visit takes place one day after my sixth session with Psychologist Guy.
Psychiatrist: So what's up?
M: No changes in the symptoms. I'm basically in the same place.
P: Not unexpected. I mentioned last time, it's really going to be a few months before we know if it's helping. Today, I really wanted to focus on side-effects.
M: Nothing to speak of. When I started the pill, I was dizzy for a few days, but that was about it. That passed.
P: Nausea? Anything like that?
M: No.
P: Okay. That's good. What I'd like to do is spend the next month slowly increasing the dosage.
M: I don't know. I could stay at this dose...I mean, if it's possible for it to work at this dose, I'd rather not go higher than is absolutely necessary.
P: I would agree if you were in here describing mild depression...or one that began recently. Some people come in here and things are going well...but they're depressed and they're not sure why. It's this kind of transient, ambiguous thing. I always recommend counseling, but people in that situation tend to respond quickly to meds and at lower dosages. With you, we're looking at a network of chronic issues. The anxiety, which you have described as debilitating. The depression...which you've experienced since early adolescence. And the Asperger's, which is an unknown here...the research just isn't there on how that might impact your reaction to the meds.
M: Have you ever treated another client with AS?
P: One. She was here recently actually, a few months ago...first client I've ever had with it. College-aged, struggling with anxiety, it was making school difficult for her. I gave her what I'm giving you.
M: How did it go?
P: Very different situation. She had no prior history of depression or anxiety. I think a lot of it was just the newness of college...maybe a little home-sickness. It was a fish-out-of-water scenario. She stayed on the lower dosage and responded very well. No problems with side-effects, had a much easier time managing the anxiety. I think with you, it's a little unclear what to look for.
M: I don't know what you mean.
P: The "best case scenario" is unclear. I'm not sure what you have in mind, in terms of goals. Are you wanting to socialize again?
M: I don't know. I've struggled with this, with what I want...
P: ...making it difficult to pin down what we're looking for, in terms of results. So...my thinking is, let's not mess around with a low dose. Given the history there, with the isolation, the social avoidance, I'd like to push for the upper dosage. Get there as quickly as we can. We'll watch...see how you respond. But it's like I said...with some people, meds are a great way to deal with all of this. In your case...especially with the undefined goals...I am very much relying on the therapy process. That'll be the key to establishing a framework for success: what it looks like, how you go about creating that. Therapy is priority number one here.
I fidget uncomfortably.
P: You're not responding. What's up with therapy? You mentioned last time that it was getting questionable.
M: I had my sixth session with him yesterday. I don't see how I can go back.
P: Do you mind if I ask what the problem is?
M: I am telling him about difficulties with body language. He told me yesterday that my "animus" is overdeveloped.
She stares.
M: He's applying Jungian theory. It's bizarre. It's not fitting at all.
P: Okay. Hoo.
M: And yesterday, he tried to convert me to Christianity. Told me I couldn't be agnostic, that I needed god. Gave me a taped sermon of his. The whole thing, I tell you...it was weird. The whole thing went off the rails.
P: Fair enough. I'm not gonna pressure you to see someone you're not comfortable with. That repore absolutely has to be there. I just want to make sure I'm understanding: you're not going back?
M: No.
P: Did you tell him that?
M: No. I was too caught off guard. At the end of the session, I was fairly non-communicative. I just left.
She tenses up...sets her notebook down.
P: Any thoughts about who you want to see next?
M: I know you're pushing the therapy...but I don't see how I do this again. I have no interest in starting over with a new psychologist, saying all of that crap again. Mentally, it's too exhausting. And look...I need someone who is going to challenge me. I over-think everything...I analyze everything the other person is saying. I'm getting the sense that therapy can't work for someone like me. Just seems pointless. They're going to apply some method...I'm going to pick it apart. That may sound arrogant, but I don't see a way around it.
P: Okay. Hold on. Just...
She squeezes her hands together...but she seems excited, not nervous.
P: Don't reject therapy outright. Sounds like you've had a bad experience, so I completely understand the frustration. But I know someone.
M: Not interested. I just can't do this again.
P: One conversation. That's all I ask. Meet with her one time. I can't promise that you'll like her...that sort of thing is always unpredictable. But I can promise you that she's good. She works right down the hall. I can vouch for her. You're disinterested, skeptical...I understand. Put all of that on hold for one day. One little conversation.
I stare.
P: M...meet with her. See what you think.
M: What's her theoretical background? If you say Jung...
P: There are virtually no practicing Jungians these days. At least in this state, that's a rarity. She's Cognitive Behavioral. More relevant to your situation: most of her training has been spent working with autism.
M: With adults?
P: This is why I'm dying here. She trained with children. The center she worked at...there were kids but no adults. But. What she did, M, was study adult Asperger's independently. She wanted to train with it, but the opportunity just wasn't there. Your group...they're not coming in. Currently, there are no real guidelines for therapy with adult AS...there's little research describing what the issues are for that group. I mean, you know this...AS was added to the diagnostic manuals in 1994. People your age...they had no diagnosis growing up...they had no support. And today, people are trying to figure out: what happens to someone with Asperger's when they enter adulthood? What issues are they dealing with?
M: If our understanding of it is at that stage, why would I seek further therapy? Whatever her background...sounds like there's no understanding of how to deal with this.
P: Your killing me. When she started here...
M: Wait a minute. Hold on.
I'm running a few of her sentences through my head. Something is off.
M: You didn't say she has "worked" with these issues...
P: I think I did, actually. That's her background.
M: You said she has "trained" with these issues. "Trained". How long has she been practicing?
She pauses...holds her hands up.
P: The important thing...
M: Doctor. How long has she been practicing?
P: Three weeks.
M: Oh hell no.
P: Let me finish!
M: I can't see somebody that new! That is fucked!
P: What she did, M...are you listening?
M: She's younger than I am!
P: When she started, she put out word to colleagues in the area- and this is what is killing me- she came in here and told me that she is wanting to work with adult AS. She is seeking referrals. She knows this stuff. She is interested, she is sharp. And yes, she is new...but to me, that just means she is energetic. To someone like me...I mean, I've been doing this awhile. I love the job, but that enthusiasm that you start out with? Gone. I probably wouldn't be here right now if it weren't for the daily consumption of much coffee. And meeting her...it's been a kind of wake up call. She shows up, talks about her professional goals...and I'm like, "Passion...I remember that."
M: She's been practicing for three weeks.
P: I tell you, she is running circles around us. And given where you are, in terms of being receptive to therapy...I would not recommend her if I didn't think she could help. Maybe you won't like her. But if anyone can get through that reluctance...it is definitely going to be her.
M: I don't know.
P: This is a small town. Her training is unique to the area. Her interest in Asperger's is unique to the area. You're not going to find someone with a background in autism issues around here. Come on! I'm trying to appeal to your logic here.
I fidget, shuffle my feet, pull my hair.
M: I think I just want to be alone now. I think about talking to someone else, and the idea is horrifying. I think about giving up...and it's kind of a relief. That feels right.
P: I'm asking for very little. One conversation. With a talented psychologist. One.
The possibility of it is tormenting me. I don't say anything.
P: Great! I'll talk with her...tell her your situation. I'll just need a signature from you so that I can do that. I'd say by the end of the week, someone should be contacting you about an appointment. Sign here, sir. I'd like to see you again in one month...double the dosage today, again in two weeks. Let's just head on out to the receptionist.
She rushes me down the hallway, deposits me at the front desk, says "Good luck!" and hurries away.
I blink. I'm not completely sure what just happened.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Monday, September 29, 2008
Five Facts from the Encyclopedia of M
I. Socks-
Socks are foot-encircling stink-curtains. They enslave the natural aroma of the human foot for purposes that have not yet been discovered.
In winter, socks of a fuzzy nature provide warmth and the impression that benevolent, tiny bears are nuzzling your foot. In summer, socks migrate and can only be found in cooler, mountainous regions.
Socks have no known culinary properties. It has been reported, however, that as a folk remedy for headaches, some cultures rely on pollen from the North American Gollysock.
II. Pants-
Pants are genital-encircling modesty-curtains.
They were invented in 647B.C. after humanity began to evolve out of it's naturally occurring modesty-pelt. Rampant nudistry declined as bits (strange bits) were exposed and people (now unsightly) cringed.
III. Pheromones-
Pheromones are words animals use when speaking the stink-language. Much like invisible telegrams, they bring tidings of our sexual compatibility. "I am athletically inclined and shall produce mighty spawn," some pheromones tell us. "I am bookish and therefore distasteful," relate others. Science has yet to discover the body part responsible for pheromones. Thumbs? We don't know.
IV. Shapes-
Shapes are what makes things stop. They are the edge of them. Shapes that are different are called "something else". Shapes that are the same are called "another one". The smallest shape ever found: the dot on the back of a lady bug.
V. Birds-
Birds are feathered meat-clocks. We don't know yet what their inner workings do. Probably they run on springs, cogs and pixie magic. Birds make a characteristic "chirping" sound and the strange ones eat pennies and gopher droppings. They are common to: north coastal regions, mountainous caverns and the dreams of wounded pie-cooks.
Socks are foot-encircling stink-curtains. They enslave the natural aroma of the human foot for purposes that have not yet been discovered.
In winter, socks of a fuzzy nature provide warmth and the impression that benevolent, tiny bears are nuzzling your foot. In summer, socks migrate and can only be found in cooler, mountainous regions.
Socks have no known culinary properties. It has been reported, however, that as a folk remedy for headaches, some cultures rely on pollen from the North American Gollysock.
II. Pants-
Pants are genital-encircling modesty-curtains.
They were invented in 647B.C. after humanity began to evolve out of it's naturally occurring modesty-pelt. Rampant nudistry declined as bits (strange bits) were exposed and people (now unsightly) cringed.
III. Pheromones-
Pheromones are words animals use when speaking the stink-language. Much like invisible telegrams, they bring tidings of our sexual compatibility. "I am athletically inclined and shall produce mighty spawn," some pheromones tell us. "I am bookish and therefore distasteful," relate others. Science has yet to discover the body part responsible for pheromones. Thumbs? We don't know.
IV. Shapes-
Shapes are what makes things stop. They are the edge of them. Shapes that are different are called "something else". Shapes that are the same are called "another one". The smallest shape ever found: the dot on the back of a lady bug.
V. Birds-
Birds are feathered meat-clocks. We don't know yet what their inner workings do. Probably they run on springs, cogs and pixie magic. Birds make a characteristic "chirping" sound and the strange ones eat pennies and gopher droppings. They are common to: north coastal regions, mountainous caverns and the dreams of wounded pie-cooks.
Saturday, September 27, 2008
the slow introduction
April 2007.
She is relaxed and still...in her usual cat-like repose. I am shifting around, swatting at my shoelaces.
I squint at the clock. The session is almost over.
M: Can I tell you a story? Do we have time?
Doctor: Definitely.
M: I was just thinking about tenth grade.
I sit up and mirror her repose.
M: It was a transitional period. Prior to that year, I was socially awkward and terribly anxious. After that year, I was socially adept but depressed. It is during tenth grade...I was 15...that I'm really experimenting with the marionette. I am observing people and then practicing specific movements. Externally, everything about me seems normal. Mom and Dad...Ozzie and Harriet...they can't see what's happening. I go to school, home, church; I am jumping through all of the requisite social hoops. But internally, things are getting off-kilter.
I pick up my coffee mug. I rotate it around, squeeze it.
M: It finally occurs to me that I lack body language, so I begin to consciously set up remedial goals. I am saying to myself, "I need to practice hand movements"...so for that week, the theme is Gesturing Casually. I sit in class or on a bench in the hallway and all I do is watch the way people move their hands when they talk. Then I initiate conversations and repeat what I've seen. I mimic. And, as I converse, I'm talking myself through the encounter: "Tone down your left hand; move your arm less but your fingers more; etc." Discovery Channel has 'Shark Week', I have 'Elbow Week'. Eventually, I start to take things further. I notice that, if a person is walking and they look "busy", no one interacts with them. People can sense when someone is on an errand and they tend to give that person a little extra space. No one interrupts them or stops them for small-talk. I find this to be fascinating. I'm drawn to the invisibility of it...I want that invisibility...so for weeks and probably months, this is the theme: Looking Busy. I sit in hallways and observe. I pick up on the fact that a lot of it involves the eyes. It's hard to explain but the mechanism is...looking very focused, even though your eyes are actually on nothing. Does that make sense?
D: Yes.
M: If someone has this mildly intense expression, but they're looking ahead, at nothing in particular...and if they're walking briskly...they Look Busy. I make note of the basics and start to practice. One day, I stand up in the middle of class. The teacher is lecturing...we're supposed to be taking notes...I stand up and walk out of the room. The teacher doesn't stop me. I walk back into the classroom and a few minutes later do the same thing. The teacher doesn't stop me. So, over the next few weeks I repeat this, over and over. One day I walk out...and I don't return to that class.
Doctor: You just leave?
M: Yes. I Look Busy, walk out and roam the hallways. I start skipping all of my classes...and the goal is not to avoid class. The goal is to get out and practice the mimicry. Like, if I'm walking around between classes, the stakes are higher. You're not supposed to be in the hallways without a pass, so I take this to be a challenge. I walk around looking for teachers and principles to walk past. I want to see how far I can take it, the invisibility.
Doctor: And you never get stopped?
M: I did this so many times that I inevitably got caught from time to time. I would say 4 out of 5 times I would skip class and not get caught. If I did get stopped, I could never think of a reason to lie about it, so that was a good time. A teacher would ask, "Why are you out of class?" and I would say, "I'm skipping. Why?" I would get detention and immediately go back to skipping. I didn't care. I was having too much fun.
Doctor: Sounds like there was an element of enjoyment, of game-playing.
M: Definitely. So. I'm experimenting, learning, teaching myself body language. And eventually the skipping gets old...so I take things even further. I'm strolling around the hallways one day, missing class and finally I think, "Why not leave school"? I hop into my car and drive off. And the only thing on my mind is: where can I learn more? Where can I both pick up and practice newer body language? I go into town. I stop at various places...stores, restaurants, side-walks...and then I discover the ultimate place for observing body language. Banks.
Doctor: Banks?
M: Banks rock. No one is there unless they are on a dull errand, so everyone is in a hurry; it's this buffet of rushed walks and focused looks. Walking into the first bank during this period I thought, "And lo the Manna of Normalcy hath found me."
Doctor: Not, I have to say, typical 15-year old behavior.
M: No, no. Oy. Most 15-year olds, if they skip class, it's for the purpose of obtaining beer or roaming around with friends or smoking pot. I'm skipping class and hanging out in banks. I got weird.
Doctor: Not weird. Given what you were up against...alone with all of that sensory and social confusion...that is some serious resilience. You're observing, game-playing, establishing goals. There's nothing at all "weird" in that. It's just...not typical.
M: Well, the whole point is that, in tenth grade, my average day was complicated. I was getting very lost in my head...becoming very invisible. And I cannot describe what it was like to go home at the end of the day...to return from school and interact with my parents. The discrepancy in our realities was intense. Mom would ask, "How was school, honey?" And it was confusing. I had no idea how to answer a question like that. "Actually mom, I wasn't at school today. I suppose, technically, I did spend one hour on campus, roaming around in circles, practicing my shoulder placement. But the rest of the day? I was in a bank lobby working on my Businessman Walk...which mostly involves leading out with your toe and de-emphasizing the 'pendulum' action of the knee in favor of a more stilted, marching action. It's terrific camouflage. How was your day, Mom?"
Doctor: A little tough to work that into small-talk.
M: A little tough. When I failed to make friends as a kid, they couldn't handle that. They couldn't handle minor deviations from the norm.
I pause...grip the coffee mug...listen to the clock.
M: By the time I was fifteen...there was nothing about me I could share. There was nothing in their world view that allowed for what I was becoming.
She is relaxed and still...in her usual cat-like repose. I am shifting around, swatting at my shoelaces.
I squint at the clock. The session is almost over.
M: Can I tell you a story? Do we have time?
Doctor: Definitely.
M: I was just thinking about tenth grade.
I sit up and mirror her repose.
M: It was a transitional period. Prior to that year, I was socially awkward and terribly anxious. After that year, I was socially adept but depressed. It is during tenth grade...I was 15...that I'm really experimenting with the marionette. I am observing people and then practicing specific movements. Externally, everything about me seems normal. Mom and Dad...Ozzie and Harriet...they can't see what's happening. I go to school, home, church; I am jumping through all of the requisite social hoops. But internally, things are getting off-kilter.
I pick up my coffee mug. I rotate it around, squeeze it.
M: It finally occurs to me that I lack body language, so I begin to consciously set up remedial goals. I am saying to myself, "I need to practice hand movements"...so for that week, the theme is Gesturing Casually. I sit in class or on a bench in the hallway and all I do is watch the way people move their hands when they talk. Then I initiate conversations and repeat what I've seen. I mimic. And, as I converse, I'm talking myself through the encounter: "Tone down your left hand; move your arm less but your fingers more; etc." Discovery Channel has 'Shark Week', I have 'Elbow Week'. Eventually, I start to take things further. I notice that, if a person is walking and they look "busy", no one interacts with them. People can sense when someone is on an errand and they tend to give that person a little extra space. No one interrupts them or stops them for small-talk. I find this to be fascinating. I'm drawn to the invisibility of it...I want that invisibility...so for weeks and probably months, this is the theme: Looking Busy. I sit in hallways and observe. I pick up on the fact that a lot of it involves the eyes. It's hard to explain but the mechanism is...looking very focused, even though your eyes are actually on nothing. Does that make sense?
D: Yes.
M: If someone has this mildly intense expression, but they're looking ahead, at nothing in particular...and if they're walking briskly...they Look Busy. I make note of the basics and start to practice. One day, I stand up in the middle of class. The teacher is lecturing...we're supposed to be taking notes...I stand up and walk out of the room. The teacher doesn't stop me. I walk back into the classroom and a few minutes later do the same thing. The teacher doesn't stop me. So, over the next few weeks I repeat this, over and over. One day I walk out...and I don't return to that class.
Doctor: You just leave?
M: Yes. I Look Busy, walk out and roam the hallways. I start skipping all of my classes...and the goal is not to avoid class. The goal is to get out and practice the mimicry. Like, if I'm walking around between classes, the stakes are higher. You're not supposed to be in the hallways without a pass, so I take this to be a challenge. I walk around looking for teachers and principles to walk past. I want to see how far I can take it, the invisibility.
Doctor: And you never get stopped?
M: I did this so many times that I inevitably got caught from time to time. I would say 4 out of 5 times I would skip class and not get caught. If I did get stopped, I could never think of a reason to lie about it, so that was a good time. A teacher would ask, "Why are you out of class?" and I would say, "I'm skipping. Why?" I would get detention and immediately go back to skipping. I didn't care. I was having too much fun.
Doctor: Sounds like there was an element of enjoyment, of game-playing.
M: Definitely. So. I'm experimenting, learning, teaching myself body language. And eventually the skipping gets old...so I take things even further. I'm strolling around the hallways one day, missing class and finally I think, "Why not leave school"? I hop into my car and drive off. And the only thing on my mind is: where can I learn more? Where can I both pick up and practice newer body language? I go into town. I stop at various places...stores, restaurants, side-walks...and then I discover the ultimate place for observing body language. Banks.
Doctor: Banks?
M: Banks rock. No one is there unless they are on a dull errand, so everyone is in a hurry; it's this buffet of rushed walks and focused looks. Walking into the first bank during this period I thought, "And lo the Manna of Normalcy hath found me."
Doctor: Not, I have to say, typical 15-year old behavior.
M: No, no. Oy. Most 15-year olds, if they skip class, it's for the purpose of obtaining beer or roaming around with friends or smoking pot. I'm skipping class and hanging out in banks. I got weird.
Doctor: Not weird. Given what you were up against...alone with all of that sensory and social confusion...that is some serious resilience. You're observing, game-playing, establishing goals. There's nothing at all "weird" in that. It's just...not typical.
M: Well, the whole point is that, in tenth grade, my average day was complicated. I was getting very lost in my head...becoming very invisible. And I cannot describe what it was like to go home at the end of the day...to return from school and interact with my parents. The discrepancy in our realities was intense. Mom would ask, "How was school, honey?" And it was confusing. I had no idea how to answer a question like that. "Actually mom, I wasn't at school today. I suppose, technically, I did spend one hour on campus, roaming around in circles, practicing my shoulder placement. But the rest of the day? I was in a bank lobby working on my Businessman Walk...which mostly involves leading out with your toe and de-emphasizing the 'pendulum' action of the knee in favor of a more stilted, marching action. It's terrific camouflage. How was your day, Mom?"
Doctor: A little tough to work that into small-talk.
M: A little tough. When I failed to make friends as a kid, they couldn't handle that. They couldn't handle minor deviations from the norm.
I pause...grip the coffee mug...listen to the clock.
M: By the time I was fifteen...there was nothing about me I could share. There was nothing in their world view that allowed for what I was becoming.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
My Annual Halloween Joke (for book nerds)
With October almost here, M has a costume recommendation for your Halloween party:
You could, if you are so inclined, go as The Invisible Man. Not the literally invisible man from the H.G. Wells novel, but the metaphorically invisible man from the Ralph Ellison novel...the one about race relations and the African American experience. The costume consists of a dissatisfaction with oppressive societal norms that you parlay into membership with increasingly radical political causes...causes, you soon realize, that are reactionary in nature and perpetuate the very forces they seek to destroy. Accessories for the costume include: a tie...a briefcase...and the awareness that change must consist of a seizing of resources from the "inside", in a viral (and therefore invisible) revolution.
Or, just go as Batman. Whichever.
You could, if you are so inclined, go as The Invisible Man. Not the literally invisible man from the H.G. Wells novel, but the metaphorically invisible man from the Ralph Ellison novel...the one about race relations and the African American experience. The costume consists of a dissatisfaction with oppressive societal norms that you parlay into membership with increasingly radical political causes...causes, you soon realize, that are reactionary in nature and perpetuate the very forces they seek to destroy. Accessories for the costume include: a tie...a briefcase...and the awareness that change must consist of a seizing of resources from the "inside", in a viral (and therefore invisible) revolution.
Or, just go as Batman. Whichever.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Definitions For Living
Unhappiness: The grass is always greener on the other side of the fence.
Depression: The grass looks brown on both sides of the fence.
Anxiety: What if I have grass allergies? What if the fence gives me a splinter? I'll check later. Maybe.
Happiness: The grass isn't perfect here, but I'll make due with it.
Denial: The grass isn't perfect here, but I'll make due with it.
Depression: The grass looks brown on both sides of the fence.
Anxiety: What if I have grass allergies? What if the fence gives me a splinter? I'll check later. Maybe.
Happiness: The grass isn't perfect here, but I'll make due with it.
Denial: The grass isn't perfect here, but I'll make due with it.
Friday, September 19, 2008
Session Six (part one)
The year: 2005.
The month: November.
My mood: pitch-fucking-black.
I’m sitting in the waiting room, absolutely miserable about being here (the fifth session: a waste of time). However...some small, tiny part of me likes it this way. It just seems right. I’ve made a mess of my life, yet I denied for so long that I needed help. I was stubborn about it, convinced that I could fix things on my own. So finally, after all this time, I reach out, seek psychological counseling…and get a moron.
Typical.
When I arrived, he was already in the waiting room, chatting with the receptionist. I took a seat, started going through the magazines.
After a few minutes, he walks over, sits next to me on the couch. I don’t say anything. He indicates the magazine.
Psychologist Guy: Anything good in there?
M: Pretty people. Bright teeth.
P: People are obsessed with perfection, aren’t they?
I don’t say anything. He picks up a magazine, sits back. I look at the receptionist for help. She’s distracted with a phone call.
P: It’s just hard to look at this stuff and relate to people, you know?
I lean forward and rub my eyes.
P: You a sports fan? See a Sports Illustrated there.
M: These are your magazines.
P: Right. I just try to have a little variety available, something for everyone.
I wait.
P: Want anything to drink?
M: No thank you.
P: That little fridge there…that’s for clients. Got soft-drinks, water…anything you like.
M: No.
He can't turn of the repore-building nonsense. It's bizarre that he's even trying after the way things have gone.
P: Soooo…anyway. Guess it’s that time.
We walk into his office, take our seats.
P: I’ll just throw this out there. You’ve described a life-long sense of discomfort around people. Isn’t it interesting that you chose to study psychology?
M: It could be interesting. It could just be masochism. Hard to say.
He waits.
M: I only received a bachelors, so it's not like I took it very far.
P: Why psychology though? Given your sense of people, why would you make that your chosen path?
M: “Chosen path”. That’s very…grand sounding. I’m not sure that I ever thought of it in those terms. I took a few psychology classes. Liked them. Got a degree. That’s just kind of how it went.
P: You did well with the classes, right? Good grades and all?
M: Sure.
P: I'm curious: why no grad school?
I shrug.
P: Sense of purpose is a very key part of our lives. It’s really what motivates us, informs our sense of the future. You didn’t have a career goal in mind?
M: I don’t know.
I shrug again, play stupid. There's no way I'm telling this guy anything else.
P: If you could do anything at all…with psychology, or any other field…what would you do? This is really what I'm trying to get at: I’m talking about dreams here. I’d really like to know how you envision yourself, in an ideal world.
M: I’m not big on that kind of thinking. Chosen paths, broad ideals. I’m just here…breathing…that seems to be about all there is. Me. People. Stuff.
P: Everyone strives for more, though. There’s no possibility of hope without dreaming.
Oy. I cringe.
P: Last week, we talked about that wall you put up, to keep people away. And this indifference I’m hearing…that’s a big part of the wall. No one is indifferent like that. We all want more, desire bigger things. Articulating career-goals…it’s a great way to get in touch with yourself, feel that sense of hope.
He points at his head.
P: Let that wall down a little bit. What’s your dream job?
I shuffle my feet, think about it.
M: I can trust you?
P: Absolutely. This is a safe setting, M.
M: Okay.
I breathe in…hold it…let it out.
M: I’d like to breed pelicans.
He drops into his chair, irritated.
M: No, no, I’m serious. If I could breed pelicans, that's really where it's at for me, financially speaking. What I’m thinking is that every scientist uses lab mice. Mice, everywhere, always. The entire scene is just saturated with them. So I don't get why it's predominately mice. Where are the pelicans? I can be a pioneer with those.
P: I'm really not…
M: Crap. A lot of mice have to run those mazes…and pelicans are so tall, they would just see the entire layout. It would throw off the study results. So that's a problem. I may have to breed shorter pelicans. Wow! There's a lucrative, untapped market: midget lab-pelicans.
I have trouble going on, I crack up.
M: However, if I stick with regular pelicans…and this is kind of devious…I could do a side-business selling taller mazes. Two products, one generates a need for the other. I am Marx’s nightmare. So anyway...
He stares at me. I stop laughing and stare back.
M: Hoo.
He begins speaking slowly.
P: I definitely understand your hesitance with this. The direction we take in life: that can be a frightening concept. It can be very tough to feel any sense of control with that. Its' almost like it controls us.
I have no idea what he's talking about.
P: You know, I never even considered psychology when I was younger. I thought, “Hey man, those guys are a bunch of phonies”. Do you know what I did prior to this job?
M: You've mentioned the Buddhist monastery thing.
P: There was that...but prior to that, I had an entirely different career. For ten years, M…I was an Episcopalian minister. Attended seminary…had my own parish. As far as I was concerned, that was my dream job. I was living it.
M: Huh.
I can't believe he's not responding to my pelican bit. Come on! That's A-material there!
P: I was a minister. Then spent some time at the Buddhist monastery. And now…psychology. Sometimes life chooses our path for us…whatever dreams we have, life can change those, re-arrange our priorities…whether we like it or not.
M: I'm not following.
It's quiet for a bit.
M: Your office does feel churchy.
P: Pardon?
M: Churchy? Is that a word? That's not really a word. It's church-like.
P: A lot of people say that. I’m assuming that’s due to the window ornament.
This ornament is a huge stained-glass thing off to the side of the room. It’s flat, circular…blue with gold imagery. It covers an entire window. With the light pouring through it, it glows, making it terribly distracting and conspicuous.
M: I’ve been wondering about it.
P: Mmm…yes, it’s peaceful.
M: The imagery on it…the lines are all converging, twisting together…I’ve been researching it, but I can’t find anything else like it. I was curious about what it meant.
The truth is that I did find an example of it online. It’s not Christian…it’s Celtic. Symbolizes infinity.
P: You know, I’m really not sure what the image means. I was at a garage sale one day…my wife and I, we love garage sales…I saw it, had to have it. I suppose I did like the feel of it…the church association. Stained glass has such an inner-warmth.
M: Right. Maybe that’s why you and I click so well. I hide my personality behind metaphorical walls. You display your personality on actual walls. Mmm. Thought-provoking.
I splay my fingers, slowly merge my hands together, a move he did a few weeks ago.
M: I’m seeing overlap. Similarities. Convergence.
P: What about with your parents? Do you feel any “overlap” with them?
M: I don’t know what you mean.
P: Do you have any personality traits in common?
M: Probably not. We seem pretty different.
He flips through his notes.
P: During the first session, we discussed your family history. Let’s see here…you described your family life, growing up, as “bland”. Parents are nice, polite…you called them “Ozzie and Harriet”.
M: Right.
P: Don’t you think that’s interesting?
M: I called them bland precisely because they’re not interesting.
P: Come on…you've known your parents your entire life…and that’s all you can say about them? They’re “polite”? M, no one is polite over a stretch of time like that. People have good days, bad days…yet you’ve never really seen them be anything other than “bland”.
He steeples his fingers in front of his chin.
P: How do you think most people would describe you?
M: I don’t think anyone really knows me.
P: That is exactly my point. No one knows you. I’ve talked with you for six sessions and I don’t know you. The one thing you’ve said in here consistently…you feel like a marionette. And your parents? They sound like a marionette as well. Bland, polite, going through the motions.
M: You’re mixing your metaphors here. I’m using “marionette” to describe the physical discomfort I feel…the fact that I lack body language. To navigate social situations, I have to consciously arrange my body, step by step, through the interaction. “Move your arms like this…hold your eye contact for 4 seconds…nod your head now.” The word “marionette” is a reference to the fact that I am…for reasons I’ve never understood…having to puppet my body. With my parents…they’re just boring. In their case, the word “marionette” has a completely different connotation.
P: And what does it connote?
M: Modern normalcy.
P: Your parents are sleepwalking through life. You, M…you are sleepwalking through life. No career-goals. No dreams, ambitions. Not seeking relationships.
M: I'm wrong, actually. You're not mixing metaphors. You’re applying the same set of words…"marionette", "sleepwalking"…to separate situations. And since the words are the same, you’re claiming that the situations are the same. This is a common logical fallacy.
P: I'm just making...
M: Er. It's killing me. I can't remember the name of the fallacy. It's one of those Latin phrases.
P: It's legitimate to at least question...
M: Translates as something like, "After this, therefore because of this". I'm terrible at this stuff.
P: M...
M: Post hoc ergo propter hoc?
P: M. "Puppet...marionette". I'm referring to words you've been choosing.
M: For me. Because I thought it would help convey some of the difficulties. Clearly I was wrong.
P: Really think about how similar these descriptions are…of you, of your parents. I mean, didn’t you ever see them angry? Arguing, crying…expressing emotion?
M: Not really.
P: Right there…people living that way, repressing everything. It’s brutal…such a restricted…
M: Doctor…is it really that unusual? I’m from a small southern town. Where I’m from? People don’t express emotion. It oppressive, but that’s the way it works. Guys especially…if you express emotion, that’s perceived as weakness. I mean, come on…the stuff you’re describing as if it’s some kind of startling insight…this is our culture. You’re identifying these broad social problems and trying to shoe-horn them into my statements.
P: To hear you call your parents Ozzie and Harriet…and then to see you put this wall up, week after week. It’s striking. Take a few minutes here M, think about that. Think about these connections. Where did you learn the marionette?
M: It's like I said. I taught myself when I was a teenager. After not making friends for so long, failing socially, I tried to understand what was happening to me. So I thought about it, struggled with it. And I began to mimic body language. I began to experiment...
I lift my wrists up, like they're on strings.
M: With this. With how to be.
He shifts around in his chair. He hates it when I talk this way.
M: It sort of evokes that quote from Hamlet, "To be or not to be". Or maybe it doesn't. To be honest, I have no idea what that quote means, so it may not relate. I couldn't make it through the Cliff Notes on that one. There were no pictures. Pinocchio, on the other hand...that one relates and it has pictures. I don't know if you're familiar with the history of Pinocchio...the way it was originally supposed to end...
P: No.
M: Meh. Fuck it. Going back to Hamlet, there is one quote that I've always liked.
I raise my eyebrows, wait.
P: Go ahead.
M: This isn't quite word for word. "I could be bound in a nutshell and count myself a king of infinite space...were it not that I have bad dreams".
P: Let me...I just want to return here and ask, just so that we're staying focused: you don’t think it’s interesting that you and your parents have similar modes of living?
M: No. I don't think it's interesting because I don't see the similarities. Once you get past the rhetorical overlap...which is seeming kind of strained to me anyway...I don't see it. It’s…I don’t know. I don't know what to tell you, doctor. I’m not getting it.
But I sort of do get it now. I asked him last week if he was applying Jungian theory. He denied it. But here he is this week, rolling it out, trying to sneak it into the conversation. So, next post: I try to call him on the Jung. His response: dropping the psychologist shtick altogether and trying to convert me to Christianity. It's the long over-due end of our final session.
The month: November.
My mood: pitch-fucking-black.
I’m sitting in the waiting room, absolutely miserable about being here (the fifth session: a waste of time). However...some small, tiny part of me likes it this way. It just seems right. I’ve made a mess of my life, yet I denied for so long that I needed help. I was stubborn about it, convinced that I could fix things on my own. So finally, after all this time, I reach out, seek psychological counseling…and get a moron.
Typical.
When I arrived, he was already in the waiting room, chatting with the receptionist. I took a seat, started going through the magazines.
After a few minutes, he walks over, sits next to me on the couch. I don’t say anything. He indicates the magazine.
Psychologist Guy: Anything good in there?
M: Pretty people. Bright teeth.
P: People are obsessed with perfection, aren’t they?
I don’t say anything. He picks up a magazine, sits back. I look at the receptionist for help. She’s distracted with a phone call.
P: It’s just hard to look at this stuff and relate to people, you know?
I lean forward and rub my eyes.
P: You a sports fan? See a Sports Illustrated there.
M: These are your magazines.
P: Right. I just try to have a little variety available, something for everyone.
I wait.
P: Want anything to drink?
M: No thank you.
P: That little fridge there…that’s for clients. Got soft-drinks, water…anything you like.
M: No.
He can't turn of the repore-building nonsense. It's bizarre that he's even trying after the way things have gone.
P: Soooo…anyway. Guess it’s that time.
We walk into his office, take our seats.
P: I’ll just throw this out there. You’ve described a life-long sense of discomfort around people. Isn’t it interesting that you chose to study psychology?
M: It could be interesting. It could just be masochism. Hard to say.
He waits.
M: I only received a bachelors, so it's not like I took it very far.
P: Why psychology though? Given your sense of people, why would you make that your chosen path?
M: “Chosen path”. That’s very…grand sounding. I’m not sure that I ever thought of it in those terms. I took a few psychology classes. Liked them. Got a degree. That’s just kind of how it went.
P: You did well with the classes, right? Good grades and all?
M: Sure.
P: I'm curious: why no grad school?
I shrug.
P: Sense of purpose is a very key part of our lives. It’s really what motivates us, informs our sense of the future. You didn’t have a career goal in mind?
M: I don’t know.
I shrug again, play stupid. There's no way I'm telling this guy anything else.
P: If you could do anything at all…with psychology, or any other field…what would you do? This is really what I'm trying to get at: I’m talking about dreams here. I’d really like to know how you envision yourself, in an ideal world.
M: I’m not big on that kind of thinking. Chosen paths, broad ideals. I’m just here…breathing…that seems to be about all there is. Me. People. Stuff.
P: Everyone strives for more, though. There’s no possibility of hope without dreaming.
Oy. I cringe.
P: Last week, we talked about that wall you put up, to keep people away. And this indifference I’m hearing…that’s a big part of the wall. No one is indifferent like that. We all want more, desire bigger things. Articulating career-goals…it’s a great way to get in touch with yourself, feel that sense of hope.
He points at his head.
P: Let that wall down a little bit. What’s your dream job?
I shuffle my feet, think about it.
M: I can trust you?
P: Absolutely. This is a safe setting, M.
M: Okay.
I breathe in…hold it…let it out.
M: I’d like to breed pelicans.
He drops into his chair, irritated.
M: No, no, I’m serious. If I could breed pelicans, that's really where it's at for me, financially speaking. What I’m thinking is that every scientist uses lab mice. Mice, everywhere, always. The entire scene is just saturated with them. So I don't get why it's predominately mice. Where are the pelicans? I can be a pioneer with those.
P: I'm really not…
M: Crap. A lot of mice have to run those mazes…and pelicans are so tall, they would just see the entire layout. It would throw off the study results. So that's a problem. I may have to breed shorter pelicans. Wow! There's a lucrative, untapped market: midget lab-pelicans.
I have trouble going on, I crack up.
M: However, if I stick with regular pelicans…and this is kind of devious…I could do a side-business selling taller mazes. Two products, one generates a need for the other. I am Marx’s nightmare. So anyway...
He stares at me. I stop laughing and stare back.
M: Hoo.
He begins speaking slowly.
P: I definitely understand your hesitance with this. The direction we take in life: that can be a frightening concept. It can be very tough to feel any sense of control with that. Its' almost like it controls us.
I have no idea what he's talking about.
P: You know, I never even considered psychology when I was younger. I thought, “Hey man, those guys are a bunch of phonies”. Do you know what I did prior to this job?
M: You've mentioned the Buddhist monastery thing.
P: There was that...but prior to that, I had an entirely different career. For ten years, M…I was an Episcopalian minister. Attended seminary…had my own parish. As far as I was concerned, that was my dream job. I was living it.
M: Huh.
I can't believe he's not responding to my pelican bit. Come on! That's A-material there!
P: I was a minister. Then spent some time at the Buddhist monastery. And now…psychology. Sometimes life chooses our path for us…whatever dreams we have, life can change those, re-arrange our priorities…whether we like it or not.
M: I'm not following.
It's quiet for a bit.
M: Your office does feel churchy.
P: Pardon?
M: Churchy? Is that a word? That's not really a word. It's church-like.
P: A lot of people say that. I’m assuming that’s due to the window ornament.
This ornament is a huge stained-glass thing off to the side of the room. It’s flat, circular…blue with gold imagery. It covers an entire window. With the light pouring through it, it glows, making it terribly distracting and conspicuous.
M: I’ve been wondering about it.
P: Mmm…yes, it’s peaceful.
M: The imagery on it…the lines are all converging, twisting together…I’ve been researching it, but I can’t find anything else like it. I was curious about what it meant.
The truth is that I did find an example of it online. It’s not Christian…it’s Celtic. Symbolizes infinity.
P: You know, I’m really not sure what the image means. I was at a garage sale one day…my wife and I, we love garage sales…I saw it, had to have it. I suppose I did like the feel of it…the church association. Stained glass has such an inner-warmth.
M: Right. Maybe that’s why you and I click so well. I hide my personality behind metaphorical walls. You display your personality on actual walls. Mmm. Thought-provoking.
I splay my fingers, slowly merge my hands together, a move he did a few weeks ago.
M: I’m seeing overlap. Similarities. Convergence.
P: What about with your parents? Do you feel any “overlap” with them?
M: I don’t know what you mean.
P: Do you have any personality traits in common?
M: Probably not. We seem pretty different.
He flips through his notes.
P: During the first session, we discussed your family history. Let’s see here…you described your family life, growing up, as “bland”. Parents are nice, polite…you called them “Ozzie and Harriet”.
M: Right.
P: Don’t you think that’s interesting?
M: I called them bland precisely because they’re not interesting.
P: Come on…you've known your parents your entire life…and that’s all you can say about them? They’re “polite”? M, no one is polite over a stretch of time like that. People have good days, bad days…yet you’ve never really seen them be anything other than “bland”.
He steeples his fingers in front of his chin.
P: How do you think most people would describe you?
M: I don’t think anyone really knows me.
P: That is exactly my point. No one knows you. I’ve talked with you for six sessions and I don’t know you. The one thing you’ve said in here consistently…you feel like a marionette. And your parents? They sound like a marionette as well. Bland, polite, going through the motions.
M: You’re mixing your metaphors here. I’m using “marionette” to describe the physical discomfort I feel…the fact that I lack body language. To navigate social situations, I have to consciously arrange my body, step by step, through the interaction. “Move your arms like this…hold your eye contact for 4 seconds…nod your head now.” The word “marionette” is a reference to the fact that I am…for reasons I’ve never understood…having to puppet my body. With my parents…they’re just boring. In their case, the word “marionette” has a completely different connotation.
P: And what does it connote?
M: Modern normalcy.
P: Your parents are sleepwalking through life. You, M…you are sleepwalking through life. No career-goals. No dreams, ambitions. Not seeking relationships.
M: I'm wrong, actually. You're not mixing metaphors. You’re applying the same set of words…"marionette", "sleepwalking"…to separate situations. And since the words are the same, you’re claiming that the situations are the same. This is a common logical fallacy.
P: I'm just making...
M: Er. It's killing me. I can't remember the name of the fallacy. It's one of those Latin phrases.
P: It's legitimate to at least question...
M: Translates as something like, "After this, therefore because of this". I'm terrible at this stuff.
P: M...
M: Post hoc ergo propter hoc?
P: M. "Puppet...marionette". I'm referring to words you've been choosing.
M: For me. Because I thought it would help convey some of the difficulties. Clearly I was wrong.
P: Really think about how similar these descriptions are…of you, of your parents. I mean, didn’t you ever see them angry? Arguing, crying…expressing emotion?
M: Not really.
P: Right there…people living that way, repressing everything. It’s brutal…such a restricted…
M: Doctor…is it really that unusual? I’m from a small southern town. Where I’m from? People don’t express emotion. It oppressive, but that’s the way it works. Guys especially…if you express emotion, that’s perceived as weakness. I mean, come on…the stuff you’re describing as if it’s some kind of startling insight…this is our culture. You’re identifying these broad social problems and trying to shoe-horn them into my statements.
P: To hear you call your parents Ozzie and Harriet…and then to see you put this wall up, week after week. It’s striking. Take a few minutes here M, think about that. Think about these connections. Where did you learn the marionette?
M: It's like I said. I taught myself when I was a teenager. After not making friends for so long, failing socially, I tried to understand what was happening to me. So I thought about it, struggled with it. And I began to mimic body language. I began to experiment...
I lift my wrists up, like they're on strings.
M: With this. With how to be.
He shifts around in his chair. He hates it when I talk this way.
M: It sort of evokes that quote from Hamlet, "To be or not to be". Or maybe it doesn't. To be honest, I have no idea what that quote means, so it may not relate. I couldn't make it through the Cliff Notes on that one. There were no pictures. Pinocchio, on the other hand...that one relates and it has pictures. I don't know if you're familiar with the history of Pinocchio...the way it was originally supposed to end...
P: No.
M: Meh. Fuck it. Going back to Hamlet, there is one quote that I've always liked.
I raise my eyebrows, wait.
P: Go ahead.
M: This isn't quite word for word. "I could be bound in a nutshell and count myself a king of infinite space...were it not that I have bad dreams".
P: Let me...I just want to return here and ask, just so that we're staying focused: you don’t think it’s interesting that you and your parents have similar modes of living?
M: No. I don't think it's interesting because I don't see the similarities. Once you get past the rhetorical overlap...which is seeming kind of strained to me anyway...I don't see it. It’s…I don’t know. I don't know what to tell you, doctor. I’m not getting it.
But I sort of do get it now. I asked him last week if he was applying Jungian theory. He denied it. But here he is this week, rolling it out, trying to sneak it into the conversation. So, next post: I try to call him on the Jung. His response: dropping the psychologist shtick altogether and trying to convert me to Christianity. It's the long over-due end of our final session.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
update
Apparently there will be no second date.
Life goes on.
When I'm a little down, I usually try to run through a mental list of personal strengths. "Well...there's this...there's that...it's not all bad news".
When I'm really down, the list has no effect. It seems feeble, useless. At which point I have to fabricate personal strengths...things so impressive that I can't help but feel better.
Today: I have the ability to eat soup...with a single chopstick. Bam! Take that, life.
This concludes your update.
Life goes on.
When I'm a little down, I usually try to run through a mental list of personal strengths. "Well...there's this...there's that...it's not all bad news".
When I'm really down, the list has no effect. It seems feeble, useless. At which point I have to fabricate personal strengths...things so impressive that I can't help but feel better.
Today: I have the ability to eat soup...with a single chopstick. Bam! Take that, life.
This concludes your update.
Monday, September 15, 2008
this night quiet
Tonight, 7p.m.
Salad. I jab a fork into it. A chick pea leaps from the plate, rolls away at an angle. When it hits the floor, the cat's eyes go wide...it leaps and bats the wayward little dot. The cat arches it's back and hops up...then slowly leans in for a sniff. Blech. It walks away, bored.
I sit and chew. The television shows tree limbs, sad people, toothpaste, shoes, tree limbs, sad shoes, people teeth. Between commercials, the screen is dark and I see me chewing in the reflection. The blank screen is reciprocating my blank expression (or the other way around).
The cat presses it's face into my knee.
I roam around the house, back and forth...step on the forgotten chick pea. Squish. Yick.
I try to read, but my mind is twitchy, bored. Each word gets looked at, forgotten. Sentences reel past, leaving no impressions. Reading tonight: it feels the way fences look as you walk by them...the posts identical, indistinguishable, streaming past, streaming together. A wide blur without purpose.
Car engines. Tea-kettle. Crickets. Plane.
The cat, it's tiny cold nose at my knee.
I sit in front of the radio, listen to music, stare...pick up magazines, flip through them.
(plain crickets roam in tea-engine fences, bored kettles pressing their chick-shoes.)
The cat sits up and looks studious. Then it looks confused. Then it sticks a back leg into the air and begins slowly licking it's foot. Strange how cats can turn their dignity off and on like that.
The neighbors drive away, return with more boxes. Two words are scrawled on the side of one, in bright red letters: "WINTER SOCKS".
The wind. The trees. The leaves.
And M, a blur with no purpose.
Salad. I jab a fork into it. A chick pea leaps from the plate, rolls away at an angle. When it hits the floor, the cat's eyes go wide...it leaps and bats the wayward little dot. The cat arches it's back and hops up...then slowly leans in for a sniff. Blech. It walks away, bored.
I sit and chew. The television shows tree limbs, sad people, toothpaste, shoes, tree limbs, sad shoes, people teeth. Between commercials, the screen is dark and I see me chewing in the reflection. The blank screen is reciprocating my blank expression (or the other way around).
The cat presses it's face into my knee.
I roam around the house, back and forth...step on the forgotten chick pea. Squish. Yick.
I try to read, but my mind is twitchy, bored. Each word gets looked at, forgotten. Sentences reel past, leaving no impressions. Reading tonight: it feels the way fences look as you walk by them...the posts identical, indistinguishable, streaming past, streaming together. A wide blur without purpose.
Car engines. Tea-kettle. Crickets. Plane.
The cat, it's tiny cold nose at my knee.
I sit in front of the radio, listen to music, stare...pick up magazines, flip through them.
(plain crickets roam in tea-engine fences, bored kettles pressing their chick-shoes.)
The cat sits up and looks studious. Then it looks confused. Then it sticks a back leg into the air and begins slowly licking it's foot. Strange how cats can turn their dignity off and on like that.
The neighbors drive away, return with more boxes. Two words are scrawled on the side of one, in bright red letters: "WINTER SOCKS".
The wind. The trees. The leaves.
And M, a blur with no purpose.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
chasing darkness with a candle
I'm finding that writing about Asperger's is extremely difficult. I'm unclear on how to do this. I'm unclear on the shape of it, the nature of it. And usually, there's a reliable solution to a barrier like this: "Write what you know". The problem is that I'm clueless about myself. I make no sense to me.
That concept, "understanding yourself"...it's like trying to step on your own shadow: it steps back. You can't pin it down. It's an elusive bastard.
Confusion ensues.
What I know is that I received a diagnosis of Asperger's in 2005, at the age of 30. I went home, kind of shocked, confused. I googled the diagnosis, read as much as I could. I found that I could not relate to any of the experiences I discovered. I was wrong, but my sense at the time was that AS stories fell into two camps.
1. Kids struggling with sensory issues, social issues.
2. Adults with AS who were geniuses. Bright, eccentric misfits who fought, struggled, and managed, through their rare gifts, to find a niche in life. They tended to receive the diagnosis later in life...during their 40's, 50's...after having already established their families and careers. The diagnosis tended to be this unexpected bit of news that came along; surprising, but something that explained a lot about their past. Something that clicked, made sense.
These latter stories: uplifting. Empowering. And given where I was at that point in my life: utterly nauseating.
In 2005, I found that I was no longer one story (a kid) and I was too impaired to be the other (an adult on a path towards success and fulfillment). I was lonely, bitter, suicidal. I was pricing guns. I was going into the office of a bad psychologist and talking circles around him, engaging in childish power struggles (this is the first session with him, before we derailed; I should have the last session up next week). The depression was such that I was staying in bed 16 hours some days, sleeping maybe 5. The hygiene: no good.
(You see a lot of artists and musicians idealizing depression: these are clearly people who have never been knocked unconscious by the fumes from their laundry. Fuck these people.)
Unlike the other adult AS stories I read, my life had not been enriched by a seemingly miraculous genius or savantism. Tests indicate perks with verbal comprehension, but whatever my intellectual strengths: they are not terribly marketable. They are not going to generate a paycheck, financial stability. No good at math...inept with computers (things you find in a lot of the AS literature). The sensory issues alone have prevented much of a chance for career advancement: I work graveyard shifts. I probably always will. It's necessary, yet I am determined to be absolutely bitter about this.
(I'm fun that way. I'll divide myself up, play good-cop, bad-cop, really pull in different directions. The confusion that ensued earlier: present. Going strong.)
Reading about the diagnosis..about other adults...it hurt. I've been hit particularly hard with the social deficits, so it was painful to find that others were making connections...struggling, but achieving the basic milestones of life. At the age of 30, I had watched a lot of the milestones go by, untouched, very far in the distance.
Another reason I was finding the adult stories to be painful: I needed some frame of reference for my experiences. During the therapy process (still taking place), I needed to hear...not just categories that fit my issues...but parallel stories, other people who had known these things, lived them. Just anything at all that would counter-balance the isolation of difference, seep away some of that hollowness. Those stories were there, but I couldn't find them at the time, probably not looking hard enough.
Example: if I am not looking at a mirror or a photograph, I forget what I look like. Immediately. I go around with a vague, amorphous sense of self. An M-cloud, poorly rendered, vaguely drawn.
Example: My body feels wrong, strange (maybe this is what causes the inability to form a self image, I don't know)...my limbs feel disconnected, uncomfortable, always.
Example: I lack body language. Confusing...for me, for others. I'm a bird with no song.
I have words for this now (difficulties with proprioception, mind-blindness, etc.) but it was slowly finding the personal stories (the ones between group 1 and group 2) that made the difference. In part, it was just a comfort to find similar experiences...it's as simple as that. But mostly it had to do with the fact that other people sharing, other people opening up: it's the best possible anecdote for self-pity. Feeling like you're alone...it's both very painful and guaranteed to make you whiny. A two-fold indignity. Unfair, but there it is, mocking you, whispering "Snap out of it". This us that we are...cruel stuff.
With issues such as these, the temptation is to shoe-horn it all into an uplifting narrative. "Fought. Struggled. Prevailed. Whew, glad all of that bad stuff is behind me".
For me, at least, this would be bullshit.
To off-set this impulse, my plan is to discuss the things that have been most difficult...the embarrassing, the humiliating...the things I wanted to read about when I was first discovering Asperger's. I wanted to know: are others failing...in spectacular fashion...when it comes to relationships? What about comfort issues and sensory issues during (appallingly infrequent) sexual experiences? The big stuff, the simple stuff, all of it...who else is flailing and why?
Which gets back to what makes writing about Asperger's difficult. More stories are coming out all the time. There is no longer a sense of order about it...instead of two stories, there are dozens, hundreds, thousands...more.
The genie is out of the bottle. Wait...the genie is now picking up the bottle. And smashing it into a billion pieces. The bottle has lost it's relevance.
Consequently: I can now make sense of things...find the likewise, the otherly.
Non-consequently: how people write about Asperger's matters. It's important. "Write what you know"...this actually is not enough. It's far, far short of what needs to happen. It's important to be cautious...to use words relating to these issues carefully. For me, how others describe their AS? It elicits intense, powerful emotions.
It fucking hurts, even when it's helping.
And I am too uncertain about myself...and terribly uncertain about something as complicated as Asperger's...to just write, put the experiences out there (without at least verbally freaking out like this; rambling, going round-about in an effort to express fear).
It's a task made difficult by the fact that I now know: the vast majority of difficulties in my life had nothing to do with Asperger's. It was a result of receiving the diagnosis so late, not having a chance to understand the differences, develop coping strategies, respond, grow.
And this confusion about myself makes it difficult to be appropriately cautious. As I go along, trying to describe different events in my life, I am having to learn to make distinctions about these things. I have to ask, for example: what, in these various situations, is AS...what is depression...what are external factors, like the ignorance of others...what are internal factors, like the humorously stupid decisions I tend to make on a regular basis.
(Like the day I had five dollars in my bank account and tried to buy a six-dollar cookie. An unbelievably huge six-dollar cookie. This was ill-advised.)
Meaning that I cannot blame everything on AS. I can't even blame a little bit on it, as much as I would like to. It's irritating. Will work for scapegoat.
So anyway, that's my plan: to do this, start going into more detail now...but to probably screw it up. To do it ineffectively. Incorrectly. With as much guilt and torment as possible.
My turvy for the dis-convivial.
That concept, "understanding yourself"...it's like trying to step on your own shadow: it steps back. You can't pin it down. It's an elusive bastard.
Confusion ensues.
What I know is that I received a diagnosis of Asperger's in 2005, at the age of 30. I went home, kind of shocked, confused. I googled the diagnosis, read as much as I could. I found that I could not relate to any of the experiences I discovered. I was wrong, but my sense at the time was that AS stories fell into two camps.
1. Kids struggling with sensory issues, social issues.
2. Adults with AS who were geniuses. Bright, eccentric misfits who fought, struggled, and managed, through their rare gifts, to find a niche in life. They tended to receive the diagnosis later in life...during their 40's, 50's...after having already established their families and careers. The diagnosis tended to be this unexpected bit of news that came along; surprising, but something that explained a lot about their past. Something that clicked, made sense.
These latter stories: uplifting. Empowering. And given where I was at that point in my life: utterly nauseating.
In 2005, I found that I was no longer one story (a kid) and I was too impaired to be the other (an adult on a path towards success and fulfillment). I was lonely, bitter, suicidal. I was pricing guns. I was going into the office of a bad psychologist and talking circles around him, engaging in childish power struggles (this is the first session with him, before we derailed; I should have the last session up next week). The depression was such that I was staying in bed 16 hours some days, sleeping maybe 5. The hygiene: no good.
(You see a lot of artists and musicians idealizing depression: these are clearly people who have never been knocked unconscious by the fumes from their laundry. Fuck these people.)
Unlike the other adult AS stories I read, my life had not been enriched by a seemingly miraculous genius or savantism. Tests indicate perks with verbal comprehension, but whatever my intellectual strengths: they are not terribly marketable. They are not going to generate a paycheck, financial stability. No good at math...inept with computers (things you find in a lot of the AS literature). The sensory issues alone have prevented much of a chance for career advancement: I work graveyard shifts. I probably always will. It's necessary, yet I am determined to be absolutely bitter about this.
(I'm fun that way. I'll divide myself up, play good-cop, bad-cop, really pull in different directions. The confusion that ensued earlier: present. Going strong.)
Reading about the diagnosis..about other adults...it hurt. I've been hit particularly hard with the social deficits, so it was painful to find that others were making connections...struggling, but achieving the basic milestones of life. At the age of 30, I had watched a lot of the milestones go by, untouched, very far in the distance.
Another reason I was finding the adult stories to be painful: I needed some frame of reference for my experiences. During the therapy process (still taking place), I needed to hear...not just categories that fit my issues...but parallel stories, other people who had known these things, lived them. Just anything at all that would counter-balance the isolation of difference, seep away some of that hollowness. Those stories were there, but I couldn't find them at the time, probably not looking hard enough.
Example: if I am not looking at a mirror or a photograph, I forget what I look like. Immediately. I go around with a vague, amorphous sense of self. An M-cloud, poorly rendered, vaguely drawn.
Example: My body feels wrong, strange (maybe this is what causes the inability to form a self image, I don't know)...my limbs feel disconnected, uncomfortable, always.
Example: I lack body language. Confusing...for me, for others. I'm a bird with no song.
I have words for this now (difficulties with proprioception, mind-blindness, etc.) but it was slowly finding the personal stories (the ones between group 1 and group 2) that made the difference. In part, it was just a comfort to find similar experiences...it's as simple as that. But mostly it had to do with the fact that other people sharing, other people opening up: it's the best possible anecdote for self-pity. Feeling like you're alone...it's both very painful and guaranteed to make you whiny. A two-fold indignity. Unfair, but there it is, mocking you, whispering "Snap out of it". This us that we are...cruel stuff.
With issues such as these, the temptation is to shoe-horn it all into an uplifting narrative. "Fought. Struggled. Prevailed. Whew, glad all of that bad stuff is behind me".
For me, at least, this would be bullshit.
To off-set this impulse, my plan is to discuss the things that have been most difficult...the embarrassing, the humiliating...the things I wanted to read about when I was first discovering Asperger's. I wanted to know: are others failing...in spectacular fashion...when it comes to relationships? What about comfort issues and sensory issues during (appallingly infrequent) sexual experiences? The big stuff, the simple stuff, all of it...who else is flailing and why?
Which gets back to what makes writing about Asperger's difficult. More stories are coming out all the time. There is no longer a sense of order about it...instead of two stories, there are dozens, hundreds, thousands...more.
The genie is out of the bottle. Wait...the genie is now picking up the bottle. And smashing it into a billion pieces. The bottle has lost it's relevance.
Consequently: I can now make sense of things...find the likewise, the otherly.
Non-consequently: how people write about Asperger's matters. It's important. "Write what you know"...this actually is not enough. It's far, far short of what needs to happen. It's important to be cautious...to use words relating to these issues carefully. For me, how others describe their AS? It elicits intense, powerful emotions.
It fucking hurts, even when it's helping.
And I am too uncertain about myself...and terribly uncertain about something as complicated as Asperger's...to just write, put the experiences out there (without at least verbally freaking out like this; rambling, going round-about in an effort to express fear).
It's a task made difficult by the fact that I now know: the vast majority of difficulties in my life had nothing to do with Asperger's. It was a result of receiving the diagnosis so late, not having a chance to understand the differences, develop coping strategies, respond, grow.
And this confusion about myself makes it difficult to be appropriately cautious. As I go along, trying to describe different events in my life, I am having to learn to make distinctions about these things. I have to ask, for example: what, in these various situations, is AS...what is depression...what are external factors, like the ignorance of others...what are internal factors, like the humorously stupid decisions I tend to make on a regular basis.
(Like the day I had five dollars in my bank account and tried to buy a six-dollar cookie. An unbelievably huge six-dollar cookie. This was ill-advised.)
Meaning that I cannot blame everything on AS. I can't even blame a little bit on it, as much as I would like to. It's irritating. Will work for scapegoat.
So anyway, that's my plan: to do this, start going into more detail now...but to probably screw it up. To do it ineffectively. Incorrectly. With as much guilt and torment as possible.
My turvy for the dis-convivial.
Monday, September 8, 2008
what?
Since I've been posting old material...mostly from 2005...this is kind of abrupt. It lacks context. It needs exposition.
But I'm going to tell you anyway. Eventually I'll follow up with more details.
What was I saying? Oh yeah...
I had a date this past weekend. An actual date...one that involved a person other than my television! (I should add that I consider my television to be a person...it's less lonely that way. Moving on).
For most people...I don't even know what that sounds like. Someone had a date. It happens. But I've been...let's say "inward" for quite awhile now. Haven't been getting out like most people.
Without exaggerating: the last time I had a date? It was 1998...my last semester of college.
Ten years ago.
It was kind of a shock, because I only vaguely remember what women look like. Took me a few minutes to adjust. "Oh! Like that. Purr."
Hiding away for a block of time like that: it makes dating banter difficult, because it's really not the sort of thing you can mention. "Wow. So this is weird...me, sitting here, looking at a human female. Holy crap! Haven't done this in...you know, a decade. Since that whole...me getting depressed and socially isolating thing."
So I tried to keep the conversation on light topics. Books. TV. Cereal boxes. Doorknobs.
I'm a strange date.
Details to follow.
But I'm going to tell you anyway. Eventually I'll follow up with more details.
What was I saying? Oh yeah...
I had a date this past weekend. An actual date...one that involved a person other than my television! (I should add that I consider my television to be a person...it's less lonely that way. Moving on).
For most people...I don't even know what that sounds like. Someone had a date. It happens. But I've been...let's say "inward" for quite awhile now. Haven't been getting out like most people.
Without exaggerating: the last time I had a date? It was 1998...my last semester of college.
Ten years ago.
It was kind of a shock, because I only vaguely remember what women look like. Took me a few minutes to adjust. "Oh! Like that. Purr."
Hiding away for a block of time like that: it makes dating banter difficult, because it's really not the sort of thing you can mention. "Wow. So this is weird...me, sitting here, looking at a human female. Holy crap! Haven't done this in...you know, a decade. Since that whole...me getting depressed and socially isolating thing."
So I tried to keep the conversation on light topics. Books. TV. Cereal boxes. Doorknobs.
I'm a strange date.
Details to follow.
Friday, September 5, 2008
less-than-spectacular habits
Favorite human (and gifted blogist) Kyra/This Mom has been mirthfully tagged with a meme of interest. And the benevolent pollen of said meme has now drifted M-ward (landing directly on my nose. Boop).
Her responses? Shocking...scandalous. Her sore feet and love of the infomercial shall persist in the annals of Blog Infamy. I can only hope that my responses will likewise test the limits of meme-based self-examination.
And so...
Six Unspectacular Facts About M
1. M! Loves! Soup! Will eat anything if it's in a bowl and referred to as "soup" or even "soup-esque". Too much information: once ate condensed canned soup...without adding water. It just wobbled there in the bowl like a nervous pudding. I ate it anyway, chiseling away at it with a spoon. I now regret having shared this bit of info. Moving on.
2. I make absolutely no interesting sock purchases. Plain, white cotton socks; that's all I have. No stripes. No patterns. My socks embody nothing, in it's purest non-form. They are Socks Without Qualities, almost hypnotic in their visual silence.
3. I watch CSPAN constantly. Not only that, but I talk back to the screen when CSPAN is on. I like to pretend that I'm hanging out with the anchors. "Pedro! What up!" I think he and I could hang out. Steve Scully? Booooring. I am especially interested in CSPAN when the lady anchors are on. They are, across the board, my type. Smart, well-spoken. Purr. (Susan Swain: call me.)
4. I like the art on cereal boxes. I'm fascinated by it. I can't believe I'm telling people this.
5. I have zero plant-growing skills. I like the idea of having plants in the house, but they consistently fail to thrive under my care. They wilt away...possibly on purpose, in an effort to end their suffering. I don't know. I tried for three years in a row to grow a garden. Tomatoes, cucumbers, okra, squash, corn. The entire effort went wrong. Nothing was ever visually identifiable as a vegetable. At the end of each summer, the plants crapped out these lumpy, inedible...things. It was like Kafka had planted seeds in a garden painted by Heironymus Bosch. My plant skills: unspectacular.
6. I don't read romance novels, but when I'm at the grocery store? I love finding that one, small book section and reading the titles of romance novels. They're so overtly salacious that they crack me up. "The Sin of the Italian Mistress". "The Millionaire and the Naughty Seamstress". Between the cereal boxes and the romance novels, I have a really good time at the grocery store.
Budgetmama points out what may be the best cereal box ever:
Her responses? Shocking...scandalous. Her sore feet and love of the infomercial shall persist in the annals of Blog Infamy. I can only hope that my responses will likewise test the limits of meme-based self-examination.
And so...
Six Unspectacular Facts About M
1. M! Loves! Soup! Will eat anything if it's in a bowl and referred to as "soup" or even "soup-esque". Too much information: once ate condensed canned soup...without adding water. It just wobbled there in the bowl like a nervous pudding. I ate it anyway, chiseling away at it with a spoon. I now regret having shared this bit of info. Moving on.
2. I make absolutely no interesting sock purchases. Plain, white cotton socks; that's all I have. No stripes. No patterns. My socks embody nothing, in it's purest non-form. They are Socks Without Qualities, almost hypnotic in their visual silence.
3. I watch CSPAN constantly. Not only that, but I talk back to the screen when CSPAN is on. I like to pretend that I'm hanging out with the anchors. "Pedro! What up!" I think he and I could hang out. Steve Scully? Booooring. I am especially interested in CSPAN when the lady anchors are on. They are, across the board, my type. Smart, well-spoken. Purr. (Susan Swain: call me.)
4. I like the art on cereal boxes. I'm fascinated by it. I can't believe I'm telling people this.
5. I have zero plant-growing skills. I like the idea of having plants in the house, but they consistently fail to thrive under my care. They wilt away...possibly on purpose, in an effort to end their suffering. I don't know. I tried for three years in a row to grow a garden. Tomatoes, cucumbers, okra, squash, corn. The entire effort went wrong. Nothing was ever visually identifiable as a vegetable. At the end of each summer, the plants crapped out these lumpy, inedible...things. It was like Kafka had planted seeds in a garden painted by Heironymus Bosch. My plant skills: unspectacular.
6. I don't read romance novels, but when I'm at the grocery store? I love finding that one, small book section and reading the titles of romance novels. They're so overtly salacious that they crack me up. "The Sin of the Italian Mistress". "The Millionaire and the Naughty Seamstress". Between the cereal boxes and the romance novels, I have a really good time at the grocery store.
Budgetmama points out what may be the best cereal box ever:
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