This blog is the second incarnation of...well, this blog. (There's gotta be a better way of putting that.)
For a long time: I would go to therapy, then post each session in meandering, rough-draft form. It was just quickly-typed conversation, as I remembered it. The posts were tedious beyond imagining. I'm a little more comfortable with the format now, but I'm still trying to figure out how to structure these as I go along.
I didn't comment other places or interact a great deal...it was too difficult to go into the subject matter and feel much like connecting with others.
During 2007, I was talking to The Doctor about walls...and making efforts to socialize, meet people. Most of that year consisted of: me going out, interacting, utilizing input from therapy, not really getting anywhere...going into despair, continuing therapy, over and over. I was grappling with the mind-blindess, the consequences of it... and feeling utterly lost. (I was making friends, for example...for the first time in almost ten years...and the difficulty level was very discouraging.)
Around September of 2007 I took the posts down. Erased the blog. I could tell that I was getting increasingly depressed and I wasn't comfortable with the tone of the posts. The idea that someone might read it...might be impacted in any way by the negativity...that terrified me. Down it went. (See? Same account. No words...which does, now that I think about it, mean no grammatical errors. That lack: best thing I've ever written!)
A few months later (November of 2007), I was reading through various spectrum blogs...seeking out other perspectives for the first time...and found a site called This Mom. The first post I read?
This one.
I really can't even describe my reaction to it. The way she put her despair out there...that was powerful to me. The fact that it involved a perimeter, just a few weeks after I had been discussing walls with The Doctor...that obviously struck me. And the social struggles...too painful.
And again, I can't describe it. I don't think I need to. My guess is that the majority of you have had similar experiences...reading through sites, feeling lost, looking for something that clicks. And finding it. Realizing...there are no answers, no neat little solutions...but there is the act of expression. There is a way to frame experiences, shape the difficulties, narrow them down a bit.
To be honest, it was just a relief to feel like: it doesn't have to be sunshine and puppy dogs all the time. For better or worse, sometimes it's okay to express the worst of it. "I'm not happy. I'm not well. So fuck it. I'll say so." Took a few months...March 2008...but I started to feel more at ease about posting.
New blog name ensued. Verbal pruning ensued. Is ongoing. Trying to work on...not just typing, but communicating. Trying to...honestly? I don't even know. Every so often I think, "Wow...I just went three more months without deleting everything." Sometimes that, in-itself, feels like a lot.
It's weird how pain is horrible...and sometimes a blessing in disguise. I mean, I'm not even sure how to say this...doesn't sound right at all...but Kyra? If you had been in a good mood in November of 2007, I never would have continued writing this stuff.
So thank you for hurting. And thank you for saying so.
(Er. No. There's gotta be a better way of putting that).
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
whuh
The wall posts took so long that I'm kind of confused about where to go next. Those were the focus...without them, I don't know what to write about.
It feels like I've gone into my personality screensaver. Bloop.
I have numerous sessions with The Doctor typed up (without exagerrating, around 90 of them). I'm just not sure how to organize them, present them in a coherent way. Without a set topic, they tend to feel scattered, meandering.
So I'm blank.
Maybe I'll make a list of topics, pull one out of a hat. Maybe I'll drink an ungodly amount of coffee, sit at the keyboard and see what happens.
M is disfunctioning. Send help (or little goldfish crackers; hooray).
It feels like I've gone into my personality screensaver. Bloop.
I have numerous sessions with The Doctor typed up (without exagerrating, around 90 of them). I'm just not sure how to organize them, present them in a coherent way. Without a set topic, they tend to feel scattered, meandering.
So I'm blank.
Maybe I'll make a list of topics, pull one out of a hat. Maybe I'll drink an ungodly amount of coffee, sit at the keyboard and see what happens.
M is disfunctioning. Send help (or little goldfish crackers; hooray).
Monday, February 23, 2009
Walls (part 9 of 9)
(part eight)
October 2007
Doctor: Our last discussion. That was...woo.
M: Blech.
Doctor: I've been thinking about walls all week.
M: Me too.
D: I was thinking: I see parents in here who have never set boundaries with their kids. They let them run wild. And I have to teach them how to begin doing that, setting boundaries. And I tell them: imagine walking into a room that is completely dark. You can't see a thing. What's the first thing you do?
M: Feel around for the wall.
D: Right. You want to know: what are the dimensions here, what is the shape of this place? So I tell the parents, it's like that with your child. With their behavior, they are walking around in a dark room...and you have to be setting consistent boundaries for them. Because they are seeking that. They are going to push and push until they find those limits. And I really wonder if walls meant something similar to you when you were a kid. You had sensory issues, social confusion...and no real way to communicate that to the people around you. When you tried, the response was generally not very good. And instinctively, you just...I don't know. You needed the comfort of something solid. Something that didn't yield, that wasn't ambiguous or confusing.
M: Possibly. It's difficult to remember.
D: I can see how there would be this non-threatening element to walls, a sort of comfort. They're a part of your environment but they never change. Probably an element of sensory-seeking there as well...but it sounds like there was an additional layer going on with walls.
M: I know it was something I did, the touching, but it's hard to remember what I was thinking at the time.
D: You don't do it now?
M: Not nearly as much. I don't know when that changed. It still happens, but it's not as intense as it used to be. I think the need or whatever is less intense. I don't know why.
D: Did you say you didn't touch other things in the same way?
M: Not that I recall. I was trying to think about that this week. I can't remember it being like that with anything else, in terms of the way it felt. I loved textures, would touch a lot of things, but it was different with walls. They had this way of making everything quieter or whatever.
D: You've mentioned that word, "quieter", but I wonder how much of it had to do with experiencing contact...experiencing the boundary of something different, something outside of yourself. Something consistent and safe. You know? Mind-blindness makes it so hard to have a sense of the other person. Walls might have been your remedy for that.
M: Well, when you described touching and it's relationship to visual impairment...I had never thought of it that way before. With AS, we've used the phrase "mind-blindness", but I hadn't thought about the implications of it to any degree. I hadn't connected it to the way I've needed to touch things. I mean, I've never told anyone about that before, had feedback about it. It's not something I've been able to categorize or make sense of. And your perspective, it really helps clarify some things.
D: Like what?
M: One thing I've repeated from day one is that I tend to feel most alone when I'm around people. I've felt that way for as long as I can remember, yet I've never been able to understand it at all. If I'm by myself, I can get lonely, but as soon as I'm around other people, I feel even more isolated. And now I know that this makes sense. If I have trouble sensing the other person, then being around them is very much like being alone. Their presence is only emphasizing what I'm not able to naturally attain, if that makes any sense.
D: Definitely. It gets back to the dark room. You've had trouble finding the walls, other people. And what you have done, with a lot of your coping skills, is construct hand-rails that help you navigate the room. And you know what I mean by hand-rails?
M: Um...
D: The marionette; the physical mimicry, the verbal scripting. When you mimic body language, mirror statements...that's how you feel your way through a social interaction. Those are the hand-rails that guide you through the dark. The problem, obviously, is that you became so used to the hand-rails that you stopped looking for the walls. You isolated.
M: It helps to hear you describe all of this. That's your thing. You are so good at organizing experiences, labeling them, making sense of them.
D: I can do it because you are telling me. You're not keeping all of that confusion to yourself like you normally do. Now we need you to start being more open outside of here. Tone down the marionette.
M: Er.
D: You are still very reluctant to discuss internal reactions. You'll relate memories, events...habits, observations. But no reactions. No feelings, emotions.
I do the pantomime: patting pockets, looking around.
M: I keep misplacing those. I don't...
D: This why I want you to verbalize your reactions to my new office. That's why I've been bringing that up: practice. You're probably thinking it's a small thing...no big deal. But to me, it's a perfect opportunity to practice. You've got the projects you're working on outside of here...the socializing...but in here, I want you to work on expressing reactions as they're happening.
M: When will the new office be ready?
D: It's still a few weeks away. I can actually choose between one of two offices. I'm not sure which one to go with yet.
M: Did you get to design it?
D: No. I like both of them though. It's like I said, they are very kid-oriented. I'm pretty sure you will hate it.
M: Pink and orange walls?
D: Well, one has orange walls, the other has pink. Did I tell you about the floor?
M: No.
D: It's the same in both rooms: the room is checkered in white and purple.
She pauses.
D: Look at you. No reaction. Come on. Make a face.
I stick my tongue out.
D: There we go. I've mentioned before...this is something I see with every AS client: thoughts can be amazingly difficult to ascertain from movements, expressions. I'm mostly seeing kids now. When parents are here asking questions, wanting to understand their child, I have to tell them, "Don't rely one-hundred percent on what you see. It can be an invisible disorder".
M: For that reason, I can deal with things fine. We'll change offices, I won't need to say anything. I'll just deal with it. It's like with lights, I've never had to say anything about that. For my entire life, I've been able to keep certain things to myself, not mention it, and no one notices. I mean, I can just tell: people don't want to know. Out of sight, out of mind.
D: Nope. That's what we're trying to change here.
She looks at the clock.
D: You know what? We have time today...would you like to see the new office? We can walk over, look at it. You can tell me what you think.
M: Note my complete indifference. My arms, in particular, are doing an amazing job right now. Look at how totally relaxed they are. Look at them!
D: Very impressive.
M: This should be an Olympic sport. Freestyle Composure. The Germans are probably a shoe-in for the gold, but I'm a definite silver.
D: M. What do you think?
M: Let's go.
D: Follow me.
We walk down the hallway. She opens a door. I get the tour.
D: This is the staff area of the new center. Still a lot of painting, construction stuff around. Offices...mostly support staff here. But, as you can see, all of the walls are candy colored. The floor is checkered. Bright, bright.
M: That room looks fun.
D: The play room. They'll be installing a two-way mirror next week.
We step inside.
D: I'll be able to do autism screenings here. Sit behind the mirror, watch kids play.
M: Weird.
D: Helpful! I'm excited about it!
We go back to the hallway.
D: Here are the two offices I can choose from. I'm leaning towards the one on the right.
We step into it, roam around.
D: What do you think?
M: I don't know. I'm slow to react to things.
D: You do understand, I'm expecting you to hate this. You're not going to hurt my feelings. Whatever you think, you can say it.
M: I'll adjust.
D: I have other adult clients. There is the obvious weirdness of being an adult and meeting in a children's office.
M: Meh. It's odd. Doesn't really matter, though.
D: It's still possible that I can reserve the old office for adult clients, but that is looking less likely.
We stand, arms folded, looking around.
D: Okay. No big deal. However...it is a change and I think it's an opportunity for you to practice verbalizing reactions. Just...react. Tell me what you're thinking.
M: This is the corner office.
D: Is it as bad as you thought it would be?
M: The floors...it's a little extreme. It's not worse than I thought. The floors, Doctor, yikes. Those fucking colors. It's like Mondrian dropped acid, walked into the room and exploded. Whuh.
D: Mondrian?
M: A painter. Rectangular, non-representational stuff. Every time I see an office for kids, I think of Mondrian. I don't know what the connection is between post-war, Dutch plasticism and kiddie decor, but it's there. There was some kind of weird confluence of trends in the 80's. Graffiti art- I guess due to the nature of it, the fact that it has to be completed quickly- it relies on broad, simplistic lines and I guess someone like Mondrian would appeal to the street scene. Keith Herring, for example, anyone like him- it's almost hyper-clean, hyper-simple. The imagery arising out of a style like that can end up feeling all-ages. So maybe that's it...in the 80's, graffiti art is being incorporated into popular culture. Cable television is spreading... increasing the demand for children's programming. Wide-spread use of the stark, vibrant aesthetic associated with kids ensues. Rick Geary, the guy who designed Pee Wee's Playhouse- not that his lines are hyper-clean or anything, but him and a lot of the artists working for Nickelodeon...these are guys coming from a subversive background. It's interesting that programs for quote/unquote "children" would....
D: Look at what's happening.
M: I'm just talking. Sounding out...stuff. Nonsense.
D: If I didn't know you, it would be hard to catch what's going on. All calm..."just talking". But the analytical mode...that means you're stressed. It's your coping skill: intellectualization; observations in place of feelings.
She pauses. I don't say anything.
D: That's how you detach.
M: I'm not stressed.
D: Dutch plasticism?
M: Well, that is bad. Plasticism was a trend created by Dutch artists, so I'm being redundant. Good catch.
D: Fair enough. This is tough for you. Simple change...yet it gets into a difficult area. I want you to spend the week thinking about what you are feeling right now, so that you can tell me next week. Remember: it's practice. This is very much what we're needing to focus on.
I rub my eyes.
D: Let's go back.
We walk through the building, resume our usual places. She looks off to the side...considers something for a bit.
D: Huh. You like graffiti?
M: A little. I like reading about it, looking at examples of it.
D: Kind of fitting.
I shake my head, not getting it.
D: It's art created directly on walls.
I think about it.
M: I had never caught that.
October 2007
Doctor: Our last discussion. That was...woo.
M: Blech.
Doctor: I've been thinking about walls all week.
M: Me too.
D: I was thinking: I see parents in here who have never set boundaries with their kids. They let them run wild. And I have to teach them how to begin doing that, setting boundaries. And I tell them: imagine walking into a room that is completely dark. You can't see a thing. What's the first thing you do?
M: Feel around for the wall.
D: Right. You want to know: what are the dimensions here, what is the shape of this place? So I tell the parents, it's like that with your child. With their behavior, they are walking around in a dark room...and you have to be setting consistent boundaries for them. Because they are seeking that. They are going to push and push until they find those limits. And I really wonder if walls meant something similar to you when you were a kid. You had sensory issues, social confusion...and no real way to communicate that to the people around you. When you tried, the response was generally not very good. And instinctively, you just...I don't know. You needed the comfort of something solid. Something that didn't yield, that wasn't ambiguous or confusing.
M: Possibly. It's difficult to remember.
D: I can see how there would be this non-threatening element to walls, a sort of comfort. They're a part of your environment but they never change. Probably an element of sensory-seeking there as well...but it sounds like there was an additional layer going on with walls.
M: I know it was something I did, the touching, but it's hard to remember what I was thinking at the time.
D: You don't do it now?
M: Not nearly as much. I don't know when that changed. It still happens, but it's not as intense as it used to be. I think the need or whatever is less intense. I don't know why.
D: Did you say you didn't touch other things in the same way?
M: Not that I recall. I was trying to think about that this week. I can't remember it being like that with anything else, in terms of the way it felt. I loved textures, would touch a lot of things, but it was different with walls. They had this way of making everything quieter or whatever.
D: You've mentioned that word, "quieter", but I wonder how much of it had to do with experiencing contact...experiencing the boundary of something different, something outside of yourself. Something consistent and safe. You know? Mind-blindness makes it so hard to have a sense of the other person. Walls might have been your remedy for that.
M: Well, when you described touching and it's relationship to visual impairment...I had never thought of it that way before. With AS, we've used the phrase "mind-blindness", but I hadn't thought about the implications of it to any degree. I hadn't connected it to the way I've needed to touch things. I mean, I've never told anyone about that before, had feedback about it. It's not something I've been able to categorize or make sense of. And your perspective, it really helps clarify some things.
D: Like what?
M: One thing I've repeated from day one is that I tend to feel most alone when I'm around people. I've felt that way for as long as I can remember, yet I've never been able to understand it at all. If I'm by myself, I can get lonely, but as soon as I'm around other people, I feel even more isolated. And now I know that this makes sense. If I have trouble sensing the other person, then being around them is very much like being alone. Their presence is only emphasizing what I'm not able to naturally attain, if that makes any sense.
D: Definitely. It gets back to the dark room. You've had trouble finding the walls, other people. And what you have done, with a lot of your coping skills, is construct hand-rails that help you navigate the room. And you know what I mean by hand-rails?
M: Um...
D: The marionette; the physical mimicry, the verbal scripting. When you mimic body language, mirror statements...that's how you feel your way through a social interaction. Those are the hand-rails that guide you through the dark. The problem, obviously, is that you became so used to the hand-rails that you stopped looking for the walls. You isolated.
M: It helps to hear you describe all of this. That's your thing. You are so good at organizing experiences, labeling them, making sense of them.
D: I can do it because you are telling me. You're not keeping all of that confusion to yourself like you normally do. Now we need you to start being more open outside of here. Tone down the marionette.
M: Er.
D: You are still very reluctant to discuss internal reactions. You'll relate memories, events...habits, observations. But no reactions. No feelings, emotions.
I do the pantomime: patting pockets, looking around.
M: I keep misplacing those. I don't...
D: This why I want you to verbalize your reactions to my new office. That's why I've been bringing that up: practice. You're probably thinking it's a small thing...no big deal. But to me, it's a perfect opportunity to practice. You've got the projects you're working on outside of here...the socializing...but in here, I want you to work on expressing reactions as they're happening.
M: When will the new office be ready?
D: It's still a few weeks away. I can actually choose between one of two offices. I'm not sure which one to go with yet.
M: Did you get to design it?
D: No. I like both of them though. It's like I said, they are very kid-oriented. I'm pretty sure you will hate it.
M: Pink and orange walls?
D: Well, one has orange walls, the other has pink. Did I tell you about the floor?
M: No.
D: It's the same in both rooms: the room is checkered in white and purple.
She pauses.
D: Look at you. No reaction. Come on. Make a face.
I stick my tongue out.
D: There we go. I've mentioned before...this is something I see with every AS client: thoughts can be amazingly difficult to ascertain from movements, expressions. I'm mostly seeing kids now. When parents are here asking questions, wanting to understand their child, I have to tell them, "Don't rely one-hundred percent on what you see. It can be an invisible disorder".
M: For that reason, I can deal with things fine. We'll change offices, I won't need to say anything. I'll just deal with it. It's like with lights, I've never had to say anything about that. For my entire life, I've been able to keep certain things to myself, not mention it, and no one notices. I mean, I can just tell: people don't want to know. Out of sight, out of mind.
D: Nope. That's what we're trying to change here.
She looks at the clock.
D: You know what? We have time today...would you like to see the new office? We can walk over, look at it. You can tell me what you think.
M: Note my complete indifference. My arms, in particular, are doing an amazing job right now. Look at how totally relaxed they are. Look at them!
D: Very impressive.
M: This should be an Olympic sport. Freestyle Composure. The Germans are probably a shoe-in for the gold, but I'm a definite silver.
D: M. What do you think?
M: Let's go.
D: Follow me.
We walk down the hallway. She opens a door. I get the tour.
D: This is the staff area of the new center. Still a lot of painting, construction stuff around. Offices...mostly support staff here. But, as you can see, all of the walls are candy colored. The floor is checkered. Bright, bright.
M: That room looks fun.
D: The play room. They'll be installing a two-way mirror next week.
We step inside.
D: I'll be able to do autism screenings here. Sit behind the mirror, watch kids play.
M: Weird.
D: Helpful! I'm excited about it!
We go back to the hallway.
D: Here are the two offices I can choose from. I'm leaning towards the one on the right.
We step into it, roam around.
D: What do you think?
M: I don't know. I'm slow to react to things.
D: You do understand, I'm expecting you to hate this. You're not going to hurt my feelings. Whatever you think, you can say it.
M: I'll adjust.
D: I have other adult clients. There is the obvious weirdness of being an adult and meeting in a children's office.
M: Meh. It's odd. Doesn't really matter, though.
D: It's still possible that I can reserve the old office for adult clients, but that is looking less likely.
We stand, arms folded, looking around.
D: Okay. No big deal. However...it is a change and I think it's an opportunity for you to practice verbalizing reactions. Just...react. Tell me what you're thinking.
M: This is the corner office.
D: Is it as bad as you thought it would be?
M: The floors...it's a little extreme. It's not worse than I thought. The floors, Doctor, yikes. Those fucking colors. It's like Mondrian dropped acid, walked into the room and exploded. Whuh.
D: Mondrian?
M: A painter. Rectangular, non-representational stuff. Every time I see an office for kids, I think of Mondrian. I don't know what the connection is between post-war, Dutch plasticism and kiddie decor, but it's there. There was some kind of weird confluence of trends in the 80's. Graffiti art- I guess due to the nature of it, the fact that it has to be completed quickly- it relies on broad, simplistic lines and I guess someone like Mondrian would appeal to the street scene. Keith Herring, for example, anyone like him- it's almost hyper-clean, hyper-simple. The imagery arising out of a style like that can end up feeling all-ages. So maybe that's it...in the 80's, graffiti art is being incorporated into popular culture. Cable television is spreading... increasing the demand for children's programming. Wide-spread use of the stark, vibrant aesthetic associated with kids ensues. Rick Geary, the guy who designed Pee Wee's Playhouse- not that his lines are hyper-clean or anything, but him and a lot of the artists working for Nickelodeon...these are guys coming from a subversive background. It's interesting that programs for quote/unquote "children" would....
D: Look at what's happening.
M: I'm just talking. Sounding out...stuff. Nonsense.
D: If I didn't know you, it would be hard to catch what's going on. All calm..."just talking". But the analytical mode...that means you're stressed. It's your coping skill: intellectualization; observations in place of feelings.
She pauses. I don't say anything.
D: That's how you detach.
M: I'm not stressed.
D: Dutch plasticism?
M: Well, that is bad. Plasticism was a trend created by Dutch artists, so I'm being redundant. Good catch.
D: Fair enough. This is tough for you. Simple change...yet it gets into a difficult area. I want you to spend the week thinking about what you are feeling right now, so that you can tell me next week. Remember: it's practice. This is very much what we're needing to focus on.
I rub my eyes.
D: Let's go back.
We walk through the building, resume our usual places. She looks off to the side...considers something for a bit.
D: Huh. You like graffiti?
M: A little. I like reading about it, looking at examples of it.
D: Kind of fitting.
I shake my head, not getting it.
D: It's art created directly on walls.
I think about it.
M: I had never caught that.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Selection from the Encyclopedia of M
From page 837:
-Maps
Maps are one of the oldest forms of hypothetical geography. For convenience, they are much smaller than regular geography...and made of paper, not land.
Contrary to popular belief, maps were not invented by cavemen. Archaeological digs indicate that caves were pitch-black inside and provided very poor reading light. Only after evolving into landmen would cavemen find writing to be helpful.
Prior to the invention of maps, landmen were forced to walk about endlessly, with no destination in mind. They were lost...perpetually...but with no other options available, it was deemed quite sane to be in such a state. It wasn't mad at all, to be lost, and thus humans became known as Nomads. (Had they, on the other hand, known madness, they would have been 'Knowmads'. True story.)
Humans wandered in this manner until one of their number...a fellow by the name of Damon...realized that his name, reversed, was "nomad". Reversal struck him as an interesting concept. He generalized and reversed many things: his opinions, the part in his hair, his pants. One day he reversed his nomadic ways: he stood still.
This became boring. He drew pictures to pass the time. Sketches. Squiggles. Whatnots.
After exhausting all interest in obsessively-rendered drawings of his left knee, he switched to drawing That Which Was Around Him. The map was born (or "squiggle-induced orientation", as it was called by it's early practitioners). Through his newfangled insight, Nomad Damon, though mad to his peers and frightfully palindromic, knew maps and eventually became the legend we know today: 'Damon the Knowmapic Squigglesmith'. (Actually, history was years away from being invented, so Damon's effort will sadly remain in eternal obscurity. Damon who?)
-Maps
Maps are one of the oldest forms of hypothetical geography. For convenience, they are much smaller than regular geography...and made of paper, not land.
Contrary to popular belief, maps were not invented by cavemen. Archaeological digs indicate that caves were pitch-black inside and provided very poor reading light. Only after evolving into landmen would cavemen find writing to be helpful.
Prior to the invention of maps, landmen were forced to walk about endlessly, with no destination in mind. They were lost...perpetually...but with no other options available, it was deemed quite sane to be in such a state. It wasn't mad at all, to be lost, and thus humans became known as Nomads. (Had they, on the other hand, known madness, they would have been 'Knowmads'. True story.)
Humans wandered in this manner until one of their number...a fellow by the name of Damon...realized that his name, reversed, was "nomad". Reversal struck him as an interesting concept. He generalized and reversed many things: his opinions, the part in his hair, his pants. One day he reversed his nomadic ways: he stood still.
This became boring. He drew pictures to pass the time. Sketches. Squiggles. Whatnots.
After exhausting all interest in obsessively-rendered drawings of his left knee, he switched to drawing That Which Was Around Him. The map was born (or "squiggle-induced orientation", as it was called by it's early practitioners). Through his newfangled insight, Nomad Damon, though mad to his peers and frightfully palindromic, knew maps and eventually became the legend we know today: 'Damon the Knowmapic Squigglesmith'. (Actually, history was years away from being invented, so Damon's effort will sadly remain in eternal obscurity. Damon who?)
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Walls (part 8 of 9)
(Backstory: part 7. The two sessions preceding this one: one, two)
From September 2007
We take our seats. The Doctor watches me watch a couch cushion.
M: Ornate.
Doctor: Because we've been talking about the new office these past few weeks...and the library event...I completely forgot to ask about the new co-worker.
M: Right.
D: What's going on with that?
M: Nothing's really happening. She asked me out a few times. She's nice, but I'm not interested in going out.
D: Whoa, a few times? Last time you mentioned it, she had just asked you out once.
M: She had said, "We should go out for drinks". And every week, she basically repeats the offer. "Come on! We should go out!"
D: But you don't like her.
M: I mean...she's nice. I'm just not interested in a dating thing.
D: You sounded very conflicted last time.
M: She's attractive. The decision-making part of my brain gets fuzzy when she's talking.
D: Why not just go out, get to know her better?
M: I don't know if I mentioned...she's much younger, like almost ten years. And when we talk, it's just clear to me that we have nothing in common. She spends most of her free time going to parties. She's 22 years old...so she goes out, drinks a lot...parties. And her conversation is this endless recounting of party drama. "Oh my god...I got so messed up last night. And Dawn? She was all like gossiping and stuff and she was telling about this one dude..."
D: Immature.
M: Immature. She's very nice, but when we talk, I'm basically just pretending to listen and not really feeling any desire to go out with her.
D: I hear what you're saying. But I would like to repeat this one question...and just think about it for a second.
M: Okay.
D: You are not interested right now. Understood. Why not just go out on a date...talk...get to know her better?
M: It's not like I'm feeling neutral. It's not like, "I don't have any sense of this person." We talk and it's clear to me that we're too different...in age, in maturity level. I'm just not interested.
D: What I'm trying to say is: why not go out, see if something sexual is possible?
M: Going out when I know I'm not interested...just pursuing a physical thing...it would be an extremely detached thing to do. And I've just had too much detachment in my life as it is. I'm needing something real.
D: And I agree with you. Just so we're clear: I'm not advocating that you pursue a purely physical relationship. I'm trying to sound things out here. A lot of guys? They would do that. Men tend to process attraction differently than women. So if a woman is expressing interest...some guys would just go for it.
M: I know. Part of me is down with that. I can't even begin to tell you how sexually frustrated I am. But I need it to be a part of something more serious. The lack of relationship is killing me.
D: We're on the same page about that. But just today...you know, I'm wanting to...
She taps her foot, looks at the floor...thinks and thinks.
M: Wow, you're being cautious today.
D: I'm just wanting to develop this hypothetical.
M: I know. You're wanting to hypothetically discuss sex...as a way of talking about earlier this year. When things went wrong with the former co-worker.
She holds her hands up, palms out.
D: I never want to pressure you. You'd asked that we not discuss that...I can respect that. But for a while now, we've been working on: you, going out...meeting people...trying to establish personal connections. And my job is to help you identify potential problem areas.
M: Right.
D: And it's going well. You're meeting new people, interacting more. You're getting responses. So I just think it's a good time to focus on that area. The physical.
M: My plan is to just get out there, wing it.
D: Which you tried earlier this year. Sensory issues created problems. You asked that we not discuss that. And really, that's been your request since day one. I remember going through the basic questions during our first session and asking if you were aware of any sensory issues. Without hesitation, you said "No".
I stare at her.
D: And it took a few sessions, but I started to realize, "There's an intense sensory awareness". It's difficult to hide that sort of thing.
I pull at my sleeves.
D: You don't like that part of yourself.
M: I'm neutral about it.
D: "Neutral" sounds like shutting down...like avoidance. Which tells me: you don't like that part of yourself.
M: It's something I've had to manage every day of my life. And if I can manage it...talking about it doesn't seem necessary. Social skills...those I suck at. Those I need feedback about. But sensory issues are for me to deal with.
D: Fair enough. Returning to the hypothetical, then...if the new co-worker says, "I want to pursue a physical relationship, but nothing else. No strings attached." What would your reaction be? Given the level of sexual frustration?
M: I would probably say no, because of the reasons I mentioned. I'm just not looking for a casual thing. But what you're really wanting to know is: am I worried about my physical reactions to people. And to be honest, I'm really not. The way things went wrong earlier this year, with the former co-worker...I feel like I learned a lot from that. I'm ready for something physical.
D: I'm not sure what you mean.
M: Prior to the diagnosis, I did not understand my reactions to people. It was an absolutely confusing thing, being so sensitive to everything. But when she and I were together, I had been aware of the diagnosis for a bit, so I had some kind of framework for understanding my reactions. When it was clear that she was interested, I knew better than to just hop into bed. It still didn't go well, but I learned a lot.
D: I am unclear about a lot of this, M. About your physical comfort level. You've refused to discuss any aspect of this.
M: I feel bad that I've avoided that so much with you.
I start to get upset.
M: You've always wanted to help...you've been ridiculously patient...but the sensory stuff is so tough to get words around. I've not known what to say.
It is deeply, painfully quiet for a long time. The heavy kind of quiet that fills up your hearing.
D: So. One thing I can do is offer an impression. You can tell me if this is right or wrong.
M: Okay.
D: My sense is that you do not like to be touched.
M: No, no. It's almost the opposite. I, umm...
I sit back, rub my eyes, at a loss for words.
D: Maybe it will help if you take me through what happened earlier this year. You "learned a lot". How so?
M: Um...I desire normal forms of touching. My libido is...you know, active. I like kissing, caressing, sex. What I learned early in my life, though, is that I can feel uncomfortable if someone touches me. There is, in me, this complete contradiction. And before the diagnosis, I was unable to make any sense of it. As an adult, I knew that I desired physical intimacy, but in every situation where that was possible, I became extremely uncomfortable. I had no idea how to counter my reaction, so the way I dealt with it was...I basically tried to ignore it and go through the motions. I mean, I've mentioned my first kiss, when I was in college. That didn't go very well.
I get more emotional, have trouble talking.
M: It was always clear to the other person that something was wrong. And I could never find a way of expressing what was going on. I had no words to put to the confusion. Er, I think the main thing is that I did not know how to verbalize any aspect of the discomfort. I didn't know how to convey that the discomfort had nothing to do with them. I was...you know, afraid. I was terrified that mentioning it would be off-putting. Which is irrational, since not mentioning it set up an even worse situation, where I'm clearly uncomfortable and the other person is confused. Not saying anything made things worse.
I'm supposed to be talking about earlier this year. I'm having trouble getting organized.
M: Ugh, so anyway. The former co-worker was the first person I was with after the diagnosis. And I guess I can just stop talking around it...you know that was my first time.
The Doctor nods.
M: She knew I had AS, didn't seem to care. I tried to be clear with her that I could be uncomfortable, at least a little bit and she said, "So?" And when I say, "I learned a lot", I mean that I spent time trying to figure out what would be necessary in order to feel comfortable.
D: You felt like the discomfort was something you could get past.
M: Definitely. And I still think that. Having an active libido, knowing that I physically desire contact, I feel like I can become comfortable with a person. For my entire life, I've always felt like there has been a way to resolve that touch/discomfort contradiction...I've just never known how. There are rules about it, I've just been too socially and romantically isolated to explore them and figure out what they are. But I've always felt like: if I can just have a little time, I can acclimate to a person. Earlier this year, for the first time, I worked on that...on vocalizing my internal reactions and basically just being playful...experimenting with touch, trying to establish a comfort zone. The mistake I'm inclined to make- going through the motions, just reciprocating what the other person is doing- I was able to avoid that and, at first, things went very well.
Doctor: Even as it became sexual?
M: Yes. But that was happening...everything was happening...extremely slowly. We went through a phase of just kissing, making out. Initially, she seemed okay with that...she seemed to like that and it felt like we were on the same page...but, before I was ready, she made it clear that things needed to change. She became more pushy, physically aggressive, and one night I became...you know, I felt nauseous. And despite everything I had told her, she did not understand.
D: She was angry?
M: It was much worse than that. She was hurt. Things had been going well up to that point and I don't think she could understand the change. I think part of the problem is that I had warned her about the discomfort, but then seemed fine. I was being allowed to establish the pace, I was not feeling the discomfort initially...so, once it appeared, I don't think she was prepared for the reality of it. And the only thing that happens is that I'm more physically withdrawn. I'm not visibly sick or anything, I just can't enjoy the things that are supposed to be enjoyable.
D: When she became more pushy, did you explain that you needed to continue with that slower pace...that you weren't acclimated yet?
M: No.
D: Why not?
M: Because, Doctor. I wanted her to like me. Just...it's so frustrating. I was getting comfortable. That had never happened before. And I didn't want to ruin it. And I thought that I could...again, I keep thinking I can go go through the motions as defined by other people and do okay, but that's always when things go wrong. I don't know why it's so fucking hard to learn that lesson.
D: One thing I am trying to understand: you mentioned the parameters of being touched, learning how to make that comfortable. Did she understand that this was what you were doing?
M: Not fully. I spoke about it as a generality. "I can be uncomfortable...I need a little time for that to be different"...that was about as much detail as I gave. The way I went about being more comfortable, I didn't tell her what it really meant for me.
D: Do you mind if I ask? What allows you to be comfortable?
I can't respond.
D: You've been so reluctant to discuss this. Please don't feel like you have to. We can step back, if you want.
M: I don't know how to...
She waits for several long, long minutes.
D: I'll throw out some impressions again. Two things stand out. Your visual awareness is intense. And...
She rubs her thumb and fingers together.
D: You're tactile. There is always something in your hand. Or, if there's nothing to hold, you are putting your hands on something...the couch, the pillows. Do you know what you do when you are upset?
I don't say anything.
D: You touch your hair. Every time.
M: Right. Touching is a thing. I've just never talked about this before. So, with her, I was able to do the thing I've always felt compelled to do. For as long as I can remember, for my entire life, I've always felt this impulse to touch the face of another person.
Just saying it makes me terribly upset.
M: As a kid, I remember feeling so strongly that I needed to do that. And even then, that desire felt terribly embarrassing. I mean, I could watch people and tell: you don't touch faces. And then, like...with walls...it was this...
D: Walls?
I mangle at least a dozen sentence fragments. The more I try to speak, the more emotionally distraught I become. My throat constricts, my eyes feel heavy, scratchy.
D: M, stop trying to talk for a second. Take you're time here.
Eventually, I sit up straight. I'm calm, not crying, but I can't speak.
D: Why is this upsetting?
M: I don't know. It's like I said, there are some things I've never talked about.
Doctor: You touched her face.
M: Yes. And it has nothing to do with intimacy. It has to do with feeling...present. That's what I was going to say about walls. When I was a kid...one of my earliest memories is of me touching walls, almost constantly. Any time I was around people, I wanted to touch their face, but I felt strongly that I couldn't do that, that it wasn't...you know, allowed. I guess I felt embarrassed. So I started touching walls. More than anything, I've always felt uncomfortable around people...disconnected, detached...and touching the walls, it sort of kept me from getting lost in my head. It helped me feel more grounded...more solid, real. It wasn't something I even had to think about, I just found myself doing it. I didn't understand why for a long time, I just knew that I felt more meshed with a place and with the people around me.
Doctor: If face-touching was the desire, why go to walls?
M: I have no idea. Generally, it's like you said, I'm tactile. I'm usually needing some kind of touch anyway, but I'm not sure why walls were such a focus. I've never been able to make sense of that one. I just know that, by touching something...it makes things feel much quieter. I remember being at school as a kid, and if I could just have one moment where I could touch a wall, some of the anxiety of being around people went away. This is difficult to put words to, but...in touch, there is that small point of contact. And everything- the room, the sights and sounds and the people- feels contained by that contact. I didn't feel disconnected as much if I could just have everything narrow down into that moment of touch. And I have no idea why that related to walls. I don't remember touching...like, objects or anything; desks or doors or anything.
Doctor: And you never made an effort to touch someone's face?
M: Not that I remember...thank god. I felt a strong desire to do that, but I never told anyone and I never tried it. I don't understand how I knew not to do that, especially when I was little...it may just be that with walls there was a safety. I could spend time with those and they didn't impact me the way that people did. Walls gave me access to all of the impressions of a room...they contained everything, surrounded everything, but with walls, there was none of the discomfort that I felt around people. Um...I don't know. With a lot of this I'm speculating. I've never had a way to make sense of it. I just know that, when I am touching, there is something in that point of contact that is...
I have to pause again, upset.
M: ...that is nice. If I can just be there and close my eyes and have that happen, then all of the things that confuse me about people are gone.
D: I'm thinking back. You've mentioned touching walls before.
M: Really? I don't remember.
D: You were describing the way that certain sensations would be very intense...you would be hyper-aware of a touch or texture and it made you feel very...oh, what was the word you used? You would begin to feel sad about that moment, because as soon as you felt it, you knew it was over?
M: Nostalgia. It doesn't happen like that anymore, but as a kid I would feel extremely nostalgic for the moment I was in. I would get upset knowing that moments were ending the exact moment they began.
D: Right. And you described that you would try to hold on to that moment and sometimes that meant touching the walls. Bricks. You've mentioned bricks before.
M: I forgot that I had referenced that. I guess it gets down to feeling more present with things.
D: The fact that touching has that meaning for you...it makes perfect sense to me. It makes complete sense. I've seen it before.
M: Face-touching?
D: Yes. That doesn't sound familiar to you?
M: Not off-hand.
D: Every single difficultly you have described goes back to the same core issue: mind-blindness. Your isolation goes back to that. Your depression...anxiety...it all goes back to that. Every coping mechanism you've developed is an effort to counter-balance that. I see it over and over in here: an inability to really gain a sense of the other person...and feeling detached, distant as a result. So, that you are generally tactile...and that, specifically, you want to face-touch...it fits, M. That is what blind people do. If someone is visually impaired and they want to get to know a person...they touch their face.
I'm too upset to respond.
D: It's just a way of gathering information. Are you okay?
M: Sorry. I'm a mess today.
D: Do not apologize. Let's just step back, take a break from this.
M: It's just frustrating that I can't be more clear about any of this. There's a lot I can't organize in my head. Having these parameters about being touched, but feeling like I connect to things through touch. I'm clueless about myself.
D: Let's talk about the new co-worker. You're sticking to your plan? Not seeing her?
M: I'm trying to stick to the plan. She keeps inviting me out and I'm not doing a very good job of expressing disinterest. In here, I am telling you that I have no interest in seeing her, but when I'm around her, I think I'm seeming a little different.
D: You're sending mixed signals.
M: Probably. I can be convincing about my resolve as long as I'm just talking about it. When it comes to acting on it, I'm much more conflicted and indecisive. Every time I talk to her I think, "Er. Her conversation is completely uninteresting". Then she flirts and suddenly everything she says if fascinating. "Really? That is so interesting". I'm two minds trying to elbow one another out of the way.
D: Hee. Perfectly normal.
I look at the clock. Time's up.
D: M...I'm learning a lot from all of this. These are big pieces of the puzzle. It really gives me a sense of what we need to do in here, talk about...how to prepare for all of the next steps. Thanks for talking to me today.
M: Meh. Not sure why I had been so reluctant about this. Wait, I do remember now. It's torture. That's probably the reason. Complete torture.
From September 2007
We take our seats. The Doctor watches me watch a couch cushion.
M: Ornate.
Doctor: Because we've been talking about the new office these past few weeks...and the library event...I completely forgot to ask about the new co-worker.
M: Right.
D: What's going on with that?
M: Nothing's really happening. She asked me out a few times. She's nice, but I'm not interested in going out.
D: Whoa, a few times? Last time you mentioned it, she had just asked you out once.
M: She had said, "We should go out for drinks". And every week, she basically repeats the offer. "Come on! We should go out!"
D: But you don't like her.
M: I mean...she's nice. I'm just not interested in a dating thing.
D: You sounded very conflicted last time.
M: She's attractive. The decision-making part of my brain gets fuzzy when she's talking.
D: Why not just go out, get to know her better?
M: I don't know if I mentioned...she's much younger, like almost ten years. And when we talk, it's just clear to me that we have nothing in common. She spends most of her free time going to parties. She's 22 years old...so she goes out, drinks a lot...parties. And her conversation is this endless recounting of party drama. "Oh my god...I got so messed up last night. And Dawn? She was all like gossiping and stuff and she was telling about this one dude..."
D: Immature.
M: Immature. She's very nice, but when we talk, I'm basically just pretending to listen and not really feeling any desire to go out with her.
D: I hear what you're saying. But I would like to repeat this one question...and just think about it for a second.
M: Okay.
D: You are not interested right now. Understood. Why not just go out on a date...talk...get to know her better?
M: It's not like I'm feeling neutral. It's not like, "I don't have any sense of this person." We talk and it's clear to me that we're too different...in age, in maturity level. I'm just not interested.
D: What I'm trying to say is: why not go out, see if something sexual is possible?
M: Going out when I know I'm not interested...just pursuing a physical thing...it would be an extremely detached thing to do. And I've just had too much detachment in my life as it is. I'm needing something real.
D: And I agree with you. Just so we're clear: I'm not advocating that you pursue a purely physical relationship. I'm trying to sound things out here. A lot of guys? They would do that. Men tend to process attraction differently than women. So if a woman is expressing interest...some guys would just go for it.
M: I know. Part of me is down with that. I can't even begin to tell you how sexually frustrated I am. But I need it to be a part of something more serious. The lack of relationship is killing me.
D: We're on the same page about that. But just today...you know, I'm wanting to...
She taps her foot, looks at the floor...thinks and thinks.
M: Wow, you're being cautious today.
D: I'm just wanting to develop this hypothetical.
M: I know. You're wanting to hypothetically discuss sex...as a way of talking about earlier this year. When things went wrong with the former co-worker.
She holds her hands up, palms out.
D: I never want to pressure you. You'd asked that we not discuss that...I can respect that. But for a while now, we've been working on: you, going out...meeting people...trying to establish personal connections. And my job is to help you identify potential problem areas.
M: Right.
D: And it's going well. You're meeting new people, interacting more. You're getting responses. So I just think it's a good time to focus on that area. The physical.
M: My plan is to just get out there, wing it.
D: Which you tried earlier this year. Sensory issues created problems. You asked that we not discuss that. And really, that's been your request since day one. I remember going through the basic questions during our first session and asking if you were aware of any sensory issues. Without hesitation, you said "No".
I stare at her.
D: And it took a few sessions, but I started to realize, "There's an intense sensory awareness". It's difficult to hide that sort of thing.
I pull at my sleeves.
D: You don't like that part of yourself.
M: I'm neutral about it.
D: "Neutral" sounds like shutting down...like avoidance. Which tells me: you don't like that part of yourself.
M: It's something I've had to manage every day of my life. And if I can manage it...talking about it doesn't seem necessary. Social skills...those I suck at. Those I need feedback about. But sensory issues are for me to deal with.
D: Fair enough. Returning to the hypothetical, then...if the new co-worker says, "I want to pursue a physical relationship, but nothing else. No strings attached." What would your reaction be? Given the level of sexual frustration?
M: I would probably say no, because of the reasons I mentioned. I'm just not looking for a casual thing. But what you're really wanting to know is: am I worried about my physical reactions to people. And to be honest, I'm really not. The way things went wrong earlier this year, with the former co-worker...I feel like I learned a lot from that. I'm ready for something physical.
D: I'm not sure what you mean.
M: Prior to the diagnosis, I did not understand my reactions to people. It was an absolutely confusing thing, being so sensitive to everything. But when she and I were together, I had been aware of the diagnosis for a bit, so I had some kind of framework for understanding my reactions. When it was clear that she was interested, I knew better than to just hop into bed. It still didn't go well, but I learned a lot.
D: I am unclear about a lot of this, M. About your physical comfort level. You've refused to discuss any aspect of this.
M: I feel bad that I've avoided that so much with you.
I start to get upset.
M: You've always wanted to help...you've been ridiculously patient...but the sensory stuff is so tough to get words around. I've not known what to say.
It is deeply, painfully quiet for a long time. The heavy kind of quiet that fills up your hearing.
D: So. One thing I can do is offer an impression. You can tell me if this is right or wrong.
M: Okay.
D: My sense is that you do not like to be touched.
M: No, no. It's almost the opposite. I, umm...
I sit back, rub my eyes, at a loss for words.
D: Maybe it will help if you take me through what happened earlier this year. You "learned a lot". How so?
M: Um...I desire normal forms of touching. My libido is...you know, active. I like kissing, caressing, sex. What I learned early in my life, though, is that I can feel uncomfortable if someone touches me. There is, in me, this complete contradiction. And before the diagnosis, I was unable to make any sense of it. As an adult, I knew that I desired physical intimacy, but in every situation where that was possible, I became extremely uncomfortable. I had no idea how to counter my reaction, so the way I dealt with it was...I basically tried to ignore it and go through the motions. I mean, I've mentioned my first kiss, when I was in college. That didn't go very well.
I get more emotional, have trouble talking.
M: It was always clear to the other person that something was wrong. And I could never find a way of expressing what was going on. I had no words to put to the confusion. Er, I think the main thing is that I did not know how to verbalize any aspect of the discomfort. I didn't know how to convey that the discomfort had nothing to do with them. I was...you know, afraid. I was terrified that mentioning it would be off-putting. Which is irrational, since not mentioning it set up an even worse situation, where I'm clearly uncomfortable and the other person is confused. Not saying anything made things worse.
I'm supposed to be talking about earlier this year. I'm having trouble getting organized.
M: Ugh, so anyway. The former co-worker was the first person I was with after the diagnosis. And I guess I can just stop talking around it...you know that was my first time.
The Doctor nods.
M: She knew I had AS, didn't seem to care. I tried to be clear with her that I could be uncomfortable, at least a little bit and she said, "So?" And when I say, "I learned a lot", I mean that I spent time trying to figure out what would be necessary in order to feel comfortable.
D: You felt like the discomfort was something you could get past.
M: Definitely. And I still think that. Having an active libido, knowing that I physically desire contact, I feel like I can become comfortable with a person. For my entire life, I've always felt like there has been a way to resolve that touch/discomfort contradiction...I've just never known how. There are rules about it, I've just been too socially and romantically isolated to explore them and figure out what they are. But I've always felt like: if I can just have a little time, I can acclimate to a person. Earlier this year, for the first time, I worked on that...on vocalizing my internal reactions and basically just being playful...experimenting with touch, trying to establish a comfort zone. The mistake I'm inclined to make- going through the motions, just reciprocating what the other person is doing- I was able to avoid that and, at first, things went very well.
Doctor: Even as it became sexual?
M: Yes. But that was happening...everything was happening...extremely slowly. We went through a phase of just kissing, making out. Initially, she seemed okay with that...she seemed to like that and it felt like we were on the same page...but, before I was ready, she made it clear that things needed to change. She became more pushy, physically aggressive, and one night I became...you know, I felt nauseous. And despite everything I had told her, she did not understand.
D: She was angry?
M: It was much worse than that. She was hurt. Things had been going well up to that point and I don't think she could understand the change. I think part of the problem is that I had warned her about the discomfort, but then seemed fine. I was being allowed to establish the pace, I was not feeling the discomfort initially...so, once it appeared, I don't think she was prepared for the reality of it. And the only thing that happens is that I'm more physically withdrawn. I'm not visibly sick or anything, I just can't enjoy the things that are supposed to be enjoyable.
D: When she became more pushy, did you explain that you needed to continue with that slower pace...that you weren't acclimated yet?
M: No.
D: Why not?
M: Because, Doctor. I wanted her to like me. Just...it's so frustrating. I was getting comfortable. That had never happened before. And I didn't want to ruin it. And I thought that I could...again, I keep thinking I can go go through the motions as defined by other people and do okay, but that's always when things go wrong. I don't know why it's so fucking hard to learn that lesson.
D: One thing I am trying to understand: you mentioned the parameters of being touched, learning how to make that comfortable. Did she understand that this was what you were doing?
M: Not fully. I spoke about it as a generality. "I can be uncomfortable...I need a little time for that to be different"...that was about as much detail as I gave. The way I went about being more comfortable, I didn't tell her what it really meant for me.
D: Do you mind if I ask? What allows you to be comfortable?
I can't respond.
D: You've been so reluctant to discuss this. Please don't feel like you have to. We can step back, if you want.
M: I don't know how to...
She waits for several long, long minutes.
D: I'll throw out some impressions again. Two things stand out. Your visual awareness is intense. And...
She rubs her thumb and fingers together.
D: You're tactile. There is always something in your hand. Or, if there's nothing to hold, you are putting your hands on something...the couch, the pillows. Do you know what you do when you are upset?
I don't say anything.
D: You touch your hair. Every time.
M: Right. Touching is a thing. I've just never talked about this before. So, with her, I was able to do the thing I've always felt compelled to do. For as long as I can remember, for my entire life, I've always felt this impulse to touch the face of another person.
Just saying it makes me terribly upset.
M: As a kid, I remember feeling so strongly that I needed to do that. And even then, that desire felt terribly embarrassing. I mean, I could watch people and tell: you don't touch faces. And then, like...with walls...it was this...
D: Walls?
I mangle at least a dozen sentence fragments. The more I try to speak, the more emotionally distraught I become. My throat constricts, my eyes feel heavy, scratchy.
D: M, stop trying to talk for a second. Take you're time here.
Eventually, I sit up straight. I'm calm, not crying, but I can't speak.
D: Why is this upsetting?
M: I don't know. It's like I said, there are some things I've never talked about.
Doctor: You touched her face.
M: Yes. And it has nothing to do with intimacy. It has to do with feeling...present. That's what I was going to say about walls. When I was a kid...one of my earliest memories is of me touching walls, almost constantly. Any time I was around people, I wanted to touch their face, but I felt strongly that I couldn't do that, that it wasn't...you know, allowed. I guess I felt embarrassed. So I started touching walls. More than anything, I've always felt uncomfortable around people...disconnected, detached...and touching the walls, it sort of kept me from getting lost in my head. It helped me feel more grounded...more solid, real. It wasn't something I even had to think about, I just found myself doing it. I didn't understand why for a long time, I just knew that I felt more meshed with a place and with the people around me.
Doctor: If face-touching was the desire, why go to walls?
M: I have no idea. Generally, it's like you said, I'm tactile. I'm usually needing some kind of touch anyway, but I'm not sure why walls were such a focus. I've never been able to make sense of that one. I just know that, by touching something...it makes things feel much quieter. I remember being at school as a kid, and if I could just have one moment where I could touch a wall, some of the anxiety of being around people went away. This is difficult to put words to, but...in touch, there is that small point of contact. And everything- the room, the sights and sounds and the people- feels contained by that contact. I didn't feel disconnected as much if I could just have everything narrow down into that moment of touch. And I have no idea why that related to walls. I don't remember touching...like, objects or anything; desks or doors or anything.
Doctor: And you never made an effort to touch someone's face?
M: Not that I remember...thank god. I felt a strong desire to do that, but I never told anyone and I never tried it. I don't understand how I knew not to do that, especially when I was little...it may just be that with walls there was a safety. I could spend time with those and they didn't impact me the way that people did. Walls gave me access to all of the impressions of a room...they contained everything, surrounded everything, but with walls, there was none of the discomfort that I felt around people. Um...I don't know. With a lot of this I'm speculating. I've never had a way to make sense of it. I just know that, when I am touching, there is something in that point of contact that is...
I have to pause again, upset.
M: ...that is nice. If I can just be there and close my eyes and have that happen, then all of the things that confuse me about people are gone.
D: I'm thinking back. You've mentioned touching walls before.
M: Really? I don't remember.
D: You were describing the way that certain sensations would be very intense...you would be hyper-aware of a touch or texture and it made you feel very...oh, what was the word you used? You would begin to feel sad about that moment, because as soon as you felt it, you knew it was over?
M: Nostalgia. It doesn't happen like that anymore, but as a kid I would feel extremely nostalgic for the moment I was in. I would get upset knowing that moments were ending the exact moment they began.
D: Right. And you described that you would try to hold on to that moment and sometimes that meant touching the walls. Bricks. You've mentioned bricks before.
M: I forgot that I had referenced that. I guess it gets down to feeling more present with things.
D: The fact that touching has that meaning for you...it makes perfect sense to me. It makes complete sense. I've seen it before.
M: Face-touching?
D: Yes. That doesn't sound familiar to you?
M: Not off-hand.
D: Every single difficultly you have described goes back to the same core issue: mind-blindness. Your isolation goes back to that. Your depression...anxiety...it all goes back to that. Every coping mechanism you've developed is an effort to counter-balance that. I see it over and over in here: an inability to really gain a sense of the other person...and feeling detached, distant as a result. So, that you are generally tactile...and that, specifically, you want to face-touch...it fits, M. That is what blind people do. If someone is visually impaired and they want to get to know a person...they touch their face.
I'm too upset to respond.
D: It's just a way of gathering information. Are you okay?
M: Sorry. I'm a mess today.
D: Do not apologize. Let's just step back, take a break from this.
M: It's just frustrating that I can't be more clear about any of this. There's a lot I can't organize in my head. Having these parameters about being touched, but feeling like I connect to things through touch. I'm clueless about myself.
D: Let's talk about the new co-worker. You're sticking to your plan? Not seeing her?
M: I'm trying to stick to the plan. She keeps inviting me out and I'm not doing a very good job of expressing disinterest. In here, I am telling you that I have no interest in seeing her, but when I'm around her, I think I'm seeming a little different.
D: You're sending mixed signals.
M: Probably. I can be convincing about my resolve as long as I'm just talking about it. When it comes to acting on it, I'm much more conflicted and indecisive. Every time I talk to her I think, "Er. Her conversation is completely uninteresting". Then she flirts and suddenly everything she says if fascinating. "Really? That is so interesting". I'm two minds trying to elbow one another out of the way.
D: Hee. Perfectly normal.
I look at the clock. Time's up.
D: M...I'm learning a lot from all of this. These are big pieces of the puzzle. It really gives me a sense of what we need to do in here, talk about...how to prepare for all of the next steps. Thanks for talking to me today.
M: Meh. Not sure why I had been so reluctant about this. Wait, I do remember now. It's torture. That's probably the reason. Complete torture.
Monday, February 16, 2009
schedule notice:
Next post: unpleasant topic. No good. (delayed for a week)
After that: walls part 8. Then 9. (These are two sessions from 2007 that directly followed these two: part one, two. Examples of The Doctor being The Doctor).
Then...what we've all come to expect from this blog...baking recipes (and by "baking recipes", I mean explanations of how to warm up egg rolls in your toaster. Dangerous...huge fire hazard. But i've got the technique down. I've only lost five toasters to fire in the past year [and two houses]. Worth it, considering the pay-off: crispy, crispy egg rolls. Mmm).
After that: walls part 8. Then 9. (These are two sessions from 2007 that directly followed these two: part one, two. Examples of The Doctor being The Doctor).
Then...what we've all come to expect from this blog...baking recipes (and by "baking recipes", I mean explanations of how to warm up egg rolls in your toaster. Dangerous...huge fire hazard. But i've got the technique down. I've only lost five toasters to fire in the past year [and two houses]. Worth it, considering the pay-off: crispy, crispy egg rolls. Mmm).
Sunday, February 15, 2009
windows
I had mentioned Asperger's in recent film.
At Good Fountain: autism in film and word of a very promising documentary.
She writes: "If you would like to arrange a screening of Ethan & Jennifer, you can contact Jo at jo (at) ethanandjenniferfilm (dot) com. If enough of us do that, maybe it will get picked up by a major distributor. I know that I, for one, would like to see that happen."
The director, her documentary: hopefully we can find a way to connect her into the community, get the word out, give her a boost
This is one way it changes, gets better. Film-induced empathy...getting to be in the shoes of the other for a bit. Quite nice.
At Good Fountain: autism in film and word of a very promising documentary.
She writes: "If you would like to arrange a screening of Ethan & Jennifer, you can contact Jo at jo (at) ethanandjenniferfilm (dot) com. If enough of us do that, maybe it will get picked up by a major distributor. I know that I, for one, would like to see that happen."
The director, her documentary: hopefully we can find a way to connect her into the community, get the word out, give her a boost
This is one way it changes, gets better. Film-induced empathy...getting to be in the shoes of the other for a bit. Quite nice.
Friday, February 13, 2009
M Fun Fact #427
M repeats the same ritual each year on Valentines Day.
1. Take cold medicine. Strong, strong cold medicine.
2. Sleep until the next day.
3. And...wait, there is no #3. Just konk out till it's over.
Bonus tip for singles: this method also works great on Thanksgiving, Christmas, Groundhogs Day, Mondays through Fridays, weekends or leap years.
Yes! Hibernating through inclement social weather. Bears have much to teach us.
1. Take cold medicine. Strong, strong cold medicine.
2. Sleep until the next day.
3. And...wait, there is no #3. Just konk out till it's over.
Bonus tip for singles: this method also works great on Thanksgiving, Christmas, Groundhogs Day, Mondays through Fridays, weekends or leap years.
Yes! Hibernating through inclement social weather. Bears have much to teach us.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
people-sketch: M meets his redneck neighbor
I've had this up before, early last year. I'm going back, tinkering with posts. It's like loose thread on a sweater, I can't help but pull at it. *tinker* Anyway.
I wish, more than anything, that this was an exaggerated or altered version of the conversation. Any element of fiction would make it a little more...I don't know. Comfortable. But unfortunately, this is actually how it happened. Oy.
Stupidity? Alive and well.
August 2007
I.
When I'm down in a serious way, I take time off from work, usually a lot of it.
So I do that. I have a huge amount of vacation saved up, so I break it out, take a week off.
My plan: stay in, try to sleep as much as possible, try to wait it out.
II.
On one day off: I sit around in pajamas, drink coffee, listen to music and watch bad television. Really bad television (the kind with screaming, idiot judges). I nap, off and on, throughout the day, snoozling. I read, sleep, eat pop tarts.
III.
Second day off: I go running. Up hills. Down hills. I sit on benches, breathe, watch cars go by. Run. And so on.
IV.
Third day off, I'm starting to feel better. Things have been quiet. Mellow. I'm enjoying the down time.
Then the doorbell rings. Normally when this happens, I dart into a closet and wait for the person to leave. I'm never curious about who it is. But today I'm rested, in a good mood, so I open the door. A neighbor is standing there with a chainsaw in his arms.
"Woo!" he yells. "Thought I'd do some cuttin' today!" He forgets to provide any sort of context for this, so I'm confused. "Trees," he says, "Thought I'd cut them trees down today. Wanna help?"
I've got dying trees in the yard. He has a chainsaw and is offering to cut the trees down, saw them into logs. It's actually nice of him to do this- I was going to have to call a company otherwise and it would be expensive, so I agree to help. And I'm miserable about it, because the neighbor is at the extreme end of the redneck scale. Comprehending his small-talk is like translating white noise into Latin.
V.
We're out in the yard. He's cutting. I'm hauling off debris and stacking it. It's close to one hundred degrees, so we pause a lot to drink water and rest. During the first break he says, "Sorry about that ruckus the other night". I don't know what he's talking about. He explains: "The police raid? The pigs came out in force, man. There were, like, ten cop cars. They barge in. Got their guns out. They're all yellin'. All because of my wife, you know? She can't stop writin' them hot checks."
I'm alarmed.
"The woman had already been to court over one set of hot checks. Turns out there were others in another county, so they came back about those, hauled her off."
My bantering skills are deficient when the topic is hot checks, so I nod my head and stare at clouds. We go back to work.
VI.
During the next break he picks up where he left off...and it throws me, because he lapses into this odd word repetition. My mind trips up on stuff like this.
"I couldn't believe the raid," he says. "Why can't they leave a man in peace? I wanted to take one of them pigs aside, give him a piece of my mind. Just tell him...all I want is to get by; make a living, own a piece of land. Is that askin' too much?"
I run it all through my head, try to untangle it.
"Piece?" I ask. "Or peace?"
"What?"
"You're trying to buy a piece of land?"
"No, no. I want peace."
"Okay."
"I want the pigs off my back."
"Right."
My brain hurts.
VII.
We work. His wife drives up to their house, starts doing yardwork. During the next break I say, "I saw you're wife. She's out!"
"Yeah. Her old man keeps bailing her out. I'm not putting a dime into that."
He pauses, points with his thumb and says, "I've had that one for twenty years."
I'm not sure what he's referring to. Is this a topic change? I look where he's pointing. I see: a house; a car; his wife. So I'm trying to figure out which "object" he means, but he clarifies: "She's crazy." Not a topic change. "Worst decision of my life, marryin' that one."
Misogyny: yet another topic upon which my bantering skills are deficient, so I nod my head and stare at clouds.
VIII.
He thinks for awhile, clearly working up to something. I brace myself. Finally, he says: "When I say 'crazy', I don't mean annoying crazy. I'm talkin', like, actual crazy. She has problems. She can't throw anything away. She buys everything she can get her hands on, then stacks it up, all through the house. You can't even breathe in that house for all the shit she's piled up."
"That's sad," I say. "She's hoarding."
"Whoa, whoa. Hold up there. I wouldn't go that far."
"Hoarding...with a 'd'. It can be a sign of mental illness."
Christ.
"Oh! That's what I'm saying! She's crazy. I've been calling it...aw shit, what's that word? Oppressive Impulses?"
"Obsessive Compulsive?"
"Impulsive Compresses? I can't think of the word. Anyway. I was hoping I could have her committed. I was talking to the lawyer about her hot check deal...she'll be in court on Monday...and I asked him, 'Can we have her committed? Like, we tell the judge she's crazy and I'll testify to that?' And he said you'd have to convince the prosecutors that she's dangerous and I said, 'Hell, I'll say that. I almost broke my neck the other day tripping on this pile of junk she'd stacked in the living room.' Also, I'm thinking...if she's committed, I can probably divorce her a lot easier. I'm ready to clock out of this deal. Don't you work with crazy people?"
"Not really."
"Do you think I can have her committed?"
"No."
"Aww, man. Don't you know some people? You look into that. Pull some strings for me. Nah, I'm just foolin' around. You don't have to do that. But seriously...do you know some people?"
I rub my eyes and stare at clouds.
IX.
We work. His daughter- eight or nine years old- walks over and stares at us. She watches and picks her nose. Eventually, she gets restless and starts roaming around, kicking at the ground in this bored, absent-minded way. She starts screaming, "Snake, daddy! Snake!" He puts the chainsaw down and runs over. Redneck Fun Fact: say the word "snake"? And they act like a kid on Christmas morning. I go over and we stand in a circle around this small, confused snake.
I ask, "Is it poisonous?"
He says, "I can't tell. I'd need to see it's belly." He reaches down, pinches the back of it's head and holds it up to his face. "I still can't tell. It's a beauty though." He holds it up to my face. Now personally...and this is just me...I'd rather not have a snake suddenly thrust in front of my person, wiggling at me, darting it's tongue around. But he's right: it's beautiful. Black on top with yellow speckles on it's stomach. Cute. He walks it to the back yard and lets it go.
X.
We work. The daughter kicks the ground and chases crickets. We continue to break periodically so that he can disparage his wife and mangle words. After a few more hours, we finish.
He leaves...and the second he's out of visual range? I immediately nail boards over all of the windows. I lock the doors, unplug the phone. For the rest of the week off, I need to be way away from human beings, absorbing in a serious round of social detox.
the end
I wish, more than anything, that this was an exaggerated or altered version of the conversation. Any element of fiction would make it a little more...I don't know. Comfortable. But unfortunately, this is actually how it happened. Oy.
Stupidity? Alive and well.
August 2007
I.
When I'm down in a serious way, I take time off from work, usually a lot of it.
So I do that. I have a huge amount of vacation saved up, so I break it out, take a week off.
My plan: stay in, try to sleep as much as possible, try to wait it out.
II.
On one day off: I sit around in pajamas, drink coffee, listen to music and watch bad television. Really bad television (the kind with screaming, idiot judges). I nap, off and on, throughout the day, snoozling. I read, sleep, eat pop tarts.
III.
Second day off: I go running. Up hills. Down hills. I sit on benches, breathe, watch cars go by. Run. And so on.
IV.
Third day off, I'm starting to feel better. Things have been quiet. Mellow. I'm enjoying the down time.
Then the doorbell rings. Normally when this happens, I dart into a closet and wait for the person to leave. I'm never curious about who it is. But today I'm rested, in a good mood, so I open the door. A neighbor is standing there with a chainsaw in his arms.
"Woo!" he yells. "Thought I'd do some cuttin' today!" He forgets to provide any sort of context for this, so I'm confused. "Trees," he says, "Thought I'd cut them trees down today. Wanna help?"
I've got dying trees in the yard. He has a chainsaw and is offering to cut the trees down, saw them into logs. It's actually nice of him to do this- I was going to have to call a company otherwise and it would be expensive, so I agree to help. And I'm miserable about it, because the neighbor is at the extreme end of the redneck scale. Comprehending his small-talk is like translating white noise into Latin.
V.
We're out in the yard. He's cutting. I'm hauling off debris and stacking it. It's close to one hundred degrees, so we pause a lot to drink water and rest. During the first break he says, "Sorry about that ruckus the other night". I don't know what he's talking about. He explains: "The police raid? The pigs came out in force, man. There were, like, ten cop cars. They barge in. Got their guns out. They're all yellin'. All because of my wife, you know? She can't stop writin' them hot checks."
I'm alarmed.
"The woman had already been to court over one set of hot checks. Turns out there were others in another county, so they came back about those, hauled her off."
My bantering skills are deficient when the topic is hot checks, so I nod my head and stare at clouds. We go back to work.
VI.
During the next break he picks up where he left off...and it throws me, because he lapses into this odd word repetition. My mind trips up on stuff like this.
"I couldn't believe the raid," he says. "Why can't they leave a man in peace? I wanted to take one of them pigs aside, give him a piece of my mind. Just tell him...all I want is to get by; make a living, own a piece of land. Is that askin' too much?"
I run it all through my head, try to untangle it.
"Piece?" I ask. "Or peace?"
"What?"
"You're trying to buy a piece of land?"
"No, no. I want peace."
"Okay."
"I want the pigs off my back."
"Right."
My brain hurts.
VII.
We work. His wife drives up to their house, starts doing yardwork. During the next break I say, "I saw you're wife. She's out!"
"Yeah. Her old man keeps bailing her out. I'm not putting a dime into that."
He pauses, points with his thumb and says, "I've had that one for twenty years."
I'm not sure what he's referring to. Is this a topic change? I look where he's pointing. I see: a house; a car; his wife. So I'm trying to figure out which "object" he means, but he clarifies: "She's crazy." Not a topic change. "Worst decision of my life, marryin' that one."
Misogyny: yet another topic upon which my bantering skills are deficient, so I nod my head and stare at clouds.
VIII.
He thinks for awhile, clearly working up to something. I brace myself. Finally, he says: "When I say 'crazy', I don't mean annoying crazy. I'm talkin', like, actual crazy. She has problems. She can't throw anything away. She buys everything she can get her hands on, then stacks it up, all through the house. You can't even breathe in that house for all the shit she's piled up."
"That's sad," I say. "She's hoarding."
"Whoa, whoa. Hold up there. I wouldn't go that far."
"Hoarding...with a 'd'. It can be a sign of mental illness."
Christ.
"Oh! That's what I'm saying! She's crazy. I've been calling it...aw shit, what's that word? Oppressive Impulses?"
"Obsessive Compulsive?"
"Impulsive Compresses? I can't think of the word. Anyway. I was hoping I could have her committed. I was talking to the lawyer about her hot check deal...she'll be in court on Monday...and I asked him, 'Can we have her committed? Like, we tell the judge she's crazy and I'll testify to that?' And he said you'd have to convince the prosecutors that she's dangerous and I said, 'Hell, I'll say that. I almost broke my neck the other day tripping on this pile of junk she'd stacked in the living room.' Also, I'm thinking...if she's committed, I can probably divorce her a lot easier. I'm ready to clock out of this deal. Don't you work with crazy people?"
"Not really."
"Do you think I can have her committed?"
"No."
"Aww, man. Don't you know some people? You look into that. Pull some strings for me. Nah, I'm just foolin' around. You don't have to do that. But seriously...do you know some people?"
I rub my eyes and stare at clouds.
IX.
We work. His daughter- eight or nine years old- walks over and stares at us. She watches and picks her nose. Eventually, she gets restless and starts roaming around, kicking at the ground in this bored, absent-minded way. She starts screaming, "Snake, daddy! Snake!" He puts the chainsaw down and runs over. Redneck Fun Fact: say the word "snake"? And they act like a kid on Christmas morning. I go over and we stand in a circle around this small, confused snake.
I ask, "Is it poisonous?"
He says, "I can't tell. I'd need to see it's belly." He reaches down, pinches the back of it's head and holds it up to his face. "I still can't tell. It's a beauty though." He holds it up to my face. Now personally...and this is just me...I'd rather not have a snake suddenly thrust in front of my person, wiggling at me, darting it's tongue around. But he's right: it's beautiful. Black on top with yellow speckles on it's stomach. Cute. He walks it to the back yard and lets it go.
X.
We work. The daughter kicks the ground and chases crickets. We continue to break periodically so that he can disparage his wife and mangle words. After a few more hours, we finish.
He leaves...and the second he's out of visual range? I immediately nail boards over all of the windows. I lock the doors, unplug the phone. For the rest of the week off, I need to be way away from human beings, absorbing in a serious round of social detox.
the end
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
M Fun Fact #37
I sometimes use the toaster to warm up leftover slices of pizza. I just pop them in like you would a piece of bread...let them crispen...then consume. Mmm.
(Yes, the toppings fall down into the toaster. And burn. And make the house smell like smoke. And I think, "I've gotta stop doing that." But it's quicker than other options, so I get impatient and do it again anyway. My roommate always walks into the kitchen and sniffs the air and says, "Are you putting pizza in the toaster again?" And I say, "No, no. That must be...something else." We look at one another. Roommate's eyes narrow in suspicion. Roommate leaves the kitchen. I take crispy pizza out of the toaster and eat the evidence. Mmm.)
(Yes, the toppings fall down into the toaster. And burn. And make the house smell like smoke. And I think, "I've gotta stop doing that." But it's quicker than other options, so I get impatient and do it again anyway. My roommate always walks into the kitchen and sniffs the air and says, "Are you putting pizza in the toaster again?" And I say, "No, no. That must be...something else." We look at one another. Roommate's eyes narrow in suspicion. Roommate leaves the kitchen. I take crispy pizza out of the toaster and eat the evidence. Mmm.)
Friday, February 6, 2009
people-sketch: insomnia, drifting and the diner
Three days ago.
8a.m.
I leave work. Go home, try to sleep. I've struggled with life-long, chronic, brutal, terrible insomnia (I have additional adjectives...superlatives even...but I'll spare you). However, insomnia isn't as bad a thing when you sleep during the day. It means you have options.
I sit up in bed, listen to NPR...drink coffee, go to the library.
I read, tap my feet on the carpet. I eavesdrop on conversation, stare through windows. I walk up and down the aisles, moving quickly, watching books blur past in my peripheral vision.
I see pretty librarians at their desk, feel tormented by shyness, hate myself.
I flip through the DVD section, the foreign films. The library copies are generally so worn that they won't play at home. "What should I get? Scratched Fellini? Scratched Godard? This Japanese gangster film looks weird. Hee. The main guy has puffy cheeks."
I go home. "I should do something productive." I consider the options: yard-work...house cleaning...writing. I prioritize the tasks...try to work up the motivation. I even stare at the vacuum for five minutes, willing myself to use it. "Go. Use it. Make it happen." But no. I sit on the back porch, eat pop tarts and watch squirrels fight.
I go in, drink green tea, skim the internet. Reading headlines, blogs, movie reviews.
Afternoon: I curl up in bed for awhile, close my eyes...run conversations through my head, over and over. I tell myself to stop thinking. I breathe, breathe, think thoughts about thoughts.
I clean up...gather together notebooks, pens, books. Go to Spanish class.
Julieta says things...we repeat them. She lectures, we take notes. Julieta points to a word on the board, "fulano". She says, "Oh, I'm blanking. I can't remember what that one means." She thinks about it, taps her forehead. "It's like...the way you refer to people when you can't recall their name...what's the American phrase?" She points at my Spanish-to-English dictionary. "Could you look that up?"
I look it up, tell her, "Fulano means 'so-and-so'. It could also mean 'what's-his-name'."
"Thank you."
"But there's a third definition. 'Fulano' can also mean 'prostitute'."
"Goodness!" Julieta's eye-brows go up. "I need to look these words up before I put them on the board!"
Class ends. I've got hours and hours before work. I can't bear to go back home. I drive to the movie theater, choose the film that's starting soonest (not a good way to choose a movie).
I sit in the dark, stare at the screen...press my hands against my face, try to feel comfort. I breathe, think...watch the lights in the air above me.
Credits. I drift through the lobby, the parking lot...stare at the clock in my car. 10pm. One hour till work.
I go to a diner.
I hear sipping. Chewing. Talking. Spoon-scrapes in cups. Fork-scrapes on plates. The staff look adolescent, sullen...wear dirty uniforms. To customers they speak with gestures and monosyllables ("Ready?" "More?"). To one another they mumble about work drama. "Third time this week she's called in. She's like, 'It's car trouble,' and I'm like 'Yeah right'. I mean come on."
I'm the only customer alone. Most tables have groups huddled together, leaning over plates, shoveling food upwards.
The table beside me: a redneck family. Heavy-set mom and dad...both wearing camouflage jackets. Three little boys...one of them an infant in a high chair.
Conversation...clinking...sipping. Then, from the mom next to me I hear, "Oh my god he's choking!" I look over. The infant is thrashing and silent. The dad drops his silverware and shoots up, knocking his chair over. He yanks the kid out of the chair and swings him into the following position: over the floor, against the dad's hip, facing down. His plan is to do the Heimlich, but he moves too quickly. During the transition, he smacks the kid's head against the edge of the table. The mom yelps. The dad starts the Heimlich...pressing the kids stomach two to three times. The kid convulses...spits food onto the floor...and screams.
Dad sets the kid into the high-chair. The parents both collapse into their chairs, deflate. The mom says, "Dear god. That about gave me a heart attack". Their other two kids...around three and five...burst into tears.
Everyone in the diner is tense, absolutely silent, staring at the family. The mom notices this. She gets up, walks around the table and looks at the food the kid had spit up. Then she addresses the room: "It's okay everybody! It was just chicken!"
My brain implodes from the absurdity of this. Why it would even occur to the mother to make an observation like that I'll never know.
The kid cries for a bit...then laughs. The dad reaches over, rubs his forehead and says, "There's a mark". The waitress comes over and says, "Is he okay?" The mom says, "He's okay...but I did want to ask about the bill. You got me charged for an egg-plate...but it's supposed to be free for kids under five".
Beyond comprehension. The mom's priority at the moment: a free meal. I want to kidnap her three little ones...usher them to better parents. I stare at my food...loose all interest in eating.
I leave, sit in the car. Think about the sound of the kid's head hitting the table. Feel sick.
I drive to work. Get the coffee going. Wait it out.
8a.m.
I leave work. Go home, try to sleep. I've struggled with life-long, chronic, brutal, terrible insomnia (I have additional adjectives...superlatives even...but I'll spare you). However, insomnia isn't as bad a thing when you sleep during the day. It means you have options.
I sit up in bed, listen to NPR...drink coffee, go to the library.
I read, tap my feet on the carpet. I eavesdrop on conversation, stare through windows. I walk up and down the aisles, moving quickly, watching books blur past in my peripheral vision.
I see pretty librarians at their desk, feel tormented by shyness, hate myself.
I flip through the DVD section, the foreign films. The library copies are generally so worn that they won't play at home. "What should I get? Scratched Fellini? Scratched Godard? This Japanese gangster film looks weird. Hee. The main guy has puffy cheeks."
I go home. "I should do something productive." I consider the options: yard-work...house cleaning...writing. I prioritize the tasks...try to work up the motivation. I even stare at the vacuum for five minutes, willing myself to use it. "Go. Use it. Make it happen." But no. I sit on the back porch, eat pop tarts and watch squirrels fight.
I go in, drink green tea, skim the internet. Reading headlines, blogs, movie reviews.
Afternoon: I curl up in bed for awhile, close my eyes...run conversations through my head, over and over. I tell myself to stop thinking. I breathe, breathe, think thoughts about thoughts.
I clean up...gather together notebooks, pens, books. Go to Spanish class.
Julieta says things...we repeat them. She lectures, we take notes. Julieta points to a word on the board, "fulano". She says, "Oh, I'm blanking. I can't remember what that one means." She thinks about it, taps her forehead. "It's like...the way you refer to people when you can't recall their name...what's the American phrase?" She points at my Spanish-to-English dictionary. "Could you look that up?"
I look it up, tell her, "Fulano means 'so-and-so'. It could also mean 'what's-his-name'."
"Thank you."
"But there's a third definition. 'Fulano' can also mean 'prostitute'."
"Goodness!" Julieta's eye-brows go up. "I need to look these words up before I put them on the board!"
Class ends. I've got hours and hours before work. I can't bear to go back home. I drive to the movie theater, choose the film that's starting soonest (not a good way to choose a movie).
I sit in the dark, stare at the screen...press my hands against my face, try to feel comfort. I breathe, think...watch the lights in the air above me.
Credits. I drift through the lobby, the parking lot...stare at the clock in my car. 10pm. One hour till work.
I go to a diner.
I hear sipping. Chewing. Talking. Spoon-scrapes in cups. Fork-scrapes on plates. The staff look adolescent, sullen...wear dirty uniforms. To customers they speak with gestures and monosyllables ("Ready?" "More?"). To one another they mumble about work drama. "Third time this week she's called in. She's like, 'It's car trouble,' and I'm like 'Yeah right'. I mean come on."
I'm the only customer alone. Most tables have groups huddled together, leaning over plates, shoveling food upwards.
The table beside me: a redneck family. Heavy-set mom and dad...both wearing camouflage jackets. Three little boys...one of them an infant in a high chair.
Conversation...clinking...sipping. Then, from the mom next to me I hear, "Oh my god he's choking!" I look over. The infant is thrashing and silent. The dad drops his silverware and shoots up, knocking his chair over. He yanks the kid out of the chair and swings him into the following position: over the floor, against the dad's hip, facing down. His plan is to do the Heimlich, but he moves too quickly. During the transition, he smacks the kid's head against the edge of the table. The mom yelps. The dad starts the Heimlich...pressing the kids stomach two to three times. The kid convulses...spits food onto the floor...and screams.
Dad sets the kid into the high-chair. The parents both collapse into their chairs, deflate. The mom says, "Dear god. That about gave me a heart attack". Their other two kids...around three and five...burst into tears.
Everyone in the diner is tense, absolutely silent, staring at the family. The mom notices this. She gets up, walks around the table and looks at the food the kid had spit up. Then she addresses the room: "It's okay everybody! It was just chicken!"
My brain implodes from the absurdity of this. Why it would even occur to the mother to make an observation like that I'll never know.
The kid cries for a bit...then laughs. The dad reaches over, rubs his forehead and says, "There's a mark". The waitress comes over and says, "Is he okay?" The mom says, "He's okay...but I did want to ask about the bill. You got me charged for an egg-plate...but it's supposed to be free for kids under five".
Beyond comprehension. The mom's priority at the moment: a free meal. I want to kidnap her three little ones...usher them to better parents. I stare at my food...loose all interest in eating.
I leave, sit in the car. Think about the sound of the kid's head hitting the table. Feel sick.
I drive to work. Get the coffee going. Wait it out.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
I bond with you
So I know nothing about football...am not watching the Superbowl tonight. To my detriment.
It means I will be exempt from small-talk for the next month. For one...solid...month. Every single word that comes out of another human beings face...for a minimum of four weeks...will relate to the Superbowl. And me? I'll have nothin'.
All of the questions: "Did you see that one play?" "Can you believe that one call?" "Boy, that half-time show..." And so on.
Superbowl Sunday: hardest time of the year to converse with people. You can miss other sports events...television events...or movie events. But god forbid you not watch grunting fat men make slow, uninteresting, incremental progress up and down a field. Then you're a social leper. A total outcast.
Ridiculous.
I can sort of get why some people watch...especially guys. I mean, American culture? If you're a guy and you don't watch sports? Much, much harder to get laid. That is: much, much harder to express culturally-defined traits of masculinity. Try reading French literature as your main hobby and passing that off as "manly". Kind of tough. Try vicariously associating yourself with an overtly aggressive sports team or player...wow. Much easier to express the correct traits.
It's the other rationale that gets to me. That thing people say: "I watch it for the commercials".
Commercials.
That will play endlessly throughout the year. That you will see over and over, infinitely, forever. That feature beer-guzzling oafs...or low-brow, computer-generated animals...or dim-witted chicks with horrifying, gigantically-inflated absurdo-boobs. (That's right. I said absurdo-boobs).
Guys and sports I get. But the commercial thing...beyond my comprehension. I've kept an ear out, listening for any reasonable justification. The only thing I can come up with: humans are weird, weird creatures. (For me, that's about the only value in intentionally watching a commercial: periodically gauging how far apart I am from other people. I'll turn on the TV, catch a commercial, get my answer: one billion miles.)
So that's what I'm up against, starting tomorrow.
"Did you see that one play?"
"Did you see that one commercial? The one with the farting pelican? Hilarious!"
You hear "Superbowl Sunday." I hear "Autumn for small-talk".
(Eww. Maybe I should avoid this topic. Make more of an effort to reach out to people. Soooo...how about that notable event recently reported in the news? And, you know...the way socks exist, and...sluggish tortilla voltage? No, no. Never mind.)
It means I will be exempt from small-talk for the next month. For one...solid...month. Every single word that comes out of another human beings face...for a minimum of four weeks...will relate to the Superbowl. And me? I'll have nothin'.
All of the questions: "Did you see that one play?" "Can you believe that one call?" "Boy, that half-time show..." And so on.
Superbowl Sunday: hardest time of the year to converse with people. You can miss other sports events...television events...or movie events. But god forbid you not watch grunting fat men make slow, uninteresting, incremental progress up and down a field. Then you're a social leper. A total outcast.
Ridiculous.
I can sort of get why some people watch...especially guys. I mean, American culture? If you're a guy and you don't watch sports? Much, much harder to get laid. That is: much, much harder to express culturally-defined traits of masculinity. Try reading French literature as your main hobby and passing that off as "manly". Kind of tough. Try vicariously associating yourself with an overtly aggressive sports team or player...wow. Much easier to express the correct traits.
It's the other rationale that gets to me. That thing people say: "I watch it for the commercials".
Commercials.
That will play endlessly throughout the year. That you will see over and over, infinitely, forever. That feature beer-guzzling oafs...or low-brow, computer-generated animals...or dim-witted chicks with horrifying, gigantically-inflated absurdo-boobs. (That's right. I said absurdo-boobs).
Guys and sports I get. But the commercial thing...beyond my comprehension. I've kept an ear out, listening for any reasonable justification. The only thing I can come up with: humans are weird, weird creatures. (For me, that's about the only value in intentionally watching a commercial: periodically gauging how far apart I am from other people. I'll turn on the TV, catch a commercial, get my answer: one billion miles.)
So that's what I'm up against, starting tomorrow.
"Did you see that one play?"
"Did you see that one commercial? The one with the farting pelican? Hilarious!"
You hear "Superbowl Sunday." I hear "Autumn for small-talk".
(Eww. Maybe I should avoid this topic. Make more of an effort to reach out to people. Soooo...how about that notable event recently reported in the news? And, you know...the way socks exist, and...sluggish tortilla voltage? No, no. Never mind.)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
