Nov. 24.
2013
Over the course of seven years my body's been folding, and
saying "no more." I have developed "fibromyalgia." As well,
I'm naturally attuning to my autistic son, by speaking my native tongue to
communicate with him. This has transformed me. Yes, it's transformed me back to
my roots. It's dissolved the facade I had become so good at wearing. I was once
a coping little actress, dumbing myself down into a cutesy, simple-language
girl-next-door. I was mimicking and mirroring.
I was playing a
what-others-need-to-hear-in-order-to-functionally-respond-to-general-conversation
game. It was Survival Poker, and secretly; it was amidst pokerfaces. No, I
could never read them very well, and it was always frightening, though I didn't
understand why. I merely decoded them as best I could, with my
cat-like sixth "scents." They are really strong, detrimentally strong
actually.
At times, though, I could miss something. I could be wrong, or
have my sixth sense shut off with something like alcohol. In these instances, I
often got hurt, sometimes badly. I am lucky to be here, lucky to have survived.
That's all I'll say for now.
Today, things are different. I'm a flaming autistic! I'm
nearly a "mad- hattress"...and you know what? I like it. I'm overall
happier than I ever was before, than I ever dreamed I could be. I'm twirling
around in a whirlwind of music, patterns, colors, and questions. I'm crying,
"Why is a raven like a writing desk??"
Many a time, this spawns into; "why do governments adhere
to the needs of corporations over people?" and "why are so many
people currently inclined to act foolish, competitive, or desensitized when in
groups especially" and so much more. Alas, the real me have come to be.
The real me is awake!
So lastly, I cry out "where is the loooove???"Whence
answering myself in colorful pictures numerical rhythms and musical patterns. I
began struggling to turn it into language. I had to get it out. My blog was born.
Half the time, I'm capturing it supremely, despite an aftermath
of tiredness. The other half of the time, I'm still tearfully crying "WHY
IS A RAVEN LIKE A WRITING DESK???" once again. I cannot, and will not,
change what I have become. No. I actually don't think I can anyway.
The Fibrobeast is my friend, only in the way it says "you
are not allowed to perform as neurotypical anymore, or I will
bite you!" So I Be. This is, in fact, the person I truly am. Now
my next step is to fully let it be, and even let it go.
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