Not only that, I broke his thumbs.

I’m having lots of fun with the camp kids.  S. taught us a type of meditation that focuses on breathing earlier.  Then I taught them how to solder.  I understand now why people choose to be teachers of children as a career.  I’d like to elaborate but lack the words.  We’re going on a nature walk to talk about design tomorrow.  We’ve acquired three more kids whose parents work in the building.  They’re older (14, 15, 17) and have been a delightful addition to the group.  They ask answerable questions, for starters.  😂  (I don’t know how much the sky weighs, but love the question.)

I taught in the Army and while earning my Ph.D.  I enjoy it, (but I get nervous.)  S. has been great about keeping things flowing.  (When someone asks a question, I usually lose my place.)  One of the kids is super energetic.  His mom said he gets in trouble at school.  The camp is movement friendly.  I think better when I walk around and imagine others may too.  I don’t want the child wasting his concentration on remaining still when there are better things on which to focus.  Sitting still is bad for our bodies, anyway.

I’m missing my drums even though I packed a practice pad.  It’s not as fun.  I’ve been spending more time with a guitar (that isn’t set up.)  My fingertips object after about an hour, but I composed a melody.  The inclination to tip the guitar up under my chin when I get to a hard part always cracks me up.  (I have a less painful acoustic at home with a strap that helps prevent this.)  I brought my 25 key midi keyboard, too.  It works great with my iPad Pro.  I’m going to play around with it this weekend.  It’ll be my first time using GarageBand in ages.

I’m holding my breath regarding recent developments in affordable health care.  I brought my emergency protest kit just in case.  Hugs to everyone who is doing the same.  Don’t lose hope.  Remember, together, we’re America.  We, the people, hold the real power in our unity.  The vast majority of Americans support life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness for *all* Americans.  The opposition is trying desperately to hide their crimes.  They’re not a force, they’re an embarrassment to humanity.  The victory is ours, we just have to collect it.  Stay peaceful.  💜

 

Yeah, he’s dating a crayon.

I’m in Denver.  M. is babysitting Amelia Bedelia in my absence.  She thinks he’s a heated cushion that dispenses treats, too, so she’ll be okay.  I have a pet cam near her climbing tree thingy.  I can talk to her through it using my phone.  She usually comes over to see how I’m doing that, then knocks it to the floor.  She’s on a lifelong mission to make sure all surfaces are clear of objects (not nailed down.)  She’s totally winning.

S. (M.’s sister) and I have been blasting Stevie Nicks music and dancing around.  I got too hot, so I’m taking a cool down break.  My body sucks at regulating my temperature.  If I get too hot and continue doing whatever activity has me overheating, I barf…  I can juggle, too.  🙃  The TV is 75″, which sounded awesome at the time.  Now I find it overwhelming, and I’m tripping over people’s skin in 4k.  It’s not as perfect as it looked in 1080P.  The actors are so real.  I mean I knew they were real, but apparently, I used to think they had fake skin.  I like reality better.

 

I’m trying to distract myself from acknowledging my anxiety.  Between the news and being away from home, I’m a bit rattled.  So I should totally stop writing about it.  S. has been noticing weird shit about me out loud.  I hope it doesn’t mean I’m getting on her nerves.  It’s making me laugh because it’s shit I never noticed.  Like putting my plate up high while it cools, then forgetting about it, then remembering when I realize I’m still hungry and it’s less appealing.

I helped her get to the this is why I don’t cook part.  (Nature knew there were going to be people like me, so she made fruit and nuts.)  S. is an excellent cook.  I’m going to put forth extra effort to eat dinner at the table with her while it’s still warm.  I think I probably fucked up, but I need to think about it some more.  I put my food up high because I have a cat, but she’s not here.  Ah well, I’ll do better at dinner.  S. is a lot of fun to hang out with, and she’s funny.

There are going to be two new Harry Potter books!!!  I didn’t expect it, and I’m so happy.  There are so many books I’m looking forward to right now.  I collect things to look forward to in the future.  They’re my little arsenal of guided anti-depression missiles.  When the Depression Monster has me in an illegal hold, and I can’t muster the energy to hold my head up, I can still think about joyful things to come.  I have notes to myself in my hallway to remind me it’s there when I need it.  (I pace a lot when I’m anxious, so I figured two birds.)

I miss M. and my cat (and would very much like to return home immediately.)  Sigh.  I met two of the kids who will be attending the camp earlier.  They’re so cute I can barely stand it.  We mostly talked about their missing teeth (twin 7-year-olds.)  I’m excited for it to begin on Monday.  I have a sponsorship prospect meeting next week, (S. is going with me, yay.)  The camp is going to be free if I have to pay for it out of my own pocket, but that’s not likely.  Frankly, it would be worth it to me to pay kids to attend.  Fortunately, I’m not the only one who understands how to invest in the future.

The best part is they’ll graduate with tools that apply to all aspects of life.  You want to be a ballerina?  Perfect!  I’ll teach you how to map your course, and troubleshoot obstacles along the way.  Hacking is about finding solutions to questions with the means at hand.  It’s generally considered to be a method of subverting computer security, but that’s an outdated interpretation, in my opinion.  To me, hacking is about critical thinking, perspective shifting, puzzle solving, brainstorming, and MacGuyver’ing.  It’s about thinking differently and optimizing.  (I did a better job of explaining in the handout, but I can’t reach it from here.)

I recognize my autistic acquaintances and friends may be thinking, “So hacking is like being autistic (aspie) on purpose.”  Yep.  What we do on a daily basis to fit in as best we can.  (Except it’s optional.)  I suppose I’m kind of giving ladders to already tall people in some ways.  However, I want today’s children to (figuratively) be able to reach everything on the highest shelves (of life) when they’re ready.  Even those that don’t exist yet.  Perhaps especially.  I’m cold now, so I’m off to dance.

 

Three squares? You can’t spare three squares?!

I conveniently forgot some of my quirks typically eliminated by using Prozac.  I’m a bit surprised by how quickly they’ve returned, although I am pretty much sweating it out of my body as fast as I can.  Today it’s supposed to storm, but it’s sunny and humid right now.  The air feels too heavy to breathe.  Fortunately, I’m heading down to Denver with M.’s sister later.  She’s going to help beta test my Hacker Camp.  We have four little girls and two little boys this first time.  They’re all nieces and nephews of the people I used to work with.

Their ages range from 7 to 13.  We’re just doing day camp, so they go home at the end of the day.  Two weeks with weekends off.  If it goes as well as I’m anticipating, I have an entire curriculum I designed over the winter that will involve an after school program.  One of my former co-workers is an art student (working part-time.)  She’s an amazing illustrator.  I hired her to do branding and to make my Hacker-in-Training manual look lovely.  I can’t wait to see what she’s made.

It’ll be fun checking in on my former co-workers.  They’re sophisticated Denverites, now.  I’m so proud of them.  I don’t fit there anymore, but I miss it sometimes.  I liked working exclusively with autistic people.  It still feels odd not to hear a periodic yip sound from D.  I didn’t realize how comforting it was until it was absent.  It must have been a subconscious anchor.  Neurotypical (NT) people don’t have tics, (visual or auditory.)  I can float completely away from them if I’m not vigilant.  The differences between working environments are most notable in cost to my energy level.  NT work environments take a lot more energy.

The brain zaps that indicate the Prozac is leaving my body have begun.  It’s a bizarre feeling.  It feels kind of like an electric shock originating in my brain, but it’s not at all painful.  The duration is so short it’s over before I notice.  I imagine tiny people reviving my brain cells in a little emergency room.  Clear!  Each zap brings me closer to The Muse.  I forgot about how much time I used to spend imagining, (before Prozac.)  It’s slowly returning.  I’m going to have to tighten up my daily schedule and use more whiteboards.  My hallway and bathroom walls are where I keep my visual cues.  I don’t even allow myself to think about not having them.  It’s too disturbing.

I’ve accepted I’ll always need a cue sheet in the shower.  I’ve wasted too much time trying to force myself to be neurotypical in ridic ways.  When democracy is restored in America, I’m going to retire.  I have lots of plans, and some are likely to work out.  My dream is to create a space designed for people like me, then maintain it.  Like me is deliberately vague because I’m still working on a definition.  I mean people who would enjoy it.  In my imagination, where it now resides, it’s a gentle place where you go for a stroll, or to sit while taking a rest from forcing your square peg into a round hole.  Where you can set down your masks and exhale.  Where having no shields doesn’t hurt.

So far, I have a vague image.  I have time for it to come more into focus.  It would be easy to say it’s for autistic people or it’s for neurodiverse people, but easy is too often wrong.  I’ve never met anyone who didn’t wear masks.  Fortunately, my imagination is about to make bail.  I’ll know when I write my first poem (in ages), things are as they should be.  Before Prozac, I wrote poetry often.  The Army was a favorable environment for poetry, and when I was a private, I had lots of time to write while being introduced to the Hurry Up and Wait lifestyle.

I’m taking my new iPad 10.5″ Pro instead of a laptop.  I’m hoping it entices me to do some artwork.  I saw a photo of Stevie Nicks I want to turn into a vector so I can blow it up and have it printed on vinyl.  She was probably in her twenties, and she’s oblivious to the camera.  It’ll take a long time, but will be so worth it.  It’s a strikingly beautiful picture.  Mostly because it captures her without any shields.  Photographers should be granted invisibility cloaks because most (neurotypical) adults are never unshielded near a camera.  Stevie Nicks drops her shields when she performs, and it’s as significant as her talent and energy.  The combination is like an irresistible magnetic pull.

I’m still brainstorming a way to see her sing live.  I noticed she’ll be performing in St. Paul next month.  It’s not an option, but knowing me, I’ll probably get excited about being in the same time zone as Stevie Nicks.  (I’m weird like that.)  Hopefully, they’ll release it for purchase in the future.  What I’d really like is for someone to film a Stevie Nicks concert in VR (virtual reality), so those of us who aren’t wired for big crowds can experience it too.  (Repeatedly.)  That would be so. fucking. awesome.  So yeah.  Someone get on that.  I’m off to finish packing.

Don’t you see what’s happened? I’ve become George!

The gym got new treadmills, and they’re fabulous.  I didn’t know the old treadmills sucked until I ran on a new one.  The deck is so wide and smooth, it felt like running in grass.  I listened to In Your Dreams by Stevie Nicks in order twice through.  I ripped it from the CD into FLAC files and loaded it on the DAP I got on MassDrop.  I listen to an album with various headphones and amps because it reveals details I miss otherwise.  (I take my music listening seriously.)  When I finished, I was all disoriented like I just woke up.  I’ve been smiling since.

I saw previews for The Dark Tower movie today.  It’s the first I’ve heard of it, and I’m ecstatic.  I want to see a lobstrosity, and all the other creatures described.  Especially Shardik.  I remember reading that in 8th grade.  It’s a good thing I finally watched TV today.  (I abandoned it in favor of Stevie Nicks, and Fleetwood Mac live concert DVD’s weeks ago.)  Now that I’ve seen Mick Fleetwood play Dreams, I’m copying his technique.  He makes the drums sound like a thunderstorm in this song, and it’s so good.

M. wants me to meet his parents.  They’re coming in August and will return home with his sister.  Naturally, I’ve decided to start feeling anxious now.  Sigh.  My virtual presence device project is at a frustrating point.  Basically, hiring a college student to carry a video rig is the most logical and cost effective solution so far.  It solves the problem of theft, vandalism, teasing, etc.  Not to mention transportation, and all the other logistical bummers I’ve encountered so far.  I was hoping for a robot, but it’s not looking good.  Ah, well.  Maybe I can find a college kid who talks about robots while being my virtual presence device.  I’m off to read.

But I don’t wanna be a pirate!

I’ve devised a new bribe to get myself to exercise.  If I run on my treadmill, I can watch music videos and interviews.  I just need to go a bit slower to prevent vertigo.  I don’t have a forgiving space to land in if I go flying off the back.  I have a credenza full of quilting supplies.  (It would probably only hurt my ego.)  I have an oddly shaped room over a stairwell, (which is the only reason I don’t feel guilty about running in my apartment.)  Nobody uses that stairwell, anyway.  My near-neighbors are funny to me.  I’ve seen most of them working out in the gym, at the pool, on the bike trails, etc., but they all use the elevators religiously.

I’m going to go ahead and apologize in advance for the length of this post.  I’ve been living in my head all weekend because my niece is visiting.  She’s the niece that’s older than me and used to beat me up, (because isn’t that fucking hilarious.  🙄)  She asked me earlier why I never seem to relax.  In my head, Michelle Obama and Lisa Bloom both looked at me and mouthed, “Don’t answer.”  So I’m bugging you instead.  Nope.  They didn’t say, “Don’t blog.”  🙃

LAS VEGAS, NV – MAY 26: Drummer Mick Fleetwood of Fleetwood Mac performs at the MGM Grand Garden Arena on May 26, 2013, in Las Vegas, Nevada. (Photo by Ethan Miller/Getty Images)

Mick Fleetwood looks a lot like my dad did now, which is an awful lot like Santa Claus.  Cool.

Oh yeah, I promised to tell my cocaine story.  In the Army, when you get promoted to SGT, you have to dump all your friends who aren’t SGT’s.  When I got promoted, the woman who dropped me as a friend when she got promoted became my mentor while I made the transition.  I was delighted to be able to hang out with her again.  She’s probably in the top five coolest people I’ve ever met.  Anyway, the night of my promotion, she invited me to hang out.  I accepted.

I didn’t even realize the NCO’s (non-commissioned officers) were coming together to celebrate my promotion until they brought out the cake.  It was the point where my being upset over losing my few friends became, “Oh wow, I’m an NCO now.”  It felt pretty good to have them acknowledge my achievement.  The only thing I’d ever actually said to most them before was, “Yes, SGT.”  Soon, bottles of beer were passed around, (and I passed because I don’t drink.)  No problem, no pressure, yay.  We listened to music, and they shared stories while I sat listening in awe.

After a while, the SSG (who totally looked like an Ewok, and made me dig a 6′ x 6′ x 6′ hole for pointing it out,) started passing around a picture he took off the wall with lines of cocaine on it.  They passed it around to everyone.  Everything seemed to be in slow motion to me, as my brain sorted through what was going on.  By the time the picture came to me, I knew the wisest choice was to follow suit.  In hindsight, I think it was a test.  But I’m not sure.  Anyway, my ignorant ass took the rolled up dollar bill with shaking hands, arranged a neat line with the razor, and blew it all off the picture.  Sigh.

There was a pause.  To me, it was excruciatingly long, but it probably wasn’t in reality.  Then my mentor punched me in the shoulder while they all laughed weirdly.  (Look.  If you’re not supposed to blow it, then why the fuck do they call it blow?  Which is more logical?  Snorting it up your nose?  Or following the obvious instructions in the nickname?  I still haven’t managed to live it down…)  I just wish more care was taken in naming things, that’s all.  So that pretty much ended the party, but the cake was delish.

The reason I knew I had to go along was this:  These men and women were the backbones of my unit.  They literally ran it from day to day and kept us prepared to deploy to war with 72 hours notice at all times.  Accusing them of using an illicit drug, (a career ending mistake), wasn’t an option.  Fortunately, I was fresh out of leadership training and was able to recognize it immediately.  The unwritten rules.  Had I refused to go along, I would have separated myself from the NCO’s, and become a pariah.  When I was a private, my instinct would have been to refuse and report.

If it was a test, I passed, (but barely.)  I’ve never actually ingested cocaine.  That’s the only time anyone ever offered me any.  Oh no, wait.  When I visited the aquarium in the inner harbor in Baltimore, some random guy waved at me to step outside, so I did.  Then he asked me if I wanted some crack.  I didn’t understand the question, so he walked away.  Now I know what crack is, so that’s my only other experience with it.  I’m a weed only woman.  I’ll vape cannabis, but no on the rest.  (And only in states where it’s legal, because the consequences are out of the question, and a cop could stare a confession out of me in five minutes.  Okay, less.)

I can’t believe that you saw her before me.

I realized I don’t code most of the time anymore.  I think this is a good thing because I laugh more.  It feels like I broke an addiction because I get random urges to start new projects all the time.  I thought I would have a harder time letting go.  It’s mind boggling how much time I’ve spent writing code on a computer in my lifetime.  It’s probably just under the time I’ve spent sleeping.  I’m impatient.  If something takes ten hours to complete, there is no way I’m going to break that up.  I know my limit is between 19 and 21 hours.  (That’s not typical, however, and I swear I’ll never do anything that long again.)

I can stay awake(ish) for 32 hours, but those last several hours are wasted time.  All I do is nod off, startle myself awake, laugh about it, (rinse, and repeat.)  I fell asleep on guard duty once when I was in the Army.  The fucker who was my relief saw me, went and caught a tarantula, and put it down my shirt.  I ripped my shirt off while screaming and running in place.  Then I burst into tears and told him I hated him, while he fell on the ground laughing.  Fucker.  Although, I never did it again.  Fucker.  (Full body shudder.)

I’m well into my second reading of The Dark Tower series, by Stephen King.  I’m just marveling at the details this time.  I think the mastery lies in his restraint.  He only told us enough of the story to force us to obsess over what he didn’t.  Human brains make premature determinations all the time, so he left room for the Constant Reader to use their own imagination and cryptography skills to add even more richness to an already lush tale.  I know!  Holy shit!  No two will experience the exact same story.  Sigh.  My next boyfriend will be more of a reader.  (It’s a joke, mostly.)

I read an article yesterday about Prozac being used to “treat” autism.  The Army came to that conclusion when I was a teenager.  I always forget about the delay.  It seems an unusually long one, though.  I’m not a parent, and I’ve already shared my thoughts on the drug.  All I can say is thank goodness I don’t have to make such a hard decision for someone completely dependent on me.  And I know that’s just one out of thousands like it.  I can’t even have a dog, so I’m generally awed by good parents.  It was the single parent of an autistic kid who helped me realize activism isn’t optional.  (Last year, sigh.)  I’m always late to the party.

I’m super anxious today, and I’m subconsciously trying to match it by speeding up.  My heart is telling me I should be running, not sitting on the floor typing on a laptop.  I’m having a difficult time remaining seated.  It reminds me of the time my PC doctor yelled at me for jumping up and down when I was supposed to be waiting to get my blood pressure checked.  (Jumping up and down makes it feel like time is moving faster, and makes waiting less annoying.  Duh.)  It scared the shit out of me because she came up behind me.  I must have accidentally let the I’m about to cry face show for a second because she immediately apologized.  It was a tiny bit funny.  Sometimes I have to admit I am too fucking literal.

I saw an interview on Youtube with Stevie Nicks and noticed she was rocking throughout the interview.  I mentioned it to M., and he said, “She’s not autistic, she’s high on cocaine.”  (I didn’t ask him if he thought she was autistic.)  I paused for a second to decide if his reading my mind was funny or infuriating.  I decided it’s funny.  (I kinda think everyone is half black, might be undiagnosed autistic, loves Star Wars, reads, and sings a lot until otherwise is proven.)  That’s right.  Still not sophisticated.

One thing I’ve learned from Stevie Nicks is to trust my intuition with a fierceness when necessary.  Also, I noticed she doesn’t tear people down.  I like that quality in a person.  For those who also wonder;  she still looks gorgeous because she stays in the shade, uses La Mer skincare products, and never ever goes to bed with makeup on.  I’m settling for 2 out of 3.  I can’t stomach paying that much to stay cute (while not being a rock goddess.  Besides, La Mer would be foolish to make her buy it.  All they have to do to make bank is put “Stevie Nicks uses this” on the bottle.)  I’ll just be kinda cute instead.  It looks the same from my perspective.  😂

This woman hates me so much I’m starting to like her.

I just realized I haven’t watched anything but Stevie Nicks documentaries and live concerts on DVD in a while.  Typically, I only allow myself to listen to music when I’m exercising because it’s the only way to get me to do it.  Lately, it’s all I do in my free time, but it hasn’t been long enough to mess up my exercise bribery scheme.  Whew.  (I don’t have a Plan B.)  I guess tomorrow will be a long run, and that’ll be my only music fix for the day.  I’m going to listen to In Your Dreams by Stevie Nicks, and The Open Door by Evanescence, and Tuesday Night Music Club by Sheryl Crow.

If it plays longer than my route, I’ll keep listening while I stretch.  I’m already looking forward to it.  I’m going to feel like Wonder Woman.  I’m off Prozac for the rest of the summer.  Or, I guess I should say until it snows.  So who knows, but as long as I can run outside.  I don’t like to run for more than an hour at a time on the treadmill, but I can break it up.  After my fall last winter, I’m too paranoid about falling again (on the ice outside in the snowy weather, where my imagination has assured me in advance I’ll die miserably.)

Note:  In my particular case, if I eat wisely, and do four hours of cardio per day, I feel exactly the same as when I take 20mg of Prozac per day, (minus the side-effects.)  If I do two hours of cardio per day, I’m uncomfortably close to frustration overload 24/7, but I can survive.  Less, and things go downhill quickly about two months after my last dose.  I’m weird.  Don’t try this at home.  Besides, finding out how many hours of exercise it takes per day to be the best me possible is exactly as fun as it sounds.  So do what’s right for you.

The thing about Prozac is this:  It interferes with creativity, sex drive, and for some people, appetite.  In my case, no sex drive, (and I started taking it soon after I realized I even had a sex drive.)  If you don’t know your sexual identity yet, don’t take Prozac.  I was a late bloomer.  I thought boys were gross until I met my ex-husband at nineteen.  If anything, it decreases my appetite when I’m initially adjusting.  It also makes me extremely sleepy for the first few weeks.  Others become overeaters for the first time in their lives.  It’s mean like that.

I want to turn off my Muse-repelling force field known as Prozac so I can do some artwork and find out the rest of this melody that keeps haunting me.  I don’t have it as bad as some.  I can ignore the urge to create if there’s something I’d rather do.  The Muse is a gentle whisper in the night for me.  For some people, she’s also a bitch with handcuffs.  But they’re usually outstanding at what they do so it might be fair.  I’m not sure how much choice they have in the matter.  They’re probably too busy being awesome to care.

I’m feeling balanced again, thank goodness.  You’d think after years of coping with PTSD I wouldn’t get so freaked out every time I hit a rough patch.  Nope.  I freak out every fucking time.  I imagine it’s like being in a fire.  No matter how many times it happens, it’s always alarming.  Plus, I think my mind lets me keep most of those times in short term memory.  Yay brain.  I finally let M. help me adjust my drum kit.  It was noticeably leaning because I loosened something I regret, and it just happened.

I was still playing on them after a few adjustments (without fucking with the rack.)  Now that M. helped, I’m a bit blown away by how much difference it makes.  It was worth the kick in the nuts to my ego.  I got over myself immediately after I started playing.  I’m starting to get pretty good.  I’m almost confident enough to start creating my own beats.  I only lack the practice hours.  My stamina is better, my timing is my strongest skill, and I rarely drop sticks anymore.  The part on my fingers where I lost the skin before getting gloves is calloused, but it’s barely noticeable (compared to what strings do to fingertips.)

I’m so happy to be feeling better.  I got busted singing twice today, but I tend to do it constantly when I’m happy.  It’s almost as good as the relief I feel after passing a kidney stone.  It’s a shame they can’t bottle the post kidney stone feeling and sell it as a drug.  On second thought, maybe it’s a good thing you have to suffer intensely for a while before you get to experience it.  It makes it addiction-proof as fuck.  I just cracked myself up.

I’m off to finish deep cleaning the carpet while listening to the rest of Al Franken, Giant of the Senate from Audible.  I love him.  I probably look silly laughing for no apparent reason every few minutes, but it’s excellent.  It’s helping me cope, and teaching me a lot about politics (in a way that doesn’t make my eyes glaze over.)  I forgot how powerful humor can be in learning.  If you want my full attention, make me laugh.  It’s my favorite thing to do in the world.

 

I was in the pool!

I accomplished my goal yesterday.  It wasn’t too bad.  I had to renew my driver’s license before mid-July, or I’d have to take the written test again.  The last time I had to renew, I didn’t notice it expired until a bank teller told me.  I was in the drive-thru, and I had a meltdown.  Even now, I’m struggling to put the words together, (like I blocked it out.)  I was literally driving with an expired license when I found out my license was expired, so my brain decided to try rebooting.  Good times.

The teller came outside, got in on the passenger side, turned off my engine, and asked me if I needed some water.  This is why I live in South Dakota.  It’s full of guardian angels.  When I head out of town to find some cows to entertain with my violin, I don’t worry about being shot for trespassing by a farmer.  I would never do this in Texas, (or during hunting season.)  I like farms, but only for visiting.  Farmers are pragmatic to the point of almost seeming a bit mean, but the impression doesn’t last very long.  I’ve noticed this trait in people who work in a potentially dangerous environment.

For some reason, cows love classical music.  When I sit on the fence and play, they act like it’s the most fascinating thing they’ve ever witnessed.  It’s probable. However, I don’t mind.  I enjoy an audience that never claps.  I’m better at tolerating clapping now than when I was a kid, but I still avoid it.  I want to say it hurts, but we’re not playing horseshoes.  I use earplugs when I play with an ensemble or orchestra.  Sometimes the rush to get them in before the clapping starts practically does me in.  I usually only play for children.  They’re so good about applauding in sign language.

I’m so scattered today.  I can see the light at the end of this tunnel.  My energy is low, but I’m otherwise alright.  I’ll probably sleep like the dead tonight, and awaken refreshed in the morning.  Yep.  That’s happening (out of sheer will.)  I’m going to knock out the rest of my chores tonight so I can feel good about it tomorrow.  I tacked on a second hard thing yesterday, but it was getting new glasses.  I have to go back to pick them up next week.  The only hard part is driving in a busy area.  I probably should see if Lasik surgery can handle astigmatism yet.

I’m hard on glasses, and I’ve never had a good experience with super glue.  I try so hard to be careful, but I’m afraid it’s just beyond my motor skills.  Super annoying glue is more like it.  I feel like I could go to bed now, but I haven’t even had lunch yet.  I need to do better with variety in my diet.  I tend to eat a meal of fruit, a meal of vegetables, and a meal of nuts.  (I graze on bagged lettuce when I’m home.  It’s like soggy chips that don’t burn my lips.)  The problem lies in choosing only one type of each for weeks at a stretch.  I don’t cook.  I only eat cooked food when someone gives me some, or I go out to eat.

 I’m disappointed in food technology.  It’s nowhere near what it could be.  Bento boxes are the only food technology I’m pleased with.  (The tech is basically fun.)  If I were in charge, a meal would be the size of a King Snickers, only shaped like something cool.  I want to eat a 3D printed meal shaped like Totoro or Baymax.  I want to decide the flavors on demand from a list of favorites.  I want the option to experiment with flavors and textures.  I want it to be optimized to my body’s needs at the moment, based on a saliva sample or something.

Someone should be working on this.  I honestly don’t understand why I can’t have this now.  Granted, I probably couldn’t afford the original setup, but I do think micronutrients can be replicated in a lab.  I just don’t think anyone has figured out how to do it while generating a significant enough initial profit to take (it before shareholders) the risk.  Sigh.  Maybe Jeff Bezos will get around to it.  Let’s stop farming the land and grow us some scientists instead.  Let’s make earth great again.

 

 

Quick! Everybody under the desk!

CW: Aftermath of SA, related triggers.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fuck.  I haven’t pinpointed for certain what I did wrong to cause this round of hell.  Deep down, I suspect I know, but the reason pisses me off.  I had a birthday last month, and I ate like someone who doesn’t have autism or PTSD.  I thought once a year was sufficient moderation.  I was wrong.  Hence, pissed.  Welp.  Maybe this means I’m going through The Change, (still only once since The Election.)  That would be fair.  I guess.

I’m hiding out in my closet.  I’m trying to convince myself I’m safe.  I’m self-mothering so Siri will tell me when my time is up, (30 minutes.) This is the first time I’ve ever thought my closet is too big.  I know there’s no such thing as safe, but I’m willing to negotiate an understanding.   I live in a secured building in a community with security, in a smallish city with a reliable police force, in a flyover state, in the Midwest.  I don’t need to install motion activated anything in my apartment.  Besides, I don’t want to know too much about what my cat does when I’m asleep or away, (I already negotiated an understanding with my germaphobic tendencies.)

I’m only allowing myself to use old coping skills for a day.  I’m allowing myself to be afraid, and remember today.  The overwhelming shock felt like desperately needing to inhale, but my lungs were already filled to capacity.  I got stuck there for a while.  My internal music stopped for the first time in my life.  The silence was so loud, it wailed.  For a long time, I wished I died.  It’s figuratively the night I found out math isn’t real.  The night the music stopped, and I forgot how to breathe.

I’m angry I was forced to give up my beloved false sense of immortality while still young.  I was fucking using that.  I wasn’t ready to let go.  I was so ambitious and motivated.  It still stings to remember how much I’ve changed because of one night.  I liked who I was before, and barely got to know her before I became me.  I can’t find her anymore.  I think she’s dead.  I still remember her.  She wanted to help end war for good.  She had brilliant plans oozing with logic.  But she’s gone.  I’m what remained plus what I’ve since gained.

I miss her fearlessness.  Her eagerness to volunteer and assist.  To try new experiences, and take significant risks.  I’m far more cautious and careful.  But I remember.  I’m better at accepting the changes these days.  Some would likely have come about in time, regardless, as they’re more prevalent in youth.  I’m angry my time as Alison 1.0 was cut short.  Sigh.  Alison 2.0 cracks me up sometimes.   Fucking silver linings (made of Doublemint wrappers.)

I’ve finally figured out how to accept the fact I was naive as well as the fact it wasn’t my fault.  (It was fucking rocket science.)  Based on the long pause I just took, I’m going to add, barely.  I guess I better go back to sticking post-it notes everywhere that say, “It wasn’t your fault.”  Usually, they make me think of Good Will Hunting, (at which point I smack it lightly and say, “how ya like them apples?” in my best Boston accent.)  It’s a note to my subconscious, so taking them seriously while awake isn’t necessary.  It’s such a good movie.

Okay, my time is probably going to run out soon.  I’ll just ramble on about the film until it does.  I’ve seen it several times, and M. also enjoys it.  He’s not bad at speaking in movie quotes, but a lot of my favorites are what he calls chic flicks.  (We mostly intersect with blockbusters and sci-fi.)  My favorite line in GWH is, “Because fuck him, that’s why.”  I should get it on a t-shirt.  I’m hitting the treadmill next.  Listening to Annabelle Lee by Stevie Nicks on repeat while I run is incredibly comforting.  Then a soak with an herbal bath bomb, and finally, starting over with The Dark Tower series by Stephen King.  (It’s fucking outstanding.)

If they have individual personalities, I’m not sure we should be eating them.

I’m Alison Wonderland.  (It’s what my family often called me when I was growing up.)  I embrace it because I recognize it’s accuracy.  I do live in my own world.  It’s the only way I know how to be.  I connect with people who can accept me as I am.  Usually, it’s individuals who are steady enough within themselves to come a bit closer.  Close enough so I can hear their song.  My wonderland is a bit slower and calmer.  In my world, I look with my ears because they never lie.

I’ve been watching more Stevie Nicks: Live from Chicago, after wrestling with nightmares.  It helps yank me out of the post-nightmare dread quickly.  It’s a far gentler solution than flashing light in my eyes.  (That has its own miserable aftermath.  It works, though.)  I’m super unwilling to linger on bad dreams.  They can only fuck with me while I’m unconscious, dammit.  And only then because I haven’t yet figured out how to annihilate them once and for all.

It’s been a rough few days.  My nightmares have brought background fears front and center.  I’m using paranoia level security in my apartment again.  Nobody’s getting in safely without my permission.  M. knows the drill.  He finds something else to do when I’m fighting a skirmish with PTSD.  I like that he understands my need for him to be scarce exists, and my need for him to comfort me does not.  I did a horrible job of expressing my wishes, but he still got it.  Whew.

I tried to tell him I became my own mom after my mom died.  I meant it to be a gentle way of telling him I don’t need him to comfort me;  I can do it myself.  I strongly suspect he quickly decided he’d rather go play video games alone than wait for me to explain what I meant to my satisfaction.  (Good call, M.)  He works long hours and could sleep through a tornado.  I info dump while he falls asleep, (and long after, of course.)  It’s amazing how much he remembers.  It’s fun to quiz him sometimes.  I think surgical residents are also human tape recorders.

I realized today I’m tensing around men again.  It feels like I’m going backward after so much progress.  It’s unbelievably expensive to my energy level to be wound so tightly at work.  I’ve never worked in a field that wasn’t male dominated, (but I can’t think one that isn’t ATM.)   When the nightmares stop, and I catch my breath,  I’ll worry about it.  Right now, the fear I typically keep in check is kicking my ass.  I’m hyper aware of my vulnerability.  I hate The Fear so much.

I know I can beat it back, but right now I feel whiny about it, and there’s no fucking whining allowed.  I want The Fear to be tangible so I can ask a Republican to come over and shoot it.  (No, wait, they’d want to take it home and feed it.)  Fuck!  I hate being irrational!  I want to go for a run, but…  Whoa.  Almost went there.  I’m going for a run.