I wrote recently of my trouble with dating. I mentioned that I often feel unseen. It happens more and more. It started to make me wonder am I distinguishable at all? Do I naturally drive others away? I know for a fact I’m not a magnetic person. Nobody flocks to my side. Is it the age we live in? Is everyone troubled. I would love to just have a conversation with people. Express Ideas. Build bonds, as difficult as that is for me (autism) I would still like to try, and try hard. It’s as if the world has become more autistic than I am. I am trying to build, adapt and be a sociable being. This is what I’m building myself toward, yet no one seems to want to participate. Everyone is getting farther and farther away. I see people who are lost in the meaningless bullshit that has no real relevance in life. LIFE. Allowing themselves to be distracted by facades, and ads, and spectacles that are without substance. Everyone is looking at the hole in the doughnut of life instead of at the doughnut itself. We revolve around the void. We are not of the void. I’m trying to engage with Life but Life seems to be consistently withdrawing. I can’t get the attention of anyone I try to engage with. I’m going out of my way to build bridges no one wants to cross. Needless to say, but of course I will, I am frustrated and confused. Is it profitable in any personal measure to try and engage anymore with my fellow human beings?
I have thrown in the towel. I no longer go out to try and socialize and I can’t let myself be constantly deciphering how to unlock and connect with others. This is not in my province as a badly formed man. Blank expression and corner dwellings are my habitat. Nighthawking with my cup of coffee across from couples and other visitors. Taking in the view like some other visitor like Johansson in Jonathan Glazer’s ‘Under The Skin.’ I choose to quit. I choose to be a spectator. I choose to be a drone. Rather than have it foisted on me by my shit life. I will be the stranger in the halls and in the malls and in the stairs sitting in chairs. I’ll just watching. I exile myself now, completely. The human circus is a long and boring one and I have no interest either way in where it goes. All matters will now revolve around my selfish well being. Hazard lights blinking. Stay away good people. I might bite.
So I spent all day in an office doing nothing but watching my mother do her job. It was either spend all day at home wandering around like the ghost that I seem to be or distracting myself with being outside. It exhausted me and when home I passed out in bed. Just woke up. My heart is heavy. I feel like I’m capable of righting my self but don’t seem to know where to start. I will not sleep all night. I’ll pace and wonder what the hell I’m doing on this planet. I don’t know how to get my shit together. My anxiety meds don’t help no more. I don’t know what to do. I’m glad I didn’t go to college because I was not into any of the curriculum. So I don’t have a debt problem. What I do have is an endlessly aimless personage that won’t let me alone. I am flat out uninterested in 98.8 percent of all things in life. I am constantly bored. I need alcohol to feel things. I am not a real person just a mirage in an alkaline land and in the far ahead when walking toward one never encounters me.
Learning things about yourself, you’d think would bring about change. Catharsis. For me, all I find is the hole getting deeper and deeper. I find spaces needed filling. I fear nothing more now than the passage of time. Every time I am spent alone. Every time I am spent disconnected. Feeling like a bug under a magnifying glass. I am 31 years old. My ability to connect is damaged irreparably. Like a chewed up cable in my head, shooting sparks and orange flames, and blue bolts flashing out. And every one can tell. Either I am the most good looking guy in my city or the people can see it. Sense it. I can not bare the weight any more that comes with the fall of night, looking at my empty apartment. My bedroom. Met a man who was 30 on Saturday outside of the Omni Hotel in town. A member of a wedding party inside. We smoked. My smoking I put on as a device that got me into many a conversation. People on the streets of Old Town like to smoke. And they like hanging outside on a weekend in the wee hours doing it. Here’s this man. This MAN. A man in a suit and tie and with a group of bro college friends and gaggle of female accompaniment, a girlfriend or wife, sister or whatever. Wedding date. When I got home I lay flat on my stomach in bed bone weary from the night. I was not that MAN. I am not a MAN. I am a 31 year old boy. Passing as a man. Passing as a person. I cannot find myself no matter how hard I try to be any of the two. I accept my empty spaces. I accept my wiring that has me fucked for life. No longer will I flirt. Not that I do anyway. No longer will I look or expect or hope. Their will be no one in my life that I will love or be in love with. I’m a bug. Stuck by pin. Maybe my freedom can come from this whole acceptance of this reality. I’ve never count myself a member of the human race. Inside I’m looking out and looking in. Watching myself always and it can’t stop.
Coming out of the previous posts about depression, loneliness, the masturbatory agony, the pity party I was in. . . to look back on that is like looking back on a bad dream. The Prozac is in effect now. I feel, even still, some rawness to those past bad couple of days I had. It’s like a bowling ball or kettle bell sitting on your chest has just lifted. The weight of my depression still has left it’s mild ghostly feeling on me. That being said, I’m better. I resumed my weight training. I’m easier to get to sleep. I made the foolish decision that I no longer needed my meds. That my mind had transformed through my finally getting a job, and having a place to call my own. A place I pay rent, like an adult. Even had sex not too long ago. One nighter. So I ventured off the medicine thinking everything was on its way to being in place with all my other issues dimmed in the background. Then, as the medicine wore off, came out my system all gone, the darkness came out. The dim shit in the background got pronounced. “You’re never going to be a professional writer!” You’re never going to be a best selling novelist!” “You’ll never meet someone!” “No one will love you!” “Be in love with you!” “You can’t make friends!” “You can’t keep friends!” “You are scared that you are going to die alone and sad like your father will and your uncles! Sexless, loveless men who genetically bare the same curse in the blood you do.” “Depression.” “Autism.” I must never get off my medicine again. My brain is sick and damaged beyond repair. Depression of my kind is going to be with me until I am dead.
I have to make progress on these things. These relationships.
My return to blogging and the change in title is my wanting the aim of this blog to be the focus of my life around my (High functioning Autism) asperger’s. You see, I don’t really have anyone of experience to talk to about it. I got great Facebook friends who are in the same boat as me, but I don’t want to be harassing them all the time. I wonder if anyone with asperger’s also has the experience where you wear the social mask so long that you find yourself alone and start to doubt or wonder on who you really are, before the reality sets in again via whatever type situation. Need to find a group I guess. There is not much in the way of group therapy for asperger’s in Philadelphia, at least from my online searches. All the one’s I see are too far from me. My alexithymia would also make discussing my feelings even more of the challenge. For those of you who don’t know:
“We now have a psychological term, alexithymia, to describe another characteristic associated with Asperger’s syndrome… Clinical experience and research have confirmed that alexithymia can be recognized in the profile of abilities of people with Asperger’s syndrome.” [Tony Attwood]
So it would seem that this is a part of the autistic experience to what height or degree I don’t know. It is so hard, damnable hard to release and not bottle things up when you have no idea what you are bottling up. Probably is why I blow up so much. Why I concave on myself. If I just knew the words. This aspect of my life with autism certainly is where I feel that I can no longer be the ‘I’m not damaged goods, or some handicap!’ type of aspie. This condition of being unable to name my feelings certainly feels too much like a disability for me. On the lighter side, I’m playing some great video games and am still working! YEE-HAW!!! Remember. . . I Love You.