My Cup Runneth Over

Today I am being gentle with myself.
My cup runneth over,
With the fears and doubts,
The anxiety and regrets,
The slights and misunderstandings,
Of all those I have been around.
I am a giant sponge,
Who has absorbed their energy.
Now I am alone,
In quiet space,
To let it all out.
So perhaps then,
I can be refilled,
By being with those,
Who have the vitality for living.

Escape

The water is warm.
The curtain creates a child cave.
I am hiding in the bath.
The exhaust fan issues a droning warning.
"Occupied do not enter."

For me,
It has been a TOO LONG period,
Of fraternal stimulation.
Guests,
Their physical needs,
And their mental anxieties catered for.
The mess of new high traffic areas.
The kitchen, the toilet bowl,
And where the children play.

There's the stress and strain,
Of an expanded nuclear family,
Who has indiosyncracies you are unaware of.
The inordinate amount of food preparation and resultant dishes.
Willing helpers whose ignorance of your household,
Makes them a hindrance.
Then there are the social dynamics.
Who will tolerate who, and for how long.

So for a least a while,
And perhaps a LONG while,
I shall recoup,
In this bath.

ASD

I hate that Aspergers is described as a disorder.
In fact I hate that Aspergers doesn't exist,
Since it was dropped from the new DSM 5.
And what would those phsychologists know anyway?
Do they have the amazing sensory processing experience,
That can be described as Aspergers?
Well of course not.
Ah but we do,
And we know what it feels like on the inside:
The logical rationality.
The precision.
The super dooper focus.
Having the nose that knows.
Being so in tuned with others emotions,
That we are overwhelmed.
No empathy?
Bullshit!
Hyper-empathy!
Honest, loyal and way smart.
When my world is dishing me up a fair deal.
i.e:
Exhibiting honesty and integrity,
And speaking in precise English,
Not body language mega-babble,
Mixed with innuendo and emotional clap trap,
And exhibiting insecure tribalism.
Then there is no disorder about it.
And I can let my Aspergian super powers,
Soar...

Procrastination or Disorganisation

I just can't get my shit together.
It is taking an inordinate amount of time to organise,
My bedroom, my house,
And my life in general.
I can see in my minds eye how to do it.
But the details,
It is always the details,
Oh and the interruptions.
And then there are the wasted journeys,
When you find yourself somewhere,
And you cant remember why you where.
And the whole process is just so fatiguing,
That you lie on the bedroom floor,
And feel panicked at how much time has elapsed,
And how little you have achieved.
Being organised is my preferred state,
But getting organised is always a challenge.
I work very very hard at it.
I do not suffer from procrastination,
Just disorganisation.

Release

Of late,
The hurt and despair of disappointment,
Has been great,
I have been to the brink.
Shutdown.
Meltdown.
Those who know intimately,
The acronym ASD.
May empathise.

But having returned from the abyss.
I find that there is still one threshold to cross.
It is difficult to explain,
But to venture into a place of such mental anguish,
Requires a similar return journey.
The cocktail of cortisol,
Mixed, not stirred,
With dry disappointment.
Leaves the brain numb and on high alert.

It takes a physical release,
A letting go,
To come back.
A long loving embrace,
Or even orgasm,
Achieves this state.

But today I discovered another way.
The reaction was identical,
Long sobs racking my body
Turning to hyperventilation.
I crumpled with the weight of it.
And the cause.
I just sang.

Plain Speaking

I do not understand:
When a pronoun is used before the noun is stated.
"There is so much stuff going on. Things are getting too much"
When time is not set within margins.
" I will tell you later."
When a place is not specified.
"Let's go for a walk."

I can't see the point of:
The tribal bonding of banal small talk.
"Oh how terrible for you.
You are such a nice person for not getting too upset.
Oh I couldn't have coped ...blah blah blah"

I do like it when someone looks at me,
And talks to me earnestly.

Is that so weird ?

Generational Disappointment

It seems I belong to a family,
Who suffers a terrible inheritance.
For some of us it is genetic.
For others,
Environmental.
It is born of unmet expectations,
Insecurities,
Insincerity,
But mostly,
A clash of cultures.

The objective but confused culture of the Aspergian.
Diagnosed or not.
Versus those more emotionally volatile neurotypicals,
Who attempt to love us.
The result,
Is much like its cousin,
'Generational Poverty',
Which is similarly, a cultural construct.
'Generational Disappointment' is a deficit,
Affecting the soul,
Rather than the wallet.

Conquer Kozzie

We came, we saw,
We conquered Kozzie.
No mean feat if you are three years old,
Or if you are scared out of your wits by the heights,
Encountered on the chairlift.
Funny going up was much easier,
The down will be described in all its,
White-knuckled majesty,
Later in these prose.
But for those,
I will not say of us,
Because the chairlift puts me in the same category,
As the three year old,
But for those of able limb,
The thirteen kilometre return trip is...
A 'doddle.'
Seven made the pilgrimage,
Ranging in age from six to forty eight.
The nine year old Aspergian required constant 'chivvying.'
And only completely lost it,
Near the summit.
"Too windy,
Too high up."
After all this was the highest point in 'Ostraya',
And way way too scary.
Nine year old Aspergian geniuses can count.
Four hours to dawdle and whinge six and a half kilometres.
Well that adds up to,
Too far.
"Can't we go back now?"
Luckily for us the way back is blissfully,
Downhill.
The scenery was superb,
But greatly marred by gale force winds,
That buffeted the petite six year old against the summit cairn.
Perhaps the junior Aspie had a point,
But he was hunkered in amongst the boulders.
So at pace we returned.
Only one spill on the steel boardwalk.
And at last sun and wind burned,
The time had come for the chairlift descent.
The blind led the blind.
And blind we were with our eyes tightly closed.
The three most terrified on the same chair.
At the base, walking jelly-legged,
It was then I noticed the imprints of my fingers,
Indenting the soft flesh of my children's,
Small hands.

Shut Down

When all your systems shut down,
You cannot speak.
Yet in your head,
The conversation goes on.

They,
The ones who love you,
Ask questions:
You cannot answer,
Will not answer,
Or are so upset,
(Because they know you are mute,
But persist in the  incessant ridiculous questioning,
And back you into a corner)
That you will EXPLODE!
If you answer.

And then you will be ashamed.
Because it is not their fault.
That you are full.

It's in the eyes.

I watch people's mouths.
(Apparently an Aspergian trait)
The way they form each syllable.
Each hesitation,
Curve of the lip,
Exhalation of air,
Secret smile.
It's mostly there.

Words.
Now those are things you cannot trust.
The tone,
And the undertones.
What is actually said,
And what is revealed,
By what is not said.
No you cannot trust the words.

The mouth and even sometimes,
Well quite often actually,
The language of the body,
The movement and placement of limbs,
The stance,
The little mannerisms,
Yes it is almost there too.

But the place it exists with all its passion,
Fear, ecstasy, hatred, disdain, sympathy, longing,
Disgust, cruelty, frivolity, empathy, joy, despair,
Anger, hope, envy, lust, indolence, confusion,
Sadness, pity.....
And love
Is in truth revealed by a person's eyes.

To My Aspie Wife

To My Aspie Wife

Loving you has been easy, Living with you has been more difficult.

Years have been taken to smooth the edges of our misunderstandings.

I feel the passion of your embrace, the eagerness of your lips,

Casting power into a place of joy.

An abrasive word, a false smile, too much stimulation,

Spiral us into a maelstrom of harsh words and pain.

A gulf opens up that only true words can bridge.

You are not from this world of lies and competitive social protocols.

Your star has an honest shine;

Its illumination direct to my soul,

No pretense or agenda blocks the clarity.

Real friends are openly rewarded,

An intensity of empathetic communication -

Crafting connections and glowing hearts,

You must beware the snide remark, the jealous put-down,

A closing of ranks against the stranger.

Alone in an isolated confusion of unfathomable rules,

Clashing body language and pecking orders.

Your spirit quashed, breath held till superseded

By solitude’s relief or meltdown’s curse.

I am part you, spooning into your body,

Thoughts flowing from the headlights of your intelligence,

Beautiful ideas staining me with colour,

Possibilities your life force -

Solutions no problem.

Sensitivities require consideration,

Meaningful language a negotiation,

Miscued pitfalls avoided,

Intimacy prioritized.

Constraints released to promote the vitality and necessity,

Of you being free, understood and grounded -

Connected to me.

My Tribe

My tribe are misunderstood.
On the edges looking in.
We are honest as the day is long,
Loyal to our ideas, ideals and our friends.
Happy to plough our own furrow most of the time.
Have sensory super powers.
Are rational pragmatists.
Disoriented by the difference between what a person says verbally,
And their body language.
Ignorant of pecking orders and social standing.
Are difficult to offend but easy to crush.
Are mono-focused and frequently oblivious.
Are passionate, empathetic and compassionate...
Just frequently oblivious to others needs.
We require periods of solitude.
Are talented and intelligent.
Naive and easily taken advantage of,
We are into purpose not ego,
And find our busy, amazing, stimulating and wonderful world,
Overwhelming sometimes.

The Wave

Last night when we made love,
It happened again.
I tried so hard to remain grounded.
To stay with you in those moments.
But I felt them moving in me.
Coming from that well, deep inside.
They bubbled up very quickly,
And I was caught unguarded.

Every uncomfortable discourse,
Each uncertain social interaction.
The crash, clatter, whirr and constant drone,
Of this adulterated, wonderful world.
Every miscue and faux pas,
The rolled eyes and the cringes.
The joy and excitement.
All the stresses,
And the exuberance, of just being me.
In those moments I felt them flow up and out.
A bottle effervescing with emotion.
More than I could handle.
I lost sight of you,
And was left to ride this wave,
Alone.

Sometimes you just stop.

It creeps up slowly.
It is not exactly a malaise.
Your spirit remains intact.
You are not feeling hopeless or despairing.
Yet you are simply,
Not feeling.

But as you must,
Do something.
You do what is closest to hand.
Write these observations,
Into poetry.

Sit, not comfortably,
On the hearth rug.
Your outside coat,
Still on.
Your outside shoes also,
Still on.l
Ignore the twinges of pain your back,
And the pins and needles in your feet.x
The fire's warmth compensates.

You have one focus,
The task at hand.
He has made you a cup of tea,
But you have insufficient will,
To move your hand to take it up.
Now he has asked you a question.
But you can't think,
To make any decision.

This is what it is like when you are full.
Detached!