reeling

I'm not feeling super optimistic about the trajectory this recovery is taking. I was not at all aware of just how much of my psyche was being held together by this. I could always see everything that's wrong with it, and yet, feel I made the best possible choices given the reality I'm dealing with. I'm desperately trying to figure out how to make my life work; how to make my brain work.

What was the alternative, to be less ambitious, to lose interest in training all together and go back to doing nothing? Motivating myself has not been easy. I've had to develop so many strategies and hacks to overcome a rather profound deficit in my ability to do much of anything. Nothing is more motivating to me than an attractive woman.

The whole reason I left my apartment eight years ago was to embark on this quest for human connection, and this is how it plays out.

reciprocation

I used to hate people for not liking me. In driving myself to go out into the world to be around people all the time, I decided this was wrong. I look at myself from their perspective, taking all the reasons for their perspective into account. I understand, and can't hate them, because how they feel only makes sense, given their own lived experience, what they've been exposed to, and what they're entirely reasonable for caring about.

We're not supposed to like people who don't reciprocate. That isn't connection. It's a normative and natural defense of our egos to reciprocate negativity. If we don't do that, if we like people who think very little of us, we can start thinking very little of ourselves. Especially if we like them way too much. This is what I've been struggling with for the last eight years.

Why can't I be someone better appreciated by my peers? That most of my peers are half my age really compounds this problem, although I don't relate to people my own age any better. I don't know of any good ways to meet people my own age, so I don't know how much of a difference that would have made.

In order to become a more functional successful person, I allowed myself to lean into fantasy. I knew it was irrational, delusional even, but I let it carry me. I let myself be motivated by it. I let myself believe on a level I tried not to think too much about, that if I trained hard enough, I could become worthy. I could defy both aging and neurodivergence to find my way to a place in life where I might stand a chance of winning over a heart like hers.

Deep grooves form in the monotropic mind, as I allowed this fantasy to dominate my thinking for years. This winter has been really difficult. I wasn't consciously aware of why. The news itself was merely the confirmation of what I've feared since November. Something has been missing at the gym. Training hasn't been rewarding. I've been pushing myself to keep going, only to go home feeling sad, after every class. Now I know why and these painful thoughts flood the old obsessive grooves that riddle my mind.

I have nothing but the same old loneliness laid bare again, the protective layers of fantasy stripped away. I hate myself for being this way. I hate the world for making me like this. I hate everyone else for not understanding any of it.

what am i

When we think of who we are, what defines us, implicit in that is the concept of objectivity. Who are we really, undistorted, free of subjective bias, delusion, and deception.

But what is objectivity in relation to identity? The natural universe doesn't have all these values we attribute to everything. Are we pretty, or smart, or interesting? Those concepts don't exist objectively. Everything that constitutes identity is subjective. Who do I think I am, who do you think I am, who do they think we are. 

When we are concerned with objectively defining ourselves, I suspect that underlying that is the concern for what others think of us. Other viewpoints, consensus, these can make the subjective seem more objective, but identity is still a lot of arbitrary and relative nonsense that only exists in the human mind, ours or theirs. Do I really care if I'm interesting or do I just want someone pretty to think I'm interesting?

cerebral

I have a fraught relationship with reality. I have never looked forward to going anywhere or doing anything. Except as a child, maybe. I looked forward to going to video arcades, gaming shops and comic book stores. A theme of escapism developing early. "Reality is boring," I'd say.

It's a common mistake to take the things we think too seriously. We don't know what's going on, especially as kids. Our brains have evolved to compensate by taking stupid guesses and moving on. Why did I feel that reality was boring? This probably had less to do with me thinking about it wrong, and more to do with my lived experiences feeling that way. I wasn't connecting with the world.

What I've been through not only being external, but also internal. Not just what's happening to me, but how I experienced it due to the particulars of how my brain works, followed by an array of consequences. I was unhappy a lot. I was sensitive and often overwhelmed. Lonely, alienated and isolated. I was very imaginative with an extensive inner life; the most fundamental sort of escapism.

This naturally leads to failures when it comes to actually dealing with the reality I'd spend all my time avoiding. It would be a bad plan, if it were simply a matter of thinking about it all wrong. To say that I never look forward to going anywhere is pretty extreme though. What I do feel is a barrage of anxiety to fight my way through, when I have to go anywhere or do anything, leaving the peace and safety of my apartment. Reality is hard for me.

I've had to learn all sorts of coping strategies and ways of getting myself out and doing things anyhow. They don't always work, but it's been a massive improvement. I'm usually happier for getting myself out and around people, but I feel like I dissociate my way through a lot of it. It's stressful. I try my best and fail a lot. My ego has been pulverized into oblivion. I'm constantly recovering from burnout, and I don't even do that much. The longing to just stay home all the time never seems to go away, because this is just how my brain works. These are logical consequences.

It's been hard facing that I really am disabled. That's why my life is like this. I've always been like this. I don't handle reality very well. I'm struggling to function as best I can in spite of this demonstrably crippling disability that can be traced back throughout my entire life.

I've spent most of my life inside my own head, where I had a much more flattering take on the whole situation. I've come to realize that people do not have much faith in me, because they can discern some of this, and they don't trust me to handle reality. It has been terribly unflattering to realize how others perceive me and that they're not entirely wrong.

I desperately want a pretty girl to tell me they are wrong. It's a nice fantasy, right? I think about what I want a lot. Actually do anything though? Reality is a lot less nice for me, for all these converging reasons, internal, external, and consequential.

I never look forward to going literally anywhere. Can you even imagine that? What does that alone do to a person's ability to be a functional motivated human being?

nuff said

Realizing that I'm autistic has been traumatizing. It's just a word, in terms of its capacity to communicate information. It represents different things to different people. 

In specific terms of where I am on the spectrum, it represents all sorts of things I thought were hurdles that I inexplicably couldn't get over. In my head, I'd overcome eventually. One day I'd be a functional grown up, who could hold a job, afford a place to live and a car. I'd have a social life and a girlfriend.

I hate when people doubt why these things matter. It makes me defensive. How absurd to be miserable about things that don't actually matter, but these are just the basic underpinnings of good mental health in modern society. It is not delusion to understand the need for material security and independence, emotional bonds and experiences with other human beings we enjoy being around. 

It is not delusion to understand how and why our capacities for these things matter to other people. Nor is it delusion to see how other people's opinions of us can have substantial consequences. 

Being autistic is more like cerebral palsy or downs syndrome than depression or anxiety. Less overt or outwardly obvious, but we are not seen as peers, especially if we don't work or drive. Even more so if we don't do much of anything because shifting gears is so hard and we can't focus on anything outside the scope of whatever it is we're focused on. 

I'm not bad at social interaction because I have anxiety. I have anxiety because I am fundamentally and inherently bad at social interaction. In those times when I seem to be doing ok at it, just understand that it's taking a lot of effort. I've gotten better at it over the years, but it rarely comes naturally. 

To a greater extent than I'd realized, this is just the way I am. Autism is not a mental illness. It is not something people are afflicted with, overcome or even get treated. You can treat symptoms like depression and anxiety, as with anyone else, but you don't really treat autism, let alone cure it. 

It explains a whole lot about my life, while making me realize, I am never going to be a normal society navigating functional adult. I've made some progress, I've grown, I've learned tactics to manage, but I'm no less autistic and never will be.

This was the crisis I was going through, before having my life taken from me. When I needed support and stability to navigate this in a positive way, I was cast out like trash, my whole life upended. I'm grateful for the support I received in Philly. The problem was that it was in Philly.

I completely fell apart in Philly. I didn't know what I was going to do or where I'd be able to live. I am doing better now, but I am seriously damaged. My entire trajectory nosedived, and even as I recover some of it, it can't ever be what it was. I can't be who I was. I can't go where he was going. I'm doing what I can. I have ambitions again, my life has some direction, even if not what it was before.

Stumbling through roadblock after roadblock, and well, I'm 50 now. My trajectory is what it was. I'm pretty much done.

attachments

The monotropic mind tends to dig deep grooves fixating on what it can. We don't handle change or adapt well, because we become so attached to the way things are, or if we get too lost in our own heads, the way things should be. It isn't just difficult in some nebulous sense of sweating and struggling, but wounding and extraordinarily painful, losing everything I've been fighting to get used to.

Some in the autistic community will say that we are not disabled, just different, trying to function in a world designed by and for neurotypicals. I think what they're missing is that neurotypicals are all kinds of different from one another but they're also much better at adapting to whatever life demands. The inability to adapt is the problem. It's not a matter of being different. It's disabling.

As I struggle to get from one day to the next, I cling to what I can. I become attached. Then life goes and rips it all apart, and it hurts like hell. I've been through so much here in Philly. It wasn't what I'd wanted or chosen, and pushed me well beyond my comfort zone, but now that it's all being swept away, I can't help but mourn. 

I lived almost a year of my life here, with my kind landlady who referred to herself as more of a roommate. I saw my aunt all the time, who I hadn't prior seen in years. I met people at these different gyms and at vegan food swaps. I earned honest money pet sitting, house sitting, and even some chicken sitting. I got to know lots of people and their pets. I wandered all over Germantown and Mt Airy, with the occasional trip to center city. I'm going to miss H-Mart. I'm going to miss all of it, all gone in a moment. Again and a-fucking-gain.

I have an apartment in Burlington now. I'm leaving Philly tomorrow. I get to try to reconnect with my old life. I don't know how that will go. I don't know how much ground I've lost or gained, physically and mentally. I feel very damaged. In addition to grieving for everyone and everything I'm saying goodbye to, I'm full of fears about what traumas my new life will bring, as once more, I'm thrust into the unknown.

People ask me if I'm excited to be going back to Vermont. I've been here a long time. I don't know what I'm going back to anymore. Maybe things will go well. It's theoretically possible. I can't stop crying, but I'm no longer suicidal, and that's no small thing.

transitions

Among so many fears, I was concerned that even under much better circumstances, this plan of moving and then moving again was going to be rough. As much as I've wanted to get back to Vermont, I've now lived almost a year of my life here.  I've had all these strange and new experiences and interactions. There is a lot here I might have appreciated more, had it not been under such duress. There is a lot I will miss. 

This sounds like simple sentimentalism. Bittersweet, but hardly the end of the world. More like the end of one world and the beginning of yet another. I struggle with transitions, and moving like this is a massive one. My whole life is about the be completely different again. I have all kinds of work to do, getting it back together. I will be in a very different neighborhood than I was before, let alone where I am now. I will have to learn to adapt to everything, including adapting to the reality of things I'll fail to adapt to. I don't know how it's all going to go, but I'm hopeful.

My room here is already rented out to another needy soul as of the day after tomorrow. The day after that, I'll be meeting my new landlord in Burlington.