Thursday, July 14, 2011

I know fear. It creeps up on you unexpectedly.

January 27, 1978

I’m afraid to walk downstairs.
I’m afraid of the dark and the cold.
I’m afraid of being alone and I’m afraid of other people.
I don’t want to sit where I am.
I’m afraid people will laugh.
I hurt myself often.
I hate to wake in the morning.
I hate facing the day.
I feel as though I’ll burst into tears or scream…
I hate when I walk in the street.
I’m afraid I will trip on my feet.
I’m afraid to turn pages of books, or erase the mistakes I made.
I’m afraid that I will live and I’m afraid that I will die, not that it matters.
I tell you as I write, but who really cares?
I won’t play the piano or arrange my books or put my puzzles together, because I am afraid.
What am I really afraid of?

Last night has been like other nights, a very typical one. I laid in bed reading. Suddenly, I was afraid of turning the page. I had to stop touching the book. I was so afraid, I put my blankets in my mouth and pushed the book away and I started to cry. Why? I was so afraid. I moved the book, not touching it of course, from under the covers and pushed it on the floor. I was crying and gasping. I wanted to scream. Why? Then I was aware of my blankets, just like how the side of the page and the notebook. I don’t really want to touch them. It was very scary. I looked on my lamp, it was on and I knew that if I turned it off it would be dark like the night when I saw girls screaming and being killed and the other night when the squareness of my room was unbearable. I cried those nights too. Looking at the light reminded me of the night when I was afraid of Susie (my dog) and I cried myself to sleep. I reached out my hand slowly first but then quickly and turned off the light. I screeched a silent scream and lay flat on my back with my eyes open. The darkness flooded my eyes. I closed them and cried myself to sleep.

April 22, 1978

My mother told me to grow up. My friends told me to act my age. But I can’t, I can’t change like that.

I live in my own world. It is strange. I live a life like everyone else almost. Sometimes I feel happy, sometimes I feel sad or angry, but mostly I feel fear.

I know fear. It creeps up on you unexpectedly. Such as walking down a street, even in the day, I see a car parked a block ahead of me. Someone is in it. I don’t feel afraid that he will open the door and come after me. I feel that when I pass him, he will open the door quickly and knock me down. That is strange, isn’t it?

My emotions change quickly for no reason at all. If someone asks why I am feeling a certain way, I make up some reason. It doesn’t matter what, just so they will leave me alone. But if someone truly wants to know, I tell them that I don’t know why I was acting like that. That is true.

I walk to school every morning. I walk alone. When I walk alone, I am afraid. I walk like something is wrong with my hips. I can’t walk nicely ever. I have no grace at all. I don’t know why. I am alone most of the time.

I like sometimes to be alone but other times I shake for no reason and usually end up in my room in the corner on my bed shaking and crying.

When I talk to teachers or adults in school, no matter what I am talking about, tears come to my eyes and I almost start to cry.

What is wrong? It bothers me.

May 12, 1978

Around me doesn't matter.
My feet are feet.
My hands are all fingers.
My body is here but my mind is free.
I am in my mind now, all by myself, but I am happy.
My head moves far if I turn it a little.
I wish my hands would swing with grace and I could move with every perfection.
But, I am perfect.
It is perfect this way.
My eyes are peering, opening wide and seem to look through a focusing glass.
They focus in different places, but it takes a while.
I am in me, in the back of my head.
When I move, I want to move gently and slowly so as to perfect each movement.
I want is to be outside and watching a bird.
That is what I want: to watch a bird sailing around on its wings.
Everything has details.
I notice things and I watch.
It hurts to watch sometimes, but it is good, and I am good.
I feel good about something, but I don't think that something is about myself.


These pages were written when I was 15 years old. I was a Sophomore in high school. 

I just gotta let this one go. I cannot think of how to write about the angst of being a teenager when I am bogged down with panic to prepare for the new school year. I wish I could write about it though. I had a strange experience growing up. 

This post *screams* Asperger's. It reveals how I feel to this day - although I am not so frightened anymore. I do cry easily. I see and observe the environment around me - to a greater extent than NTs. I see and decode. I think I am more aware of things outside of myself than is apparent by my lack of social graces. If I am watching events unfold around me, I see the interactions of others - I understand.

So here stands an un-examined post...forgive me.

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