My story has always been that I don’t like the taste, but now that I know I’m autistic, as well as, well…when I say a diagnosis, it is a symbol that triggers the opening of a mental room and the characters of me that live in those rooms.
I have not been officially diagnosed with dissociative identity disorder, but I definitely would qualify for an evaluation.
That’s how the middle class keeps the poor poor.
They vote against laws that benefit the poor at their expense, instead of demanding the wealthiest few pay their fair share. Hint: they didn’t get that wealthy by caring about the lives of the millions they exploit. Exhibit A: my grandma died of COVID in a hospital just miles from where the man she probably voted into office got the very best treatment and lived.
God favored the conman over my wonderful grandmother? That’s not any God I would worship.
Maybe the conman is Satan and should go to trial for the millions he killed with deception in order to appear strong for his career. And his egomania.
Any hue, I’ve spent over $1k on watercolor paints and supplies this mania cycle, and dumped all my closest friends by trying to force a conversation I needed to have, but went about the wrong way…
That’s so autistic! 😁
Unfortunately, autism is just one source of my “bad” behavior.
And only I seem capable of seeing the emotion people are expressing and taking in that data instead of hearing an attack and holding onto the hurt.
Like I did with Tarah.
Now that I’m on the other side, I can see all the other patterns.
When I don’t know what to do, I vanish. And block.
Like my sister did to me.
And it hurt so much to be ignored when I was in pain, I couldn’t feel empathy for her pain.
I could understand why she was hurting, but I was so hurt, I couldn’t care.
Just like she might have felt when she left in March.
I don’t know. I may never know.
What happened in March showed I’m Bipolar.
I have not finished processing this.
So I’m not going to be a “good” friend until I get this down.
Not if being good means putting on a show. I can’t just snap out of “out of control” anymore than anyone else can.
But I can hold you through it until you feel better, even via text, if you trust me and love me like I trust and love you.
And you used to be able to do that for me too. I don’t want to ghost you. I love you all as much as my siblings.
I went nuts when she said 6 months no contact and deleted their phone numbers and addresses so I couldn’t contact them before the 6 months were over.
Now all I have is my sister’s email, and I think she blocked me there too.
I don’t want to hurt anyone.
Until I understand myself better, I better just leave everyone alone.
Wow, did that digress!
Back to drinking.
When I was 27?! I just realized it was the year before I conceived Aiden, who will be 15 in February.
My best friend since Mom died and her other best friend/our fraternity “brother” took me to Pleasure Island at Disney…uh…their version of a strip mall.
They took me there to celebrate my divorce from a man with cerebral palsy and an ego the size of…he was rewriting the Bible to explain it to Christians: that’s right ladies and gentlemen…he was Pagansplaining the Church. 😂
Any hue…I got drunk and danced, and a very round silent short Hispanic man started luring me away from the bar. I was drunk enough to think “yay someone wants me hope the sex is good.”
My friends guided me away from him and to their vehicle. We always had a designated driver.
If I didn’t have friends, and had gotten it into my mind to celebrate my divorce like that, I could be dead. Or trafficked.
Two people I very much admire also shared with me stories of times they were nearly abducted, one in Orlando or Miami, the other on the West Coast.
They were alone and God helped them escape, to summarize two incredible stories that aren’t mine to tell.
One was a child, the other, a mother when they faced abduction and won.
Thank God for my friends being there to guide me away from harm. On my own, I learned not to drink because it turns off the parts of our brains that help us understand what’s going on and make choices that lead to a better outcome.
TL;DR: alcohol makes us reactive and incapable of controlling ourselves.
I already have a whole list of official diagnoses that scream why I can’t control myself as easily as most people, especially when stressed and best of all – I can’t tell I’m stressed because I present with alexethymia because of my autism. I cannot recognize my feelings without aid, and Facebook was my aid.
I thought people would tell me I was wrong if I was wrong. My family sure did, all day every day my whole life.
Maybe I can’t hear I’m wrong because I’m hurting and cannot shift myself out of hurting into empathy for the one hurting me.
I can shift my feelings by going into different rooms in my head.
I used to need books or shows or music. Maybe that’s why I’d repeat the same ones so much.
My imaginary worlds are rich with friends who love me and help me. With music and fun, like a musical tragicomedy that helps me survive life as me. With my brain. And my training.
Adventures of an Earthborn Alien 