Adventures of an Earthborn Alien

Character, Trauma, Ignorance and Understanding

Someone’s breaking point, how we behave when we reach it, that’s not “the real” us.

Character is something we play around others so they like us.

How you behave when you are well -supported, that’s the real you.

We are meant to support each other, social mammals, primates, us.

When we choose to treat others differently because we don’t like them, we become the problem.

We waste our energy trying to punish instead of working together to solve the problem.

Stop telling people with PTSD that we have no right to traumatize others with our trauma.

Trauma goes hand in hand with feeling like no one can keep you safe, having no one to help you process the pain and fear, no community to rally around you and remind you who you are.

PTSD is physical brain damage. Brain damage alters behavior. It’s not a choice.

Bipolar is a problem, not the person struggling with it.

ADHD is the problem, not the person struggling with it.

Ignorance, both accidental and purposeful, that’s the problem.

People can’t help their cognitive bias – big dumb phrase that just means your beliefs. Your beliefs shape your perspective. You expect information to confirm your beliefs, and reject information that feels wrong.

If you believe the same thing everyone you care to talk to believes, then you will naturally feel like your beliefs are “common sense,” that anyone who thinks differently is wrong, and wrong people who refuse to get right are bad. On the subconscious.

What is the point of getting diagnosed when no one cares to understand what it means?

Before 2020, I thought autism was a communication disorder that made some people savants with poor social skills, and other people more obviously disabled.

I thought the little girl I was caring for had it, and researched to help me care for her. I learned autism is so much more than anything I’d ever imagined.

I don’t understand how you can love someone with diagnosable autism symptoms and not learn everything you can about us so you can understand us as we are, instead of comparing us with a dream of who you wish we were.

Turned out my whole family is autistic, but does that make grandparents seek to educate themselves?

Sigh.

A Visual Aid To Help Me Tell My Stories

In hindsight, I finally figured out my last 2023 conversation with T (green dot.)

She was referring to behavior I’d already forgotten – because that’s how my brain works.

She then got mad and told me off because I wasn’t hiding my frustration. I told them I was grieving and having a hard time, but that’s no excuse for mean words.

Alexethymia is no excuse for not thinking about how my friends feel about my written thoughts and opinions before posting them.

And the self-appointed expert on how people with brains like mine in the special Ed courses she spent a good portion of her life teaching…she pissed me off.

And I realized, I didn’t have to put up with that shit.

And since N (red) was losing her shit on a regular basis at anyone who annoyed her, even me..

And because I needed us all to talk together so I could be sure I understood what was going on, and could anchor myself in the shared reality instead of just my own…

But I could not express that while being told I’m a bad friend and a victim and mentally ill (uh-like I keep that a secret?)

So T owes me an apology as much as I owe her one, but I don’t care.

I hate those stupid emotional manipulation games. I don’t need an apology. I choose not to play.

In 2020, I stretched myself so thin trying to protect T and L from TARKetc, L from T’s short temper, A from my short temper, L from the RARKetc…and K had no idea. I would say I protected him too, but it was me shutting down when he finally got home, and retreating to the floor by my bed in the dark, crying until I was tired enough to crawl in bed and sleep.

In 2023, I was still recovering from losing my sense of self and my faith in myself. I was grieving the loss of my Dad who I had just finally made up with and understood when he went in for the surgery. Grieving my lost relationships with my siblings.

And through all of that, since 2019, I was also trying to protect N from T. First I tried to include T in the conversation, but he wasn’t interested.

And here, T, is what makes you wrong for that. We could only hear N’s side, never having a complete picture of what happened, and therefore unable to be truly helpful

When I said we were N’s minions, that’s what I meant. Only hearing her side made us incompetent helpers – minions.

But you burst into tears and that means I’m attacking you?

No.

It means you are upset. I didn’t cause your upset, your thoughts did.

I wasn’t writing in my blog thinking “I’m going to hurt them all! Muwahahaha!” I went to my blog to work out my thoughts because I couldn’t have the conversation i needed to.

If I had been given time to figure out what to say, instead of being told off, I wouldn’t have blocked any of you and I would have apologized to all of you.

Turns out my sister and I didn’t need to talk about what happened in 2022. We just decided to love each other again.

My sister of the heart used to be able do that too.

I miss her.

Before I Knew I Was Autistic…

I used to believe so many things, before I figured out I was autistic, before the diagnosis.

I believed I suffered so I could help others heal.

I believed I was psychic because I’d given thousands of readings over the decades, and smashed it out of the park for all but a handful that I can remember that went poorly.

I believed vaccines can kill because people I looked up to and respected believed it, and shared their research with me, and I didn’t think to look on JSTOR for myself. College seems like another lifetime.

I believed if someone upset me so much that I lost my shit, they were bad for me, so I’d ghost them.

Every close friend except a handful eventually ghosted me.

Dad told me I withheld love when I was mad.

I didn’t understand. He said I’d refuse to give HUGS.

I remember, it was one time. And he’d said something that hurt me, and I hid it except I dodged his hug. I couldn’t accept a hug after the verbal punch to the gut he didn’t know he’d given me.

Don’t punish or ignore your kids when they cry. They need help feeling loved and safe. I got spanked for crying or showing negative emotions.

So I learned to never show how I feel, always be sweet, never complain, hide my true feelings and perform so others felt safe and comfortable around me.

Heaven forbid I meltdown in front of someone who says they love me.

I tell you I am autistic and autistic people meltdown. It’s not an excuse, it’s a physiological response to sensory and emotional overwhelm. It’s normal for autistic brains to overwhelm themselves in this loud, bright, restless, mean, impatient, intolerant world.

I don’t deserve to be stonewalled. But neither did the people I did it to.

It’s just a pattern I performed but didn’t see. It’s hard to see a pattern from the inside.

Especially when it’s physiologically driven, and not consciously.

What I think happened, after a few weeks reflection

She said she thought we were being triggered by each other, and two of the others were IMing with me privately at the same time.

I wanted us all to talk together as a group so I could understand better, but no one wanted to, I guess.

I felt unheard, frustrated, and was grieving Dad and what happened when my siblings visited. I said I was having a hard time, by which I meant I was not in a space where I could deal with someone else’s feelings.

I tried to explain how I felt and got yelled at for something I said at least four hours earlier, and then I realized I hadn’t heard from my sis of the heart in a couple days.

After the cease and desist text, which I took as a big slap in the face…a nice big f me even I couldn’t miss…

And then to be told one’s training lets her understand how people like me and people with Downs Syndrome think, because those two are related??

Anyway, I felt betrayed, and attacked. Since no one was telling me what I’d done or said, I had no idea anyone was upset until everyone was mad at me for days.

I’m autistic.

I don’t know you are upset if you don’t tell me!

And to be told I was out of control, like I was bad…fuck that.

That was why we started the support group – because her husband was making her feel bad for melting down.

And now, she’s just like him. Making fun of me for not understanding how my tone came across – hello, what is autism? You have an autistic teen…why the hell wouldn’t you want to be on top of his needs. Or mine?

I’m always there for her, but she’s not herself anymore. When one of the group said he’s always known her to be a yeller, I agreed for a second and then I went…wait.

No she doesn’t. Not before her current relationship. I don’t remember her yelling at anyone before him, though it must have happened sometimes.

People who aren’t autistic play these apology games. Guess what you need to apologize for, and how bad you should feel about the terrible thing you said or did that hurt their feelings so badly they couldn’t talk to you about it until they cried for hours first…

See, in our house, we don’t punish each other for our feelings. If I lose it, I apologize while I’m losing it. Even my six year old understands and believes me, that I’m just overwhelmed and need quiet time.

That’s the kind of unconditional love and care I gave in that group. But that’s not what I got back.

I got told I was a bad friend with no context other than reported 4 hours of crying. I got thoroughly insulted several times before I blocked her. I got the cease and desist bitch slap text, and blocked her and her husband.

I felt deceived and stupid as fuck for thinking they were really my friends.

And then I realized my sister if the heart hadn’t interacted with me on Facebook in a couple days. Waiting for me to notice her lack of attention.

I get told I am out of control by the person who should have come to me in the first place, who should have known me better, if only the real her would wake the fuck up and take her power back from the misogynistic pig who has said much worse and done much worse than me calling him that…

I can’t watch him destroy her anymore.

It hurts too much to see someone I love turn into someone I no longer recognize.

I would be there in a second if I believed I was helping.

But when I said we were her minions, I was trying to describe how we have been supporting her with only her side of the story, because the other two were not talking to us.

Thus, we could not have a full clear picture. We could only respond to what we got from her, and we could only tell her what she wanted to hear. That’s what I meant. I have no idea why it was taken as an attack, and I should not have to defend myself from my fucking support group.

I wasn’t helping her anymore than I was helping Tarah. And she was taking me for granted. Instead of trying to understand me, she avoided me.

For three years I’ve been helping her recover from rejection sensitive dysphoria, and then she treats me like I’m the new bad guy.

Worse, she treats the other woman like Tarah treated me.

This is not an attack. It is an observation.

Are we really friends if I can’t tell you what I see, without being accused of attacking?

If I’m wrong, cool, let’s talk about it.

But it’s not cool. To them. I’m a bad friend. No context about what I did that was so bad, and I deleted my blog posts when I started to feel nervous and gaslighted.

I don’t know what I said in them, but I know I was feeling confused and alone when I wrote them, not angry or mean.

Anyway, I got overwhelmed, frustrated, and I threw my hands in the air and decided to cut ties so I can’t unintentionally hurt them anymore.

I don’t care about hurting Tarah because she stole from us, used us, abused me, took every advantage, called CPS and the police on us at least twice, if not three times now. I know I can’t hurt Tarah, she never loved me. She just loved all I did for her.

And when she’d convinced me my husband didn’t love me, never had…I will never forgive that. I will never forgive her driving me to meltdown at my kid, and then leave us in disgust because of my behavior.

No amount of teaching her about mental illness, CO regulation, neurodiversity, ADHD, autism, she wasn’t listening. She didn’t care. She had no respect for us.

But because I went through that, and the psychosis following my 40th birthday…I have forgiven myself. I understand myself. I have the correct diagnosis and treatment now.

My husband and I are the closest we’ve ever been. Our kids are happy and healthy. Our life is peaceful and happy. No matter how much I melted down when I had high stress and no support, I am still a good person. Still a sweetheart.

But no longer a pushover.

Actually, I’m afraid to make new friends, and to reconnect with old ones.

Rejection hurts, and I’m tired of it.

I’ll keep my circle as small as I have to so I feel safe.

I’m my best self when I feel safe and secure.

A Writer and a Psychic

I just met with my writing group for the first time in several weeks.

I had three ideas for our writing assignment tonight.

1 – remember a time as a child or young person and you needed guidance, but didn’t get it. Imagine going back as the guide you needed then.

Write your conversation.

2 – I could pull a tarot card, and we could take our inspiration from the image.

3 – I pulled out a book called Writing For Bliss, and flipped to a random exercise. The exercise ended being writing an emotional scene from childhood.

We all agreed options one and three were too much like therapy, so I got out my newest, and also second oldest, deck.

The spiral tarot. In the featured image of this post, the princess of swords in blue was the card that spoke to me as an eighteen year old, living on my own for the first (and only) time, wanting nothing more than to communicate with my mother on the other side of the veil.

My very first deck was gifted to me when I was 13 by Dad’s first girlfriend after Mom passed – a psychic from LA who happened to practice the same Buddhism we did.

Tina Turner’s Buddhism, watch What’s Love Got To Do With It to see what I’m talking about.

Anyhoo…

The first deck I ever bought myself was the Spiral Tarot, and my silly butt sold that deck to a person taking a tarot workshop with me, because they liked it.

ADHD and autistic people give away or sell things we love impulsively or because we like someone and like making them smile. Or because we have no script for saying no in a way that won’t make people mad at us.

Anyhoo…

I pulled the princess of wands. Childhood creativity and passions. We laughed because all three of our choices ended up being writing about our childhood.

I told them I had given myself a reading with the deck a week ago, but it lacked the thrill I used to get. I felt like I’ve lost my faith.

But tonight, in our small group of grown women, we all remembered what it felt like to be little girls again, free in our expressions, free to love whatever we love.

I wrote about roller skating on the carport singing Beatles karaoke, then about singing solo on stage for the first time – I was ten, singing The Greatest Love of All.

The guy before me sang several songs, and his last song…The Greatest Love of All.

I was so emotional. I should have sang So Emotional. But the program had me singing The Greatest Love of All… immediately following the trained singer.

My throat was tight. My high notes croaked flatly.

I was so embarrassed. That reminded me of being 18, singing along with Charlotte Church in my car. At a red light, my dry throat screeched and I laughed, tried again, until a young male voice shouted “STOP SINGING.”. I’m almost 43 and I still stop singing at red lights.

And that reminded me of my husband’s sweet smile when I sing. My husband loves my voice, even when my notes fall flat or screech sharp. My mom was proud of my voice.

I sing when I’m happy, and I’ve been singing a lot lately.

Maybe it’s time to start offering readings again.

Maybe I need to revisit my old loves, and see which ones still light me up.

My Dad’s first girlfriend told me I’d grow up to be a psychic and a writer. So I did.

Now it’s time to tell myself what I’m going to be. How can I combine my passions for singing, painting, tarot, and teaching?

Teaching tarot by singing a song while I paint my own cards?

Actually, that sounds fun…lol

Conservatives and Liberals live in different worlds.

I think I figured out a way for me to understand why conservatives and liberals tend to parent so differently.

Most conservatives are blue collar workers from their teen years to death, and many of them joined the military as teens. Most of them started their families in their teens or young twenties.

Our brains don’t fully mature until age 26-30ish. Our ability to keep our cool while stressed and sleep deprived isn’t fully developed until we’re around 30.

Liberals, at least the ones I’ve gotten to know, mostly did their education as teens to mid twenties, and start their families in their thirties, plus or minus a few years. I had Aiden at twenty seven, and before I had him I studied birth, baby care, and parenting like it was my job. To me, it was.

So, if you have to wrangle 3 or so kids and you are under the age of thirty and you have to work full time, and your kids don’t want to do their homework or their chores or help you when you ask…every day…and since you are “working class,” you don’t get vacations like your managers do. You don’t get a living wage, like your parents did, because Reagan started the policies that allowed inflation to grow without raising minimum wage. And tip culture…what a croc!

The customers end up paying the wages of their servers, and their servers have to be perfect and even entertaining even while in pain earning $2.25 an hour plus whatever their customers deem “enough.”

No benefits for low wage workers. No retirement package.

If you are disabled and can’t work, you better have people who love you so you don’t die on the street.

My liberal friends I think all have degrees. College teaches you how to learn for yourself. College is nothing like high school. Getting college credit in high school will save you a lot of money if you can’t qualify for scholarships…or have no one to help you.

College doesn’t indoctrinate like kids schools do. Local politics decides which schools, which kids, get the better educations.

So if you can afford to be liberal, you probably grew up in a stable home with regular visits to extended family, and church or temple. You probably had parents who didn’t spank but probably still yelled sometimes. You probably never knew poverty.

Or like me, you grew up among conservatives and were the first, or among the first in the family to complete a four year degree.

My Dad’s Dad was in the military, I forget which branch. They were stationed in Hawaii for public school, but Dad was born in Orlando, and he wanted to raise us here.

My mom had me at 19. Dad adopted me when I was 6. He was 18 years older than me, and worked his whole life until he passed at 59. He met my mom in the Air Force.

Working class people tend to have more trauma than the liberals I’ve met, or maybe we’re just more likely to talk about what we’ve been through. Some of us.

Anyway, to conclude my theory: we’re segregated by class from birth to death. Poor people have poorer quality stores and products, fees for running out of money, cuz that helps keep them poor, poorer quality schools for poorer educations, less patient underpaid teachers, or like me, military parents who served, got their educations for their service, and broke out of poverty and into the middle class.

The middle class is the managers, from small businesses in the green to doctors and lawyers…often both parents are doctors or lawyers nowadays. Liberal people don’t live in the same neighborhoods, or shop at the same stores, watch the same entertainment…everything nowadays is about separating us from each other. It’s not us being a team, working together to make our country and the world better.

It’s everyone in competition with everyone else, with 70% of our population living in poverty…because inflation grows but our wages don’t.

Unless we’re educated or manager class. Then we can negotiate for higher wages and better benefits.

You know who sucks at negotiating?

Mentally and emotionally disabled people.

You know who family tends to hate?

Mentally and emotionally disabled people.

You know who can go buy a gun at any Walmart but can’t negotiate with Walmart or McDonald’s or wherever to give them living wages?

Any American. And any immigrant or visitor, especially without the right paperwork.

The main reason I stopped drinking at 27

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.

Control, relationships, and bipolar symptoms, oh my.

On November 28 I told a friend I was irrationally angry with a close friend, but my meds were working so I wasn’t ready to end the relationship, yet.

So was that the paranoia building up in the manic/hypomanic episode?

I recognized my anger was irrational, but I couldn’t dissolve it. Because I felt shut out and ignored. And I couldn’t help but think how many times I’d been there for her when I was suffering, and how I seemed to be the only one who saw all sides.

I resented that, in my mentally ill state.

I resented being treated like I was being mean or bad when I was basically wailing for help every way my overloaded system could, for days.

I resented that everyone stood up for this friend, but no one stood up for my siblings or my Dad.

And then I thought, is that true?

Did people tell me? Could I hear them?

Does it matter? It’s over. I can’t change what I did, how I sounded, how I seemed, anymore than I can change how I felt in the moment.

I can process my feelings. I forgave and let go. But I also cut ties, because I need all my energy for healing my own heart and mind, now.

I can’t count on people to see me as a hurting person when they are literally choosing to live in stress and play power games and all that Allistic bullshit I can’t keep up with or handle.

If I am speaking from my wound, and you say, “excuse me? I have been crying over you, you are a bad friend!”

I am hearing, “I feel insecure and need you to mask for me so I feel better, no matter how you feel right now.”

And I am responding appropriately by walking away. Until you tell me you keep your opinions to yourself.

But I’ve been asking!

Begging!

Begging for clarity!

I was. I’m not anymore. My body trusts me to keep it safe from harm, now. I can just recognize anxiety and breathe it out.

But I can’t teach anyone to do that who looks down on me.

I can’t teach anyone who chooses to see me as the problem, rather than seeing my problem and teaming up with me against it.

I am mentally ill and I am proud I have survived to 42, outliving my biological parents…I think…I have to look up when my first Daddy died. I was 5.

Mom was 23 and he was 41 when he shot her.

I was 3.5ish. January 5th 1986…I turned 4 on May 9th that year.

Damn, I suck at math. Why am I having such a hard time with this?

Oh yeah! I’m autistic and was always told I was too old or too smart to need help all my life!

I was 5 when he died. So yes, I am about 42.5, the age my father was when he died of a heart attack, in the hospital, not the jail, I hear Grandma telling me, every time she saw me, my whole childhood.

We all have hard lives.

We’re not supposed to be keeping score against each other. If you forgive but hold onto the pain, pretty sure that’s not forgiving.

If we’re friends, I love you. Wholly, freely, exactly as you are even at your worst.

If we’re not talking right now, it’s because you aren’t giving me the same.

That can change. But I am putting myself first from now on.

If I have to beg forgiveness for how I behaved when I was out of control from mental illness and stress, NOT CHOICE…and you can’t accept that I can be a grumpy asshole and still love you, well that’s not very accommodating of my many disabilities.

So, I’m no good for you if you’re stressing me out and draining me and wanting me to feel bad for saying what I think and feel without pussyfooting or sugarcoating or anything other than blunt exasperation.

When Tarah left, I felt broken.

Now I finally feel whole. And I still don’t know myself as well as I need to.

So I’m quarantining my brain from social media and just being me this holiday season.

Just a happy, loving wife and mom.

Maybe that’s all the intimate relationships I can handle, with my brain as it is now.

I’m at peace with that.

I don’t recall feeling mean or angry, but I am sorry I hurt my friends’ feelings, again.

I’d rather avoid people than spend my life afraid to say what I see, and resentful that I feel that way.

Hello, I have a communication-stifling, impulsivity-increasing, emotional regulation-derailing developmental neurological disorder collection – gotta catch em all!

ASD and ADHD are my hard drive. They fight each other for dominance, one craving change and the other, stability.

PTSD is many spankings and losses kicking my hard drive every time I think I make a mistake or hear a loud noise.

OCD is my inner control freak trying to make me likeable to everyone, anyone.

GAD is my permanent anxiety, constantly yammering in several voices at different speeds and volumes, all day, all night.

Whoops, I forgot bipolar again. It’s the third leg of my hard drive.

And I’m still figuring it out.

My college nickname, 22 years ago: Queen TMI

You have now been warned. Bloody hell ahead.

I hate cramps. Having kids gave me the worst cramps, no. It was the damn copper IUD, that gave me the worst cramps. And gods it was torture getting it in!

Ever since I got it, in 2009, after having Aiden, I have had the most painful cramps every erratic cycle. I had hoped the last one was, you know, THE last one.

But alas, I am only 42. Grandma had Gary when she was my age. There is no hope for me of an early menopause. I look just like her. Even where my fat sits.

Hope I don’t get colon cancer…but I didn’t marry a smoking coal miner, so my chances are a bit lower, maybe.

There, probably all done with the TMI. Suffice it to say, I have much pain and bloody mess to clean up this morning. Sigh

I was diagnosed PMDD by the psychiatrist who failed to notice my weight loss until I’d dropped 80 pounds despite seeing me in person twice a month because he also treated my kid…

Anyhoo, I had a bad hypomanic/manic/mixed episode, worsened by my friends taking my words and behavior personally instead of using their words and working with me to help me communicate more effectively with them.

I tried to tell them so hard. But all I did was make them hurt and mad and finally run me off because I’m not worth patience or grace to them, no matter how much patience or grace I’ve practiced in my life.

I have to be able to switch out of my hyperfocus to focus on their needs while grieving and feeling lost, alone, betrayed, and ganged up on, not to mention so fucking let down.

And sharing my feelings and even apologizing and dismissing my own needs and feelings didn’t make any of them feel better or start caring to hear my pain yet. Or my frustration – that was bullying and abusing.

And now, technically I cursed them. But only the ones I blocked. The rest of them hurt me too, but I’m not that high up on their lists. I get it.

And I was being a bitch, and couldn’t hear that, as I was reeling in my RSD spirals all by my lonesome. And talking myself up publically got me scolded way too late.

I wish I’d been able to feel less ganged up on and rejected quicker, but I’m only human, and I am done giving grace and getting stonewalled and accused of being a bad friend after I already said I was in a bad place and I don’t know why I have to explain that all my skills, especially including my emotional regulation and cognitive abilities, decline under stress, like all humans… but especially humans wired like me.

Telling me all I do is play the victim and I can’t blame my autism for my bitchy nature was not helpful. Telling me you want the sweet me back by hurting me, and punishing me for saying mean things by ignoring me did not alert me to what I was doing.

I was hurting and trying to feel better so I could think, and then I was ashamed and lost and could no longer think.

Yesterday it all caught up with me. Yesterday lasted from 5am Friday to 10ishpm Saturday when I finally fell asleep, through a migraine.

Too late, but it’s fine.

I need to keep mentally healthy thoughts in my head, and to avoid triggers.

The women I blocked are triggers.

Cave time.

I wish I could just turn my emotions off sometimes.

But I still don’t drink. I have enough trouble with my various mental illnesses. I’m meeting my parts.

Some of them are giddy with freedom and power. Others are angry, grieving, and some are wondering why we can’t drop from exhaustion and finally sleep.

The less stress in my life, the best life.

I have the courage to change. Cocoon time.