Obsessions: Lists Galore

Obsessions

Lists Galore

It starts out so innocently; last night for instance. I have no intention of doing it. It's as though my hand is being controlled by someone else and I'm helpless to stop it. I compulsively make lists.

Last night at work, our schedule came out, as usual. I decided to write down my schedule on a piece of paper rather than input it directly into my calender on my phone, because management had been cracking down on phone use during our shifts. 

That's where the trouble started... A pad of paper and a pen are all it takes for my obsession to take over. 

(Let me preface the rest of this post by saying that I am trying to lead a healthier life and am becoming more active and eating more nutritious foods)

First, I wrote down my schedule and totaled the hours. 

Then (on a new sheet of paper), I wrote down my nights off and decided what healthy lifestyle activity I could do on each of those days.

*Flip the page* I wrote a list of healthy meals to eat on the days that I did not have the night off.

*Flip the page again* I made a list of all food preparation that I would need to do on my days off (for the days that I work double shifts).

*Flip the page yet again* I made a list of healthy living goals. (This list included stretching for 20-30 minutes daily, swimming 2-3x a week, finding healthy snacking options for stress-eating, and more.)

*(No surprise here) Another new page* I made a list of questions for the psychiatrist (as I am going to see him tomorrow and I've been on the mood stabilizers for about a month and a half now). 

*Proceed to* list of positives and negatives seen since the change in meds.

...And I somehow ended up at a list of ideas for this blog. 

All told, I went home last night with 8 folded up pieces of paper; each one its own list; all of them related somehow in my mind. 

So why do I make lists? I don't fully understand it and I never expect to. What I do know is that lists give me a certain sense of control. I know what I need to do, I've locked myself into doing it by writing it down, and I'll hold myself to completing each list to the best of my abilities. 

I make varying kinds of lists. The lists with little checkboxes are the most enjoyable for me. I love putting a big checkmark next to the things I've accomplished. Obviously, lists like the set I mentioned above are also common. Those lists are my "motivational lists". I also write lists for when I go to see the doctors (both med lists and symptom/question/comment lists), packing lists (I CANNOT go somewhere without my Relay for Life blanket or my Tigger... yes I know I'm an adult, but they're comforts of home and I have slept with my Relay blanket every night since I found out that one of my friends had cancer and have kept sleeping with it even though she's passed.), grocery lists, bill and budgeting lists, and so much more. 

I doubt that any of these lists would matter to anyone but me; I even find it difficult to believe that anyone would find the common thread that led my brain from list to list above, but that's my Aspie brain... As Monk would say, "It's a blessing... and a curse..."

How Dance Influences My Life

How Dance Influences My Life

A paper written when I was a college freshman. 

(I stumbled across this paper tonight and decided that there was no better blog and no better way to word it than the paper I already wrote. The sentiments have not changed a bit. The only thing that has changed is the time gone by since the events mentioned)

            I can hardly remember a time when dance wasn’t a major part of my life, but my mom does. She often speaks of my first month of dance classes. I was two years old and amazingly shy. Each week, my mother would bring me to the studio and each week, I’d stand in the corner, motionless and silent, staring at the walls and refusing to dance. My mother, a dancer herself, often cried after we left the studio. She refused to believe that her daughter wouldn’t love to dance as much as she did. After about a month of paying for lessons that I wasn’t taking, my mother decided to give it one last try. Luckily, that week was the week that I decided to dance.

When I walked into the studio that morning, I got into the circle with all the other students. When asked to define the different French ballet terms, I shouted them loudly and proudly. It was as though I had needed some time to absorb everything that was being thrown at me before I could decide whether or not I liked dancing. From that day on, dance became a part of my daily life.

I’ve often said that “everything I know, I learned at dance” and this is true. Dancing certainly has changed my life. One of the most important things that dance taught me was to have a positive body image. My dance studio was the center of a series of news articles called, “Thin Is Not Always In For Dancers.” At my dance studio, no one was turned away because of size, fitness level, lack of natural talent, or because of a learning disability. My dance teacher takes the time to help every student. She teaches a weekly class for the mentally challenged, she teaches a class for adults, she’s had deaf students and students with down syndrome. From a very early age, I’ve wanted to have the same effect on people as she does. I learned early on that everyone should be treated equally and that no one should be denied help or education for any reason.

One of my best friends has been very overweight and pre-diabetic since she was born. I met her at dance class. When we were little, she really enjoyed dancing. Unfortunately, she didn’t love to practice and she hated how she looked in costumes. After seven or eight years of dancing, she quit. I never thought that it was fair for her to have to quit something she liked because of her size. Recently, she decided to come back to dance. She’s so much happier now and for the first time in her life, I can see an air of confidence surrounding her. Even when she had chosen to quit, no one gave up on her and she was welcomed back to the studio with open arms as soon as she decided to come back.

Dance also taught me discipline. When I was a little girl, it was up to my mother to make sure that I practiced daily. She would call me into the family room, put the tape into the stereo, and make me practice my dances and steps until I got them right. As I got older, my mother slowly started to leave practicing to me. I quickly learned that if I didn’t practice, I didn’t dance as well. I also realized that if I made a mistake, it effected the entire class, not just me. Taking responsibility, I began to set aside time every day to practice. I learned time management skills, diligence, and how to work with others.

For me, being in a dance class was like being on a sports team. For the first time in my life, I was socializing and learning how to make friends. Many of my best friends and I met through dance. I was always the youngest one in my class. I had to learn to act more mature than my age, and how to socialize with the other kids. I needed to learn not to monopolize conversations and I needed to learn to control what I said. As I moved from level to level, I often left my friends behind and had to make new ones, while remaining friendly with my old class. There were so many challenges that I had to overcome, but with each challenge came a skill that has helped me in my everyday life.

When I was little, my favorite thing to tell my dance teacher was that I couldn’t do something. It was no coincidence that she loathed the idea of not being able to do something. As a way to boost my self-confidence, she came up with a new rule. Each time I said, “I can’t” or any variation of that statement, I owed her a quarter. At first, those quarters built up quickly. After awhile, I stopped saying that I couldn’t, so that I could keep my money. Eventually, I began to believe that “I could.” When she had made her point, she gave me back all the quarters and I was able to see how much my confidence level had changed.

Perhaps most importantly, dancing is a way for me to release my emotions and to have a good time. When I’m having a bad day, I dance better than I usually do. I throw myself into my dancing and a burst of serotonin rushes to my brain. I’ve always used dance as a way of controlling my depression and hyper-anxiety disorder. As a young girl, I always asked my mom if I could take cheerleading, gymnastics, horseback riding, swimming, and many other lessons. Each time, she told me that I could, but I’d have to quit dancing. I never took her up on this offer.

Recently, dancing has been difficult for me. I’ve always had to struggle against a birth defect in my left knee. Since I was seven or eight years old, I’ve danced with a knee brace and have had to “alter” steps to favor my bad leg. All I ever wanted to do was dance en pointe. My mother had always said that my leg wasn’t strong enough. Finally, I found a physical therapist who had been a prima ballerina in a New Jersey dance company. She treated me for several years, until she felt I was ready to go en pointe. The next weekend, I went shoe shopping. I never felt the pain in my toes, feet, or legs; I was too excited to notice it.

Another recent obstacle for me has been my increasing health problems. Beginning in the tenth grade, I began to have trouble doing simple things, like walking around and getting out of a chair. Obviously, this meant that I couldn’t dance. I fell into a deep depression, believing that I had lost the one thing that made me whole. In the beginning, I was going to dance class and watching from the corner. This quickly got to be too much for me, and I requested to stay home. If I had any doubts as to how important dancing was to me, they were quickly squashed.

I began dancing again, slowly, trying to move through the pain. I knew I wasn’t back to the dancer I had been, but I still felt wonderful being able to do it again. I’ve danced with tears brimming in my eyes, but I refuse to give up something that I love. The toughest thing I ever had to do was take a break from dancing. When I was sick, I’d throw the music on and, while lying in bed, I’d move my feet and practice my dances, hoping to do them again in class soon. When I had MRI’s and CAT scans, I’d keep my headphones in, playing my dance music, and would take two of my fingers and, holding the rest of my body very still, would turn them into legs and would practice my dances. One of my nurses once told me that I was the first patient she had that slept with perfect turnout.

My mom and my dance teacher are best friends. Through my mom, my dance teacher has become a second mother to me. She teaches me more about life than all my school teachers ever did. She loves all of her students, yells at us because she cares, and hugs us when we’re sad. She was there for me when my Great Grandmother died, and she was there a year later when my Grandmother died. I know she’ll be there for me as long as I live. She has influenced my life because I want to be just like her. I want to make a difference in the world. I want to make an impact on everyone I meet. Like her, I want to change the world, one person at a time.

Yes Different From The Rest Of Us Is Belle

YES DIFFERENT FROM THE REST OF US IS BELLE

Growing up in a family of disney lovers,  you get used to disney dominating the conversation.  It’s no surprise that I have seen every disney movie or that i have all my “favorites” memorized.

Favorite princess: Cinderella

Favorite Dwarf: A tie between Dopey and Doc

Favorite Villian: A tie between The Witch in snow white and Scar

Favorite fairy: Tinkerbell

Favorite Original Character (member of the gang): Daisy Duck

...and so on and so forth.

My answer to favorite princess has always been an interesting one, because i have always loved belle and identify most with her.. The thing is, I never saw her as a princess. I know I know... at the end of the movie she becomes a princess, but to me, she’s my disney reflection.

Look, there she goes
The girl is strange, no question
Dazed and distracted, can't you tell?
 Never part of any crowd
 Cause her head's up on some cloud
No denying she's a funny girl, that Belle
----------------------------------------------------------------

Look, there she goes, that girl is so peculiar
I wonder if she's feeling well
With a dreamy, far-off look
And her nose stuck in a book
What a puzzle to the rest of us is Belle
---------------------------------------------------------------

But behind that fair facade
I'm afraid she's rather odd
Very different from the rest of us
She's nothing like the rest of us
Yes, different from the rest of us is Belle

After receiving my diagnosis of aspergers, i began to realize something peculiar. The two fictional characters I was most like (Belle and Matilda) both show trademark signs of aspergers (more on Matilda later as this blog entry is all about Disney).

Belle is my Disney reflection because i understand her completely; something i can’t even say about myself. Belle never asked to be seen as odd. She never desired to be an outcast. She didn’t wake up one morning and decide it would be fun to be a nonconformist. Belle was just herself; a loving daughter who thirsted for knowledge, loved a good book, and couldn’t seem to make friends (even though she deserved them more than most).

Now I’m not saying that I feel I deserve friends more than anyone else... although i would do anything for anyone (friend or foe) and that’s a rare quality to find in anyone today. What i am saying is that i spent my life with my nose stuck in a book. I’ve been caught reading on the streets of nyc, at a nightclub, while walking, and my mother had to take my book out of my purse before prom.

In a way, my books were my friends. They were always there and never busy. They never changed. They could transport me to parts unknown and allow me a brief refuge from the life that made me so unhappy.

Belle was also seen as strange by others and therefore had difficulties making friends. I could say the same about myself. As I previously mentioned, my imagination used to get me into trouble and it led to many of my classmates remembering me as the liar who came to school one day and said I was my own robot twin sister. Others thought i was weird because i liked school. I made the mistake several different times of reminding the teacher that they had forgotten to assign homework. That certainly didn’t earn me any friends. Neither did being honest with substitutes or being the teacher’s “student reminder” to give out a test/grade/assignment at a certain time.

I don’t know if i believe belle had aspergers because of my diagnosis. I know aspergers was not really known about when the belle character emerged... but i don’t believe in coincidences this big.

Rules

Rules

Ever since I was little, I've had a somewhat unhealthy obsession with following the rules. In kindergarten, I was given the all important task of being the last kid in line and shutting the lights and the door when we left the classroom. A boy in my class (whom I began to see as my mortal enemy) decided that he was going to be last in line and refused to leave the classroom. Knowing that my teacher had entrusted me with this seemingly prestigious honor and expected me to carry out her wishes, I steadfastly refused to leave the classroom as well, repeatedly telling him that I was to be the last one out of the room. We both ended up in the principal's office over it. That was the one and only time I ever got in trouble at school.

Growing up, I continued to be the ever obedient, rule-following automaton. When my dance teacher told us to practice our splits every day, twice a day (when we brushed our teeth) I obeyed without a second thought. If I missed a time, I would actually feel guilty about it. When my grandparents and parents decided that Rugrats was a bad influence and my brother and I were not to watch it, I made certain that if it came on and I was in the room, it was turned off. I came home from school every day and did every bit of my homework before doing anything else. I never tiptoed over the line between good and bad behavior. I've always been a terrible liar. The one time my "friends" convinced me to sneak out, I refused. They made up some stupid lie about how I wanted to go see my boyfriend at the mall (so their parents dropped me off there and dropped everyone else at the movie theatre... then they all walked to the mall to meet me)... meanwhile, my mom and dad had met me at the mall and I had already told them everything. They said they'd stay. Later that night, when boys arrived and my "friends" started behaving poorly, I immediately called my mom and dad to come get me. 

...In college, I never went to a party or even had a drink. 

So why all this thinking about rules? Tonight at work, something so small set me off, but knowing my history with rules, it makes so much sense. At about 7:10, they told us that there was a suggestive selling competition that would end at 8pm. At 7:58, I sold the item that would have led to a victory, but 8pm came and no one said anything to me. At 8:03pm, one of the other girls sold that same item and was given the win and the prize. 

I didn't care so much about the prize; I was upset because I felt like they didn't like the winner, so they waited for someone else to win. If a contest ends at 8, it ends at 8. It doesn't end at 7:59 and it doesn't end at 8:01. I felt like it was rigged against me and the whole thing was unfair. Even the customer who purchased the item was upset at the outcome. Additionally, I'm very apprehensive about all relationships I think I have, as I was misinterpreting relationships at my other job. My co-workers got upset, thinking I was just sore about not winning, but I would have been fine losing if it was within the rules of the contest. I just don't understand how an 8:03 sale qualifies as a winner in a contest that ENDED three minutes earlier!

Tales of a Hardworking Aspie: Follow-Up

Tales of a Hardworking Aspie

Follow-Up

So today I returned to work, worried about attempting to have some difficult discussions with my co-workers but cautiously optimistic that the tips I'd been given and my careful planning would lead to these discussions going smoothly. 

I managed to put off the first of these discussions for about an hour. At that point, there were no more customers around and I had nothing left to use as an avoidance, so I asked my co-worker if we could chat (being sure to stay on the floor so that the chat had to remain cheery). He seemed surprised but agreed. As my manager suggested, I asked him what he wanted to get out of the job. He replied that I had asked a good question, one he wasn't really sure of the answer to, but provided a good answer after some thought. From there I asked him what we could do to make it the best job he'd ever had. I'm not sure if he was being 100% real with me at this point, because he said that it already was the best job he'd ever had and there wasn't anything that needed changing. Realizing he might feel awkward about being put on the spot, I explained that I was having this chat with everyone on our team, he was just the first that I encountered, and that if he ever thought of anything the leadership team (including us full-timers) could do differently to please let me know. 

With that, I breathed a sigh of relief. I had done the previously unthinkable. Sure, I've grown a lot in the past year. I've made great strides in communicating with strangers (and even my "regulars" at both jobs). My biggest setback has been my inability to generalize those skills into everyday use with people whom I interact with on a regular basis. As relieved as I was however, I felt an impending sense of doom knowing that the most difficult conversation would be happening later that afternoon.

Amazingly (and secretively... I don't think he expected my co-worker to tell me), my manager had already conversed with my co-worker last night and told him that we needed to sit down and work out our differences. This surprised me because my manager had told me that I didn't want him involved and really seemed to want me to do this on my own. I think he took pity on me, realizing that I meant it when I said I didn't know where to begin. 

This conversation needed to take place off the sales floor. I asked my co-worker if he could chat for a few minutes with me (we chatted for a half hour) in the back office and he agreed. When we first sat down there was an awkward silence, then I said, "so we need to figure out how to work together without butting heads". The discussion went from there.

It's easy for me to think that simply telling my co-workers that I have Aspergers is enough; but I learned today that it's not. While this co-worker knew I had Aspergers, he didn't know my limitations as far as picking up on subtle cues, tone of voice, and emotion. It was amazing that once I explained those issues a little bit, he realized that we were just miscommunicating. What he took as me being condescending was actually the way I always talk; I love words and use an expanded vocabulary, not to talk down to people, but out of habit. I'm so used to being misunderstood that I attempt to "over-explain" and in doing so, it can seem like I feel smarter than the person I'm speaking to, when in fact, I'm just trying to avoid a miscommunication much like the one my avoidance technique ends up causing. I'm also very serious about my job and strive to make sure that everything is done properly and the way that management wants it done. I may not "let go and just have fun" like some of my co-workers, but I love what I do. 

He agreed to let me know when he felt I was speaking condescendingly or he was having a problem with me so that I could understand the context of those miscommunications and our issues could be resolved before they got out of control again. He then apologized if he'd been difficult to work with since joining the team. 

I feel like I have a fresh start with both of these employees. I still don't know how to build a relationship or be a "people-person" but it's a start. 

Tales of a Hardworking Aspie

Tales of a Hardworking Aspie

Today at work, my manager asked me a bunch of questions which I can basically sum up into one 2-part question: "How can you break down barriers with your coworkers and repair the relationships?" I answered honestly. I told him that I had no idea. 

I've been trying so hard to prove that I can be a leader and that my Aspergers won't limit me, but I find myself in a familiar situation. My good intentions are being misunderstood, some of my co-workers are having issues with me, and apparently one of my co-workers and I are not working well together at all (and it's being noticed by fellow co-workers). 

I knew that the one co-worker and I were having communication issues but I didn't think they were affecting anyone but the two of us. When my manager said that we were setting a bad example and I needed to make things better, I was surprised. 

Being unable to answer his questions, my manager began giving me suggestions on how to repair relationships with my co-workers. He told me that I need to pull aside the co-worker that I'm not getting along with and that we should talk things out. I explained that I don't dislike him and that I don't know why he has issues with me, and was told that we could nip this in the butt before it got out of hand, but I had to "want to". I explained my dislike for (actually my inability to participate in) confrontation, and he just told me that I have to do something uncomfortable to make things better.

I was honestly impressed with some of the ideas that my manager gave me to get to know my co-workers better. He wants me to pull them aside, ask them what they want to get out of working for the company, what they like to do in their off-time, what would make it the perfect job... things of that nature. He also said that asking their opinions would flatter them (although I didn't completely understand that part). 

I will follow my manager's advice, even though it will probably be the most uncomfortable thing I've done in a long time; but I have no idea what will come of it. I know I'm not typically the most optimistic person, but if I'm going to be that uncomfortable, my hope is that this will work out in my favor.

Vigilant... Meticulous... Perfectionist....

Vigilant... Meticulous... Perfectionist... 

Whatever You Want To Call Me...

The following is a paper I wrote for one of my college classes regarding a visit to Rockefeller Center in NYC with a classmate. Although both of us went to the same place, had the same pictures to remind us of the day, and experienced everything together, our papers couldn't have been more different. My peer had written the bare minimum in terms of description and had spent the majority of her paper discussing history and historical value of the area. As you will see, my meticulous attention to detail led to a very different paper... I fully admit to being a perfectionist. 

An Enclosed Urban Utopia

It was a windy but blissfully warm day on February 18 when we traveled into the City in search of Rockefeller Center. Teeming with excitement, we made our way from Penn Station to 52^nd Street. Strolling down the bleak sidewalks of 8^th Avenue, it became abundantly clear that we were in the wrong place. Pushing away the excitement for a moment, we realized that we had walked the wrong way. Turning and feeling slightly embarrassed, we continued on towards 7^th and 6^th Avenue, where Rockefeller Center was actually located. When we finally arrived, we knew it right away. The scenery had gone from bleak to enchanting and art, life, and happiness were abundant.

               Rockefeller Center is all about diversity. The shops in the area span from selling the most upscale merchandise around to children’s toys. The stores which border the center square of Rockefeller Center seem randomly placed. There’s Nintendo World and the Lego Store, but there’s also a L’Occitane, a Movado, and the Metropolitan Museum of Art Shop. In the rectangular area between the stores, one can find some of the most beautiful gardens, filled with gorgeous sculptures. There’s diversity in the plants themselves, and the simple placement of the gardens creates a kind of diversity from the architectural beauty of the shops and buildings to the natural beauty of the gardens.

On a single corner, one can find a pretzel, hot dog, sausage, nut, and coffee vender; all within about a 500 foot radius. In that spot, diverse and distinct odors waft through the air, exciting the olfactory system. Each breath brings with it the perfect mixture of all the food the area has to offer. One can smell the sweet cinnamon sugar that’s sprinkled on the pretzels, the smell of a roasting hot dog, the bitter smell of freshly made coffee, and the sweet smell of roasted nuts. Although it’s an odd combination of smells and they certainly don’t seem to complement one another, they bring character to the streets and therefore, they are perfect.

Continuing in the vein of diversity, a Chinese restaurant, complete with a sign written in Chinese characters can be found right next door to an Irish pub which proudly displays an Irish flag. If these strange combinations weren’t enough, the sight of varying flags, too numerous to count, brings together all the people who inhabit this area. No flag appears to be missing; no one appears to be overlooked. The flags are a beacon of hope. They draw people in from near and far, making everyone feel as though they belong in this one place; if nowhere else.  No flag is bigger than another, taller than another, or more important than another.  There are more US flags than the others, but they’re spread throughout the sea of waving fabric in such a way that they remind us that all of these diverse places have donated the people who make up the population of the United States, and more importantly, the population of New York City.  

               The artwork of the area is as diverse as it is beautiful. Ranging from Greco-Roman influence, to religious artistry, to Art Deco, the eye is greeted with beauty and strength wherever it looks. The artwork seems to promote a message of spirit, strength, and heroism. The best known sculpture; that of Prometheus, sparkles in the sunlight, appearing to be made of solid gold, although I know it’s not. Prometheus appears to be floating in midair, even though he’s clearly attached to what appears to be a boulder, and if one suspends the disbelief, one can imagine that Prometheus is controlling the fountain that he towers over.

 Plaques also grace the area. The one which captures my attention most fully is that which begins with: "I believe in the supreme worth of the individual and in his right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.” and ends with: “I believe that love is the greatest thing in the world; that it alone can overcome hate; that right can and will triumph over might." This plaque, standing at the entrance to the ice rink, lays out the basic principles set forth by John D. Rockefeller Jr. These principles further promote the message of strength, spirit, and hope that Rockefeller Center embodies.  

               Below ground lies a whole other world; a world where time doesn’t have much influence on industry. The old, creaky elevators of the past have been replaced with glass elevators which take you down into the labyrinth of the Rockefeller Center Concourse. The underground world seems never-ending. It spans the entire area under which Rockefeller Center lies. Slim hallways, never-ending staircases, and closely packed stores make up the maze of the underground, while cafeteria style seating is easily accessible and is prominent at the windows facing the ice rink. The longest line we see the entire day is the line outside of the shoe-shine shop. Walking down a long corridor of modern stores and restaurants, the shoe-shine shop is seemingly out of place; directly out of an old television show or novel; and yet, it seems to fit there in a way that it would not fit in elsewhere. It is certainly holding its own in terms of business, and it has a large client base. I stand in front of the window mesmerized, for a good five or ten minutes before moving on. I need to take it all in. This sight is foreign to me in a way that nothing else I had seen that day was. I feel as though I had been transported back in time, but if I turn around, the modern stores are still surrounding me. Game Stop, Starbucks, Ben and Jerry’s, Godiva, Swarovski, GNC; those stores make sense in my mind. I have more difficulty understanding the lure of the shoe-shine shop… and yet, I can’t look away. The diversity of the concourse alone is a sight to behold. The areas range from new to old, well kept to dingy, and the locations of these areas hold no rhyme or reason. Some areas underground are downright depressing while others are gorgeous and uplifting. The mystery of the underground could have held me awestruck for hours on end… but alas, time was fleeting and there was so much more to explore.

               I turn my attention to the people, realizing that I would find more diversity in the people than I would find anywhere else. There are several elevators which lead to the underground world. One such elevator waiting area contained 5 business men, each clad in a dark business suit and tie, each holding a briefcase, and each a different nationality. While appearing so alike in dress, economic status, and even temperament, each hailed from a different background. Two Asian men, who at a quick glance would appear very similar, were actually quite different. Studying these men and their features, I feel a nagging suspicion that they were not of the same origin. While both of a similar build, one man has a rounder face, with more spaced out eyes and less dominant facial features while the other has a slimmer and longer face with very distinct almond shaped eyes and defined cheek bones. Simple subtleties which could easily be overlooked, actually tell more about these men than one would ever feel comfortable asking them. Two Caucasian men and a racially ambiguous man join these two Asian men in the waiting area. All 5 men wear stern looks upon their faces and look mildly stressed, but they are also chatting with one another in a mutually understood language.

               By the gardens, parents and guardians sit while their children play, winding down from a week of school and work, and bonding with one another on the first warm day of the season. The families range from wealthy to needy and span all cultures. Some children wear their stiff school uniforms, while others run around dressed in dungarees and tee shirts. Some parents read the newspaper, others smoke a cigarette, and still others talk on their cell phones or enjoy a cup of coffee. Conversations are held in no less than seven distinct different languages and those I understand range from how school had been that day, to weekend plans, to appointments that needed to be kept. The prominent feature of these families is that almost all of the adults were female. While the women of the area tend to the children, the men of the area are rushing off to business meetings and corporate lunches.

               Rockefeller Center is a world of its own. It can function this way because it’s set apart from the rest of the hustle and bustle of the city. In its own little square, a new world has been created. A world where everyone is welcome and there’s something for everyone to see or do. A person with no income can come to enjoy the scenery and the activity, while the wealthy can spend countless hours shopping, dining, and seeing shows. There’s something for everyone; and it seems like a utopia. 

From The Mixed Up Mind of a 21 Year Old Aspie

From The Mixed Up Mind of a 21- Year Old Aspie

Please note that any posts with this or a similar title are actual diary entries from my diaries growing up. Names have been changed for privacy purposes, but no editing has been done.

June 13, 2011

1:41 am

So many things have changed, but I still write to you by flashlight. I guess some things never change... but most things are. I HATE CHANGE!

After 16 years of living here, we are selling the house. I'm having a really hard time with it. I mean, I grew up here! I wrote you here. All my memories: good and bad, are here. I'm afraid that when we move, I'll start to forget.

I forget so many things already. I forgot how I met Hillary and how Natasha and I became friends and later sisters. I remember bits and pieces of things, but not everything. 

I remember the first time I saw my room. I was four years old. It was empty except for a treadmill in the far corner. I remember being shocked at how big it was. I remember having to sleep on the floor in mom and dad's room at the beginning because I was too big for my Minnie bed and my "big girl bed" hadn't arrived yet. I pretended to be sad, but knowing they were there with me made me feel safe in a then unfamiliar place.

I remember picking out my "big girl bed"; choosing a blue mattress because I thought it was cool and pretty, then trying to soften it up by jumping on my bed.

I remember getting my first computer, my first tv, the day I got cable, my VCR, setting my first show to record, getting my first desk and taking pictures at it (the only time it got used as anything but a "stop and drop" as mom called it... I later learned that I couldn't focus at a desk), and outgrowing my little furniture thus receiving Uncle David's old bedroom set. 

My favorite memory in my room is of me and daddy playing extreme home makeover. Before I went to high school, I was lost. I wasn't sure who I was or who I wanted to be, but I knew that my room did not represent me at all. I begged daddy to remodel my room. We did it all together. We went through paint samples, furniture shopping, redid my closet at the Container Store... and best of all, we made memories that I will treasure forever. Daddy didn't realize what he was getting into when he agreed, but no matter how many times he complained that it was getting out of hand, he kept going, determined to make me happy. I can't believe I'm supposed to leave that room behind.

I remember getting all my new furniture right before my birthday party and making my friends sleep on my bedroom floor so I could spend my first night in my new bed. I remember another birthday party when I tried to combine my dance friends with my school and neighborhood friends. We all slept in mom and dad's room, but my dance friends spent most of their time downstairs with mom. I remember my makeover birthday party (when everyone was still trying to make me be girly) when Keisha showed up late because her mom had fallen asleep... and her hair was already done... but we tried to give her a makeover anyways. I remember my dance themed birthday party when dad got way too into everything (you have pictures in case you forget).

I remember having "punt, pass, and kick contests" with Mike in the yard (remember that Charlie Brown football movie???????), playing soccer in the front yard using the trees as a goal, growing pumpkins, growing a sunflower taller than me (and mike, mom, and dad), planting tulips with daddy, and failing miserably to grow tomatoes and cucumbers (daddy and I both seem to have black thumbs). 

I remember the day of Mr. Vaughn's wake. I gave Mrs. Vaughn a huge hug and decided that she needed someone to take care of her... she really took care of me. I would disappear over there all the time. Any time I wasn't home, there was always a knock at Mrs. Vaughn's door. She always did more for me than any of the doctors I saw. Her couch was my safe haven and I always said I'd move in there when I grew up, so I could live in the place I felt safest and next to my parents. Even when Mrs. Vaughn had to move to the assisted living facility, I still found comfort in that house. I remember walking into the house for the first time after it was redone, completely confused as to where I was, but still getting the same comforting feeling. I babysat there so I could still spend time there. 

I remember escaping to my fantasy world up on the rock, trick or treating and trading candy, Cambell stopping by all the time (mom always said he had a crush on me), befriending the Royals, and so much more. 

I can't keep my eyes open anymore, but this is helping. Still hate change, but at least I'll be able to come back to these memories if ever I do start to forget.  

I have always hated change. Change meant that I didn't have control of the situation. I know that as a child I didn't have much control, but when things were stable, I felt like I did. I recall being so angry that my parents hadn't consulted me before putting the house on the market. It never crossed my mind that it was not my decision. 

The crazy thing was that I was so worried about forgetting things, when in fact, my auditory photographic memory and the film-like memory I described, makes many things unforgettable. 

As time has distanced me from the situation, I've come to realize that there were many bad memories in that home too. The scenes won't fade from my memory yet, but at least I don't revisit the places where the memories were created... Memories like finding out that Great Nana had passed, Nana had passed, huge tantruming episodes, screaming matches, finding out that Natasha was going to Afghanistan, being tricked into a nasty prank by someone I thought was my friend, and so much more. I still hate change, but maybe it isn't ALL bad...

Adventures in Miscommunication: Sarcasm

Adventures In Miscommunication

Sarcasm

The Merriam-Webster Dictionary defines sarcasm as: "the use of words that mean the opposite of what you really want to say especially in order to insult someone, to show irritation, or to be funny"

More completely, it continues: 

1:

" a sharp and often satirical or ironic utterance designed to cut or give pain

2

a :  a mode of satirical wit depending for its effect on bitter, caustic, and often ironic language that is usually directed against an individual

b :  the use or language of sarcasm" 

Right away, this definition sets off red flags in my brain. How can you use the same intonation to insult someone, show irritation, and be funny? Why are all 3 mentioned in the broad definition, but only bitterness and pain mentioned in the more specific? 

I have never understood sarcasm. I'm a literal thinker. I don't distinguish well between tones of voice, prosodies, or intonation patterns. The distinctions I do make have been made based upon hours of studying patterns of speech in movies, television shows, radio shows, and the like, and matching the feeling or motivation behind it to the pattern of speech. The problem with that is that no two people say the same thing the same way. It's easy to have a misunderstanding when you rely on memorized patterns. 

Ever since I was little, I despised sarcasm. I didn't know what it was, but I knew that it drove a wedge between my father and myself. I knew that my father thought he was being funny, but because I didn't understand, I took everything he said to heart. Sarcasm almost destroyed our relationship. Since my diagnosis, we've finally had the relationship I've always dreamed of. My dad is trying very hard to bite back the sarcasm and make sure I know when he's joking. It means the world to me that he is trying so hard. 

As I entered adulthood, I thought that I had to change myself in order to better fit in. I attempted to imitate sarcasm, but while I knew the dictionary definition and certainly had a lot of examples to use as a jumping off point, I quickly learned that it's impossible to properly be sarcastic without first understanding it. My sarcasm attempts often led to huge misunderstandings which resulted in me getting worked up and the saying which for a short time was my tag-line: "I was just trying to make a joke. It was supposed to be funny". 

To this day, I do not understand sarcasm past its basic dictionary definition. Tonight at work, one of my co-workers was (apparently) being sarcastic about not getting a tip and "making the person who messed up pay for it". I attempted to calm this co-worker by explaining that he was not the only person to be fixing an error tonight and none of the others who had done the same task as him had received tips either. Instead of calming down, he got angry, talking about how he couldn't "even make a *beep* joke around here". When I replied that I didn't understand his joke because of my Aspergers, rather than move on, he rudely offered to tell some Autism jokes. 

This is what I mean about the definition being contradictory. On the one hand, it says that sarcasm can be used to be funny... on the other, it stresses the painful, cutting nature of sarcastic comments. I've only ever seen that side of the coin.  

For One Shining Week Every Year

For One Shining Week Every Year...

Tomorrow marks the second dance recital that I will be missing in my entire life (since I began dancing at age 2). It's hard. Recital time was something special for me. It was the one time of the year when I truly felt like I fit in. Even though I didn't get all the jokes, for one shining week every year, I was on the inside. 

My painstaking attention to detail led me to be in charge of painting over 100 props every year. Yes, I said in charge. My peers came to me for assignments. It may sound petty, but I loved that for one week, the girls who had formed a big clique that I was never invited into had no choice but to let me in. 

So in a way recital week was a social thing. A chance to work within a group. A chance to hang out with the girls. A chance to attempt to solidify my place within the clique, only to watch it slip through my fingers as we all left the high school after tear down.

...But in reality, to me, it wasn't a social thing. To me, it was my week of understanding. It was my week of getting out my emotions and dealing with a years worth of problems and joys. From the moment I stepped onstage until the moment the last notes of the final song played, I had a superpower! I understood my emotions! 

I once wrote (and never sent) a letter to my dance class. Within the letter was a plea, begging my peers to accept everyone, treat everyone with respect, and work together as a team. I remember saying in the letter that we were all good dancers, but we had the potential to be great; we just had to work together instead of being a bunch of soloists onstage at the same time. 

I was just as guilty of it as everyone else. When I was onstage, it wasn't about the group; it was about me. It was about my feelings, my emotions, my freedoms, my self esteem, and feeling like I was flying. Sure, I cared about the group, but looking back at dance videos, it's clear that that I was in my own world. I always knew that I was, I just never knew it was so noticeable. 

Now, I certainly don't want to make it sound like I didn't have any friends at dance. I did have friends... but I always felt like my mother was more popular than I was. The girls only hung out with me when my mom was around. Most of them only talked to me when my mom pushed me over to wherever they were huddled together. I had a few good friends at dance over my 20 years and consider myself lucky to have had each one. Unfortunately, mob mentality rules and many times, I lost those friends to the larger clique. A few of the girls never succumbed to the clique and I am eternally grateful for those girls. Even if they are not my lifelong friends, I know that they will not be corrupted by the discriminatory clique either.

As with my daily life, those I did become friendly with through the studio were mostly older or younger than me. The man who built our props was one of my heroes. I loved him with all my heart and saw him as often as I could, right up until the end. My dance teacher's daughter, a girl with a heart of gold, became like my little sister. I never saw her as the girl with Downs Syndrome; I saw her as a loving and happy girl who also happened to have Downs. To this day, she's my girl and I'm so proud of everything she does. A few years ago, I met a young girl with the same stomach ailments as I have. I had never seen someone so young going through it and I was immediately drawn to her. My mom sends updates and pictures so I can keep up with everything she's doing. 

The most amazing experience I had at my dance studio in the 20 years I was there actually had NOTHING to do with me. There is a class of adults with special needs, who unfortunately do not dance in the show. I had the incredible opportunity to sit in on a few of their classes. I've never seen something so amazing. They were all so happy for one another. There was no competition, no concern over appearance or how well someone was dancing. Everyone cheered for everyone else and I never saw anyone's smile falter during the entire class. Afterwards, I said that the world could learn a thing or two from those of us with so called "special needs".