Posted in Neurodiverse, Problems

Existential Crises Whirlpool

This’ll be my last post tonight, before
I lay my head to sleep, so in
my dreams, my good
thoughts I hope
to keep

⭐🌟🌠🌝🌔🌪🌩🌛🌚🌞☀☄

½ Fiction 💙 The World is Not This Cruel

This is a dog-eat-dog world, and we are the ones trying to stop everyone from eating dogs. That’s how Mom raised me to believe, like vigilante-fucking-warriors. My aunt, on the other hand, told me this game was dirty, deceitful, but fun, then turned into a pterodactyl and flew away.

I met a tyrannosaurus who thought the same, and I lived with him for two years. I also lived with a paladin for eight, and when I was spinning out of orbit, I spent several nights in the bedroom of a Los Angeles playwright who wanted to play video games professionally.

neutron

Once Upon a Time 💗 Good Mother

I used to ask my aunts if they thought my mother was a good mother. I had a keen eye for human flaw, and it wasn’t so much that I wanted to catch my mother red-handed, as I wanted to understand why things didn’t add up for me internally.

I felt ignored, because I wasn’t getting the attachment I’d received as a baby, and whenever I voiced my feelings, I was told it was in my head, I imagined things,—I had it all wrong. I just wanted to collect counter-evidence, to prove my reality was also true.

The sad thing is, we still behave this way. My mother still makes grand sacrifices I never would’ve asked her to make, then screams I’m ungrateful, takes away things she once gifted for security. She accuses me of false memories. She calls for weeks and weeks, dreading over the impending visit to Fresno—she’s worried because I invited my aunt too, and she expects my aunt to make a scene—then when my aunt calls in the middle of the night, and in my half-asleep stupor, I shriek at the brightness of her cellphone, and tell her to stop talking to my aunt, after all of that, my mom explodes, says “goodbye” instead of “I love you,” leaves in a taxi, and I’ve no idea if she’ll attend my wedding, when or where I’ll hear from her again, if she’ll be alive or dead when I next see her wild hair;

And all I can do it let the words pour out of me, hoping within them, there’s some kind of balm, cure, healing, until that next time comes.

Watching Right Now 🌄 Neutron Stars

Sometimes, when I’m overwhelmed, if I think about something really big, it helps me understand that my “huge” concerns are small, chunkable, and conquerable things.


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Posted in Neurodiverse, Problems

When I Can’t Find Words

When I can’t find my words,—when Chase can’t find his words—it’s not so much that I think we suffer from selective mutism, as it makes me think about other disorders that may or may not share neurological processes with the mysteries I’m trying to solve about our brains… and that puts selective mutism on my radar.

Once Upon a Time 💙 Finger Pointing

I babysat a child on the autism spectrum when I was a child. I was six to eight years older than him—I don’t remember the age gap exactly—and I marveled at he dragged at everyone around the house, pointing when he wanted something. Yet I’d heard him talk. I knew he could. I knew, in just the right environment, he could string a sentence together. I also knew we shared a common developmental challenge, even it was manifesting in completely different ways, even if I’d have to wait another two decades for my diagnosis, even then.

Watching Right Now 💜 Selective Mutism

I really do identify with a lot of this, although I still don’t think I have selective mutism; I just have autism, and through that lens, am feeling interconnected to the topic, recognizing patterns.

Quote Response 💙 Similar, But Different

Here are the two parts that get me, @0:3:58:

Selective mutism comes from an intense internal anxiety which leads us to feeling like we actually cannot speak. We’ll want to, we’ll have so much to say, and we literally, physically cannot.

…and then again, @4:48:

It’s an inability to speak due to intense internal anxiety.

This describes exactly how I feel when I’m having {tooltip}an autistic shutdown.{end-text}Not when I’m having a meltdown, mind you; if I’m angry, I only have one thought on my brain: HOW DO I CALM DOWN. WHAT IS IN MY WAY.{end-tool} When people talk to me, and I can’t reply, yet they can’t see I can’t reply, so they continue to ask the question, but in different ways, I moan to drown out the noise, because it makes the anxiety worse, and by the time the anxiety has multiplied with enough layers of intensity that I’m curled in a fetal position on the ground, my chest is tight as a rock, my throat is straining, I’m struggling to breathe, I cannot think in more than two or three words at a time, everything is vibrant with color, everything, my emotions and numbers and time and you and me, and my head hurts a lot—like, a whole lot.

A few times, when I was having panic attacks at McLane, I grabbed a pen to write words down, as the bursts came to me, because I could not speak, even if my life depended on it, which in my darkest hours, it often felt like it did.

I am very grateful that facet of my depression has died down in severity, where I am happy again, yet I still feel like at any moment, the sky will fall; in this place, I know I can focus on my anxiety more, which means I know I can make it through the rest of the Great Filters that lie ahead.

Watching Right Now 💜 Great Filter

I am really jazzed at this idea. I love exploring with the thought experiments around the Great Filters. It soothes me.


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Posted in Prelude, Projects

Trip to AWP LA 2016, Part IV

The restoration project continues!

Once Upon a Time 😎 Super Crumble

So last Saturday, instead of busing, I take my car to the Los Angeles Convention Center to wrap up my adventure at AWP L.A. I have to check out of my room early, which means I have to move my vehicle anyway; so I figure, I’ll head to the West Wing parking lot, like old E3 times, when I worked for Atlus, a game company with a generous enough heart to comp parking fees.

I’ll parked my car nice-and-close, then waltz into the first wave of panels—in my imagination, it’s a literal waltzing, my feet bowing inward with plantar’s fasciitis, even though my Nordstrom Rack Coach shoes are lined with silicone—and I’ll be five minutes early, spirit in my eyes, the way a person looks after too much soju, too little sleep, and too much excitement.

But that’s not how it happens.

I don’t have to check out of my room early enough to wake up in a timely fashion—so I lollygag with a blue-something-brand tangerine, twisting the skin into a perfect spiral, not paying attention to the clock on my cell, thinking about if I’ve wiped the eye crust yet, (and about different ways I might write the word “eye” in a poem, back when I thought this spur of creativity was going to form into a poem)—then I miss the 9AM panels, just like the first conference day, and my spirited-eyed, super-reality crumbles.

Minor Derail from the AWP Report to Write about Craft

It’s just not a good craft choice to end a scene with the word “crumbles,” not without earning it over several chapters, in a voice that talks big that way.

Meaning Making 🤯 Existential Blogging Crisis

Issue: Purpose of a Blog vs. the Organic Process of Blogging

But if I could think of this blog as a memoir project, where I am constantly engaging in a conversation with the books I read, and the writing I’m trying to produce—and in this way, I could say, I’m developing a voice over several chapters; a voice that might have earned the word “crumbles” already—I’d be set, yeah?

Problem is, I’m not comfortable enough to write under the umbrella of memoir project—not consciously, anyway. In truth, I’m not comfortable with personal essays in general, much as I love to read them. I’m not comfortable with my memory, which means I’m not comfortable with reporting actual events filtering through my memory, and so I write fiction and poetry and whatever else lets my memory off the hook.

I like tricking myself by claiming I’m writing a series of blog posts to exercise different blog writing forms, Internet writing forms, public writing forms—ex., the book review form—and I like thinking that, as I evolve this small blog into a writing project worth attracting a readership, it would move in the direction of book reviews strictly, or some other formal form strictly, like all good little websites should do.

But that’s not how it happens.

Except—

But—

でも—

Doubt is incredible, isn’t it?

Listing 🤩 Saturday @AWP ’16

After a $15 parking fee over by the Convention Center’s West Wing, I run into the 10:30AM panel doing the bottom-of-foot sweat, (which is totally hideable in public, versus the under-the-armpits sweat,) and I eat a basket of $1.99 strawberries from the Hannam Chain Supermarket while starting something like:

  • 10:30AM-11:45AM: Everyone’s a Critic;
  • 12:00noon-1:15PM: Applying for an Individual NEA Fellowship;
  • 1:15PM-2:00PM: Romping around the Book Fair in a completely disheveled fashion looking for literary magazines and friends.

I’ll have a few other panels lined up to check out, like “Why We Innovate: The Case for Hybrid Genres,” and “Worlds Within the Other California,” yet I’ll decide to get on the road early, to head back Fresno.


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