Saturday, April 30, 2011
Slideshow!
I need to post this before my scatter-brained self loses this!
I found the website Journeys with Autism a while ago and then lost it in the sea of new information I was taking in. I am pleased to report that I found it again via Nicole Nicholson. I hope my brain will let me unleash something profound and moving in response, aside from, "The 70's were fantastic! Look at her cool clothes!"
ETA: Okay, I'm calmer now. Well, marginally. I am grateful to Rachel Cohen-Rottenberg. I feel less alone with my brain! Her school pictures and insightful commentary unleashed a flood of "OMG, that's ME!" She told my story, except for the details of her school system (blah New Mexico). I ordered her book "The Uncharted Path: My Journey with Late-Diagnosed Autism." It will take me a month to read it, because the subject matter is so volcanic I will reel off on spazzed out tangents every few pages. Bzzzz! Already getting excited!
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Shopping, Ack!
Our local Walmart is reorganizing--again. I hate rolling in circles trying to find stuff. The last time I braved the store, Tyoma melted down over the chaos in the toy aisles. I can't blame him. I could not find the qtips today. Roll, roll, roll. Are they with the beauty supplies? No. Bandaids? No. Wet Ones Wipes? No? Are they on a oveloaded cart abandoned by the dog food? Yes. @#$%&*!!!
Shopping at Walmart does more than save me money. It saves my nerves, too. Multiple shopping trips wear me out and few stores have the wide open aisles that Walmart does. Plus, in the early morning, it is very quiet. Well, quiet except for the hand-clapping back-slapping go-Walmart-go team meetings.
This morning, I listened in as a short, tubby middle-aged woman read the latest sales statistics to her team. Sock sales went up 20%! (Yay! replied the team members, clapping) Women's bras were up 8%! (Yay! more clapping). Children's shoes up 15% (Yay! clap-clap). I held back on shouting, "Whooo-hooo!" Their meeting seemed so festive.
I hear the clapping and yaying when I shop early. Usually, the manager is half-embarrased over the process, mumbles through his rigamarole and sends everyone on their way. Today's tiny manager seemed to revel in her meeting. Were those louder than usual "yays" a result of her increased enthusiasim or induced fear ?
As I looked for fresh sugar snap peas, I quietly yayed along with the team members, drumming my fingers to the rhythm of clapping. I wondered how the team members during this ridiculous process and searched their faces for boredom or mockery.
I saw nothing. The whole scene was a process, automatic, like chewing. Yay. Clap. Swallow. It was surreal. The blank faces of the team members were frightening, especially in juxtaposition to the tiny animated manager. As she rattled on nonsensical figuers. I realized that only thing the manager was missing was a reference to the Malibar Front and a "double-plus good" exclaimation.
Corporate America, keeping stores efficient and shopper friendly since 1962. Thank you team members, for enduring mindless drivel so I can shop quickly, cheaply and at one place. Sigh.
Day Care
One side of a hypothetical conversation...
Heh. Motherhood a bit much for you, Lori dear?
So they didn't really have cholera at Sunshine, just a stomach bug. I kept the little guy home for three days, but ultimately he will get anything circulating around New Hampshire. Nose picking must be nature's great plan for a healthy, well-immunized adult.
Anyway, it was great to have a break, so I could write in obsessive little circles. Every sentence came out the same, and all my ideas were stale. Blah.
Despite my desire to be alone and write, picking T up from daycare was my highlight. I watched him run around the playground, circulating with peers in his odd but endearing way. Before we left, he said, "Just a minute!" and dashed off to speak to a pretty blonde girl on a slide.
*dials phone*
"Hello, Sunshine Daycare? Yes. This is Lori Dexyz. I'd like to drop off our son, Tyoma, for a half day of care today."
"What? Cholera's going around? Hmmm. I'm pretty sure we've had that."
"Mmmmm-hmmm. He catches everything. So, what time can we drop him off?"
"Uh, well, I could put a guaze mask on him..."
"Yeah, he probably would pull it off... But that's okay. I'll just sanitize his hands before he comes home."
"So, 9:00?"
Heh. Motherhood a bit much for you, Lori dear?
So they didn't really have cholera at Sunshine, just a stomach bug. I kept the little guy home for three days, but ultimately he will get anything circulating around New Hampshire. Nose picking must be nature's great plan for a healthy, well-immunized adult.
Anyway, it was great to have a break, so I could write in obsessive little circles. Every sentence came out the same, and all my ideas were stale. Blah.
Despite my desire to be alone and write, picking T up from daycare was my highlight. I watched him run around the playground, circulating with peers in his odd but endearing way. Before we left, he said, "Just a minute!" and dashed off to speak to a pretty blonde girl on a slide.
"Lillian. Lilli-an! I wanted you to know that I am leaving now, so I am saying good-bye to you. Good-bye." He announced this with his best Carl Sagan voice, making me smile.As I hustled him off to the car, and he abruptly asked, "What do you look like when you die?" Goodness. I thus began a nerdy and slightly technical interchange about biological death, that kept us entertained on the drive home.
"That was my friend Lillian," he gasped to me. "You spell her name like 'Lilli' but with an extra 'a-n'" He added, almost out of breath from running.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Rage Comics and Social Rules
The plan for an easy Spring break was foiled by foul weather and an outbreak of a stomach virus at our favorite childcare place. I realize that Tyoma will eventually get whatever bug is circulating in southern NH, but I just don’t want to spend our vacation week sick.
Sadly, I needed to start my day with a bit of shopping. I won't be shopping at Market Basket again. People swarm there as early as 7:30, leaving me feelingly squeezed and assaulted. inadvertent experience, I learned that singing softly to myself and playing keyboard on the cart handles keeps a number of people at bay.
After a day of shopping and my attention between mom and Tyoma, I feel beyond brain dead. Crashed out on my bed (hubby and I do have separate beds). I up my little brain to my computer looking for entertainment. Enter Failblog.
Once upon a time I purused the LOLcat directory--cute, but glurgy. Failblog is worth a chuckle, but mostly I show up for Ugliest Tattoos. I can’t think of a more profound way to reveal your character than to display something permanently on your person. Looking at a gallery of shocking and delightful tattoos gives me a secret thrill. the same sweet little rush I get when I see blue nail polish or a dyed goth princess. So I chuckle and smile my way through the absurd winged genitalia, disturbingly placed for public consumption. However, after the third Technicolor armpit monstrosity, it does get a bit passé.
So I pop on over to Know Your Meme (KYM) , to see what Bear Grylls is up to today. I visit rarely, but when I do, I really dive in. While I never visit the anarchy that is 4chan or tumblr, I do like the whole Mad Magazine feel of KYM. It’s a guilty sort of pleasure that should belong to young men of a certain age, but it absolutely transfixes me.
So meet Rage Comics. I’ve seen the drawings, so I dedicated an evening (Saturday night) to learning all about them. Last night, I noticed that there is an actual section at FB devoted to the comics. So I must have read 150 of them. they vary in quality, certainly, but overall, I think I have a good deal in common with the young men that make them. it seems that we are equally confounded by the same world and take pride in the same things. Liberating. A mid-fortyish woman with the mind of a 24 year old man with nothing better to do.
I like the Rage Comics for their unusual blend of humor, brevity, and poignancy. I like short stories for similar reasons.Direct and generated with agreed upon symbols Rage Comics make me laugh over something I share with a stranger.
And thus, my second search. I finally joined Wrong Planet. True to form, I lurked endlessly, not contributing a word. But I found the most awesome forum, xxx. I read about seven pages of posts, smiling and nodding. It felt so right to be there, knowing that I am not alone in being awkward and clueless. Between the excellent forum and Rage Comics, I felt connected and content.
Sadly, I needed to start my day with a bit of shopping. I won't be shopping at Market Basket again. People swarm there as early as 7:30, leaving me feelingly squeezed and assaulted. inadvertent experience, I learned that singing softly to myself and playing keyboard on the cart handles keeps a number of people at bay.
After a day of shopping and my attention between mom and Tyoma, I feel beyond brain dead. Crashed out on my bed (hubby and I do have separate beds). I up my little brain to my computer looking for entertainment. Enter Failblog.
Once upon a time I purused the LOLcat directory--cute, but glurgy. Failblog is worth a chuckle, but mostly I show up for Ugliest Tattoos. I can’t think of a more profound way to reveal your character than to display something permanently on your person. Looking at a gallery of shocking and delightful tattoos gives me a secret thrill. the same sweet little rush I get when I see blue nail polish or a dyed goth princess. So I chuckle and smile my way through the absurd winged genitalia, disturbingly placed for public consumption. However, after the third Technicolor armpit monstrosity, it does get a bit passé.
So I pop on over to Know Your Meme (KYM) , to see what Bear Grylls is up to today. I visit rarely, but when I do, I really dive in. While I never visit the anarchy that is 4chan or tumblr, I do like the whole Mad Magazine feel of KYM. It’s a guilty sort of pleasure that should belong to young men of a certain age, but it absolutely transfixes me.
So meet Rage Comics. I’ve seen the drawings, so I dedicated an evening (Saturday night) to learning all about them. Last night, I noticed that there is an actual section at FB devoted to the comics. So I must have read 150 of them. they vary in quality, certainly, but overall, I think I have a good deal in common with the young men that make them. it seems that we are equally confounded by the same world and take pride in the same things. Liberating. A mid-fortyish woman with the mind of a 24 year old man with nothing better to do.
I like the Rage Comics for their unusual blend of humor, brevity, and poignancy. I like short stories for similar reasons.Direct and generated with agreed upon symbols Rage Comics make me laugh over something I share with a stranger.
And thus, my second search. I finally joined Wrong Planet. True to form, I lurked endlessly, not contributing a word. But I found the most awesome forum, xxx. I read about seven pages of posts, smiling and nodding. It felt so right to be there, knowing that I am not alone in being awkward and clueless. Between the excellent forum and Rage Comics, I felt connected and content.
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Easter Sunday
Peeps! With sweet little button eyes!
Our Easter was mellow, punctuated by ten minutes of frenetic Easter egg hunting downstairs. We skipped candy and settled for toys in plastic eggs, conspicuously placed for easy retrieval. E got most of the jumping and screaming on video, including a cameo by me and my oily locks. I noticed that my comfy house dress is fading. Sigh.
As I promised yesterday, Mom and I took Tyoma to Wasserman park. When we arrived, a purplish and heavy aura loomed, the kind of atmosphere that brings hard rain. I was pleased to see that we had the park to ourselves--I half expected the place to be populated by celebrants of an Easter egg hunting jamboree. T ran off to rotate giant number logs, and I spent my time splitting my attention between him and mom.
After twenty minutes, we had company. A couple arrived with two kids and a fat, slobbery lab. I do like dogs, but they should be leashed in a playground. The mother hollered at me, “Is it okay to have our dog here?” I felt like hollering back, “No! And could you and your family please leave because your presence freaks us Aspies out?” but instead I walked over and said, “My son has autism and if your dog approaches him, he might become upset. I am okay with dogs and will work with my son.”
Heh.
Tyoma spent the next fifteen minutes loudly asking questions about the dog. When the dog actually approached him, he crouched into a ball and begged me to save him from the dog. The family finally put the dog on a leash, but Tyoma continued his harangue. “I can’t go down the slide! The dog is there!” “The dog is on the steps! He’s going to get me!” and so on. "The dog has a knife!" I kid you not, he actually said this. Embarrassed and a bit irritated, the family left. Then Tyoma asked me, “Where did the dog go?” “To the beach, buddy,” I replied. “Hm. I want to go to the beach and see the dog. I liked that dog.”
Sigh.
I think in Tyoma’s mind the whole thing was a bit of a game. He was anxious about the dog, but curious, too. I totally get that and wonder how to do things better next time.
Friday, April 22, 2011
Froggy!
Update!!!
:)
Okay, now that I have a few minutes, a bit of an explanation. My husband has an absolute horror of toads and frogs--a very sad fact for bufophile like me. When we first married and a toad-bringing rain fell, I lost my mind. I ran squealing down the street, collecting toads in plastic containers. Not only would he not come with me, but he wouldn't let me bring the toads in the apartment. I planned to set them free in the bathtub and scream at them.
I don't know why I love toads so much. I suppose that they are the closest things to dinosaurs that I could catch with my hands (lizards are too fast). The fact that they generally arrive when it rains (whooo! rain!) is a bonus. I love their bumpy, gnarled texture and placid slitted eyes. The hop-plop of a toad fries my little brain circuits in sweet delight. I never understood how girls could squee over hamsters. Unsavoury, smelly, foul mamals. Blech.
But TOADS! Joy. I don't think the most vigorous coke-snorting Hollywood starlet could touch my toad-watching high. Poor souls, attending empty parties with meaningless music, fashion, and talk, when all they need is a little toad action.
Anyway, sixteen years of marriage has not made my husband less squeamish about frogs and toads. When he came across this video from his favorite guitar tutor, he had to share. So I share now. And only with great restraint, do I not share the toad videos I watched on Y last night--but a play list might be coming soon!
:)
Okay, now that I have a few minutes, a bit of an explanation. My husband has an absolute horror of toads and frogs--a very sad fact for bufophile like me. When we first married and a toad-bringing rain fell, I lost my mind. I ran squealing down the street, collecting toads in plastic containers. Not only would he not come with me, but he wouldn't let me bring the toads in the apartment. I planned to set them free in the bathtub and scream at them.
I don't know why I love toads so much. I suppose that they are the closest things to dinosaurs that I could catch with my hands (lizards are too fast). The fact that they generally arrive when it rains (whooo! rain!) is a bonus. I love their bumpy, gnarled texture and placid slitted eyes. The hop-plop of a toad fries my little brain circuits in sweet delight. I never understood how girls could squee over hamsters. Unsavoury, smelly, foul mamals. Blech.
But TOADS! Joy. I don't think the most vigorous coke-snorting Hollywood starlet could touch my toad-watching high. Poor souls, attending empty parties with meaningless music, fashion, and talk, when all they need is a little toad action.
Anyway, sixteen years of marriage has not made my husband less squeamish about frogs and toads. When he came across this video from his favorite guitar tutor, he had to share. So I share now. And only with great restraint, do I not share the toad videos I watched on Y last night--but a play list might be coming soon!
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Breakfast With Ashleigh
Well, I plan to make 2011 the year of the friend. I made a promise to myself to keep in touch with the people I love most and to try to do something social at least once every six weeks. Whoo! Let's see if my lame self can do this consistently.
Today, I went to breakfast with Ashleigh, a mother on one of Tyoma's classmates. Two weeks ago on our first breakfast, I spazzed out, not knowing what to talk about. I have a terrible habit of bombarding people with questions in social situations. I do this because I just don't know what to say. Specifically, I quiz people to find something entertaining to talk about. I'm pragmatic about conversations and particular about what I find interesting in a person. I interrogate people at parties to find a mutual link, so I can relax and chat authentically.
This strategy flatters some, especially folks who have a grand passion lurking. I feed off the positive energy of an eager speaker, and if we like the same thing, nothing else matters. Unfortunately, many are put off my intensity, give me the "Bitch, please" look and edge away. At a recent Twilight party, a girl physically scooted her chair from me, as if she feared I would grab her by the shoulders and shake her, asking, "Do you like rocks? Plants? How about zombies? Everybody likes zombies!" I think she needed more wine.
I really don't do well with small talk, except for the memorized pleasantries I exchange with cashiers and people I'm stuck in line with. I remain intentionally uninformed on politics and sports, probably because the topics intimidate me. I prefer conversations about odd or specific hobbies. I relish strange details and vivid discussions. When I go home after my 90 social minutes, I want to ponder curious pursuits and why people crave them.
I avoid well-liked fiction like Twilight and Harry Potter, perhaps out of reactive stubbornness to their popularity. Instead, I prefer morbid horror and literature dealing with death, anxiety and depression. Since my own strange ruminations focused on these topics for years, it is a logical preference. I do like other fictions- magical realism and writing that is odd and open to interpretation. I seek out descriptive and atmospheric pieces that create an internal visual trip. I feel so alien in this world that visiting a tense, ambiguous world validates my experiences in this one..
Anyway, I had breakfast with Ashleigh, a Twilight and TV fan. We met last year dropping off our autistic sons for preschool. She is instantly likeable, the sort of person who dresses for comfort and loves to read books. Her loving and genuine acceptance of her son, just as he is, wins my respect and affection. I've been to her Twilight parties and cracked inappropriate jokes during screenings and met other girls who dress comfortably and like to read.
So we had our first breakfast get together a few weeks ago. I probably have made her uncomfortable with my spazzed out interrogation and overall twitchiness. Today, I managed to find just the right questions to ask, and we had a pleasant conversation. I suspect that we both construct worlds in our heads--I went through my vampire phase in 1991 (thank you Francis Ford Coppola!).
An interesting note. I had posted on Facebook that I had not read any Harry Potter books in response to a list of books Ashleigh had posted. For my birthday, she bought the first Harry Potter book for me. It was unthinkable to her that a civilized person had not read one. I was touched by her sweet and thoughtful gesture. She also packed up her collection of sequels for me to borrow, since I was sure to love Potter. Awwww.
I was gracious, but already anxious. How on earth am I to read fantasy? I couldn't make it through one novel of Lord of the Rings, let alone seven volumes of popular fantasy. I will give it a try, maybe I will like it. After all, Allan Rickman was in those Potter movies, right?
Today, I went to breakfast with Ashleigh, a mother on one of Tyoma's classmates. Two weeks ago on our first breakfast, I spazzed out, not knowing what to talk about. I have a terrible habit of bombarding people with questions in social situations. I do this because I just don't know what to say. Specifically, I quiz people to find something entertaining to talk about. I'm pragmatic about conversations and particular about what I find interesting in a person. I interrogate people at parties to find a mutual link, so I can relax and chat authentically.
This strategy flatters some, especially folks who have a grand passion lurking. I feed off the positive energy of an eager speaker, and if we like the same thing, nothing else matters. Unfortunately, many are put off my intensity, give me the "Bitch, please" look and edge away. At a recent Twilight party, a girl physically scooted her chair from me, as if she feared I would grab her by the shoulders and shake her, asking, "Do you like rocks? Plants? How about zombies? Everybody likes zombies!" I think she needed more wine.
I really don't do well with small talk, except for the memorized pleasantries I exchange with cashiers and people I'm stuck in line with. I remain intentionally uninformed on politics and sports, probably because the topics intimidate me. I prefer conversations about odd or specific hobbies. I relish strange details and vivid discussions. When I go home after my 90 social minutes, I want to ponder curious pursuits and why people crave them.
I avoid well-liked fiction like Twilight and Harry Potter, perhaps out of reactive stubbornness to their popularity. Instead, I prefer morbid horror and literature dealing with death, anxiety and depression. Since my own strange ruminations focused on these topics for years, it is a logical preference. I do like other fictions- magical realism and writing that is odd and open to interpretation. I seek out descriptive and atmospheric pieces that create an internal visual trip. I feel so alien in this world that visiting a tense, ambiguous world validates my experiences in this one..
Anyway, I had breakfast with Ashleigh, a Twilight and TV fan. We met last year dropping off our autistic sons for preschool. She is instantly likeable, the sort of person who dresses for comfort and loves to read books. Her loving and genuine acceptance of her son, just as he is, wins my respect and affection. I've been to her Twilight parties and cracked inappropriate jokes during screenings and met other girls who dress comfortably and like to read.
So we had our first breakfast get together a few weeks ago. I probably have made her uncomfortable with my spazzed out interrogation and overall twitchiness. Today, I managed to find just the right questions to ask, and we had a pleasant conversation. I suspect that we both construct worlds in our heads--I went through my vampire phase in 1991 (thank you Francis Ford Coppola!).
An interesting note. I had posted on Facebook that I had not read any Harry Potter books in response to a list of books Ashleigh had posted. For my birthday, she bought the first Harry Potter book for me. It was unthinkable to her that a civilized person had not read one. I was touched by her sweet and thoughtful gesture. She also packed up her collection of sequels for me to borrow, since I was sure to love Potter. Awwww.
I was gracious, but already anxious. How on earth am I to read fantasy? I couldn't make it through one novel of Lord of the Rings, let alone seven volumes of popular fantasy. I will give it a try, maybe I will like it. After all, Allan Rickman was in those Potter movies, right?
Monday, April 18, 2011
Family Visit From Hell
Last fall we had the Family Visit from Hell. I had trouble coping with E’s mother (Tanya) being here. She came right when Tyoma's school started and she stayed for two months. Sigh.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Happy Birfday to me!
Hmmmm. Getting closer to my mid-forties than I'd like.
I woke up about 7:30ish this morning to Tyoma shouting, ""It's 8:00!!! Time for the birthday party!" over and over. He was beyond jazzed. Yesterday his respite worker took him to the store to pick out a card and a little surprise for me. On the card, he'd written, "Wait until 8:00 breakfast surprise." So, 7:40 was as long as we could wait.
Anyway, my son has excellent taste. He bought me an organic mint chocolate bar. Dividing up a section for the three of us, Tyoma decided that it was his birthday too, and thus the largest chunk of chocolate belonged to him. Perhaps a teachable moment for some children, but not T. He was so hyper (and slobbery!) I decided that it was great to share the same birth date as my son.
The rest of the morning was me singing, hooting, and clapping (birfday!) while my husband gave me "take it down a notch!" hand signals. I am not aware of how excited I can get at home. No wonder they called me "spaz" at school! I guess home is a safe place. Dammit. If only other people could mainline my joy! Nobody would bitch or moan, just happy dances and whooo-hoos.
I took the killer baby out for brunch around 11:00. I really wanted to go to the Black Forest Bakery and gobble chocolate cake, but T did not. I know that BFB is meltdown central--it's too cramped, crowded and hectic, so my birthday present to myself was no screaming meltdown.
The rest of our outing went pretty well. Nothing beats two totally jazzed people running around Toys R Us. Nevertheless, I was completely drained when we came home at 2:30. I'm looking forward to dinner tonight and some red wine.
ETA
Ahhh! Pinot Noir! They were out of two bottles of the modest variety, so the birfday girl got a very nice bottle of pinot noir do enjoy with her meal. We ate at Giorgio's, a slightly fancier version of my L:as Cruces favorite, Lorenzo's. The loveliest part of the evening was the conversation with Egor. We've been married 16 years and there is still much we don't know about each other.
I woke up about 7:30ish this morning to Tyoma shouting, ""It's 8:00!!! Time for the birthday party!" over and over. He was beyond jazzed. Yesterday his respite worker took him to the store to pick out a card and a little surprise for me. On the card, he'd written, "Wait until 8:00 breakfast surprise." So, 7:40 was as long as we could wait.
Anyway, my son has excellent taste. He bought me an organic mint chocolate bar. Dividing up a section for the three of us, Tyoma decided that it was his birthday too, and thus the largest chunk of chocolate belonged to him. Perhaps a teachable moment for some children, but not T. He was so hyper (and slobbery!) I decided that it was great to share the same birth date as my son.
The rest of the morning was me singing, hooting, and clapping (birfday!) while my husband gave me "take it down a notch!" hand signals. I am not aware of how excited I can get at home. No wonder they called me "spaz" at school! I guess home is a safe place. Dammit. If only other people could mainline my joy! Nobody would bitch or moan, just happy dances and whooo-hoos.
I took the killer baby out for brunch around 11:00. I really wanted to go to the Black Forest Bakery and gobble chocolate cake, but T did not. I know that BFB is meltdown central--it's too cramped, crowded and hectic, so my birthday present to myself was no screaming meltdown.
The rest of our outing went pretty well. Nothing beats two totally jazzed people running around Toys R Us. Nevertheless, I was completely drained when we came home at 2:30. I'm looking forward to dinner tonight and some red wine.
ETA
Ahhh! Pinot Noir! They were out of two bottles of the modest variety, so the birfday girl got a very nice bottle of pinot noir do enjoy with her meal. We ate at Giorgio's, a slightly fancier version of my L:as Cruces favorite, Lorenzo's. The loveliest part of the evening was the conversation with Egor. We've been married 16 years and there is still much we don't know about each other.
Friday, April 15, 2011
Why Asperger's, Part One
It started in February, when I revived my Livejournal.
After Tyoma was diagnosed in 2009, I halfheartedly put in entries. Ultimately, writing in my journal seemed frivolous compared to my need to understand what was going on with my son. Instead of writing, I immersed myself into the study of sensory integration, Floortime, ABA, and RDI. I seemed unable to shift my attention away from reading, googling and getting the picture of what autism is. My internal resources were not spent on self reflection, which I considered a vanity.
Heh.
After Tyoma was diagnosed in 2009, I halfheartedly put in entries. Ultimately, writing in my journal seemed frivolous compared to my need to understand what was going on with my son. Instead of writing, I immersed myself into the study of sensory integration, Floortime, ABA, and RDI. I seemed unable to shift my attention away from reading, googling and getting the picture of what autism is. My internal resources were not spent on self reflection, which I considered a vanity.
Heh.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Babies!
see more WTF Pictures and WTF videos by Picture Is Unrelated
I must meet this person. Or at least the fellow who commented "Looks like someone has been huntin' " Heh.
I like odd little collections. The details make my retinas sing. I don't think I'd need a kid to buy those beautiful "I Spy" books. They make me want to search my boxes of little collections and compose pictures.
I like adore the "I Spy" books blend of novelty and repetition--picture theme is represented, say a city scene, and elements are composed from a mish-mash of materials. The cohesion of the piece is pulled together largely through color choice.
I'd love to rearrange Tyoma's toys by color palette-a box of primaries, split complements and analogous colors. Whooo!
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Asperger's, I Got It
Too spazzed out to be coherent. Social history taken. Questioning. Weird repetetive fantasies divulged. Asperger Diagnosis confirmed. Holy @#$%.
OMG. I lost most of my twenties to my imagination. Sigh. Oh, my thirties, too.
Check this: Asperger Article
OMG. I lost most of my twenties to my imagination. Sigh. Oh, my thirties, too.
Check this: Asperger Article
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Serious Questions
My therapist brought up several issues that I have been contemplating for the past week.
Good Grief
It's going to be one of those days.
And by that, I mean I need to use all my internal resources to figure things out.
It actually started yesterday, after Tyoma came home from school. I proudly restrained myself from my usual singing and hand clapping (I am happy to see him!). I gave him space and ignored his "rumbling" behaviors, using my own list of what to do to keep on track.
As usual, Tyoma flung off his pants.The nasty rash on his bottom had become angry, red and raised. For two weeks, I've been moisturizing the patch and applying Lanacane. Now it was worse, and he had a fever (100.9). I called the nurse who recommended he be seen today at 6:10 that evening.
Mentally, I calculated the sheer agony of an evening doctor's appointment versus the sheer agony of non-stop fretting over Tyoma's health. When I put off my concerns over rashes last year, Tyoma wound up in the hospital for an allergic reaction to penicillin. So, 6:10 it was.
Egor sometimes comes to appointments with me, since talking to the doctor disorganizes Tyoma (and me too!). Last night, E was in too much back pain, and I could not subject him to such a gruelling experience. So on the twenty minute drive to the doctors, T asked me every addition and place value question he could think of. This helped organize him, but I felt greatly distracted as I I drove. My strategy--give answers and fake being interested. I am quite skilled at this!
Everything went smoothly at the doctors until she started to talk to me. Tyoma melted down--no tears just wild behavior--tipping things over and tearing paper. I handed the doctor a notebook and asked her to write down information for me. It worked. T continued to act out until we were back in the car and everything was quiet. His transformation into a saint was instantaneous. I might have aggravated beyond belief without my new sensory insight.
On the drive home, Tyoma was still a question machine, but in a placid, let's-be-friends sort of way. He created interesting "puzzles" out of a wooden block fidget and hummed to himself. I felt so stressed when I got home I wanted to scream, but I organized our bedroom closet instead.
I felt better in about twenty minutes and wnrt back to mama duty. After kiddo was in bed, I made the mistake of watching House, MD with E. How many times do I watch it and find myself too wound up to hit my target bedtime of 10:00? About four times out of five. Well, I was tired and just wanted to sit and "be" with hubby. The blaring special effects of my recent DVR movies (SyFy!) would surely melt my last two brain cells. Why not a little House? @#$%&*%$@!!!
It wasn't even a good episode. So what set me off? Poor House, being nastily berated for insensitivity, when it was obvious to me that the poor fellow was simply overwhelmed by the speaker's crisis. Did I personalize this? Yes. Derp, de, derp. At 9:40, I was trying to fall asleep and it felt as my body was vibrating with tension. I closed my eyes and the image of a red oscilloscope recording the vibrations of my ribs appeared. I asked myself--if my ribs were vibrating--what did it look like? The image popped into my head and I was off :
Mind you, I knew my little hallucination was not real. It is my anxiety coping mechanism. Instead ruminating over events, graphic and daydreams transport me to a odd, but more soothing place. Nevertheless, anxiety still intrudes, and the bliss of having odd thoughts turns ugly. I shook myself out of it, checked my email, and trotted downstairs. I paced and watched Comedy Central until 11:00.
And by that, I mean I need to use all my internal resources to figure things out.
It actually started yesterday, after Tyoma came home from school. I proudly restrained myself from my usual singing and hand clapping (I am happy to see him!). I gave him space and ignored his "rumbling" behaviors, using my own list of what to do to keep on track.
As usual, Tyoma flung off his pants.The nasty rash on his bottom had become angry, red and raised. For two weeks, I've been moisturizing the patch and applying Lanacane. Now it was worse, and he had a fever (100.9). I called the nurse who recommended he be seen today at 6:10 that evening.
Mentally, I calculated the sheer agony of an evening doctor's appointment versus the sheer agony of non-stop fretting over Tyoma's health. When I put off my concerns over rashes last year, Tyoma wound up in the hospital for an allergic reaction to penicillin. So, 6:10 it was.
Egor sometimes comes to appointments with me, since talking to the doctor disorganizes Tyoma (and me too!). Last night, E was in too much back pain, and I could not subject him to such a gruelling experience. So on the twenty minute drive to the doctors, T asked me every addition and place value question he could think of. This helped organize him, but I felt greatly distracted as I I drove. My strategy--give answers and fake being interested. I am quite skilled at this!
Everything went smoothly at the doctors until she started to talk to me. Tyoma melted down--no tears just wild behavior--tipping things over and tearing paper. I handed the doctor a notebook and asked her to write down information for me. It worked. T continued to act out until we were back in the car and everything was quiet. His transformation into a saint was instantaneous. I might have aggravated beyond belief without my new sensory insight.
On the drive home, Tyoma was still a question machine, but in a placid, let's-be-friends sort of way. He created interesting "puzzles" out of a wooden block fidget and hummed to himself. I felt so stressed when I got home I wanted to scream, but I organized our bedroom closet instead.
I felt better in about twenty minutes and wnrt back to mama duty. After kiddo was in bed, I made the mistake of watching House, MD with E. How many times do I watch it and find myself too wound up to hit my target bedtime of 10:00? About four times out of five. Well, I was tired and just wanted to sit and "be" with hubby. The blaring special effects of my recent DVR movies (SyFy!) would surely melt my last two brain cells. Why not a little House? @#$%&*%$@!!!
It wasn't even a good episode. So what set me off? Poor House, being nastily berated for insensitivity, when it was obvious to me that the poor fellow was simply overwhelmed by the speaker's crisis. Did I personalize this? Yes. Derp, de, derp. At 9:40, I was trying to fall asleep and it felt as my body was vibrating with tension. I closed my eyes and the image of a red oscilloscope recording the vibrations of my ribs appeared. I asked myself--if my ribs were vibrating--what did it look like? The image popped into my head and I was off :
I watched the rib oscillations and imagined myself being monitored and tested for mental and physical wellness. The vivid vision fascinated me and I half slipped into a trance state, synchronizing the vibrations to all the bones in my body. It was almost a physical sensation and it rather freaked me out. I have always been able to close my eyes, deeply concentrate, and freak the shit out of myself.
Mind you, I knew my little hallucination was not real. It is my anxiety coping mechanism. Instead ruminating over events, graphic and daydreams transport me to a odd, but more soothing place. Nevertheless, anxiety still intrudes, and the bliss of having odd thoughts turns ugly. I shook myself out of it, checked my email, and trotted downstairs. I paced and watched Comedy Central until 11:00.
Monday, April 11, 2011
Me. Different Me
My gym visits are sporadic at best. The only time I routinely attended was at 5:00 in the morning. The bliss of a whole gym glowing, but not bustling was precious and calming. I remember how much I enjoyed working out without distraction. I would even shower and fix my hair, something I still must force upon myself. I'd glide through my morning and be gone before the first regulars arrived.
I have always hated being anywhere near the gym during classes. I might enjoy the "bumpa-bumpa-bumpa" of the music, but I could not bear the shouting of the instructor. I kept being pulled toward her commands almost as if I believed she was talking personally to me. Nerve jarring. The multitude of jovial chatting women waiting for classes began was a great thing to observe. I could often focus on cataloging them, organizing them. I have quantities of journal entries based on these observations. I think it was less stressful than the shouting instructor because they were far off and less intrusive.
But not always. It's a proximity and volume thing. Sometimes chatting people disorganize me. It feels as if they are right in my face. Just to be cautious, I seek out the most remote exercise bike, away from the pounding treadmills and gossip factory by the sitting area.
Do you know what else distracts me at the gym? Mirrors. Same thing when I was a kid. My folks had mirrored closet doors and anytime I visited with them on their huge California king bed, I'd stare at myself. "Whoa, look at me would you? I am so hilarious and amazed by myself! Hi! Hi, Lori!" Annnd, then the silly faces began. Mirrors got me more than a few time outs.
Maybe it has to do with faces. We do not have any photographs or representations of faces in our home, save for one hidded shrine to my grandmother. I always feelt that they observe me, it is infinitely distracting and disturbing.
Maybe mirrors got me into trouble not because I recognized myself , but because I felt alien the reflection. Separate data streams. It's one thing to feel something and quite another to see it reflected visually. The mirror was a giant puppet. Cause and effect. This smile inside makes that one there. It was so austounding that I could not think of anything else.
Now, I try to avoid mirrors--they invite me to register every unsavory detail about my unwashed, uncombed self. When did this change? Hmmm. Good question.
At the YMCA, I know I can look away from mirrors. However, my morning gym schedule coincides with the special needs community's and we have some issues there. I embrace diversity, and I am not about to judge or condemn anyone for biological differences. But sitting on my exercise bike, next to a hooting-arm flapper is distracting. Partially because of irony. I am a variety of hooting arm flapper myself.
Last week, I had the revelation a lifetime while cycling at the Y. "I am a woman with Asperger's," I thought. I knew. I realized! Such joy surged through me! Involuntarily, I slapped my thighs and let out a whoop as tears started to fall. In an instant, I was back to myself, and looked around to smile at the world. I had startled the aging cyclist next to me. He shifted uncomfortably and would not meet my eager gaze. Heh. I would have been mortified in the past. I wasn't then. It felt even sweeter, to be me. Different me.
I have always hated being anywhere near the gym during classes. I might enjoy the "bumpa-bumpa-bumpa" of the music, but I could not bear the shouting of the instructor. I kept being pulled toward her commands almost as if I believed she was talking personally to me. Nerve jarring. The multitude of jovial chatting women waiting for classes began was a great thing to observe. I could often focus on cataloging them, organizing them. I have quantities of journal entries based on these observations. I think it was less stressful than the shouting instructor because they were far off and less intrusive.
But not always. It's a proximity and volume thing. Sometimes chatting people disorganize me. It feels as if they are right in my face. Just to be cautious, I seek out the most remote exercise bike, away from the pounding treadmills and gossip factory by the sitting area.
Do you know what else distracts me at the gym? Mirrors. Same thing when I was a kid. My folks had mirrored closet doors and anytime I visited with them on their huge California king bed, I'd stare at myself. "Whoa, look at me would you? I am so hilarious and amazed by myself! Hi! Hi, Lori!" Annnd, then the silly faces began. Mirrors got me more than a few time outs.
Maybe it has to do with faces. We do not have any photographs or representations of faces in our home, save for one hidded shrine to my grandmother. I always feelt that they observe me, it is infinitely distracting and disturbing.
Maybe mirrors got me into trouble not because I recognized myself , but because I felt alien the reflection. Separate data streams. It's one thing to feel something and quite another to see it reflected visually. The mirror was a giant puppet. Cause and effect. This smile inside makes that one there. It was so austounding that I could not think of anything else.
Now, I try to avoid mirrors--they invite me to register every unsavory detail about my unwashed, uncombed self. When did this change? Hmmm. Good question.
At the YMCA, I know I can look away from mirrors. However, my morning gym schedule coincides with the special needs community's and we have some issues there. I embrace diversity, and I am not about to judge or condemn anyone for biological differences. But sitting on my exercise bike, next to a hooting-arm flapper is distracting. Partially because of irony. I am a variety of hooting arm flapper myself.
Last week, I had the revelation a lifetime while cycling at the Y. "I am a woman with Asperger's," I thought. I knew. I realized! Such joy surged through me! Involuntarily, I slapped my thighs and let out a whoop as tears started to fall. In an instant, I was back to myself, and looked around to smile at the world. I had startled the aging cyclist next to me. He shifted uncomfortably and would not meet my eager gaze. Heh. I would have been mortified in the past. I wasn't then. It felt even sweeter, to be me. Different me.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Intense World Theory Of Autism
Aaaaand I'm off and running. I have pages of writing waiting to be transfered to computer and even pages on my computer waiting to make it to my journal. I was so excited over my birthday present (new laptop!) that I just had to find the perfect background picture for my header. And then the perfect font colors and so on.
Anyway, in my reading (Aspergirls) I found the perfect autism theory. It's called the "Intense World Theory." Naturally, I'm posting excerpts and re-phrasings and maybe some of my own personal musings. I'd like to mention that my father, who has Asperger's and is profoundly gifted described his world as being "ultra intense" with "light, colors and noises so intense" that he couldn't think. In his gradeschool classroom the clamor of students and the teacher was so overwhelming that he would rip pieces of paper out of his notebook and chew on them for relief.
I've written my own little stories which I will post later.
Anyway, in my reading (Aspergirls) I found the perfect autism theory. It's called the "Intense World Theory." Naturally, I'm posting excerpts and re-phrasings and maybe some of my own personal musings. I'd like to mention that my father, who has Asperger's and is profoundly gifted described his world as being "ultra intense" with "light, colors and noises so intense" that he couldn't think. In his gradeschool classroom the clamor of students and the teacher was so overwhelming that he would rip pieces of paper out of his notebook and chew on them for relief.
I've written my own little stories which I will post later.
Friday, April 8, 2011
Self-Stimulatory Behavior, I Got It
Okay. Deep breath. I hope I can do this well. I am writing about some of my little obsessions. Watching my son, I have catalogued his quirks and oddities. In video, photographs, and pages of text I have captures his essence. Suddenly, I had an astounding revelation. I too have pages of quirks and oddities to catalogue and disclose. Here I go!
It all began with this link of characteristics of female Asperger’s traits. Reading this list has been the single most awakening moment of my life. I was very anxious over my fit with the male traits, many of which I do have, but some differences threw me. It did not fit. That’s why I sought out help. My brand new therapist told me that women present differently, but I had never thought to have checked.
So I googled. And here it is. This chart is me. Perhaps, for accuracy’s sake, I might not fit a sentence of two, but here I am. Bless you, bless you, Rudy Simone.
I started reading the chart, saying, “Uh huh uh huh uh huh,” over and over again. And then I reached the third column. Midway down it read:
“stims to sooth self when sad or agitated: rocking face rubbing, humming, finger flicking, leg bouncing, finger or foot bouncing”
And then
“Similarly physical when happy. Hand flapping, clapping, singing, jumping, running dancing, bouncing around”
OMG. Nothing I have ever read before was so accurate.
People who know me socially might not see or notice this. I pace, rock, and flick, snap, flap and clap. Many have commented on my leg bouncing. “Spazz” was a school nickname, and actually a pretty good descriptor. I could never understand why people were not totally jazzed about the things that made me happy. If I got an A+ on an exam, I’d whoop and rattle my paper and look for someone to celebrate with. A fellow classmate and former best friend who also did well would look away and tell me to “Calm down”.
Nowadays, I still burst into song and make odd sounds when I am happy. As I think about it, I don’t see others or even imagine others behaving this way. As a child, I continuously made odd sounds. I asked myself “why” for the first time today. I savor the feel of the pressure and vibration in my mouth. It is deeply pleasing and soothing.
My husband has grown accustomed to my happy dances and hand clapping frenzies, even when outburst of joyous expression lasts for ten or twenty minutes--that’s twenty minutes of “Blue-DUDE-blue-DUDE-DUDE-blue-DUDE DUDE!!!” with a few raspberries and vigorous thigh slapping. I am the only one I know who does this. And I do it all the time.
I can’t imagine any of our neighbors doing this nor can I imagine them doing the finger dances I do when trying to organize my thoughts. I have been repeatedly criticized in school and at home for my leg wiggling which can become reach startling amplitude. It makes people flinch and stare.
At Southwest Counseling Center, my job was to help mental health consumers manage severe psychiatric illness. I did well, but always fit in better with the consumers than the regular staff. They valued me for my accurate note taking and ability to detect patterns in people’s behavior.
Once I attended a treatment plan of a client I particularly liked. I felt acutely uncomfortable with stone faced therapist “Mr. Jones”. He was a stony-faced musty 1970’s Sears catalog sorta guy. The client defended herself from his oblique criticism from therapist. The kind of passive aggressive stuff that seemed too ill-tempered to be therapeutic. I became distressed. I did not want to be there. I could not for the retort that came three days later.
My agitation escalated. Overwhelmed, I started rocking slightly and then I flopped over on the conference table, smooshing and rubbing my cheek against the cool melamine. As if my splayed out torso was not enough, my bouncing legs audibly rattled the table. At some point I came back to myself, I sat bolt upright and bounced vigorously for the rest of the meeting.
Both therapist and client ignored what must have been a bizarre display. The client, however, softened her tirade as if she knew and cared about my distress. She basically agreed to whatever he said and the meeting was over quickly. She never said a word about my “moment.” The therapist acted oblivious and aloof. I took a disliking to him that has never dissipated. I retired from SWCC six months later.
What happened at that meeting? I literally had no idea. I've scratched my head over this for years. Today, I know what happened. The overpowering emotions got to me. I liked the patient; I identified with her. I knew she was off kilter but this therapist was not acknowledging her strengths, and I’d had quite enough of that in my life, thank you. I was torn between outrage and duty.
My emotions built to such a level that I could no longer physically restrain them. The social brakes that tell me not to sing too loudly at JC Penney failed, and I had a little meltdown. And I have been having variations on that theme for years. Whew. Time to take a break!
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Research again!
I've been doing more research. It's amazing how intensely I can focus on something I like. I also picked up some self-help books, Asperger's From the Inside Out: A Supportive and Practical Guide for Anyone with Asperger's Syndrome, Living Well on the Spectrum and Too Loud, Too Bright, Too Fast, Too Tight: What to Do If You Are Sensory Defensive in an Overstimulating World.
Too Bright, etc, is a book on sensory processing disorder. While not autism, it might explain some of the problems I have been having. I digested From the Inside Out in an evening's sitting. It rang incredibly true, but I have to say, I don't think that I am as disconnected/rude as the people telling their stories. I function better. Also, the author folks seem pretty ready advocate for Aspergers. Where's all the social isolation and anxiety/depression?
Good reason to see a shrink.
Which is why I liked Living Well the best. Charts. Lots of behavior charts and how to help use your strengths to make up for your trouble spots. I like this approach best since it is not to far from what I did at Southwest Counseling. I will use this book whether I am on the spectrum or not. I have a definite pattern of strengths and weaknesses consistent with Asperger's, that's for sure.
I feel so grateful and blessed to finally have some insight to my fool self!
Too Bright, etc, is a book on sensory processing disorder. While not autism, it might explain some of the problems I have been having. I digested From the Inside Out in an evening's sitting. It rang incredibly true, but I have to say, I don't think that I am as disconnected/rude as the people telling their stories. I function better. Also, the author folks seem pretty ready advocate for Aspergers. Where's all the social isolation and anxiety/depression?
Good reason to see a shrink.
Which is why I liked Living Well the best. Charts. Lots of behavior charts and how to help use your strengths to make up for your trouble spots. I like this approach best since it is not to far from what I did at Southwest Counseling. I will use this book whether I am on the spectrum or not. I have a definite pattern of strengths and weaknesses consistent with Asperger's, that's for sure.
I feel so grateful and blessed to finally have some insight to my fool self!
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
First Therapist Appointment
Sometimes I get so hung up and obsessed over details, that I can't communicate the big things that happen to me until much later. It is just so ovewhelming.
I saw the doctor today and was a nervous wreck. I could not look at him and clenched my hands around my journal to keep them from flying off my arms and escaping through the window. He was kind and compassionate and it took him almost an hour of gentle questioning and listening to get me relaxed. But I got there.
We left the meeting with an appointment for next week. I asked about my thinking on Aspergers and he said that we need to evaluate my social history and one other thing (I am so paralyzed now I can't recall). It was his opinion that I very likely do have Aspergers. He reminded me that women present different than men and that might help me to answer more questions about the diagnosis.
Holy crap.
I saw the doctor today and was a nervous wreck. I could not look at him and clenched my hands around my journal to keep them from flying off my arms and escaping through the window. He was kind and compassionate and it took him almost an hour of gentle questioning and listening to get me relaxed. But I got there.
We left the meeting with an appointment for next week. I asked about my thinking on Aspergers and he said that we need to evaluate my social history and one other thing (I am so paralyzed now I can't recall). It was his opinion that I very likely do have Aspergers. He reminded me that women present different than men and that might help me to answer more questions about the diagnosis.
Holy crap.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Therapist
Well, I did it.
Yesterday morning, I gulped a lungful of air and dialed the Asperger’s Association of New England (AANE). A fellow named Max smoothly answered the phone. I blurted out my story in a disjointed stream of consciousness monologue.
Yesterday morning, I gulped a lungful of air and dialed the Asperger’s Association of New England (AANE). A fellow named Max smoothly answered the phone. I blurted out my story in a disjointed stream of consciousness monologue.
Monday, April 4, 2011
Autism Spectrum Questionnaire
Sure, I took the Autism Spectrum Quotient Questionnaire. I took it a few years ago, at the suggestion of a fellow blogger from Livejournal. Since "eighty percent of those diagnosed with autism or a related disorder scored 32 or higher, " I was surprised. I scored above 40. Naturally, I discounted the test, but not before passing it on to my parents.
Mom wouldn't even consider it at the time, but I recall that I unearthed several more diagnostic questionnaires, (which I am certain to gather and post) and passed them on. Annoyed, mom couldn't bother with something "dug up on the Internet." She didn't want him to fret. Heh.
Dad and I are very much alike. He would have fretted. And we did fret over Tyoma's diagnosis. Asperger's.
And now, I'm wondering. About the broad autism phenotype. About my sensory issues, social issues and failure to thrive when my intelligence should have hauled me through. I'm looking for data, lists, surveys, questionnaires. I am trying to take all the disparate and strange bits of information about my life, my whole life and put them into a big picture. I am seeing autism. Or am I?
I doubt myself fundamentally. Doctors said, "Anxiety, ulcers, depression, Epstein-Barr." So what is it? Without knowing that both my son and father are on the spectrum, I would have never though about Asperger's. I'd be googling my favorite stuff, organizing, and avoiding cooking.
I need some one to talk to about all this. Someone reliable and experienced. Someone who's seen aspies and won't dismiss me or lead me astray. Someone who knows the difference between "typical" and "autism spectrum." I need to know if this is what's going on with me and if not what can I do to manage my life with my son better. I'm desparate here. Life shouldn't be this hard.
Mom wouldn't even consider it at the time, but I recall that I unearthed several more diagnostic questionnaires, (which I am certain to gather and post) and passed them on. Annoyed, mom couldn't bother with something "dug up on the Internet." She didn't want him to fret. Heh.
Dad and I are very much alike. He would have fretted. And we did fret over Tyoma's diagnosis. Asperger's.
And now, I'm wondering. About the broad autism phenotype. About my sensory issues, social issues and failure to thrive when my intelligence should have hauled me through. I'm looking for data, lists, surveys, questionnaires. I am trying to take all the disparate and strange bits of information about my life, my whole life and put them into a big picture. I am seeing autism. Or am I?
I doubt myself fundamentally. Doctors said, "Anxiety, ulcers, depression, Epstein-Barr." So what is it? Without knowing that both my son and father are on the spectrum, I would have never though about Asperger's. I'd be googling my favorite stuff, organizing, and avoiding cooking.
I need some one to talk to about all this. Someone reliable and experienced. Someone who's seen aspies and won't dismiss me or lead me astray. Someone who knows the difference between "typical" and "autism spectrum." I need to know if this is what's going on with me and if not what can I do to manage my life with my son better. I'm desparate here. Life shouldn't be this hard.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Theory of Mind
I founf an awsome article on Theory of Mind. Sure, I've read the term a bazillion times in D'oh I need to put my own content here--it's on its way.
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