Topic: I'm not a monster

If I could take a single snapshot of myself as a child, it would be of me as a little girl looking out the window watching the children play. A child wishing to join in, but too afraid to step outside and ask "can I play?" Maybe if she had asked, they would have let her join in the circle. But repeatedly being a victim of bullying, she didn't dare risk rejection. She maintained her distance on the sidelines where she felt safe.

She compensated the loneliness with retreating into a world of make-believe where she could be anybody she wanted to be. She made up a cast of characters who let her join their circle. In this world, she got to take part and play the starring role. And when she invariably got caught acting strange, pacing back and forth, talking to herself, she'd bear the brunt of the laughing of children and the bewilderment of grown-ups.

I was diagnosed with the Autism Spectrum Disorder (ASD) recently at the age of 58. Before the diagnosis, it was like walking in pitch black darkness. The diagnosis was the light bulb. While taking the various ASD on-line testing, I came across Alexithymia. I took the test and got the results of "123 points: You show high alexithymic traits."

The Alexithymia forum is hitting as close to home as the ASD. For example, I have never liked goodbyes. I recall like yetersday of dreading the visit to Grandma and Grandpa's or other relatives where a hug would be required or at least requested. I didn't dread seeing Grandma and Grandpa, but I dreaded the "demanded" hug from Grandma when we got there and when we left to go back home.

I don't like goodbyes!!! I've only been to a handful of funerals in my life. I hate them and find no comfort in them. When in my 20's I went to my Grandma's funeral, I did not cry. I had a terrible unforgettable nightmare that night after the funeral where I dreamed she came up out of the coffin. I didn't want her to come back. Not as she was, suffering so. It wasn't that I forgot about her after she passed. When I set up a blog a week ago to share my stories of "Life on the Spectrum", I wrote a story about her. I thought she would have liked that. So I do care for her in my own way, but I don't miss her.

I don't miss Grandpa either, but I'd like to think he was proud of me for being his little sister's, my Great Aunt, pen pal for the last five years of her life. I didn't do it just for him, but I did think of it as my own way of honoring him. When she died, I did cry. I never met her, but that didn't matter. She and I shared the same passion of writing. I still have all her letters. I don't take them out to read them, but I won't throw them away. I don't miss writing her. I trust she's in a better place with her one and only love of her life that she often wrote me about.

When I left my hometown in 1991, I didn't want to hug my Mom goodbye but she insisted. I will hug my Mom but it it's a rare occurrence. I don't feel comfortable when she touches me such as her putting her hand on my shoulder. I don't let on about it though and I don't know why it bothers me. It just does. Now other people can touch me or even hug me and I won't mind a bit. It might be someone I just met who I feel as comfortable with as an old shoe or someone I've known for years who I can talk to from sunup to sundown. But those of my immediate family, or others I feel uncomfortable with, I don't want to hug. I'll always gladly take one from a child at school though.

I never wanted to hug my Dad. He would hold me down when I was little and I'd beg my Mom over and over again, "Please make him let me go." The sad truth is, I didn't see him so much as my Dad, but as a bully. A family friend who knew me since birth has often told the story of how when I was just learning to walk that I would run to Mom but NOT to Dad. A psychologist told me once that even very small children recognize who they are safe with and who they are not. When she would tell that story, I would pretend to be amused, masking my true feelings. I was afraid of him even when he resided in a memory care facility in the last months of his life. I didn't want him to recognize me and want a hug. I was terrified of that and kept my distance but went with my Mom to visit so she wouldn't have to do it alone. When he passed away, I didn't feel what people expected me to feel. I didn't hide my feelings of grief; I hid the lack of them.

My Dad wasn't a monster. I think he had some mental problems that were never diagnosed. He did good in his life but he had his problems. I figure if I knew what had made him so angry, I'd have a better understanding of why he couldn't properly show affection to me and my brothers. Perhaps the emotional trauma of holding me down as he did, among other things, contributed to my getting the score of 123. It wasn't entirely his fault just as it wasn't entirely his fault he was the way he was.

When I watch my brother play with his grandkids, I envy him. I wonder if I did not have ASD and Alexithymia, if I would have some to spoil rotten. I am aesexual and have been all my life. I remember my first date and when the young man, the pastor's son, put his hand on my leg, I felt sick inside. I didn't handle it well after that. The poor guy never understood why I didn't go out with him again.

The past can't be changed or relived. But my diagnosis is like a piece of paper declaring I'm not crazy. The other postings in this forum give me comfort in knowing I'm not paddling in the boat alone. My job gives me numerous opportunities to help young ones who struggle with what I struggled with and still do. When I help a child who has autism or ADHD or is like the little girl in the window, I can do for them what I wish had been done for me. I am determined that through helping others, I will not have suffered in vain.

I don't like goodbyes!!! I've only been to a handful of funerals in my life. I hate them and find no comfort in them. When in my 20's I went to my Grandma's funeral, I did not cry.

I can't bring myself to cry for the dead. They're dead, that's that. I sometimes cry for those left, behind, but never the dead.

I've never really cried for any of our dogs or cats being put down, not for very long. I cried when my most recent cat threw a clot from her heart, paralysing her back legs. We'd just taken her home from the vet, who said it could happen any day - in a week, in a year. It happened in the cat carrier on the way home in the car. I cried for about thirty minutes, then accepted it was probably the end for her.

I cried when our last dog was put down for about ten minutes, but only because I wished that people could be allowed to die like that - going to sleep in the sun after a day of love, fuss and good food before terminal illness ruins it all.

I didn't cry for my grandmother when she died - dementia had taken all that she was (and I'd never got on with her anyway). But I also didn't cry for her family - my family - because for us it was a relief too.

I am determined that through helping others, I will not have suffered in vain.
Amen to that. I am grimly determined to be a positive force in the world.