I haven't posted in a while. I haven't know what to say, honestly.
I said that I would talk about the birthday party from hell, and how I got the cut on my arm, but I was wary of delving into the details for fear that I would get depressed or overly emotional or stuck in the past that is gone forever and can never be changed. Now, I simply feel no need to revisit those scenes. There is no catharsis to be gained from them.
Two days ago, I got in touch with an old friend. Cowgirl, to be specific, the first and only girl with whom I've gotten hot and heavy (outdated references, yay!). We hadn't spoken in years. I sent her a message on Facebook, apologizing for the asshole that I had been. It was something I'd been thinking about doing for a couple of months. It's easy for me to carry guilt, as it seems to be for a lot of Aspies, and I knew that the dissolution of our relationship was partly my fault. I felt that she deserved an apology. But I lacked the courage to ever say anything to her. I just knew that she hated me, that she never wanted anything to do with me ever again.
Boy, was I wrong.
Two days, and it's like nothing's changed, as if those years apart didn't exist, except to make us both better people. I don't understand it, but I also don't care. I'm happy. I have someone to support me, someone that loves me and will always love me, who knows that I have Asperger's and who said, "It explains a lot." I don't mind who I am right now. That is a very funny feeling. But I am definitely not complaining.
So, I no longer want to change the past, nor do I want to revisit it. It's gone, dead and buried, and nothing will ever change that. The only benefit the past has is that it can teach me; I can understand people's motivations and feelings and fears. At the birthday party from hell, I hurt Sayla by being cold to her, and she hurt herself because of it. That in turn hurt me. Alcohol was involved, as well as some horny guys that deserve to be shot for messing around with a young drunk girl. I'll never forgive them for that. I hated it, she hated it, and I think we both wished that things had happened completely differently. But the past can't be changed. All I can do is know that Sayla has suffered and try to think of things that will help her and not make her feel bad.
As for the cut on my arm, that came about because I was stupid and naive, plain and simple. I had lied to myself about Sayla and didn't believe what she was, and when faced with the undeniable truth of the matter, I couldn't handle it. I got hit my Lil' Slugger. ("Lil' Slugger seems to target people in crisis, and the attacks, though violent, lead to some improvement in the life of the victim . . . Lil' Slugger is a supernatural force, driven to rescue the desperate from their tragedies through violence," from the Paranoia Agent Wikipedia page.) That may not make any sense to anybody, but I understand it. When you're stressed out and can't take it anymore, Lil' Slugger comes along and hits you with his bat. When this happens, you are able to skirt responsibility. It's not your fault - Lil' Slugger did it. People can't expect anything from you, not for a while. You have to rest, recuperate from your ordeal.
The scar is a sign of my shame. I wasn't understanding; I wasn't accepting of her. But it is proof of how far I've come. Understanding and accepting are my best traits now. It's fitting that the scar is covered with hair and hard to see. I think I may even forget I have it one day.
So, instead of drudging up the past, I'm going to try to use this blog to talk about important things. Like what, I have no idea at the moment, but I'm sure most posts will involve Asperger's and/or concern for others. There may be wisdom, there may be relate-able anecdotes, there may be a light into the mind of someone called great by a handful of people. Who the hell really knows? But it should all be worth something, to someone.
Thursday, February 23, 2012
Monday, February 13, 2012
That Good Night
People don't know what suicide is. The vast majority, at least. To them, it's the coward's way out, or a surprise that no one saw coming. Idiots.
Suicide is a beast, rampaging through your mind, until one day you finally get trampled by it. You never choose to stop and let it get you. It's a matter of fatigue. You fall over because you can't run anymore. Imagine what drowning is like - you kick and beat the water, not wanting to go under, but eventually you run out of energy, and there is nothing you can do. That's suicide.
There are always signs. Just because you don't see them doesn't mean they're not there. They may be little, but if you really cared about a person, you'd notice them. And if you didn't care about the person, you have no right to moan and complain when they're gone. You may not be at fault if your friend or loved one or family members kills him/herself; you may have noticed the signs and tried to help them, and they didn't, or couldn't, accept your help, or maybe it simply wasn't enough. It's not your fault, no more than it's the fault of the dead.
A few weeks ago, I was happy. But one night, as I lay in my bed, I suddenly felt that I should die. I shivered beneath the blanket, afraid. I didn't want to die, but I felt that it was inevitable. Suicide was my shadow, always chasing me and covering me, almost like a protector.
It will always be there, for me and for so many other people. Every time I hear, "It was such a shock" or "She was such a happy girl" or "I wish I'd known," it makes me want to stick my fist through a wall. I'm here, I'm right here! So was she, and him and her and him and him and her and everyone else that slit their wrists or shot themselves or took a handful of pills or stuck a noose around their necks. You don't have to help us, I know I wouldn't want someone to overtax themselves for my sake, even if my life was at stake, but don't you dare act like our death, our suffering, cost you a damn thing if you couldn't even see that we were hurting.
Suicide is a beast, rampaging through your mind, until one day you finally get trampled by it. You never choose to stop and let it get you. It's a matter of fatigue. You fall over because you can't run anymore. Imagine what drowning is like - you kick and beat the water, not wanting to go under, but eventually you run out of energy, and there is nothing you can do. That's suicide.
There are always signs. Just because you don't see them doesn't mean they're not there. They may be little, but if you really cared about a person, you'd notice them. And if you didn't care about the person, you have no right to moan and complain when they're gone. You may not be at fault if your friend or loved one or family members kills him/herself; you may have noticed the signs and tried to help them, and they didn't, or couldn't, accept your help, or maybe it simply wasn't enough. It's not your fault, no more than it's the fault of the dead.
A few weeks ago, I was happy. But one night, as I lay in my bed, I suddenly felt that I should die. I shivered beneath the blanket, afraid. I didn't want to die, but I felt that it was inevitable. Suicide was my shadow, always chasing me and covering me, almost like a protector.
It will always be there, for me and for so many other people. Every time I hear, "It was such a shock" or "She was such a happy girl" or "I wish I'd known," it makes me want to stick my fist through a wall. I'm here, I'm right here! So was she, and him and her and him and him and her and everyone else that slit their wrists or shot themselves or took a handful of pills or stuck a noose around their necks. You don't have to help us, I know I wouldn't want someone to overtax themselves for my sake, even if my life was at stake, but don't you dare act like our death, our suffering, cost you a damn thing if you couldn't even see that we were hurting.
Friday, February 3, 2012
The Long Summer
This is the continuation of the story of my first love and the events that have impacted my life the most. I'm not exaggerating there, and once the whole story is told, it should be clear why everything affected me the way it did, and for as long as it did. But this is part two, the middle.
When I left off, it was summer, and Sayla and I had been phone friends for a while. I had told her that I "liked" her, but we never agreed to start dating. I cannot recall exactly why, but it might have had something to do with us not being able to see each other much. It's hard to consider a relationship that takes place entirely over the phone a real relationship. I also don't remember why we couldn't see each other much. School was out, and neither of us had jobs or anything we had to do. We simply may not have been able to get to one another. Her mother and stepfather worked during the day, I believe, and my parents probably did, too. I wonder if things would have been any different had we lived closer (where it took an hour or less to walk from one house to the other) or been able to secure rides so we could spend time with each other. Everything might have still worked out the same though.
We talked all the time on the phone. Countless hours. It was practically like we were dating. We talked about everything, and as I mentioned before, we masturbated while talking to each other. Sort of like phone sex, but there wasn't a lot of role-playing. It was pretty much us feeling good, knowing that the other person was also feeling good, and talking about how good we felt. When I tell people how many girlfriends I've had, I say two; I'm counting Sayla, even though we never officially said we were dating and never did anything physical, but when you've heard a person have an orgasm, and have talked to them while they were masturbating, I think it's acceptable to say that you were going out. (Plus, it feels wrong to say that I've only dated one girl. First, it's a really low number. Two is a low number, but one is really fucking low. Second, Sayla and I cared for each other. I don't know how she would refer to me, if I'd been something like an ex-boyfriend or just a friend, but she's dated a lot of guys. She doesn't need to add to the total. I do.)
I believe that summer was also when I bought her a vibrator. It was a simple thing, only about $11 at the Spencer's in the local mall. It was glow-in-the-dark, waterproof, and had three different heads you could put on it, little caps that went on the top of it that created different sensations, I guess. It's weird, thinking about it. I bought a 14-year-old girl a vibrator. Granted, I was 17 at the time, but it still sounds weird. And creepy.
The thing about Sayla is, she was promiscuous. Like I said, when I met her, she claimed to be a nymphomaniac, and she wasn't lying. She was bisexual and liked both men and women very much, and had been with who knows how many people of both genders. She probably had more sex by the time she was 14 then I will ever have in my life. Now, I'm not judging her, nor am I saying these things out of anger or hatred. I'm just telling the truth. See, her promiscuity makes some sense. She was molested as a child, and then raped when she was either 12 or 13. The way she put it is, "I figured God didn't want me to be a virgin." At one point during the years I knew her, she also said something along the lines of, "I was molested, and that makes me want to do a lot of sexual things, and I don't like that, but I can't help it." I've met a number of girls that were molested, and they all seemed to struggle with sexual urges. I don't know why that is, but molestation really messes with the brain. I can't fault a person for being messed up.
Anyways, back to the story. Sayla and I were very close. But during June, I believe, she went down to Florida to visit her grandmother. She was gone two weeks, I believe. We still talked on the phone a lot, using phone cards. One night while talking to her, she told me that she didn't think she would go out with me when she got back. I felt terrible. Beyond terrible. The one girl that had liked me, had really liked me and opened up my world, had shown me what it was like to have a real friend that liked to talk to me and accepted me, was rejecting me.
I don't remember much of the conversation. This was more than eight years ago, mind you. I'm lucky to be able to remember any details at all. She said that we probably wouldn't go out, and I was crushed. This is just a hunch, but I think that she had had sex with someone down there. Hanging out with people, having some fun, got horny, and fucked somebody. She felt guilty about it, knew that I wanted her all to myself, that that sort of relationship was what I expected, and didn't think she could give me that. I think she was trying to protect me. I can't fault her for that, even if I do think it was the wrong decision. But she didn't know how I would react.
I turned in. I wanted to be completely alone. It was like I had spikes coming out of my body, to keep anybody from getting close to me. I made an especially rude comment to Sayla. For my birthday, which is in the middle of July, I went to see Metallica, a band I'd loved for years, down in Atlanta with some friends. When I got back, I was telling her about the concert, and I said, "It was the best thing that's happened to me this summer." I knew it'd hurt her; I wanted it to. I felt like, if I couldn't be with her, then what was the point of us getting so close? I regret that comment even now, perhaps because it is still so vivid in my mind.
I was reading a book about Buddhism as the summer was coming to a close. It helped me to wall myself in even more. Buddhism teaches to discard wants and desires; I tried to discard my desire to be with Sayla, though in the end I only managed to discard my concern for her. I was angry at her. I lashed out at her. I'd feel bad about it, apologize, and try to be nice, but that would make me want to be with her again, and that's make me angry, both at her and myself.
That summer, those few months, are what I remember the most about my relationship (personal, not romantic) with Sayla, which lasted for years. It's hard to imagine that so much could happen in three months. But so much did, especially at the end of July/beginning of August.
I hadn't had a birthday party in July, because I didn't have any friends I talked to outside of school (aside from Sayla), and Sayla's birthday was at the beginning of August. We decided to have an early party for her that would also serve as a late party for me. Great idea, right? Well, neither of us could arrange a party by ourselves, so we had a third person, a girl we both knew (though I didn't know her that well and had never really spent any time around her), throw a party and invite people, procure beverages, and the like. Great idea, right? Yeah, it was wonderful. A night to remember. The story of the worst birthday party ever. At least, the worst I've ever been to, and one of the chief reasons I don't drink around people.
When I left off, it was summer, and Sayla and I had been phone friends for a while. I had told her that I "liked" her, but we never agreed to start dating. I cannot recall exactly why, but it might have had something to do with us not being able to see each other much. It's hard to consider a relationship that takes place entirely over the phone a real relationship. I also don't remember why we couldn't see each other much. School was out, and neither of us had jobs or anything we had to do. We simply may not have been able to get to one another. Her mother and stepfather worked during the day, I believe, and my parents probably did, too. I wonder if things would have been any different had we lived closer (where it took an hour or less to walk from one house to the other) or been able to secure rides so we could spend time with each other. Everything might have still worked out the same though.
We talked all the time on the phone. Countless hours. It was practically like we were dating. We talked about everything, and as I mentioned before, we masturbated while talking to each other. Sort of like phone sex, but there wasn't a lot of role-playing. It was pretty much us feeling good, knowing that the other person was also feeling good, and talking about how good we felt. When I tell people how many girlfriends I've had, I say two; I'm counting Sayla, even though we never officially said we were dating and never did anything physical, but when you've heard a person have an orgasm, and have talked to them while they were masturbating, I think it's acceptable to say that you were going out. (Plus, it feels wrong to say that I've only dated one girl. First, it's a really low number. Two is a low number, but one is really fucking low. Second, Sayla and I cared for each other. I don't know how she would refer to me, if I'd been something like an ex-boyfriend or just a friend, but she's dated a lot of guys. She doesn't need to add to the total. I do.)
I believe that summer was also when I bought her a vibrator. It was a simple thing, only about $11 at the Spencer's in the local mall. It was glow-in-the-dark, waterproof, and had three different heads you could put on it, little caps that went on the top of it that created different sensations, I guess. It's weird, thinking about it. I bought a 14-year-old girl a vibrator. Granted, I was 17 at the time, but it still sounds weird. And creepy.
The thing about Sayla is, she was promiscuous. Like I said, when I met her, she claimed to be a nymphomaniac, and she wasn't lying. She was bisexual and liked both men and women very much, and had been with who knows how many people of both genders. She probably had more sex by the time she was 14 then I will ever have in my life. Now, I'm not judging her, nor am I saying these things out of anger or hatred. I'm just telling the truth. See, her promiscuity makes some sense. She was molested as a child, and then raped when she was either 12 or 13. The way she put it is, "I figured God didn't want me to be a virgin." At one point during the years I knew her, she also said something along the lines of, "I was molested, and that makes me want to do a lot of sexual things, and I don't like that, but I can't help it." I've met a number of girls that were molested, and they all seemed to struggle with sexual urges. I don't know why that is, but molestation really messes with the brain. I can't fault a person for being messed up.
Anyways, back to the story. Sayla and I were very close. But during June, I believe, she went down to Florida to visit her grandmother. She was gone two weeks, I believe. We still talked on the phone a lot, using phone cards. One night while talking to her, she told me that she didn't think she would go out with me when she got back. I felt terrible. Beyond terrible. The one girl that had liked me, had really liked me and opened up my world, had shown me what it was like to have a real friend that liked to talk to me and accepted me, was rejecting me.
I don't remember much of the conversation. This was more than eight years ago, mind you. I'm lucky to be able to remember any details at all. She said that we probably wouldn't go out, and I was crushed. This is just a hunch, but I think that she had had sex with someone down there. Hanging out with people, having some fun, got horny, and fucked somebody. She felt guilty about it, knew that I wanted her all to myself, that that sort of relationship was what I expected, and didn't think she could give me that. I think she was trying to protect me. I can't fault her for that, even if I do think it was the wrong decision. But she didn't know how I would react.
I turned in. I wanted to be completely alone. It was like I had spikes coming out of my body, to keep anybody from getting close to me. I made an especially rude comment to Sayla. For my birthday, which is in the middle of July, I went to see Metallica, a band I'd loved for years, down in Atlanta with some friends. When I got back, I was telling her about the concert, and I said, "It was the best thing that's happened to me this summer." I knew it'd hurt her; I wanted it to. I felt like, if I couldn't be with her, then what was the point of us getting so close? I regret that comment even now, perhaps because it is still so vivid in my mind.
I was reading a book about Buddhism as the summer was coming to a close. It helped me to wall myself in even more. Buddhism teaches to discard wants and desires; I tried to discard my desire to be with Sayla, though in the end I only managed to discard my concern for her. I was angry at her. I lashed out at her. I'd feel bad about it, apologize, and try to be nice, but that would make me want to be with her again, and that's make me angry, both at her and myself.
That summer, those few months, are what I remember the most about my relationship (personal, not romantic) with Sayla, which lasted for years. It's hard to imagine that so much could happen in three months. But so much did, especially at the end of July/beginning of August.
I hadn't had a birthday party in July, because I didn't have any friends I talked to outside of school (aside from Sayla), and Sayla's birthday was at the beginning of August. We decided to have an early party for her that would also serve as a late party for me. Great idea, right? Well, neither of us could arrange a party by ourselves, so we had a third person, a girl we both knew (though I didn't know her that well and had never really spent any time around her), throw a party and invite people, procure beverages, and the like. Great idea, right? Yeah, it was wonderful. A night to remember. The story of the worst birthday party ever. At least, the worst I've ever been to, and one of the chief reasons I don't drink around people.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)