Two earthquakes have occurred coincided by our nation’s two hundred and forty third birthday. I’ve had a strange way about it, this past fortnight. Inwardly, such a turmoil as behest at the hand of one diagnosed, so late, mind thee, of Autism, I am bound by a great anger and bitterness towards more so myself than that of any selected party or person. I found it that my subjectivity is frighteningly bedraggled and mired by the befuddlement for which the Hell, as I call it, my Autism induces within me. And that, to be sure, is what I call a “good day.” Other happenstances only trigger that for which a brimstone-boiling world of the lake of fire does poor justice to the symbolism of what anyone on the spectrum would simply call: I hate my life.
The earthquakes, to be sure, were quite daunting. All the more potent upon the heightened emotions of Southern California in that the epicenter recorded in the vicinity of a 6.2 to 6.4. The aftershock I felt not 15 minutes prior to my very writing within my WordPress blog. And it is in this affect I wish to make mention of a certain qualm, having aforementioned. Here, observe.
My nuptials of not three years past had only spliced into my soul a quantum dichotomy between two worlds. One, heretofore, having surely been mentioned in the past of our correspondences; delving into my psyche for which many and all that I called “beloved” came to a bitterly harsh term of the reality which is where I lie; thusly bringing this statement of its latter point in which a matter of my stress and anxiety is a moribund affair of perpetual depression. My wife and I have had much the disputation, rendered all the normal in what newly married individuals statistically face within their early times. However, inasmuch as I would have thee believe that one such as myself has had a quite profitable time of fruition, compounded by the hand of God in which stands before thee now a bold, bound-for-success and uprightly sanctioned man of hardy conditioning, there is a side of me that rests (“rests” to which the word fallen heretofore upon thine ears not to be taken lightly but with great consciousness) in an opposition as Hell “rests” against its alternate Heaven.
To come right out with it: this opposite is anger. One might assess a word herein chosen as a rightly classified way of a subjective mind in which judgments are based in a fairly rational state. Much more rightly taken to the account of accuracy does a botanist have to say that a dead plant is, in fact dead, a blossoming rose is in fact, blossomed. Nonetheless, analyzing such a worded phrase pertaining to the writer, as in me, one must give credence that, although the assessment of anger in which the rage dwells due to a pent up and most likely elevated storm of reserved feelings not yet reconciled to the dealer of it, it is moreover the magnitude behind the word of “anger” in which the reader/analyzer must obtain a fact behind my subjectively stated word to be given the proper realization in its fullness of function. The magnitude behind my anger falls into a realm where rage, fury and Hell-hath-no exist quite obsolete or utterly nonexistent. Calculations behind the Czar Bomba (the largest man-made explosion in the history of the world) have penetrated the human’s capacity for magical realism; in that the Czar Bomba, having only detonated once, was surely one-time too many. It’s destructive force concluded naught should ever in mankind’s existence be ever exhibited lest our way of life be compromised in perpetual insanity. My level of anger dwarfs this force.
When I solemnly partook in writing my last entry, I felt a release that hadn’t happened for some time. I was subsequently cast into a mold of somewhat mild comfort. As it would have it, other acts of God, myself or man have surely given my pause in a respite of my anger. Such inclusions into the nepenthe of my autistic psyche needed naught more than a full-body massage, a glass of fine wine bestowed by my beloved parents, my wife having given me a quill and ink-well as a gift from her absconding to London not 2 years prior. Ironically, though, it was that very notion for which I truly felt the hand and voice of God continue to compel upon me that pull to this keyboard; in which the healing and, all the more so, the therapy through which such rage can be better and, more to the point of restitution, efficiently channeled. Make no mistake, friends, I have imagined quite the hysteria of outcomes far more gruesome in grotesqueries of luciferin malevolence in contrast to anger far too built up that my conscious had, more often than what is even humane inside my own morality of a soul, concocted.
Ergo, I return to my writing.
I’ve had a bloody way of it. Restricting my code of conduct to perform in society quite debased in speech, etiquette and conduct of civility only to slot my way into what society deems to address as “normal”. As an autistic savant, I have felt endless hypocrisy on my part. But what my spirit raises in anger lies only in its inhumanity forth into this paradox I sit and await further torture; for to manage societal outcomes of neurological typicality, I must hence embark onto a path of torture which must evoke commonality of report nestled by the back-lash for which my cognition must lay waste. Slangs, colloquialisms and nomenclatures of such useless verbiage allow my gag reflex to only evoke when I’m before my toilet. Nevertheless, I hate it.
Herein is not my escape. Herein, upon this white page of infinity is my injection of health; a sort of inoculation from the miasma of human speech I’ve been subjected to quite forcibly. Much worse is my need to do so under the spell of what I feel is society’s eventual crush of the human speech as our smart phones and automated voice-recognition software take our modes of humanity until all utilities and functions of the human circulatory and muscular system lay themselves obsolete.
I write, therefore I am.
I am seeking an Autism corporation with sensory zones and other areas for which atypical individuals (hopefully adults) may allow themselves a sort of “self-imposed” purge. I tell thee, if it were not for my discovery of so purging my common place vernacular upon a website designed to invoke our right to the first amendment, an eruption of my emotions would affect my wife, whom I love, and potentially those around me. In fact, it is known to me that the younger of the flock diagnosed on the Autism spectrum—a luxury I was never privy to, having been diagnosed at the ripe age of 20—are hurled quite often into tantrums in which we are so compelled to snuff out. Behavior management is just that. But we, on the spectrum, need a release; being forced to live as neuro-typical persons as opposed to neuro-atypical. Hopefully I can find a place which would allow me to, perhaps, safely exude my pent up emotions. It is this anger I fully acknowledge and I love far too much the act of writing, music, my wife, God etc to have any of it at risk of my Czar Bomba explosion of emotions due to this societies idiocies! As such, my last point is to emphasis a need from any and all readers to respond to such as myself outside a realm of judgment and understand that Autism is only a problem if those who are not diagnosees so make it a problem. Thus the telling in honesty all I have herein said, ere you make your own assessments—Heaven forbid in wonton wanting of knowledge and understanding—please, I am a struggling autistic savant who can function in society better than those who are not autistic. That is the problem, for when I return home or find my time to myself, I want to scream so loud that the universe implode upon itself only to return through the blast of a super-nova that sucks it in again for a constant strain of preternatural apocalypse.
Blessed be, readers. I am me and I love to create beautiful things. My purging upon this blog is not necessarily one of them. The Hunchback of Notre Dame is one of the greatest tragedies ever written. Yet, the story is so compelling. Perhaps these entries, hence, shall be also.
-The Giver of Words.