Dear Word Press Readers:
I have utterly no idea what has happened. I have absolutely no idea what is happening. I have fallen benumbed to the abyssal of obliviousness pertaining to the patterns succeeding the events aforementioned in sheer abandonment of comprehension and ecumenicism. In other words, I am on the autistic spectrum and I got married. After the passing of three years, not only am I still married, but I have also accomplished the endeavors of leading a quite successful marriage. Yet if you were to ask me the parameters in the essence of specificity in which the “how” became the “induction”, I would say… but, I already told you what I said (see beginning of paragraph).
It is good to be writing again. I love writing. No, no I really, really love writing. The stroking of the keys and my ability to manipulate words and phrases via the absence of real-time conversation of interpersonal socialization is bliss. Since the genesis of this writing blog I know many herein have become followers due to their direct relation to ASD or that they are diagnosees of the disorder themselves. So it would be assumable that any such mentioned reader can easily relate to the idealism associate with what I can say obsesses my mind, heart, body and soul in matters of pure escape from a world which functions via a chaos in which a Rick and Morty show, in comparison, is more like watching 2001: A Space Odyssey. Writing is simpler. Writing is slower. Writing, for all intents and purposes, is not performed in real-time. A great analogy (if you’re a gamer you can relate to this. If you are not a gamer, the analogy is easily discernible) can be seen in video games of a role-playing nature. Most RPG’s can typically allow or rather permit an option to “stop-time” or simply “pause” the game without subtracting the players abilities to alter stats, change directions or manipulate moves or even exchange equipped items. Thus, as the moment in time would verily be willingly and unilaterally resumed via only the discretion of the sole player, advantages would have therefore been evoked for the lead/sole player alone; for the enemies to have fallen victim to the power for which is given that player. It is this function of writing to which comforts me: the omission of real-time in the allowance of liberal manipulation. Most importantly, I am free and rescued from articles of unwanted prejudice: I am allotted the totality of my heart and my fingers to communicate it as thus. Yet in the level of accredited reception to the reader, that power lies outside my realm of evocation and entirely to you, the reader. Verily is exposited so commonly among creators: “I/we hope you enjoy it!”
Marriage is hard. Imagine that you have a panging migraine wherefore exposure to lights and sounds induces acute hypersensitivity accompanied by a full-time job requiring moving on your feet rapidly and answering/returning phone calls promptly– your shift ends in 3 hours and 30 minutes and you are approached by a disgruntled customer– for the 3rd time: you’re not diagnosed with Autism. For a diagnosee that is high-functioning on the spectrum, this is just another Tuesday. Now, I just learned (or rather was more comprehensively acquainted) with the term “masking”. I look normal. I act normal. I gesticulate normally (more or less. I have lots of overt stemming. I blow on my hands all the time). I walk normally. I even speak normally. I used to speak like I was Spock on Star Trek, and that is an under-exaggeration. Masking is the torture in which I have partaken unwittingly all my life: it is a torture. My natural behavior would give appearance that I was either mentally challenged, mentally ill or both. But because I was forced to “behave” and no one knowing why I was “misbehaving”, I took it upon myself, in total obliviousness that I was doing so, to “behave” more appropriately. However, such endeavors induce the uttermost effort and an epitome of concentration; equal to that of running a double-marathon in the middle of summer within Death Valley while wearing a wool, winter suite– that is wet– with old wine– cheap, old wine– from the cheap, old wine dispensary from a winery, counter spittoon after it had been sitting out in the hot sun for 13, no fourteen days. Therefore, living with Autism under the disposition that I wanted to “fit-in” necessitated living situations that required the highest ideal of OCD. Moreover, efforts to more effectively “fit-in” lead disastrously to ramifications in which the exact opposing desired outcome befell me. Thus, an even greater chasm of OCD interred its cremated sulfur into my life as the factoring walls of self-imposed exile reared more avidly among my egregiously growing need for exile. I am sure I mentioned my suicides in previous entries. Safe to say they all failed, yet my attempts were not ham-handed gestures of gaining attention: this was sheer panic for escape. So, currently, I live, share and all otherwise confide my personal space to another person; a woman; my wife. Efficaciously, marriage is hard. (I regret nothing).
I’m exhausted, but that from writing. Despite the difficulty of life, marriage and even attempting to work, and despite my negation of remonstrations of it, I always stand amazed at my strength for which is invoked through it. Notwithstanding, writing is a task which will deplete all forces of spirit and life (though not negatively) in that for whom invokes that of which writing effects its most dogmatic of iterations via forms by designs of which God intended. That is what I just did. Blessings to you, all my readers. Praying to God for your wellness and good welfare and perpetuated health. Grace and peace upon you all. Thank you for reading (here it comes) and I hope you enjoyed it!
-The Giver of Words.