asd=vulcan

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I never quite learned how people communicate with each other on personal topics correctly.
When I’m trying to do the ‘I’m going to be polite and not pry into your personal life if you don’t want to tell me, but I’m open to listen to whatever if you do’, 
I somehow always end up in ‘I can know people for about ten years and meet semi-regularly, but have no idea what so ever about anything personal (even things like marital status sometimes, yes, I’m that awkward), and get very surprised when I hear or see something from a third source, but then pretend like I didn’t notice anything, because I feel it would be rude to act like I know things they didn’t tell me themselves’.

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I want to escape from my thoughts into reading,

but I’m also already stressing out about the fact that I only brought 4 books with me to last me 2 weeks, none of them of the same series, and I’ve already almost finished one of them on the day 0 (on the plane).

And this is not a country where I could just go online and get the books I want delivered next day. They don’t even have Amazon here…

I also, apparently, choose stressing out and suffering without the books I want, to just buing them on my kindle. I just can’t make myself do it, even though I could just buy all the books of the series I want to continue reading right now, and it would be like 3 times cheaper than waiting before I return to Japan and order paper copies. This is so irrational I kind of want to smack myself, but feel like it still wouldn’t help.

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things that distress me on an airplane: smell; sleeping spread out in the aisle seat and not letting people out; putting things and extremities outside the space allocated to your seat; kicking my seat or jumping around and touching me in any way.

things that don’t distress me at all: reclining your seat towards mine; pets.

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 I’m simply not stable enough to handle people who are not stable enough to handle the fact that I’m not stable
too many worlds colliding and it makes me sick from the very inside
all I want to do now is stare at walls full with dry tears or curl up somewhere and hide or escape to outer space

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It’s half of the problem when you feel like you’re still 16, when you haven’t been for many years already… and then there’s the half when you meet relatives who think you’re still 12 and give you a princess colouring book as a present.

… I really really didn’t know how to react.

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I kind of remember that there were times, long long ago, when all you had to do to stop being a mess was to get tired of being one. I miss those times dearly.

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I have only 2 days left until my vacation.

And I thought I was fine. I thought I had a scheldule, a plan of things to not forget to do before I leave. I had an image of how to get through this week.

Now I have only 2 days left and out of nowhere I’m having humans-related groundless anxiety attacks multiple times a day, and don’t know how to survive these 2 days without going mad.

And I’m forgetting all the things I had to remember to do, and only grit my teeth praying for the time to pasd quicker and release me.

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People keep telling me how they would never have guessed there’s something ‘not right’ with me, because to them I seem spirited, cheerful, laughing a lot…
What I can’t really explain to them that laughing is my coping mechanism numero uno. That I was brought up in an environment where showing weakness meant pain and humiliation, and that I am known for walking around normally and smiling, with an injured knee and an intestinal obstruction at the same time (after I was laying down on the floor in bathroom 5 mins ago). That my ‘problems’ and chronic stress don’t mean that I am going act all weird when talking to people. In fact, as for many females with ASD, it means exactly the opposite. It means that my body will use every ounce of energy I can squeeze out of myself to appear as normal as I can, and that I likely will talk to them with no memorable for them problems, but then when I leave, or come home, I will feel like my mind is full of acid and will try to hurl it out, even though it is not in my stomach. I will obsessively and uncontrollably replay every second of every conversation in my head over and over, thinking of all things I shouldn’t have said, should’ve said but didn’t, could’ve said differently… and stressing out about every word. Until I can’t sleep. Until I crawl up the walls and want to dig my eyes out. And how I can’t control it, how the only way I can survive it right now is to hide it so deep inside I won’t be able to act on any of my impulses, which means stopping moving at all. And how it prevents me from doing anything else I should or want to be doing, because I have to spend hours sitting in one place waiting for a storm to pass more than half of days I had to go outside. 

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One of my worst ‘diggin’ your own grave’ writing habits is the one where when I need to write something now, I write it in a hundred different places and then just forget about it. 
I remember reading Joan Didion saying that she was the type to carry a notebook for these purposes, while her husband carried writing cards. 
I have a notebook. I have a notebook for writing and then I have a schedule book where I also end up writing ‘writing things’ when the other one is not right under my hand. And then there’s a notebook that was supposed to be only for work things. And then I also write on the backs of old work documents, napkins and random scraps of papers. 
What’s worse, is that even if I have a computer under my hands, I can’t be logical and consistent about it, and write in a various places in Scrivener, Ommwriter, typwrittr, something else… and then save it on a dozen of tiny documents I forget exist. And it’s not like I’m doing it on purpose. I’m a child of chaos and when I need to write something I have no time to think about it. And afterwords I either deflate or need to run to do something else.

Why am I complaining about this now? That’s because the worst part about this is when I vaguely remember writing some scene… and have absolutely no friggin idea where did I actually write… And I need it.

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The largest reason behind me constantly wishing I could re-live most of the past years of my life is that I was inadequate through most of it. 
Not that I’ve gotten much better, or even can get much better, when there are people around… 
But I just can’t get rid myself of illogical regret of things I can do nothing about – the realisation that I have wasted some pretty great years and opportunities because I was either out of my mind or too deep in my mind I couldn’t react and interact with the reality. That’s why every time I remember something, or, more likely, realise I don’t remember something, I realise I wasn’t actually there and kind of wish I had a chance to be.

That’s why I can never understand drug use. No matter how bad a place my mind at times is, there’s hardly anything worse then the state of altered consciousness when it feels like it’s not my mind at all, in the end of things.

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Can someone from somewhere around and above the 55th northern parallel please adopt me please

The cry of my soul.

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It would be a lie to imply that I do not feel envy
towards people so easily touching and being touched.
So easily welcoming each other
and being comfortable in each other’s light.
It would be a lie to say I do not wish 
I could try being a part of it too.
Yet, to say that I believe myself able,
would be an even bigger untruth.

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yes, sometimes I write sentences full of words that kind of sound like the words I actually intended to write but are not, and it takes me a while to notice that ‘cool’ became ‘could’ and ‘black’ became ‘lack’ and ‘palace’ became ‘please’ and generally it’s hard to see what I was trying to say since half the words are wrong, and ofter wrong in such a way that it would be hard to simply ‘mistype’