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. 

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.

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.

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.

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’