aspergers

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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’

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Eternally recurring thoughts:
“I want to go home. (I don’t have one)”
“Is it(I am) really that bad?…”
“I need a dog in my life.”
“What if “giving up and killing off a half of myself” is the way to go?..”

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I can love strangers, without loving them romantically.
And then people come and say that that’s because I’m too screwed and just can’t love anyone romantically. 
And then I say that as long as I can love at all, there is nothing too screwed about that.

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Whenever I get too tangled, too overwhelmed with everything that clings to me and tries to drown me, I tread back.
I may not have enough memories,… but I still have music I listened to 15 years ago. I have series I used to watch over and over, alone in the world. 
I cling to the feeling of ‘back then’ that comes back with the old stories I re-read. 
So I put them on the background and try to rewind my mind into that state in the past. When the air was clearer and my bones were lighter. 
And, just maybe, then I’ll have enough clarity to deal with the present.

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I have a seriously bad relationship with time. 
Bigger problems aside, 
I feel like I need at very least there to be 60 hours in a day to not feel like I’m being dragged by my hair through the mud and can’t manage anything or catch up to anything. Or like, y’know, take a breath?

And it’s not like ‘slow’ was ever particularly an adjective to describe me… But I just really, really, can’t deal with how fast the time is flowing.

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My brain likes very much to form some curios sensory memory pathways (while often vigorously refusing to form most procedural ones). 
Usually, because I almost constantly ‘do something while doing something else’, some kind of random association will cement itself in my mind. I will remember in every detail what kind of soup I ate while playing at what place in what game and while watching what movie some 15 years ago every time I eat that soup, or remember that game or movie. I will strongly associate a certain episode from a show with a certain kind of candy I ate while watching it for the nth time. Or a song with a specific chapter in a book and a memory of a stranger’s apartment or a hotel room. I have a specific perfume of mine I now associate firmly with Bloodborne. 
This is significant for me because I have memory problems and usually remember shit about my own life, unless I happen to smell something that will bring me back to some place in the past. Or like the only New Years Eve from ages 0-14 that I can remember is the one when there was Die Hard on the tv while we were getting ready to go out. 
The thing is, for more than a year now I keep reading fanfiction on certain set of characters (don’t ask me why I refuse to say ‘fandom'(not only because I misspelled is as ‘famdom’ before)) for an hour every night before I sleep and every morning after waking up (because it’s short, I can check tags, and it’s written by many different people with many different bats in the belfry perspectives), and after first few months it reached that point where I start to feel like stepping into the world of those characters the second I walk into my own bedroom. Which opens some interesting writing possibilities… if I had any more freedom about what I can read and when.

Incidentally, this is also the only routine I’ve been able to keep for this long. Or for any significant amount of time, really.

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I wish I could do accents. Like on regular basis. 
My ears are all ecstatic about the sound, but I can never really control how I pronounce things for more than one specific second. 
Hell, I can’t really control what I say in general. Let alone how I say it.