On my shittier days I can’t help but think about how, logically speaking, my specific Asperger’s likely makes writing not a thing I should be really focusing on.
I feel words a little differently from most people. I see them in specific pictures, colours, and tastes, I also often lose track of what they really mean, making up meanings and uses of my own. Sometimes it means that typos and mistranslations are the funniest things possible for me in the world, because of the pictures they make up, and sometimes it means that I think that “cooked a brow” is a thing, think “door” and write “tree”, and can’t stop thinking Singapore must be a hardly inhabitable country somewhere very cold, and that Eskimo live there (and it doesn’t matter that I know exactly where Singapore is and even had friends from there, my brain will still paint a Siberian scenery every time I say the word, since I was a child.) 
I’ve lost count of how many times I had to edit out logically impossible sentences, and, unfortunately, the important part is not that I manage to find them at some point, but the part where it takes me years and dozens of checks until I actually do realize that something is wrong with the way I described things.
It terrifies me how ironic it is that I actually work editing and proofreading things every day, when I’m like this. But, apparently, I’m pretty good at catching logical inconsistencies within other people’s writing, while I can’t notice them at all when I write them myself. 
I really struggle with putting things I see in words, and then I struggle all over again with re-arranging them into words that make sense to someone other than myself.
But the thing is, for some reason, I really need writing to be the thing for me. And I felt this way ever since I first begun reading. I started writing my first story when I was 8 or 9. I asked my parents for a typewriter, and they gave me Windows95. But when I first typed out the first chapter of my story, the people I was learning how to read good books from, read it without my permission and laughed so hard at the way I was using my words, quoting the ridiculous parts out loud, that I dropped any ideas of writing things. Because they were still quoting that stuff to me for years, and I felt hurt. And also because I understood that even though they were laughing, I still couldn’t see what was wrong with it at all, and it scared me. So I decided that I will be content enough with making up stories only inside of my head and writing only some things down in my diaries, because my handwriting is indecipherable anyway. I do wish I didn’t waste all those years now, but apparently learning to not hurt when people reject and dismiss the things that are important to you takes a lot of time. Or at least to hurt less and learn how to move on and try again.

I tell myself that I still can be optimistic and try to believe that I can do it. That I’ll just have to find a very patient person to ask to be my editor and comb through my my words to make sure I’m saying what I think I’m saying. But I still feel like an idiot stubbornly trying to swim against the current in the wrong river on most days.

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’.

Sometimes wanting to bitch/rant means wanting to go into some long-winded and complex logical explanation monologue of why you feel like that, why something sucks so much, and why everyone should agree with you that it sucks and shouldn’t exist. And pretend like you’re all logical and rational about your ranting, und thus completely justified.

And sometimes you just wish you could look someone in the face and say something like “My fucking eye hurts so fucking much.”
(… and also expect that someone to understand that it means that most of your head, brain, and face, and all, are actually hurting, and it hurts even more just because while it is all hurting it means you can’t write or read because of it … and that maybe perhaps you could also go on to list a dozen with a tail other things that also hurt in this exact moment, but kinda hurting too much to be able to.)

My mind is falling apart and I sort of want to write it somewhere on a wall in big red letters because, hello, cliché, and because I’m really not good at screaming.

My very sick and boiling mind graced me with a colourful (and easy to understand, I hope…. but I’ve been very wrong about ‘easy to understand’ many times before) and very stupid (I’m allowed to have as much stupid as I want this week, so if you don’t get it, stfu) metaphor to describe how I’ve been feeling. So I’m going to just dump it out here. Because I need to dump out at least something of all the things I made myself keep in.

Imagine. Something is bringing you to an orgasm. Without you having much control over it. But it’s persistent. And it brings you closer and closer, and harder and harder, and just as you think that you’re going to get your release, you realise that you are physically unable to. And won’t be able to. Never. It’s not a denial game, and there’s no one who is doing this to you, no one who is in power to have mercy. You’re alone and your own body is torturing you. And it all has nowhere to go. So it almost breaks you apart, and since there’s nowhere to go it sort of settles back down, slowly. But after it get’s low enough, it starts to build up again. And now you know how this is going to go. And you dread it.
Imagined? 
Now imagine doing all the things you do on your normal day while feeling like that. Walking, working, talking, smiling.
Good?
Now replace reaching an orgasm with wanting to shoot your own brains out. Because they are burning inside of your scalp and have nowhere to go. And there are destructive thought that attack you if you drop your guard for a second, and there’s screaming, vomit and chaos. And it’s all inside.