So, I have myself a supremely clean apartment, down to a scrubbed kitchen floor, tub, toilet, dishes, clean sheets, (and we all know how much I adore Clean Sheet Day) vaccumed carpet, emptied the vaccuum of all dust and debris (eeewwww), trash & recycling removed, dinner made, and laundry put away.
I decided to reward myself with a chilled glass of white zinfandel (mmmmm....) and just chill out. I spent all day listening to a book on tape called "The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night." It was written for kids or teenagers, but I found it fascinating. The hero is a 15 year old English boy from Swindon who has Autism, and the story is told from his perspective. Like many children with Autism, he hates to be touched, is more comfortable in familiar environments with a set routine, and is a maths genius. In the first chapter, Christopher is wandering around in the middle of the night in his neighborhood because he likes the quiet and darkness better than the noise and stimulation of the daytime. In his neighbor lady's garden, he finds her pet giant poodle, Wellington, dead with a garden fork through his heart. And so begins a quest to solve the "murder" mystery of who killed Wellington.
I found myself many times just standing and listening as the story unfolded, seeing the people who crossed Christopher's path both in the slightly skewed way he saw them, as well as knowing the way they must see themselves. I couldn't help but feel for his parents, especially his father, who have made some colossal mistakes with their special son and spend much of the book paying for them. I won't say more, only that if you've ever been curious how a child with Autism sees and reacts to the world, this is a good way to begin.
I spend entirely too much time alone in my own little world, I know. Most of the time, I even intend to do something about it. Go out more. Talk to strangers. Join a gym. Volunteer for some organization or other. The books I read, especially the ones that stick to my heart and won't let go, all inspire me to be better, different than I am. And that inspiration gives me a spark of determination that, even at its most vibrant, never fails to falter in the wind of reality.
I think I like the dark because it doesn't demand very much of me. In the dark, I can be someone else entirely, because no one can see the truth. In the dark, the world itself is quiet and has turned in on itself, seeking internal pastimes that don't require my participation. No work, stores are closed, families & friends at home and in bed, all of which provides the perfect excuse to not talking to another human being - not being able to talk to them, because they are unavailable.
I gave Claudia another ride home on Friday night, this time volunteering as she was walking across the street to catch the bus. Lucky girl is off until Wednesday, taking a much-needed break from work to visit with family and just veg out for a couple days. Work has been stressful lately, but after five minutes of bitching together, we agreed no more talk about the job.
She asked about J, which surprised me. But I suppose it shouldn't have, because it strikes me that J is the only member of my family I ever talk about, really. I mention my brothers, of course, and what they do because I'm proud of them. And brag about my nieces, just because. But I guess Claudia can tell that for me, J is special. Hell, I can't blame her for thinking this. Perhaps I was being slightly over-dramatic, but when she asked how he was and if I'd heard from him recently, I said yes, just this morning. (Facebook conversations count when they are your main source of communication, I think). Then, for some reason I couldn't begin to comprehend, when she asked what his name was, I told her and followed it with, "he owns my heart."
God, what a goober I am. While it's true, as far as it goes, and I will love J forever, it isn't him in my fantasies. Well, not those kind of fantasies, anyway. Not to worry J. You figure highly in the ones where I call in a panic asking for advice on what to fucking do when I actually meet a fantasy...
God, I miss you, J. I feel like half of me is missing, amputated, a phantom limb that I try desperately not to need anymore because it does no good to remember what life was like to be whole. And that, my friend, is the entire half a bottle of wine I just finished kicking me in the head and loosening my tongue just enough to be really maudlin. I can go for weeks without feeling like this, but the second you mention you're maybe going to call me, I start to slowly lose it. I know the conversation is going to last for maybe 10 minutes, and I won't be able to say anything worth hearing because I'm just not wired that way. Hell, even a week in close contact wasn't nearly enough time to let me be comfortable saying what I wanted to say. Still, it kills me to wait for weeks to hear from you.
I think I've been too well trained by my upbringing. I'm not comfortable telling people what I need from them. At all. In fact, as you probably know all too well, I am bloody uncomfortable needing anything from anybody, ever, much less asking for it outright. I'm too afraid of being laughed at, or ridiculed, or rejected. If I don't ask for anything, I can't be refused, can I?
Where do you get your courage?
Fuck, where the hell did all that come from? God, I am a salty, wet mess right now. Thankfully, I have a nice, big water bottle to replenish all the fluids I just wiped on the back of my hand. Sneaky bastard, always making me cry when I'm not ready or expecting it.
I need you to be closer, so I can make you help me deal with all these fucking emotions in person, again. Deep breaths aren't working right now, just adding fuel to the fire.
You weren't even what I thought I would be writing about tonight. Yet, here you are, again. I'll bet you're really tired of being the guy I lay all these issues on, aren't you? It's not like you can really do anything about them, even if you wanted to. Wishes just don't have the power they did when we were kids, do they? Too much reality in the way of such idealism.
Besides, I know what I should be doing to make my life the way I want it to be. I just don't do it. My fault. No one else's. Which only makes it harder, really. Adding guilt on top of everything else, I mean.
Since I was kid, "I don't care" has become almost a personal mantra. And since I became an adult, it's morphed slightly into "I don't fucking give a damn." But the effect is the same, cosmically speaking. If I choose not to care about anything or anybody, then the universe reserves the right to return the sentiment.
But I do care. I care a lot. About a great many things. And I wish I had the courage to reach out and let the world know just how much. But the world bites, and burns, and freezes. I learned that lesson well. And now the sun has fallen once again, taking away the light, sliding one more day behind the veil of stars, seconds sliding into minutes and irrevocably revoking the opportunities afforded by the morning.
I can be so eloquent, so very fucking poetic. But then, the very best poets and authors and artists in the history of the world were themselves the epitome of the suffering artist, weren't they? Poe, Van Gogh, Picasso, Kahlo, Tiffany, Lloyd Wright, Galileo, Michelangelo...
And the best stories are about pain redeemed, are they not? Inner conflict certainly makes the sexiest, most lovable heroes, even when, no, especially when, they do not believe themselves heroes or worthy of love and forgiveness. And who doesn't long to see themselves in that role, either of the tortured hero or the saving grace? To be the star in their own grand romance or epic battle?
Ahh, the journey of an hour. I pay for it with a slight headache and a sore heart, even as I enjoy for a few minutes the relief of the spirit.
I know that nothing is ever going to change unless I change it. I made a huge change almost two years ago, and an even larger one a year ago with the invitation to be a part of it, and I am immeasurably better for it. The courage that took has been lost to the comfort of regularity and habit, no longer good enough to make me as proud of myself as it once did.
But change and growth are hard work. Scary. Like, roller-coaster scary, and I tend to forget to breathe when I'm that heart-in-the-throat scared. Is it because I'm afraid to let other people see me afraid? Admit to fear or weakness, and it can be used against you. Want something too much, and when the bargain is done, you might have to pay an even higher price than you were prepared to part with.
So, I guess today has been a fairly productive day. I've cleaned my house and my soul, as it were. And its even Sunday. How about that?
Perhaps I ought to round out the day by praying. For guidance, for strength, for courage, for faith, even. Or maybe I'll just pray for what I really want.
Love.
Jinx
