I AM Autistic

(VLOG posted at bottom.)

One of the revelations I've most recently come to, is that there is now not a single doubt in my mind that—I AM, high functioning autistic.

For a while—for reasons unknown—I was pushing this Truth away like it was a bad thing, like it would make me "defective" (or something or other). But the facts I've come to terms with, are that I have been struggling to escape my own mind-prison since before I can remember, I just haven't known why—until now.

For starters, for as long as I can remember I have always had severe trouble putting thought to word—particularly around egoliferated people talking to me in a dominant fashion. I've gotten tremendously better with this over the years, but as you might imagine, as a child, it was quite debilitating to my growth—to never have a proper voice nor the confidence itself needed to properly defend myself when injustice would strike.

I used to be very submissive to or intimidated by people in authority or generally people in authoritative positions—parents, elders, bosses, doctors, babysitters, and elder siblings or friends. This submissiveness would cause me to retract even further inwards insofar I would close off and shut down when I would feel intimidated by someone.

It was not uncommon for me when I was younger, and when my confidence lacked in something, for me to retract inwards, questioning and second guessing myself, debilitating myself from simply doing whatever I was doing because our learning environments are wretchedly all wrong. Because they are a blatant statement of our adult social environments—egotistical, petty, cutthroat, meretricious, duplicitous, intolerant, judgmental—which is quite blatantly no way for a kid with autism to successfully learn, let alone most any kid.

For example, going to the doctors was always rather useless an endeavor, to be blunt; because, assuming I wasn't intimidated by this man in a position of authority (which I was), I didn't know how to communicate with them either way.

Which brings me to "attention deficit". . . or, how about—selective attention—more appropriately.

Story Time:

In high school, I remember finding all of these archived emails from when I was younger between my parents and teachers talking about how they all thought that I had a learning "disability" (ADD. . . what a joke. . . *cough* scam) because I simply didn't have any care to apply my time learning these things in school that I didn't care to be learning. I'd rather have been outside climbing the tree I was staring at in all this state of "attention deficit" that these ‘smart’ doctors, businessman, teachers and scientists were telling me that I had. . . . No, the real problem was that I merely didn't have the mentors to help me understand that: first, as a newborn human, one must find them self—which is no easy or quick task and takes great confidence—then, one must seek passion and purpose meaningful to them, not to society.

When I was first diagnosed with ADD, I remember doing all these tests—playing with blocks, walking on colorful carpets—but I didn't know what I was being tested for or why. I didn't really know how to help these people help me because, for starters, I didn't understand how to interact with them. I'd sit down with the doctor, he'd say, "What's new?" "Nothing," I'd say. "No sore throats, cough, etc. " "Nope." "Adderall dose fine?" "Yeah." "Looks like we're good to go."

Mind you, I didn't know what Adderall was (meth), I didn't know why I was taking it (to fill some corporations filthy pockets) nor what it was supposed to be doing, and I was in-fact on a super low dose that didn't change ever. I never felt anything from it. I never felt as if it gave me anything beneficial. (. . .At least, until I learned that if you took six of them it made you feel like you could hug your worst enemy whilst pounding out a ten-page research paper within an hour.) It was just, "Take this, it's helping you." "Okay, you got it. Can I go?" "Good to go!"

(Fun fact: to get my pilots license, I couldn't be on my ADD medicine, so I was reevaluated in late high school and the conclusion was that I didn't have ADD. . . . This is one huge example as to why diagnostic science is so very young and so very far from being any sort of conclusive. Actually, should anyone be interested, I will gladly give to you an experiment to prove this to you. . . the plasticity of perception.)

The fact is, I was blessed with a powerful mind but I was never taught how to focus it—and to focus it on things that interest me, and that aren't just things that the status quo wants me to do for its own clandestine, selfish, self-interest. (Clandestine, selfish, self-interest boasted by a machine that each and every one of us continue to lube via weakly conforming to it daily. . .)

You see, I was being diagnosed with an "attention deficit" merely because I didn't want to focus on what society wanted me to focus on like its slave. Meanwhile, other people are being diagnosed with things like "mania", "bi-polar disorder" and "schizophrenia" from these "educated" people who have hardly the slightest idea what is going on inside their own brain, let alone the brain of a patient who has been bullied, shamed, traumatized, out-casted and shunned their whole life, and that now lives in solitude on the streets because of it.

The fact is, these doctors often haven't the slightest clue if the patient is even any good at describing what it is they are experiencing (which I'd be inclined to say that the patient often isn't, as I'd believe most humans aren't), let alone do they embody an actual care for understanding that their own "education" is very potentially misled by bad science living in a so very young Universe, that they themselves might not even be good interpreters/perceivers of their own respective sciences; that they themselves might not even truly care about helping the patient for more than a pay check (get them to admit that one and I'll give you a dollar); or that their patient hasn't the slightest ability to relate their experiences to them even if they did care.

For example, with schizophrenia, are the “voices” simply the patient's voice that they hear, and hear in the form of ignorant thoughts, thoughts that they simply don't recognize as their own because what they do know is that those thoughts aren't who they are, or are the “voices” of another source? My bet is on the former. . . but I've been wrong before. . . .

"I hear voices", one says, when these "voices" are likely just corrupted thoughts that have been planted into one's mind by all the Darkness's petty, pretentious, duplicitous and meretricious influence that engulfs each and every one of us daily. Thoughts crossing one's mind seemingly uncontrollably, but most importantly, completely from their own voice within their head, not from any external sources. . . which is totally human, minus the "defective" part.

Whilst, some of these people are already truly so damaged, that after the scientists often unwittingly do a clandestinely wretched job defining the given issue—and not issuing the plasticity of the diagnosis, rather enforcing one's need to be "right", thus, the (alleged) definitiveness of it—in the patients state of insecurity and desperation, they simply latch onto whatever is being suggested (albeit, definitively) by the shrink and they themselves then self-fulfill the prophecy of the diagnosis.

Again, what a joke. . . . The fact is, so much of diagnostic psychology (and science in general) is hugely adulterated by bad, biased, misled and generally so very young science. . . 'science' rooted in a world that flourishes with bullshitters and liars all trapped in a deathly struggle to have their worth recognized and to seal a legacy whilst being too afraid to be honest with themselves, let alone with others. . . . Yet we humans continue to think we know it all. . . perpetually claiming that we are smarter than we are in attempt to prove our worth in this wretched, elitist, oligarchy the Darkness has created. Whilst, if we don't prove our worth, our ignorant and childish society casts us out, shames, dehumanizes and trolls us.

I've digressed.

I may have a problem focusing at times, but I can guarantee you, that at any given time, I've got my attention on more things than you can count, most of which being buried deep within my subconscious.

This is my problem with focus: either my mind simply can't figure out what to focus on, it gets lost on tangents while trying to best understand all it is trying to figure out or to explain in any given moment, or, most importantly, its because—albeit, moreso when I was younger—my mind is constantly playing games with me.

The truth is, my brain has trouble processing all the thoughts going through it at one time, forget keeping them organized and focused. In fact, I'm hella focused on three things at all times: things that spark my interest, things that really—and oftentimes for no good reason—bother me, and things that I feel for one reason or another I'm supposed to focus on. If I'm not interested, my attention simply isn't going to be there, and that is just the blunt truth.

Moving forward, because of this lack of knowing who I was and what I stood for, I more frequently than not would get in trouble for petty things that were more often than not blown astronomically out of proportion, and often by what I would understand now as the developing egos of kids (or adults) already as lost as their mentors' to their mentors' bullshit, egomania, lack of constructiveness, and generally an ignorant, arrogant, hypocritical, selfish and deeply skewed method of logic and reasoning.

Due to this intimidation from authoritative positions, when I would get in trouble, I simply could never defend myself for the life of me. No matter how innocent and misconceived I and a given event was, no matter how long I recited my defense in my head beforehand like a parrot on repeat—when I needed the words of truth, I could never get them to my lips. Then the frustration further settled in as the ignorance of someone else trying to tell me what had happened in a manner that was utterly false would set me off and I would further go into a state of defense mode—most often by shutting down or childishly lashing out or cursing using words I didn't know or understand—and becoming further frustrated, harboring even less confidence simply because I could never properly defend myself.

This sort of thing happened all the time. . . .

For instance, on one occasion someone was throwing pretzels at me (in a playful fashion) and I wanted to join in but couldn't find a pretzel to throw back, so I grabbed the first thing I could find—in this instance, a small melting ice cube lying on the grass beside me out in the hot summers air—and tossed it back. Albeit, with my lack of confidence, I threw it too hard and high, hitting the girl in the face, and I was then instantly demonized as the villain for "intentionally" throwing the "wrong" things and throwing them too hard. . . (Albeit, throwing the same things other people were throwing, too, at different times; which had been why the ice cube was lying beside me melting in the sun. . .)

In another instance, I remember I was running towards a group of friends in 4th grade (give or take) when I decided I was going to fake punch a girl as I approached her group. Well, with my momentum moving forward, and her not knowing what I was plotting, having moved her body towards me in the same instance, I actually accidentally punched this girl in the chest. Of course, it wasn't an accident. I had—most certainly—intentionally ran out there just to completely randomly punch this young egomaniac in the chest at recess. . . [sigh].

The (now) laughable Truth is, 'Alphas' never liked me, and in their ignorant minds, I was just this ‘weird’—probably gay (as if being gay is a defect or something. . .)—boy that wouldn’t stop trying to be friends and hang out with them. . . so these aspiring egomaniacs would do as their parents do and poison my image behind my back insofar others would distance themselves from me.

One time at summer camp, a group of kids I had been trying to befriend ended up on another one of their roast sessions towards me, redundantly making fun of me, following one of the young aspiring ‘Alpha’s’ (*cough* egomaniac’s) example. When I finally stopped sucking up to these kids—who were never actually nice to me—and lashed out on them on this day, myself returning fire, the counselor that got involved, of course, only believed the story of the group, claiming that it was me—the out-grouper—that was the issue, not them. . . . As this counselor walked me to the camps disciplinary office, she herself had been treating me as if I was an inferior human and in the most ignorant of ways. She’d been making fun of me because I have very sensitive eyes in the sun and I squint insofar my eyes are basically shut, sometimes even in the shade depending on the day.

My intentions were always right. I've never intended to hurt anyone. I've always just wanted to join in, make friends and spread love. But I was the easy scapegoat because I was born of Light in a status quo clearly owned by Darkness. I was simply reacting when I felt injustice was yet again at my doorstep because I knew that, no matter what I did, no matter what I couldn’t say, no matter how I couldn’t say it, I was going to lose. Which always further amplified my emotional responses the more this happened.

Furthermore, like with simply getting in trouble socially, when I would get in trouble with the law—most often over really petty things, albeit things that my egoliferated middle-class neighborhood and family would ignorantly elevate to something like "radical extremism" from a "troubled" and "defective" child—my mind simply could never let these things go.

Be it stealing some candy, playing ding-dong-ditch, getting an open container or fake ID ticket, getting a ticket for possessing weed, accidentally starting a fire with fireworks, or simply hanging out with a friend who was notorious for making dumbass decisions and myself always getting caught up in the mix (and most likely blamed as the ringleader, too, as, again, I never had the confidence or the parent to properly defend myself).

Anytime I was alone with my thoughts, these things would just spin and spin in my head, myself literally trapped within thinking as if I was a 'bad' person and I was perpetually failing everyone who—at that time—I thought cared about me. I would get trapped in these really drowning thoughts for weeks—months—on end until my mind cycled itself into a desensitization stage towards the given stimulus. All the while, I would frequently feel put down by family and friends who were ignorantly judging me in the most inaccurate ways—judgment which I could always feel clear as day, albeit I deflected and denied it.

Think about how further debilitating this would be to one's confidence and social development even if they weren’t autistic. . . . Feeling trapped within these judgments and titles that were entirely unjust and outright ignorant in most every case. . . . Myself never being understood. . . never being given the true equal opportunity to thrive whilst living in a pretentious, egotistical and selfish world. . . just perpetually having the narrative twisted against you because you’re an easy target and your voice is too soft. (And later in life because it is too loud and your thoughts and opinions—who you are—is too dangerous to the status quo.)

Furthermore, again, moreso when I was younger (albeit, there are certainly still issues here I'm working through), other things would bother me in a way that my mind would obsess over, too. Like, for example, a half-pealed sticker hanging loose on the wall across from my bed. . . . I would stare at that purple sticker for weeks, months—years maybe—but I would never just get up and stick it back to the wall. Whenever my attention found it, I would simply lay in bed and stare at it; whilst nothing else on the wall that I can recall—no matter how imperfect or “MacGyvered” it may have been—bothered me in the same way.

Or another time that stands out was of a magnified image of a particular germ (or something) in my 8th grade bio science class. Something in my mind just didn't like that image (despite seeing dozens of others just like it, and some that were even ‘stranger’ in their own subjective ways). My thoughts just spun and spun until I was finally able to distract myself from the image that was then trapped with me within my mind prison for an indefinite amount of time. (Which, if you can't tell, the memory is still ingrained in my head.)

Quite the same, around this elementary school timeframe, I had broken a toe. My toe was then taped to the toe next to it to heal. Well, something about that bandage really just tweaked my mind, and I couldn't stop thinking about how those two toes were touching each other; to the full extent that once or twice during checkups I had said to my doctor, "It [the toe] just bothers me. . .", not really knowing what else to say. The doctor was, of course, clueless as to what was happening and why. . . . Because there was nothing wrong with my toe. The problem was my over-powered brain was quite literally toying with me.

As mentioned, these obsessive tendencies would happen in a cyclical fashion and would come and go in waves over time until I eventually completely desensitized myself to the given stimulus.

To this day I still suffer this issue in different ways.

Often happening when my mind is doing something it doesn't want to do for one reason or another—like sleep—my focus will repetitively lock onto my leg, for example, and not allow myself to avert my thoughts until I twitch my leg, often keeping me awake all night.

Then there is the point revolved around people getting in my space. . . .

I've always gotten rather tense about being touched—ask my ex who would have trouble simply giving me massages—particularly from people who I don't want to be touching me. Some of this might be a bit of PTSD from being bullied in high school by a gang called the Hooligans and from other depressions I've suffered over the years, but what I've come to realize fairly recently, before this autism revelation had become blindingly apparent, is that I really do have a bubble, and when people get into that bubble—particularly when I don't want them there—I do in-fact get really uncomfortable or claustrophobic. You wouldn't see it, but in my mind I'm most likely leaning subtly away and thinking (very sassily), "This cat needs to get out of my space. . ." Whilst, I wouldn't be able to focus on anything other than this thought until I found a way to awkwardly add the space that I wanted, or until the individual could feel the tension mounting and they'd back off themselves.

Then there is overreacting emotionally.

For as long as I can remember, life has always been an emotional roller-coaster for me; myself riding the waves of my emotions, trying to figure out this thing called life from the point of view of a highly functioning brain while living in a world owned by Darkness.

Despite my mind being very scientific and logic-based, in the heat of any given moment, it is now apparent that my emotions do have an influence over my train of thought (to some extent) as they do for all of us. . . . (Those of the Darkness, those most leading in the Game of Triumph are just proficient at burying them away as a means of harboring control through making others—particularly those of the Light—fearful and insecure of flaunting them.) Emotions which are then amplified—at least, until I've had ample time to inexorably think about the given stimulus in a more grounded fashion—by these past experiences where people have treated me poorly.

I never knew why my emotions were so charged; myself only recently learning that a big part of it is rather simply because I'm autistic. Albeit, the other part being because I have been willfully deflecting and denying the fact that I have been a victim—as a vast majority of our society has been to varying extremes—my whole life. (Despite having many great memories as well.) In addition, I can finally see now that my compasses True North has been unwittingly adulterated—as have all of our compasses—by clandestinely living in a world owned by Darkness. Us living in a world where any given soul has to choose daily to either conform to utter negativity meticulously concealed as “playful banter”, then deflect, deny, justify and finally desensitize oneself to becoming it, or walk the lonely path of seeking Light, seeking genuine compassion, candor, and camaraderie, and seeking true freedom.

As I assume you may be starting to imagine, as a child, I often felt utterly alone. Nobody got me.

My neighbors didn't get me. My parents didn't get me. My extended family didn't get me. My friends didn't get me. My babysitters didn't get me. (And, on that note, I never wanted to be left alone with my babysitters anyways because a fair few of them simply weren't good people, despite my parents thinking they were. In-fact, I would often lash out on these people, seeking the attention I wasn't getting, which made them further like me less; them then creating even more propaganda against me whilst causing even more of an emotional outcry from myself for not being conducive with the tainted nature of the world and its adult generation; them propagating the rest of us with all their egomania, ignorance and hypocrisy until we all inexorably Fall as they have Fallen. . . us becoming them, only two steps worse, as is the norm for any student inexorably surpassing their mentor.)

Another time, I was in Florida with two 'friends'. We'd been drinking and walking through one of Disney's destinations when a cop stood himself twenty feet ahead of us on a moving carpet (escalator). My ‘friends’ didn't know trouble with the law like I did, which always really stressed me out because of how unlucky I'd been in the past, so after I tried to quietly get my one friend to stop acting like an eighteen-year-old drunk jackass like he was being (at least in front of the cop), and after the cop went his own way, I emotionally lashed out on him and his selfish and careless actions. . . and, long story short, these two 'friends' left me in Florida.

In middle school, one Halloween I literally cried for hours simply because my little brother and neighbor went trick or treating on the street that we lived on without me. . .

The Truth is, I was the boy from Where The Wild Things Are and nobody knew it—nobody cared to know it. Humans just thoroughly enjoy basking in their own ignorance, judgment, oh, and hypocrisy—as we deflect all our own vices and wrongdoings, claiming things like, we "don't judge" (yet. . . judging is all human’s do. . . [sigh]) whilst attacking the (perceived or fabricated) vices and wrongdoings of others as a means of boosting ourselves up onto a pedestal in this Game of Triumph.

Such things had happened to me all throughout my childhood insofar I learned to enjoy being alone, where I was most comfortable. I found escape from it all tinkering with things in my parent’s basement. (Which quickly earned me the nickname MacGyver.) It was never about building things that were "perfect". It was merely about finding ways to make things work with what I could find at my disposal—which has become an invaluable skill, if I do say so myself. Likewise, I loved when my parents traveled (which was often) because in a similar way I could escape into my thoughts in solitude.

Escaping into my thoughts was—and is—my therapy. Which is why, for example, when I get into a steady homelife routine, I rather enjoy my weekly house cleaning sessions (or anything like this) that allow me to do just that. Also, staring off into nothing is a commonly noted trait if I was ever to be spotted in the wild.

Furthermore, seeking likeness has always been a statement of myself as well.

I've always been very analytical of people in a manner as to cipher through their habits and tendencies in order to figure out who I want to be as a person; myself picking through the traits of others that I like and those I don't like while seeking to find me. In that, I would commonly find myself acting more like the people I was associating with when I found someone with traits I liked. (Or—most importantly to note—simply through finding someone who had, at least superficially, accepted me. . . the Light's path to the Darkside. . . . The Darkness then twisting the narrative behind one's back in order to make people look at them in a negative light; whilst the attacker(s), these Fallen souls—per design—then become the people one flocks to in order to find the attention everyone else is then ignorantly holding back from them for some unknown and seemingly unjust reason or another. . . . This is how the worst among us control us.)

I see this so very clearly now. When I am around "thug" people, I will act more "thug". When I am around preppy people, I will act more preppy. When I am around people who are successfully superficial and duplicitous with flocks of people unreservedly running to their wretched social example—my greatest pet peeve—I will act (in a mocking fashion) childishly superficial towards them (and so forth).

What has become clear, is that identity has always been a serious battle for me. And nearly three decades later, I've finally learned the following:

One, I've finally realized my problem was I simply wasn't finding my unique identity within the environments I was fated into nor did I have the confidence or social instructor to guide me to it; two, I didn’t realize until a quarter of the way through life that I was supposed to be looking for these things; three, I didn't know the Game was already rigged against most of society insofar it is of the utmost importance—particularly for Lightworkers—to be perpetually operating at maximum efficiency as to fend off the Darkness's attacks; and four, I was born within a different sort of prison, a prison of the mind—one that makes my brain extra powerful in some instances, albeit slower in others as it fumbles with trying to understand the given stimulus at a deeper level than would be normal for most others.

Because of my seeing and understanding life far differently than most, I often have trouble finding commonalities with others. I also get incredibly frustrated when I'm unable to put my thoughts to words (or at least in a manner that others can understand in the way that I understand them). This lack of seeing eye-to-eye with others has caused me trouble maintaining healthy relationships in the past. People not seeing the things that I see so clearly has always been the root of driving me to the point of insanity causing my emotions to run out of whack; to the extent of my seeking every escape from reality that I could find just to acquire a sense of peace and serenity in life away from all the superficial and duplicitous bullshit of daily social engagement within the status quo.

With that, the truth I've finally come to terms with is this: there are simply things that my mind understands on a deeper level than most others, and I have learned to accept that. Whilst the only thing that I can do is to continue to hone my abilities to best get these ideas across to others in order to minimize said frustration.

Then there's repeating things in my head.

I'm only assuming this one is a trait of autism, but as with other things my mind obsesses over, I will often count senselessly, or I will repeat words or sentences redundantly within my mind.

Finally, something I've only just recently learned has been correlated to autism (at least, tentatively—as all things are merely tentative while the sciences evolve towards. . . infinity. . .), that being possessing "an under or over reaction to one or more senses".

Now, this may be more of a stretch, but for those who have known my cooking—particularly with something like steak, but this could probably be noticed with pretty much anything—I tend to like my food extra seasoned. And it's because if I can't clearly taste the seasoning—which I often can’t—I don't think that there is enough.

Additionally, as for my sniffer—which could be correlated to the permanent allergies I've had since I was about nineteen years old—I can't remember a time where I was good at deciphering smells. When prompted, I very often will correlate smells to things that aren't even remotely close to what the given scent was.

Now, giving the—good—scientists their proper credit. . . as I, of course, am not a distinguished "expert" in the field. . . . I'm not really sure what is implied when interpreting this "under or over reaction to one or more senses". I certainly don't freak out at certain smells or tastes, if that is what is being implied.

Regardless, I believe I've thoroughly proven my stance without a hitch. This last point could be considered as moreso for the future development of the field should it lead anywhere.

________________________________________

This is me.

Mind you, I've found ways to build facades to mask most of these debilitating traits and experiences. I, like any other soul trapped in the Darkness's Game of Triumph, willfully hide these (perceived) 'vices' because I know (as the whole world—at least unconsciously—knows) that there is a vast majority of people who will use such things to twist perception against us for their own selfish gains and generally tainted agendas.

All the while, the true war story of how I've defeated these 'vices' is never told. . . .

How I learned that when I drank or did certain drugs, they took away all the insecurities and barriers that were always holding me back. And how despite suffering this momentary addiction, it was actually incredibly invaluable. Because it made me feel powerful. It proved to me who I could be. It proved to me that I wasn't trapped within the narrative my family, neighbors and peers were ignorantly and unjustly stamping over me—it proved to me that I wasn't trapped within my mind prison.

How I learned that if I mentally prepared myself to be confident and outgoing, I could be confident and outgoing. How I trained myself to desensitize or distract myself from the isolated and rather random stimulus that would bog down my operating system and steal all my focus and attention. How I learned that I could best organize my thoughts through writing, and have in-fact become quite the avid writer. (Who would have thought. . . ? I guarantee you not a single person that knew me growing up.) How I built the confidence I now embody and escaped the prison that was debilitating me and my potential. . . .

The truth remains, the people who have only seen me when I've been confident would likely tell you you're crazy if you told them I was bullied, shy and insecure growing up. Likewise, the people who have seen me at only my lows and have only listened to the ignorant opinions of others bullshit and hearsay might find it hard to believe the great confidence, character and charisma others have seen in me. (. . .Again, the plasticity of perception. . . this recurring theme.)

All in all, I've always said my overactive brain was my greatest gift yet also my greatest curse. Now that I understand what is different about my brain, and now that I finally know me, I understand that it is solely a tremendous blessing. Because I've been gifted with a powerful mind. This being a Truth that my intuitions might always have been telling me, but I didn't really embrace it fully until I realized that, I AM autistic—and regardless of this fact, I can still be anything.

You cannot tell me what I can and cannot do. You cannot tell me who I can and cannot be. I am the captain of this ship. I am the master of the sails. Whilst, I understand fully that my potential within this dream we live, this myth, is limitless. . . and, soon, I'm going to make my—and many others—dreams into reality because of this brain that I've been blessed with.

#BeTheChange

#NeverStopImproving