I usually start my writing by setting out the images of what I want to write in the title. Sometimes I go back and change it but not really. I can’t put a title on what just happened. A friend of mine hereto after known as the Shoe Goddess and I have been talking. If she wants her name associated with this that’s cool with me but I always want to offer that respect. She and I talked about PTSD recently, and I explained it to her because she asked. She thinks I should write a book and I have been naysaying in my head, I agreed but I haven’t set out to do it but have shied away. I know why. Before I go into the why I will say, I am going to write the book. During the week I am going to outline what I think needs to be covered, and then I will break it into chapters, the same way that I write for my blog. I am also writing a letter to survivors of rape so between the hospital, my body failing to fail the way I am used to, and the usual crap I come pre triggered.
I watched the Temple Grandin Biopic. At first I was angry at Temple, at least that’s what my brain took the feelings as. I even posted on facebook about finding the movie annoying. After about a half an hour I started to understand what had me so upset, at least another layer of it. The Nuerotypicals making the film made it so noisy that I was in pain. It wasn’t the person or the story that had me upset it was the constant noise over noises that they couldn’t hear. It was painful, and I reacted to that pain with anger. I find I have a lot in common with Miss Grandin, which startled me. It shouldn’t should it? The things in common are all autistic things. I also found myself suddenly burning with anger. I spent a good half an hour having a melt down after the credits rolled. It went like this. Credits roll, pills, go to bed stand beside it and start to scream because I can’t take it anymore and a car just went by with loud music which made Sprite run under the bed.
I tried to just go to bed but then my jaw snapped wrong and I got spit on my pillow. Which lead to more screaming. I hate spit on my pillow, partly because even my own saliva burns me. My tears burn me. My face is very red and sore because I cried. Sprite came to see what was wrong, as she always does when I am not okay and I realized what it is that calms me about her. I had a moment. I also just titled this post. The panic was still there, the pain, the sounds but I could think the instant I buried my hands in her fur and hugged her against me. She wriggled a bit because I was not wearing any clothing and missed the blanket. She dislikes the feeling of flesh. I try to respect that.
I petted her, she purred though because she was not comfortable it wasn’t a lot of purr. Then I clicked, I am stimming when I pet my cat. That’s why when I hurt I want her. When I feel the pain of being, because of all the things I think see and hear? I want her fur. Nymphs fur isn’t the right texture. Sprite is like petting a silken being, her fur is something I have never found a match for. So soft and yet it isn’t so soft it hurts. Sprite is in a word perfect, except for where she is not. She let me cry into her, her fur took the wet away so the burning hurt less.
I feel calm again, I can think again and she is bathing to get rid of the icky tears. I say they are icky, she just says wet. So, the PTSD trigger related to Temple Grandin is love. Love for me, witnessing other people who have things that I want, such as love, can set me off. I haven’t let anyone see me go off for years. I go away instead. Her mother tried. Her aunt tried. She had teachers. She had opportunity. She had education. She was seen as different but equal. I have never had that. That is part of why I am afraid to start writing. There is this moment when I get ready to write even my blog when I see every instance where my writing was destroyed. Even a few moments when I did it to myself because I thought I was bad and undeserving of writing. For me writing is painting a picture but the picture has a thousand little pictures. Each letter and word is a part of the image. When I write I don’t look at my fingers to hunt and peck out the letters but I usually close my eyes and imagine the shapes I want, the sounds, and the sensations.
I look at Sprite, and I look at Nymph who was very frightened but also came and curled up with me. I feel a bit guilty for not noticing her until after the fact though this tends to happen a lot. In the mornings she ends up lost in my blanket because I throw it off and roll thinking she isn’t there but she was tucked up against me all along and was what made the warm spot. I swear, she is warmer than Sprite to the touch and the feel. She weighs at most a pound, and when that pound is not on me completely I don’t pick it up. Then again I have a lot less feeling in my legs since the cramping started.
Medically speaking I am better. The bleeding stopped and the clots are disappearing. I don’t have to wear underwear at least for now. I am not expecting this to last for more than a day but I have blisters from the latex that no one else ever seems to react to in underwear. My skin burns constantly and I am still cramping. There is also a new and constant pain, so I know something is very wrong. This displeases me because I know I am going to have to fight for anyone to take this seriously, well anyone at this facility. I am still waiting on the appointment for the CT scan on my jaw as well. If I cannot lose myself, which does happen without my control, and do so without injury then there is a problem. I spent years mastering how to handle my freak outs. No one had guided me.
So I am jealous of Temple Grandin. It’s a white hot jealousy that is about things we were both born with. Family. I also want education but I cannot get there right now. I don’t learn things in classrooms and the set up for correspondence schooling is all wrong for me. I am going to self educate but suddenly I want a piece of paper. I want to see my name. I want to not have people react with shock when they find out I am not educated. I never liked that, some of these folks immediately presume I failed my way through the educational school brilliantly because I wanted to stun people with my mind. I think those people are a bit stupid and if any read my blog, well I think you are stupid for presuming anyone would want less opportunity just to impress people.
I don’t know if the piece of paper would let me write this book. I only think it is the excuse I am using now because my first thought each time I think on it is, how am I qualified to write about disability and PTSD? How am I qualified? I want to make it clear I know I am qualified and Dr.Not Autistic isn’t. Dr.PTSD is false but I write about it to make life harder isn’t. I know I am probably the most qualified person I know of to sit down and write about these issues, especially because I do so every single day. There are things I don’t publish but if I can write I do. I have given up many things but I will always find a way to get the fluid images into word.
I am still angry that people presume autistics don’t have imagination and that this is a symptom. This was the other thing that overwhelmed me, I connect thoughts in a way that is so similar to the visuals used that I am breathless but I imagine. I imagine constantly. I just don’t imagine like other people. It took imagination for Grandin to see what the cows see. It wasn’t a formulaic thought at all but something special. It takes imagination for me to do anything. I use my different mind to navigate the world. My memory of everything I have ever read, that comes into play when I am advocating.
So no more excuses. I am probably going to have to make Sprite wear a rain coat but even as I am dealing with this latest medical drama, I am going to start this book. A chapter a day, excluding days when I have appointments. Doctor’s appointments screw with my energy and writing does burn it off in the best of ways. There will be another post in a few minutes, I have been procrastinating about a topic as well.