I am not one for self-promotion.
In highschool they asked me to do modeling because I was a singer and actress. I flatout refused. I was terrified of cameras (ASPIE) They feel like spikey torturous eyes blinking at me. Plus for some reason the image looks nothing like me, unlike video cameras.
I still hate cameras, the word “selfie” makes me scowl or wince. And I would rather have chicken pox than whore myself out or chase people like sharks after blood in hopes to gain their admiration or money.
I was the girl who at 5’9 and sporting platinum hair and constantly compared to Monroe was begging off for dates and fans. Mostly older men including friends fathers who would smile and gush like little boys at me. It fucking terrified me. I was raised in a cult like church and my body was blamed for being too seductive. And many other nightmarish incidents of the like.
Sometimes I internalized it. Like when I was chased and almost abducted in my teens and my reasoning was “Well enough people blame my body and face for putting their hands on me because they cannot control themselves, I guess I am not safe unless I hide and never perform or take the spotlight.”
Obviously I know better now. It took me awhile to get self introspective at all. I was a peer counselor (Had to take a class for six months) all the way back in 9th grade and was so popular they kept me on until 11th. However, since I never felt emotion. I never realized I had them. I thought I was just like Spock. I could not understand peoples petty upsets and human dramas that seemed so minor to me and easily fixed with a bit of perspective outside of their emotional storms.
Both biological contributors have many traits indicative of a clusterB disorder. Both main siblings appear to in my opinion as well. Obviously this is all my subjective opinion as my only official training has been in hypnotherapy counseling from a world class teacher friend who taught me his tips and tricks but who once admitted to me.
“Its all bullshit. You have adults who cannot give themselves permission for success, offering to pay you 1k an appointment just to get that inner child the authority taste it needs to finally let them stop self sabotaging and fearing success.” Is it worth it? I suppose so, if you have no idea its bullshit and it helps you to remember things or regain your RAWR. Why not.
I am very honest so I will say its bullshit but it works for people who need help visualizing or need an authority figure to give them permission to finally love themselves.
Then again, psychology itself is not an exact science and is consistently debunked so really giving someone a license who may or may not be qualified to treat hearts and minds, just because they can regurgitate the subjective opinions of long dead men, is kind of alarming to me.
Why does nobody question this?
Most people, yes even “professionals” can barely tie their shoes, so declaring them an expert because they managed to memorize and slog through classes that they pay the price of a home in Boca to afford, is irrational.
I once had a therapist. My last experience of my lifetime. I described the horrific abuse I was going through in full detail but since I was six. He declined to grasp that I was being honest and instead witnessed me get slapped in the waiting room by my enraged but very young and troubled Narcissist behaving mother. If shes not one, she severely lacks empathy and has blamed me for breathing since my birth.
I am fairly certain the only reason I am not a professional hitman or something equally scary is my Aspergers.
Of course some memories have hurt me, I have even learned to cry. But not compared to how a neurotypical would have been molded in that war zone.
After Dr Pinto, I never trusted another professional. I determined to diagnose her myself and started reading psychology and self help books when I was in third grade. They really helped with talking her down from a fit. I spent most of my life before aged thirteen, raising children that were not mine so my mother and stepfather could go to parties and talking her out of suicide attempts.
The first I recall was when she slit her wrists in front of my brother and I as we stuffed cocoa powder in our mouths in the kitchen, turning towards us so we could watch it drip off her fingertips onto the linoleum.
Not to be a ghoul but I am totally drinking whiskeyaCocoa right now writing this~
In my memory she has a diaphanous white nightgown on with long wild dark hair flowing around her like a fairytale witch hypnotised by her murderous rage.
He was horrified. I simply thought,
“Yay I am going back to grandma’s”
I think I was more disappointed she did not die. That sounds horrible but you have to realize any person who could do that in front of their children, was not the safest or the most nurturing figure. To my logic, I could better protect him if she were gone entirely.
Thus began my illustrious career as the Aspie pocket doctor. I discovered if I asked people about themselves and listened to their woes. They were less likely to hit me and give me a fat lip. I never knew fear. It was not an emotion I was familiar until I started to feel my emotions and recognize them. So when threatened physically even by a man a ft taller and hundred pounds heavier, I never had the sense to back down or cry and beg for mercy.
I never told anyone about the abuse after several attempts trying to get protective services involved and one time my elementary school principal called home to warn them that agents were on their way and to prepare their story.
They told me if I ever tried that the younger ones would be split up and I would not be able to protect them anymore from the outside. I did not stop harassing the judge who handled my custody hearing. I wrote him often trying to reason and show with research why the court was wrong and how he needed to rectify his decision and send me back to my grandmother.
When I was twelve, I finally showed emotion and lost my mind and told him if he ever hit me again, I would kill him and I meant it. He backed out of my bedroom and never tried to harm me. Not physically, emotionally or verbally. I wish I could say the same for her. After he left her, she backed me into a corner and was going to punch me in the face for tripping over her purse which was in the middle of the room. On Christmas.
I don’t hit women. When you are an Amazon, anything smaller than you feels like abusing them. My crazy grandmother stepped in and put a stop to the snarling standoff.
I am quite healed and I love my mother now for all her ahem personality quirks she can mean well and I find grudges illogical, I say my piece sometimes even explode like Vesuvius then ultimately release the offender of all ill wishes.
If you tell your story, it often sets others free in my experience. It purges the poison in your heart, breaks the power over the lies spoken over your value that you may have internalized and sometimes it can take so much purging you want to purge from all the “whining” you feel like you are doing but if you can take it far enough that to tell it to yourself fucking bores you. You know you’ve healed. You are able to truly move on instead of stuffing it down and bearing subconscious wounds and self sabotaging, being a slave to your unknown emotions buried in your heart over some issue.
So even though I despise self promotion and losing my privacy is a terrifying concept. I feel the Universe pushing me to share all of this with you. To finally make a career out of my history with talking people off of ledges. Honesty is a balm to hearts.
I have many experiences as JaneGoodall the aspie adventurer with field notes on Narc types. (I use that word for lack of a better one, I believe a narc is someone incapable of real empathy, who wipes their shame and self hatred on others and was arrested emotionally very young, so in MY definition the name fits.)
When you are autistic, you often feel like an alien trying to make sense of another civilization (being literal and sometimes still not getting a joke at first hit) but to be surrounded by people who behave using the above descriptor. Is a different kind of bewilderment.
I honed my skills on my biological contributors and their respective spouses at the time and then it was just a lifelong practice to continue asking questions, trying to solve people and their puzzles. I think being unable to project emotionally into situations gives me a cleaner perspective than someone who is painting their tears, anger, pain and past baggage into every scenario.
I decided to do this because I instinctively do it wherever I go, restaurants, truckstops, stores, airports and traveling the world. I get intuitions or visions and start asking people questions and they end up spilling their dreams and life story. They end up excited more so than creeped out.
Just the other day at Perkins, I “saw in a vision while ordering” the waitress making graphic posters for bands she liked and told her to start a blog about her love of music, to consider producing one day. She got really excited and told us she used to love graphic design and has been batting around the thought of starting a blog on music and bands because it was her passion and she missed that spark. I hit the nail on the head. No keys there to read for mentalist tricks she was in a black T shirt, normal glasses and looked more like a coder than anything someone utilizing mentalist hot reading technique would have spat out.
Now I am not a fruitloop. The ability goes against everything I believe in logically. But then as Arthur C Clarke says “Magic is just science that we don’t understand yet.”
I am told I have helped countless people. That is awesome. It makes me feel like I balance my biological family polluting by their selfish, deceptive and alarming ways they take advantage of people.
Just because I am good at intuitive reasoning does not mean I do not have blindspots or am allowed to see everything before it happens. Six months before my exhusband went cuckoo bananas, I had a vision of the date it happened. October 12th. His story is for another day.
I never wanted to do this “life coach” thing.
God that word makes me puke.
We aren’t in highschool.
Nobody needs a coach or to pay to sit with the cheerleading squad and get a “hi” in the halls
I would prefer the term consultant or strategist myself.
One night I was helping someone free on FB, I do that just to give back to the Universe. I scarcely sleep and like to use my many fucked up experiences in life and alien perspective to bring them peace in the wee hours.
This woman told me that I NEEDED to do this work. And her reason was so sweet and vulnerable I felt it in my heart and agreed with the Universe we would.
So here I am writing every story my family and past partners would prefer I hid under a rock wrapped in shame. Hoping that it resonates with those in pain and they are inspired to look inside themselves and ask WHY.
I think we should ask ourselves “WHY” a hundred times a day at least. Children do and they seem pretty feckin’ happy living so curious, full of wonder and out of the box intellectually.
Asking yourself questions is the best way to get into that heart. The inner child. Just put on music, sing along and answer them without thinking. Use a different colored pen or font if you want or play music from whatever time period you are hoping to contact.
I firmly believe we leave shattered pieces of our hearts in the past during traumatic moments and that is how emotional stunting occurs birthing personality disorders.
I have a theory a Narc is probably less than aged three emotionally.
I have taken Psych in university but I could not stay fascinated long enough to be licensed. The subjective opinions of old dead men are nowhere near pertaining to now and regurgitating them is a waste of time, money and someones creative intellect.
People just do what was done before, simply because someone else says they must.
How illogical of them.
Perhaps they cannot think for themselves and need to be fed the answers?
If anyone from my past happens upon this and is angry I wrote it, I would advise you not to share it. It won’t upset me if you make a chain letter that circumnavigates the globe. It would only get you negative publicity and dishonor even if it was a moment of glorious attention. But most of you are hair trigger and never truly stop to think of consequences.
I love telling the truth and someone potentially healing from my writing means more to me than petty human drama and gossip. Remember, I only care what my beasts and roughly two people in the world think of me.
Shame cripples. Tell your stories without fear, Show yourself the honor you deserve. They might be the key to unlocking someone’s past and freeing their imprisoned heart. Especially your own.