I have hate in my heart. I don’t like it. I need to purge it. I need to reckon it. There must be reasons, right? What have I repressed? I don’t want to go into details here. I will write in a private journal instead. But I wanted to mention it. Joe Dirt says you can’t have hate in your heart. But if it’s already there, you need to address it, I guess.
Category Archives: reflections within
aut
Every time I do something and then regret it, it is my autism that kept me from nipping it in the bud. My ability to write here but not be open in the real world, is my autism speaking. Everything that speaks to a disconnect is the autism. I don’t care if the DDSC or whatever manual would disagree with my assessment of it. I like it. I like using it as a term that fits my life. I know it sounds catch-all.
Every time I spend money I don’t have, it’s autism speaking. To me it’s not catch-all. It’s my reality. It’s my own self.
Eating things that I know will have a deleterious effect on my skin – that’s autism. It’s like the Passover song, Dayenu.
It’s either a catch-all or it truly permeates every single thing in my life. I don’t mind that if it’s true. It’s better than the lifelong haze I’ve been living within.
Foremost
What if I do the right things (eating, behavior, relationships) for the wrong reasons. Or at least not very good reasons. And what if I do the wrong things for the right reasons. The question is, does it matter why. Or is the what the point. I don’t think I’ve analyzed the why to a great degree. Although this blog belies that point of view. But that is my gut reaction. I look for ways to address the what, and the why trails behind somewhere. Is it a guy thing? Why. It’s a question of depth of understanding. Why. I feel good when I do the right thing. But what if I’m doing it without understanding or reason. In that case, is it better to just go ahead and do the wrong thing, but at least understand why and live with it.
What if you do the right things for the wrong reasons? What happens? They become fleeting. They are indefensible. You even doubt yourself. I imagine some people are better at the what and some the why. It depends on the type of person you are.
I’m not supposed to feel guilty, am I? I’m not supposed to feel inadequate, am I? Because I feel that creeping up. How am I supposed to feel about doing the right things for the wrong reasons. What if I figured out the actual reasons? What if I do have reasons, right or not, and I just can’t figure them out. But that gets back to the question of whether I’ve tried to figure them out. I think I have. And at this moment, I seem to have concluded that there is a right and wrong about them.
The problem with the wrong reasons is they don’t jive with the right actions. So it is unsustainable. It is untenable.
Smarmy
Anger. Anger. But to what end. I’ve always had anger, but I’ve never found much use for it. I end up stuffing it. What does a peacenik do with his anger? I guess I can be a jerk. I can be cold. I can be adrift. My unused anger clouds my brain. Maybe I have a particularly large amount of anger. And that really doesn’t jive with my assuaging ways. Quite the extremist.
So instead, what do I do? I let it out in tiny portions. Or I let it in. I turn my anger inwards on myself. Or I let it out on those closest to me. I have used this blog and therapy sessions as a way to more safely and effectively deal with my bottled up anger. Something made me angry today. Something probably makes me angry every day. Maybe the same thing. Is resentment the same as anger? I can’t distinguish.
Why do I let other people do the angriness for me? I love angry people. Literally. Angry, angry, angry. Angry. Angry. Hungry. Angry. Am I hungry or angry. One book I read proposed that words that sound similar can get intertwined in your subconscious. So if I’m angry, I might decide that I’m hungry instead. I wouldn’t be surprised if I overate out of anger. Since I don’t really have any better ideas. On the subject. Maybe I should ask Percy Grainger. It’s too bad I don’t have more time to figure these things out. Life is fleeting, isn’t it. I’m breathing. I’m angry. It matters. It matters. It matters how I feel. It matters that I feel. It matters that I was born. It matters.
I do like writing. I like talking too. There are those that like neither. No common ground. I wish my anger could wipe away annoying people. I wish I could act on my anger and everything would be perfect, would be wiped clean. I’m waiting for that to happen. Suddenly. I’ve always hoped it would be sudden.
I like to say to Cody, “I have a secret. I love you.” I like to be sneaky. I like to be surreptitious. I like to live in the dark. Too bad it’s a scary place. A place of sorrow. But it’s protected. You’re relatively safe. Some people keep their joys a secret. Maybe I do. Otherwise they are open to mockery and accusation. They can be challenged, debunked. There was a time, before certain things happened, that I was willing to shout my joys to all the world. A time where I knew of safety. A good time. A childlike time. A child doesn’t need to be demure, or shy. Adults suck. Adulthood is hell. Hell is where you can’t shout out. You’re muzzled. You’re muffled. Hell. Hell. Oh, hell. Why do we have to grow up? Why? Why is it necessary? Who invented adulthood? Who came up with the idea? Someone who was robbed of their childhood?
Writing for expression / broken pieces of a life / innocent hope of youth
Is writing here (or elsewhere) a direct link to what my heart wants? I would also surmise that it balances my heart and mind. I do wish that there were other places that that could happen in my life. That would be too easy, I guess.
It’s better I guess that I hoe this long road of learning, inch by inch. I have to see it here on paper. I have to find out what I really feel and really want by reading it on this screen. Maybe I should be a screenwriter. Maybe this is their experience. Your heart expresses itself on paper, you get people to speak those words, and it miraculously comes to life in front of you. I don’t know. It never occurred to me to use my writing this way. I write for readers. I have a love hate feeling towards actors and theatrical/cinematic production. It’s not my drive, so to speak. But I don’t like the way it sucks the life out of me. But it is so cathartic in its way. To see expression in that form. It’s one of my vices, living vicariously. Or seeing others doing it. I actually cut out moviegoing a while back. It was too fun. Too mood altering and personality altering. I knew it was confusing me when I returned to the real world. I decided I needed to exist in the real world primarily. I suppose I want that for my son. It’s a lot to explain here, it seems. I would have to retrace many many steps to explain what got me to that point. It reminds me of Cody and his Lego set. He sets his mind to embarking on the building process. He is fearless. He is undaunted. He has his whole life ahead of him, after all. He can do anything. That is beautiful. That is precisely how I want him to feel. Fearless. I seem to be in the process of piecing my life back together, a life that is broken, and desperately needs repair. I mentioned something about that tonight with the 2 of them, and Cody was utterly innocent to what I was referring to. He only knows hope, thank god. I of course would love him only to know that, ever. I just can’t believe how long I’ve spent trying to piece my life back together. I don’t know whose fault it is. Maybe it’s someone’s. Maybe it will forever be unknown to me. The onion. It will continue to unpeel itself.
Regressing / bad influences
It’s certainly a challenge to regress, especially if I’m not surrounded by other regressors. My goal is to regress. I realized that if Cody’s job is to mature and grow, my job is to regress, to stop thinking of myself as someone who is aging.
I guess I equate that to worrying, to catastrophizing, to nitpicking. It’s also an emotional thing. I can feel myself aging. I can feel myself withering, worrying myself to(wards) death. I can feel the difference between conversations and activities that encourage that inching towards my demise, and those that encourage youthfulness and a recapturing of what I once had at all times.
But it’s hard when you are close to others who wouldn’t understand this sort of thinking or dreaming. Those who revel in the banal. In the most adult thought patterns. Those who are dark. Adulthood is a dark, hellish place, if you don’t know how to find escape hatches from it. But I won’t give up. I can be strong. Maybe I can even find better examples to be close to. To surround myself with. I need to look back. Backwards. I need to keep regressing. It is my best and only hope.
Mangle
I have to doubt all things. I have to question. I sometimes wish I had a choice. But I think I know that I don’t, and that I don’t want one. Questioning is my way to grow. The depth that I want to change is probably equal to the depth of my doubts of what I believe. If I were to hold fast to a belief, then I would hit a ceiling of my potential for growth.
I crave beliefs that can withstand my questions. That I can press for answers and continue receiving them. Lately I have come back to love as a source of wisdom and truth. If I love something healthy more than something unhealthy, I can rely on that as a way to sway my actions. I can lean on love. It can handle a lot of my will, or my questioning. We will see if it can withstand it in the long run. Sometimes I have to leave a notion for awhile while I am in a period of doubt, but I eventually am capable of returning to it for further investigation and use. I don’t think this is a problem anymore. It is a sign of engaging in a process. Not sitting still. No one has explained this process to me, not that I can remember. So I am inventing it for myself. Am I taking the path less traveled? I often feel like I’m not. Like I am just a drone, living in the shadows of others. Maybe my way is cloaked like that. It is true for me, but it doesn’t thrive in the limelight. Maybe anyone who bothers to look within the shadowy enclosure will find something beautiful and meaningful. Something that can affect the world in a meaningful way. Maybe my version of kindness and compassion is not destined to withstand advertisement. Of course it is also connected to shame. I wish it was only a good kind of shame, like tastefulness or decency. But it isn’t just that. I am ashamed. And I try to protect myself from the worst of it. I do things to hide from myself. I still hate myself. For whichever reasons. I love people who don’t hate themselves. I adore them. They radiate. They inspire me not to feel that way. Thank God for people like that. Or I’d be lost. I must be wary of that river of hate. Self-hate, that morphs into other hate. And meanness. There are many kinds of meanness. I strive to eradicate them. Once I can identify them.
Check
Maybe once you’ve grown up, you easily lose that thread which connects your adult personality to the childhood experiences that shaped it. It’s hidden, that thread. It takes a special kind of observation to reimagine it, to recapture it.
Not common observation. This place – Thailand – and this space – blogging – give my mind and heart allowance to escape their ordinary patterns. I question the sort of subject matter I lean towards here. But it is the most important stuff to the likes of me, at least. It would be a wasted opportunity if I didn’t go there. It is one of the very few places I can explore these deeply crucial issues.
Liquidy
I eat when I’m not hungry. I don’t drink when I am thirsty. I stay awake when I am tired. I remain sedentary when my body thirsts for exercise. I waste time in myriad ways when I have important work to be done. I am sad when life hands me opportunities for joy. I get distracted when I am in dire need of focusing. I get obsessed with useless, inane actions. I get angry when everything is fine. I am pleased when there are clear problems.
There are some good examples of my broken compass. I must go back to square one. I must be vigilant. In a sense I must do what George prescribes. Look for all opportunities where the contrasting action is right and my tendency/instinct is wrong. Maybe that’s why writing is good for me. It is somewhere in the nether region between inaction and action. It’s where I have a moment to reconsider what I’m thinking.
pendulous
Okay, this is important. It’s one thing to know right and wrong. It’s one thing to know what’s the right thing to do, and what’s the ill-fated thing to do. The trouble is, there are so many little tiny decisions in a day. How am I going to know until after the fact which path is the right one to take? I say that I am learning. Is that really true? Is that really the essence of learning? Accumulating information in order to make the right decisions more often?
Learning Without Accumulation is the title of a Krishnamurti book. I try to teach Cody the essence of wisdom and understanding.
It’s like a see-saw. Or a pendulum. On one end is the bad, addictive, unhealthy things one is attracted to. On the other are the pure antidotes that enact a recovery. I guess I am trying to manage that swing, and in so doing, learning. Little by little I swing less and less. I make fewer and fewer mistakes, and therefore need less and less extreme antidotes. But the pure antidotes instead are becoming a solace for me, a source of wisdom. I want to take them out of the realm of the see-saw effect. Maybe the midpoint, the fulcrum of the see-saw is moving in the direction of health, if I’m living right. So if it ever does eventually stop, it will be in a beautiful place.
Every time I break any of the commandments of health and wisdom, I feel I am back to square one. Even if I am not. I feel it. It is not so much a question of evidence. How could I possibly keep track of my progress? It’s not a life lived if you are only tabulating and charting all the time. That’s been a little achilles issue with me. Not living. Retreating to analysis. I do like to do it. (As is apparent here, I suppose.) (I’d like to think the not so subtle difference between analyzing and philosophizing distinguishes my process.)