“Yes” and Goodbye

I have always had a problem with saying “No” to people for some reason.  Whether that has to do with some innate need to please due to self esteem issues or lack of emotional approval from parents during critical developmental windows, or any other psychological dynamic you want to insert in there, I can’t say definitively (although I do favour some explanations more than others).

In any event, I went to the physiotherapist today.  I have been going there since early this year to try and alleviate some of the symptoms from the pressure in my groin induced by Cymbalta last fall (here’s something of interest as well.  While the provincial government won’t give a red cent for any kind of Asperger specific treatment for anyone over 18, they will give an allowance for unlimited physiotherapy.  Your government at work for you), and while it hasn’t made any long lasting improvements, it does seem to help occasionally.  Anyways, this guy is into mountain bikes, and since I bought a new one last November, he keeps asking me if I’ve taken it out yet.  I did two or three times, but the bike rack I bought nearly fell off a couple of times, and I”ve been hesitant to go out since (plus it is very hard for me to exercise in broad daylight with people around).  So he asks me if I want to go biking on the weekend in a week or two.

My immediate thought is “no”, but my traitorous instinct to socially comply betrays me once again and I find myself saying “Yes”.  And from the minute I say it, I’m thinking about how to extricate myself.  Usually, I’ll just cut off all contact with the person because I can’t call them up and say I don’t really feel like it.  This of course breeds feelings of resentment, and, depending on the size of the area, earns me a reputation as an aloof elitist, which in turn leads to further marginalization.  Gotta love the fucking public.

The Various Manifestations of AS

Okay, the title is a bit misleading.  I will only be addressing the difference in the loud and quiet individuals with AS.

We (or a lot of us) tend to generalize our feelings and perceptions as being felt by everyone else.  When these are then broken in some flagrant manner, it is akin to some sort of continuum ripping transgression.  Actually, maybe I should revert to the first person as I’m not really sure most people think like this.  I am extremely reserved and watchful of social norms around me.  When someone butts into line or picks their nose, it is a like a gaping social wound.  So imagine my surprise when I was thrown amidst a group of those with AS and finding the majority of them were loud, obnoxious and completely indifferent to what is socially acceptable.

Yes, yes, I’m aware that social impairment is the keystone characteristic of AS.  However, I always took it to mean an inability to maintain or begin conversations or shyness, not picking your nose in public or grabbing your genitals.  These people were like something from an entirely different species, and I felt no sense of connection to them.  The whole Asperger connection thing just disintegrated for me.

And that is why AS should be further broken down to address each of these categories separately rather than clumping them together.  I’m not sure having people so disparate in characteristics can be encompassed under the same diagnostic label.  And low functioning and high functioning labels are too simplistic.  While I can easily detect social norms, I can’t necessarily put them into practice.  Hence my current situation, lodged in my parents’ basement one year shy of thirty.

Take 6? (I’ve lost count)

It looks like I’m going to take yet another kick at the ball that keeps being pulled away at the last minute.  The difference being in this situation, I’m kicking more for the appearance of going through the motions than any real desire to for the piece of paper.  I’m getting ahead of myself again though.

Let me explain.  I’ve been attempting to finish a BA, major in English (that most lowly and common of degrees), for coming on to ten years now.  Besides the absurdity of that, what rankles even more is that the difficulty of completing it is easily within the reach of a monkey.  A pathological intolerance to criticism has been growing since early grade school to the point where I cannot even complete a paragraph after an hour’s time when writing an essay.  I overthink everything to the point of it being inferior to the product of just spilling out whatever is on my mind on the topic in ten or fifteen minutes.   So, since 2004, I’ve been two courses short of finishing my degree, and try as I might, I just can’t complete them.  It’s like some sort of monolithic curse has fallen upon me, so ridiculous and unrelenting are its effects.

There are several reasons for this: emotionally distant and controlling mother, lack of peer friendships/support,  Asperger traits intermixing with, and depression from, aforementioned, etc.  I was actually surprised, despite the horrific outcome, at the change in and disappearance of symptoms on my brief stay at the notorious AS residential program (while an organization might be corrupt, it is simplistic to paint every member of it with the same brush.  There were individuals there who did show a genuine sense of caring that is so completely alien to me).  It should also be noted that previous forays away from this environment, while nominally successful, still had me standing on the fringes and feeling forlorn.  What was different this time was a few people demonstrating human interest.  So, moving forward, in trying to create an artificial environment for success, those two components (separation from current environs and a person/people with empathy) are required.

Deja Vu

It only took about 15 minutes before the inevitable question arose (I should have known better): So you want to try X drug?  In this case it was Prozac.  I put on my assenting smile and nodded, thinking “Adios fucker” the minute the topic was broached.

For those who think I’m overreacting or “being difficult” or “not wanting to get better” or any other rationalization that doesn’t bother to challenge their perception of the world, let me familiarize you with some of the side effects suffered from other drugs I’ve been put on.  Let’s begin with what I like to refer to as Agent Orange, due to their colour and catastrophic side effects.

I was put on Nardil in 2002 due to my lack of response to Paxil and Effexor at the maximum dose.  At this time, I was waking up at 5:30 AM, 6ish, and going for an 8k run every morning.  Fast forward a few months.  I was on my way to gaining a hundred pounds (which took around six months to gain and caused horrific scarring that permanently disfigures my body to this day), defecating blood at one point, spasming as if being electrocuted when I slept, and sleeping 18+ hours a day.  I had breath that was described to me as being reminiscent of rotting meat (thanks mom), no matter how many times I brushed and rinsed.  I could barely walk around a block, not from the weight gain, which obviously didn’t help, but from this overwhelming feeling of enervation that plagued me every waking hour.

After being diagnosed with Asperger’s Syndrome last year, the diagnosing psychiatrist put me on Cymbalta.  I ended up having to take a leak every 10-15 minutes and still felt like I had to go after I went.  This went on all day, every day.  I finally stopped, hoping for some relief.  No such luck.  Almost a year later, I still have the side effect, and no help whatsoever from the cocksucker that prescribed the drug.

So you’ll have to pardon me if I have a contact hate for all psychiatrists.

Off We Go To the Shrink

Heading down to the psychiatrist in about twenty minutes.  This is about the seventh one, I met him a day before leaving.  He seemed to be the most personable of the lot, although that isn’t saying much given the genuinely psychotic ones I’ve been stuck with (here’s an interesting observation.  Of the over a dozen therapists I’ve seen, all the psychiatrists have been overweening assholes, about half and half for the psychologists, and the registered clinical counsellors have all been more or less amiable, if not helpful.  Take that for what it’s worth).

The Return

Upon arriving back from the ill-fated trip to the U.S. (I can’t really comment at this point too much on where I want because it looks like we are going to pursue legal action against the organization for misrepresentation, expenses, and emotional damages.  That, and there is some other sinister facts that I have learned since being discharged.  It will come out eventually though, for those who are curious, barring the signing of an NDA in the case of a settlement.  In the meantime, I will probably make numerous allusions, and the very fact that there are so few adult residential programs [one instructor said the school was "best by default"] won’t make it very hard to guess the identity of the institution), I was told that there was a telephone call from a local reporter looking to do a profile on me for a small circulation newsletter.   I was wary of doing an interview because of a previous meeting with a reporter that resulted in an article in which nothing that was quoted was actually said (it wasn’t even a paraphrasis).  I decided to go anyways, the next day.

Walking down to a nearby coffee shop (something I would never do prior to going down south.  I would walk about at night because there were fewer people out and less noise.  The experience in the States seems to have temporarily evoked what I thought was a non-existent survival instinct) in the afternoon, I looked around on what was previously ignored by familiarity with a new perspective forged by upheaval.  Although I could feel the old inertia and dread starting to return, like ashes from the sky, there was a fresh, glittering sense of capability.  This was heightened because of circumstances surrounding the previous scheduled meetup for this location, the other one cancelled in late winter due to something that came up with the other party.  The whole situation tied with that was sort of a culmination of failure and final attempt to right a ship that had been in such a state of disrepair as to be unable to navigate the so-called milestones of life anymore anyways.

So I went in not expecting much other than a diversion for an hour or two and to take my mind away from its precipitous return to its former downward spiral.  The interviewer turned out to be somewhat interesting, having shared the same degree as I do, and I learned a few things as well.  I couldn’t end the conversation when I wanted to though, so I waited until he did, which occurred after an uncomfortable decline in subject matter.  After about the hour and a quarter mark, I could barely form words, as the concentration required to appear interested and listen at the same time is always so incredibly draining.

In the Beginning…

I’ve started this primarily for the purpose of exposing a corrupt Asperger residential program I recently attended.  There are so many other things to discuss, however, and, if I may say so, there is also a glaring lack of opinions and expressions from those with AS that I identify with.  That is a mistake I have made too though, thinking there is going to be some kind of kindred bond merely because of the presence of AS.

In any event, I will endeavour to write something of interest, both to myself and whoever happens to stumble across this.  I’m not making any promises though.