Rigidity and Autistia and the POV of specificity

Imitation.

It has been opined.

Is the sincerest form of flattery.

Order.

Order.

Order.

”You can’t touch this.”

”You can’t touch that.”

Hugs hurt.

Short sentences.

Long sentences.

Run-on sentences.

The gift of one someone making sense of it all.

One time.

One moment.

Makes all the difference in the world.

In a world where differences are not supposed to “matter.”

The pile on.

Reciprocity nonexistent.

Non existent.

I can’t take it anymore.

Please understand me.

Or.

At least try.

Whilst you are so busy being,

Busy.

Someone out there noticed.

In an instant.

Life changed.

Not in the way that I thought it would.

Thought it could.

People can be so mean.

I was too busy filling the void holding on to the hurt.

It landed on me heavy.

It was all that I know.

All that I knew.

My God.

I hope.

It is not all that I will always know,

Forever.

I remember.

Love.

Seems far away.

Very far away.

Self- love forgotten long ago, not certain it was allowed to exist.

In my world.

Too busy, just trying to.

Survive.

At the doors of the closet.

Not sure whether I belonged further in,

or further out.

Of the holding room.

There were very few clothes, in the closet.

Just me, myself, and I—

most of the time.

Intimidation has a way.

Of cementing its fear in our inner core, in the place where we should be learning about the joys of life.

Life can suck sometimes.

Humans can complicate the heck out of it.

With their own selfish wants and needs and disregards.

Others offensively try to throw, or should I say push, harshly the onus right back in our face because their fear is so much deeper.

They are mean, mean-spirited. They know not where to dump theirs, so they dump it on you.

My shoulders—Broad.

Very broad.

My spirit?

Present and accounted for.

Your games.

No match for my strength.

Unflappability is a gene in my family.

Bring it on.

You may wish you had not.

But. Then again, It is not my call..

My strength. It runs deep, far and vast.

It just may require more of your time to connect with it.

I hope you do.

I even pray you will.

God is a mysterious leader amongst our never ending doubt.

There is nothing “typical” about Him.

I think that is why many people use Him.

His strengths.

Because He has no weaknesses.

He simply helps us, to see our own.

So we can be a better person.

The better person.

To ourselves.

Mostly, though, to

Others.

No. That does not mean,

”I wanna dance with somebody.”

And.

If I hear that song another time, I think I will bust.

No hand flapping, skin scratching, leg flailing goes on in my brain.

I.

Am the quiet one.

Until I am not.

And then.

Please watch out because I will have a lot to say.

My life.

Not a choice.

The way of my life, up until now.

Not a choice.

It has been another’s choice for me.

For using my talents. For themselves.

The pile on. Has been precarious.

To say the least.

Overwhelming, even.

It is not something I cannot handle.

It rather is something I do not want to,

handle.

But handle I must.

And.

HANDLE,

I will.

I have learnt a thing or two about

Camouflage.

Hiding my fears.

Became a way of life.

”Taking it” became a way of life.

Survival, in fact.

Hiding the hurt along with my so called failings, deficits, etcetera, etcetera.

Society has indeed helped me hide me a long the way.

Oftentimes by denying my very existence.

Sad.

But.

True.

Lucky breaks for the good looking—only go so far.

Their door to the world closes quickly, too.

On themselves.

Puffed up so much in a life that only returned superficiality to them.

No depth.

No substance.

No learnt skills of reciprocity self- honed — only anyone and everyone giving them anything and everything they ever wanted. Or thought they wanted.

It is so often stated,

There are choices.

But.

Really.

There are few. If any.

In the life of.

Abuse.

Most days. The only choice is to.

”Take it.”

Whist the back slaps, and the “atta boys” aplomb the “go-getter”.

In selfish and pointless, aimless attempts to

”get”

What another person.

Has.

Kinda like the leftovers.

Although it is not “sexy” to call them

Leftovers.

Instead, soceitally we placed them on a “spectrum.”

For the “good” of society.

It seems all so much more

”Acceptable.”

To boot, they are even high functioned or not so high functioned.

Embarrassingly so.

People really do not change.

And this spectrum ensures they have an excuse “not to.”

Change.

Insidious. Really.

How can one prove what they cannot prove?

Desperate.

Desperate attempts to have and take, instead of give and take.

And.

Believe you me,

There are many, many takers.

And less and less givers.

The balance is shifting and it is not becoming.

At all.

Enter.

The camouflage.

The trench.

The finding-who-your-friends-are-attempts-at-life whose landscape is vastly closing.

and fastly closing.

Sad.

Really.

At one time, I thought having friends, until the last few years anyway, was a good thing.

Now: Friends have become spies, or vice versa.

I am not quite sure.

Quite certain. I have become like Moms who like Jif.

Very choosey. Very specific. Very careful.

Who really knows?

Not me.

My best friend.

My BFF.

Doesn’t talk anyway.

And that is the way we both like it.

A lot.

Because we do not have to talk.

We know one another’s secrets.

and we will never tell another soul.

The non-human nature of our existence reflects in our high regard for one another.

And.

We know it.

We feel it.

Enough said.

In the meantime.

The posturing will not go away.

The competition is fierce.

In this life of not dying.

I was merely hoping not to have a headache.

But. That want.

That may have to wait.

Until my time in my lifetime solitary closet confinement does not suffocate the life out of me. Ceases to exist.

In the meantime.

The line is long.

Of the wants and the needs.

Of others.

I might just have to say, “No.”

But not without a good fight.

Fight or flight.

Flight or fight.

It is not my call.

What is.

My call.

Point forward, anyway.

Is how I allow you to “treat” me.

Behind closed doors.

In front of closed doors.

When you leave,

In a huff of a rush of un-managed anger.

Or in a desperate attempt to flee your own self fear.

I have always been here.

I always will be.

Whether or not it is good enough for you is something you must

Ask yourself.

Ask of yourself.

I am in it for the long haul.

I have been in it for the long haul.

At the same time.

I am still realizing,

You left me long ago.