No One’s Responsible

by: mishiPosted on: 10-24-2008 @ 10:34 am

                                                                  

 

fri 24 oct 2009 Peskeomskut Park, Turners FallsStill sleeping outside.  No followers of Jesus in this burg take me in (what would Jesus do?) My so-called protectors do not locate me anywhere. I withdrew from the DMH in June because they were doing nothing. So here I sit. Believing that I can’t find my own place because I have been told I’m a “protected” person, and protected people must be located by the protectors.

Update 28 August 2009:  Life in the park was degrading, humiliating, but in another way beautiful. I was enraged and hurt that my protectors, especially Matthew, were leaving me this way. I was humiliated to be living in a park when for 55 years I’d had homes. I was a ball of fury and worry: when are they going to tell me where they want me? It’s been months since Matthew tried and it fell through. When are they going to get this done? But the beauty of the park was watching the sky, feeding the squirrels and birds. I had animals to take care of again. They weren’t my own, and I thought of my own stolen animals every single day, but they were there and they became my friends (the only ones I had). We loved each other for the time I was there. And again, none of the “christian” citizens of Turners Falls, around whom I’d lived for so long, offered me a couch or a room. If they thought I was delusional (I wasn’t), they at least knew that I was a non-drinking, non-drugging “delusional” who was harmless. They just couldn’t be bothered to help.

 See the Shelter Life page of my website.

Visuals; Water; A Dog

Friday 18 June 2010      Greenfield

In Grünefeld again this morning doing errands. Running the risk, as always, of an ugly undercover, psychotic song-and-dance with Matthew, self-described best undercover man. It hasn’t happened yet, but there’s still time. When I came last week, he quite magnanimously left me alone. Can I hope for that twice — we’ll see.

As of a few minutes ago, I decided to give all of my WordPress journals the same theme graphics, something green entitled Thirteen. All of the journals but this one.

This one keeps the water and the trees, in memory of Mishi himself. More than any of my dogs, Mishi loved to go into water. And as I’ve said before, he didn’t care if it was pristine like the water in this theme header, or stagnant and black as the night. Maybe something about lying down in water helped his epilepsy (for which he took phenobarb) somehow, I don’t know.

                                                                    

And there he is on the last morning we ever had together, heading for that stream.

So, Mishibone, for you I leave this theme in place. If the water were real and not a photo in cyberspace, and if you were still real, not murdered somewhere by someone, I’d get wet to my waist if I had to to be in this water with you. You were 100 times the man that Matthew is.

why not for us?

Wednesday 2 June 2010                 Turners tarting

Again I’ll break in on my copying of the original Mishi posts to write a new one, starting off with material quoted from Michael John Carley’s book Asperger’s from the Inside Out:

      “Because we are different from the rest of the world, often it takes, not concessions, but a different mind-set in our potential significant others to be able to see past our differences and find qualities they like. Holliday Willey again provides another beautiful example in Pretending to be Normal as she recalls someone she once knew:

                        ‘To him I was a friend he liked to do things with, someone
                         to share life with for a while. He never batted an eye when
                         he saw I lived with two dogs and five cats, instead of a bunch
                         of girls. He never expressed any concern over my weird habit
                         of grilling people for way too much information. He always stood
                         by me patiently when I freaked out from having had too much
                         sensory stimulation. He never questioned me or criticized me,
                         he just let me be. If only everyone could be that gracious —
                         maybe then, we would not even need a definition of Asperger’s
                         Syndrome.’ “

 

And I myself had a male friend like that for a number of years in my life. Not a romance, but we were good friends. Sadly, our families and our lives went in different directions, and we lost track of each other. But after 34 years, his sister has found me again, and we are in touch. I hope he’ll hear through her how good his friendship was.

Carley is discussing these issues in his chapter that deals with Aspies dating and forming couples, but I will apply the material above to all relationships. Why is there so little tolerance of our differences for so many of us with Asperger’s? Why is it like trying to find a needle in a haystack to find friends/partners who will accept the way autism makes us different? I suppose I already know the answers: people are selfish; people want sameness and conformity; what’s different is regarded with suspicion, et cetera. Narrow mindedness, shallow thinking, emotional laziness that doesn’t want to make the effort, intellectual laziness that doesn’t want to learn about the condition.

I want the right not to smile without being disliked for it, lectured about it. And the right not to look people in the eye when I’m not up to it. I’m tired of my autism symptoms making me a bad person in shallow minds: the absence of a smile is malicious. The absence of eye contact means I’m lying. The need for truth and for direct speech is nit-picking. Extreme attention to detail is nit-picking too.

Many people who will go to the trouble to understand diabetes or blindness or the needs of an amputee will not exert themselves one iota to understand mild autism, autism not severe enough to land us in special homes, but still enough to make us “weird” and very much not average.

part of the book Neverending Solitaire

all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2008-2011 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved 

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