Neurotypical Grime

Wednesday 24 November 2010, Turners Tongue-poison

Thanksgiving eve. I’m not doing any of the things that I’m supposed to do this day, as this day bears no resemblance to other such days that happened for 55 years. I exist in a twilight zone that has no relation to the stolen life that was my own.

And once again I’m interrupting the copying of the Wrongplanet posts for this interjection.

Neurotypical grime.  You know how it feels when you’re sweaty, and you’re doing yardwork or walking around in a sandy area — tiny particles of soil and sand cling to your damp skin, and when you get inside you feel just plain grimy, and you can’t wait to wash it off? Well that’s how I feel when I’ve been among people. I feel like there’s a grime both on me and in me that I need to get rid of because it makes me feel irritable, nervous, and as if my cells are clogged. It’s been that way at least since my teenage years. People — their game-playing, the confusing and inconsistent nature of both their words and their body language, their complete lack of solidity and reliability — leave me feeling soiled. I need to cleanse.

Animals were always my chief method of cleansing. Adjuncts were baths and mediations and music and books and art and nature.  And talking over the shaky feelings with someone, if I was lucky enough at any moment to have such a someone. Since the stealing of my life, I come back grimy to no animal family, no ability to read books in print, almost no ability to listen to music or meditate or have anything to with art. The cleansing rituals, like so much else, were stolen and murdered along with the animals.

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