One Year Since

I admit, I'm a little off on time. Technically, it should have been last Saturday that I noted the one-year milestone for this blog; however, as I was about 300 miles north without access to the internet, let alone electricity, now is as fine a time as ever to look back.

The launch of this blog was, as are many of my hare-brained ideas, met with utter ambivalence, though it did once cause a prodigious argument on my Facebook profile, back when I had one. It became utterly critical for me to keep writing and publishing, writing and publishing, always with humor at the forefront because, I figured, no one wanted to read anything else; life was depressing enough without me adding to it. It took less than a month for me to start obsessively monitoring the weekly view statistics, cranking out more entries when I didn't get enough responses on the previous ones. I wanted feedback. I wanted dialogue. I didn't get it. People were hung up on the title. Finally, that's when I realized how tired I was of the constant posting and the constant monitoring, of setting myself up to use my personal information to please other people. I was giving myself away and getting nothing in return. At least whores get money for their services.

It's taken me a year at least to realize that I don't actually have to please anyone. Mostly, this came from re-reading The Way to Love, which I don't feel obligated to chronicle chapter by chapter anymore. Check it out if you want to learn more. From it, I have learned two truths that are gut-wrenching in their difficulty, based on my ingrained habits, or programming:

1. I don't have to please anyone.
   • Pleasing another person fuels a desire for further pleasure and becomes, above all other things, a chain. Realizing this has made it so much easier to overcome my fear of talking to people. Not giving a shit what they think about me, because there is nothing they can do to ruin me, has made dealing with people so much less stressful than ever before.
2. Happiness is not a destination.
   • I devoted nine years of my life to the search for a "soulmate." In so doing, I lost a great deal of my creativity, my focus, and my self-esteem. What I learned is that the soul does not need or even have a mate. Can we call the Enlightened Ones who did not marry "incomplete?"

For the first time in recent memory, I'm finding the very thought of a relationship repulsive. To me, a new relationship, while pleasurable to the senses, would be a spawning pool for insecurity, distraction, and self-deprecation. The idea of returning to the old habits of paranoia and codependency, of making sacrifices for the personal benefit of others, makes me physically ill. When I talk about the last year of adventures that I've had, my married coworkers wag their fingers and cluck "Wait 'til you get married and have kids; then we'll see about your freedom." There is absolutely no appeal to this.

However, I do sometimes still feel alone. It's not easy converting your love for a physical human to a love for something intangible: a feeling, an idea, or a deity. Yet, I seldom feel alone when in solitude; it is when I am around people that the feeling strikes. I spent my birthday camping in northern California, alone. I had no problem driving, dining, or sleeping alone; nor did it bother me not to have a cake and presents. In fact, it was lovely all around. The trouble came at dinner time the second night, when I was camping at Mount Madonna. I was alone at my table, surrounded by people chatting with each other. Need I say more on the matter?

So, after a year of delving into the inhibitions surrounding Asperger's, I've reached the following status: I am now secure enough to choose Will over Obligation and start building my social base, but after the years of a false journey, I am disillusioned enough to see no real point in building such a base up again. People are too busy for me, and I for them. A thousand moments of solitude eventually drown out a moment of loneliness.

Though the foundation and the walls are built, there is still an empty space inside. Building on the progress of the last year, the new quest will be to find what will best fill that space.

The Way to Love (Part 2)

Moving right along, I'm a mere five pages into the book, and already I'm back at the chapter that gave me the most trouble. It starts with a quote from the book of Luke (14:26): "If anyone comes to me and does not hate his own father and mother and wife and children and brothers and sisters, yes, and even his own life, he cannot be my disciple."

In my ongoing search to not just be "good" but also to be "content," I've attempted putting this into practice by itself, and it's only led me to be bitter toward my family and my friends when they don't play by my rules. "Hate them, treat them disdainfully, and you'll be free" was the philosophy. But when it comes to seeking happiness, that really doesn't work. On re-reading, the point was sort of along the lines of a superhero movie: Those people and things you hold most dear are also the most dangerous to your personal well-being. I look at the recent death of my roommate's grandfather. She and her mom spent the better part of four months living with the grandparents and their cantankerous adopted son. It challenged some relationships and ruined others because of the obligation to help those who refused to be helped. The obligation, the commitment, was for family. Now, the family principle is one that I struggle with, because in so many of the religious "guidelines" I read, the central path to God, the Dharma, or what have you, is independent of family and other earthly "ties." So this is troubling.

"Hate" is a strong word that's thrown around loosely, and it doesn't work for me. I don't hate my parents. I don't hate my life. Is this why I'm not perpetually happy? As I read on, the terminology fit my tastes a little more. De Mello suggests not that we renounce our family, our friends, our ambitions, or our possessions all at once - he points out that violently ending a tie binds it to you forever - but rather to realize that they are attachments, that they are not eternal, and that, should they go away or turn against us, we should be ready. Perhaps "ready" is too pessimistic a term, but in all actuality, nothing lasts forever. Eventually, the whole human race will go extinct, for Pete's sake. But that's beside the point.

The book suggests making a list of all one's worldly desires and, having done so, addressing each of them with the following phrase: Deep down in my heart I know that even after I have got you I will not get happiness. So let's do that.  What all do I want that's making me miserable?

• A spouse/partner
• A group of reliable friends
• Approval from:
• My parents
• My extended family
• My friends
• My acquaintances
• My employer/coworkers
• Complete fucking strangers
• My inner voice/God
• Success/Influence
• As a writer
• As an actor? Performer?
• Financial (money for travel)
• Travel (happy without?)
• The garden
• The collections

This could be interpreted rather pessimistically, but the text doesn't say that having these things will make me miserable. Rather, it is pointing out that getting any one of these things will not magically make me happy. Happiness is not a goal. Making it a goal puts it in the intangible future, like a carrot at the end of a stick. Phrases like "the good old days" or "things will get better" are distractions that, no matter how you phrase them, force you into an unhappy present. This doesn't mean you have to go around all day repeating "I am happy. I am happy. I am happy." Lying doesn't help. However, letting yourself be happy, appreciating what you have and what you gain while being open to further gain or loss, is the sort of serenity that permits happiness, whatever that may actually be.

For the majority of today, I was sitting in a beautiful place, watching bunnies and butterflies and listening to birds and distant laughter, yet part of me was horrifically worried that someone would be trying to contact me via the cell phone I had intentionally turned off and locked in the trunk. Suddenly, there was a whole explosion of unintended worries: Who could be calling? Why? What could I be getting done? Who will hold me accountable for what I'm not getting done? Are all the people here wondering why I've been sitting here so long? Do they approve? That's six thoughts desperate for approval in the span of a squirrel's hop. Thought trains like this, or rather, Big Brain Bangs (BBBs) are more frequent than I wish I had to admit. They go something like this:

The Appearance BBB

• Find defect (zit, flab, unwanted hair)
• Sign of age, wasting away
• Unattractive
• Will not attract mate
• Will live and die alone
• UNHAPPY

The Intelligence BBB

• Make a mistake (at work or in writing)
• I was careless
• I don't care - why not?
• I'm lazy and have no sense of responsibility/concentration
• I never accomplish anything of consequence
• I will live and die alone
• UNHAPPY

The Friendship BBB

• Friend cannot hang out
• Friend doesn't like me
• Friends never hang out: none like me
• People in general don't like me
• I'm an unlikable person
• I will live and die alone
• UNHAPPY

If we cut out all the extra fluff, we can pare this down to "To live and die alone is an unhappy existence." While I could point out that no one with an active imagination can truly live alone, that might defeat the purpose.  To point out that nearly everyone dies alone, or rather, not in the company of those they love, helps a little more.  What has bugged me lately is the work, which I've considered a distraction to keep me from thinking about my perceived lack of love.  The question I've never, up until this point, asked myself is, "Is this the sort of work I'm meant to do?"

As mentioned before, I'm clinging to an idea of what I should be, when the fact is, I may not be so well suited to that idea after all.  The inability to let go of that idea has brought my focus to unhappiness, but letting go brings with it the fear of "What comes next?"  There is so much fear surrounding this, which comes out of the belief that I need approval... of EVERYONE.  So maybe, this is my first thing to address.  What things are there to do, which others might not approve of, but which are good for my soul?  This can't be something that will earn me praise or a cheap thrill from another source, even myself (Yay, Kyle!), but the point is, as today demonstrated ten years ago, any day could be your last.  Why go out wishing for what you want when what you need has been there all along?  There are a lot of things I could stand, not to eliminate from my life, but to loosen the hold.  This will probably solidify better as I read on.

The Way to Love (Part 1)

I'm re-reading The Way to Love by Anthony de Mello on account of a realization the other day. I'm smart, something my peers, professors, and parents have all admitted, even myself. However, pure intelligence comes at a high cost, that of the soul. By soul, I mean that energy that not only gets a person out of bed in the morning but also instills joy and a sense of purpose. Read it as you will.

This thought train started rolling last week when my friend, who has asked me to write a short musical for him, asked a simple question: Would you like to work with a lyricist? Immediately, the thorns shot up, the mask was back, and I slunk back into the corner with my poisonous jaws at the ready, while inside my lair of instant defense, the worm that already lingered there began to gnaw at me again. With every nibble came the crippling doubts of why I had failed so spectacularly at this one task when I had promised to succeed. All of this took place in the span before I could even form a rational thought, and I sputtered a little, asked instead to work with a musician, and went home feeling miserable. Why? It wasn't that he had said anything with intent to offend or put me down; it was the fact that I had shat out inferior material and presented it as something to be proud of. It was a song, yes, but it was soulless.

To be a skilled craftsman, artist even, a person needs feeling and expression, a message, if you will. What I've noticed in my work as of late is that an idea will spring into my head, and I'll start writing it without thinking it through. I've never completed a full outline, and it shows when the piece falls apart at the end of Act 1, where I lose my patience. By then, I revert back to form: "Stick to the form, and you'll get through it. End your Act 1 at page 15, your midpoint at 60, and your end before 120. It does not matter what you lose in the process." Oftentimes, the idea may not have had an actual meaning behind it, but it seemed cool at the time and became a commitment, for which I held no love or interest, like my past attempts at dating. Without love, there was only commitment, and from that commitment came soulless things, things about which I still hang my head to this day, years after the fact. I commit because I crave success, but even more than I crave success, I crave approval.

The first chapter of the booklet addresses this directly. It asks the reader to compare the feeling of receiving praise with the feeling of taking in a gorgeous sunrise. One is fleeting and leaves a person wanting more, while another is simply satisfaction. Screenwriting, in which I have my degree, demands commitment for success in a business where soul is only as deep as a pocketbook. I have committed myself to writing because I gave up on veterinary medicine. I was afraid to have responsibility for an animal's life, and in the process of giving up that goal, I lost responsibility for my soul.

I entered writing as a relative newcomer. I did not have an all-consuming passion for movies and, honestly, I still don't. In fact, I don't have much passion for anything anymore. At age 23, having not yet produced something I am proud of or that has evoked any kind of meaningful response from anyone else, I have deemed myself a failure and resigned myself to the remainder of my life as a worker ant, occasionally churning out pages to satisfy the writer's group and hopefully one day get noticed and asked by rich men to write soullessly for money. I don't have my money or connections. I never made those real connections in college. I observed the other writers, either with jealousy or resentment, and never took the time to learn from them. Their perceived success on and off the page amounted to my failure, and that was it.

The fact of the matter is, the picture is enormous, and my eyes are glued to a scuff on the frame. It's like when I was in my single-digit years, rock climbing with my dad, and I suddenly let go of the rope and the rock to hang precariously by my dad's belay and examine a particularly fascinating species of lichen. I get called an asshole on occasion on the road for misjudgments of distance. My focus is on the minute. When I write a story, I will occasionally get stuck on a scientific question that will send me on a three-hour internet hunt, which, by the time I finish, I realize I didn't need to take anyway. I'm in a constant state of distraction from a goal I haven't even really made concrete yet.

In summation, my illusion is I need to have fulfilled two things already: to be a genius and to start a socially-condemned relationship and make it work 'til death do us part. It's quite simple, really. Just write something that's not only brilliant, but also that people will read/watch again and again and incorporate into their personal philosophies and cultures that have been shaped by countless other sources for thousands of years like J.K. Rowling. After all, according to Chris Ciccone, you only have to be a genius once. Next up, I have to find a man who genuinely loves and cherishes me tantamount to my own feelings and be at my beck and call yet understanding that I need lots of space. And it needs to happen three years ago!

After a while, you can only lie to yourself for so long. You can only crank out so many half-assed pages and force so many half-baked relationships before the pressure becomes absurd and the victim mentality takes hold. The recoil continues. The nightmares about insufficient sleep end with a clenched jaw, receding gums, and TMJ disorder, among others. And for what? Out of this whole flea-bitten circus, what good does it do anybody? I tell myself I have let go of fame-lust and love-lust, but it is always there, in waking and sleeping, always adding pressure, always reminding me that I'm not doing what I want to be doing, that I'm not where I should be. I should be successful, dammit! Why am I not?

My brother gave me this book for Christmas two years ago. I read it in two days, loved it, and then gradually perverted the message for the subsequent two years. I had to give up all hope of success, all hope of love, and turn instead to the invisible figure of God. After all, isn't that better than everything else? It was better to withdraw from people and shut myself up than to be a part of the clingy world. The thing was, the book never said anything like that. This first chapter, a heavy four pages long, points out that there are fleeting joys and substantial joys, but we are programmed to pursue the fleeting ones. I am at peace when I go for a drive and see the history of California. I tear my hair out writing pages that I don't even like, and I beat down on myself for not being good enough or accomplished enough to talk to someone I find attractive. There is this rancid bitterness that piles up from time to time, because, deep down, I know that what I am pursuing cannot, in and of itself, bring me contentment. I could write a renowned screenplay and then be pushed back into obscurity immediately after. I could start a great relationship and lose him to cancer shortly thereafter. The focus needs to be on something greater. If I'm going to write, it has to be for a reason other than fame. If I'm going to have a relationship, it has to be for something other than sex and sharing insecurities. There needs to be something bigger, and right now, I can't figure out what that bigger thing is. Maybe re-reading this book will help.

Una Carta de Carlitos

Remember my kid? Well, if not, go here first then hurry right back. I got a letter from Carlos, er, his mom because he's not old enough to write letters yet. This is technically the second letter from Chile, but as I was in the middle of script-writing madness, I missed writing about the last one. His mom is so proud of his intelligence; in fact, apparently the whole family is intelligent, even the dog. Actually, she emphasizes that the dog is "very" intelligent.

Even though there are only two letters per year, it's still quite extraordinary to get a response from someone living in not only a completely separate hemisphere but also a completely different state of being. Nonetheless, it seems education is transcending all ways of life. Carlos is excelling in his early classes and is showing a knack for sports and art. Eeexcellent... Padrino Kyle may have to find ways of fostering these talents.

I'm trying to figure out what to write next. I've been practicing writing in Spanish, which has been fun, and I've been sending pictures from my adventures. Of course, for me, it's dreadfully difficult to write at a 6-year old's level, though I was able to ask him last time whether "Hay nieve allá durante el invierno?" to which his mom replied "No tenemos nieve. Ya que solo en la cordillera nieva. Él aún no lo conoce." She says she is very proud of me for graduating college. I think she has the same dream for Carlitos. I have no idea whether Carlos' older brother, who is my age, has graduated college. Maybe I'll ask that in the upcoming letter. Oh, and he colored a picture of an elephant for me. I'll have to add it later, once I've unpacked my scanner. Warm fuzzies.

Practice

I spent the weekend in Spokane, watching about 1200 caps and gowns file up, across, and off stage. My grandma told me to yell for my brother when he came into view. I found that I couldn't. Seriously. I could not raise my voice.

In 2009, while doing a documentary on the placebo effect, I had my aura read by two different people in two different states. Both readers noticed my crown chakra (mental) was ablaze with energy, while my throat chakra (communication) was about the size of an amoeba or Donald Trump's charm. I've been getting steadily quieter over the years too. I sound perfectly intelligible to myself, because what I say registers clearly in my mind, but it's rare anymore that I don't have to repeat a phrase two or three times to be understood. It gets unnecessarily frustrating.

The cause is two-fold: one, I don't want to be disruptively loud as I was growing up, and two, I prefer most conversations to be private without bystanders leaping into the dialogue at the first convenience. The issue is that my concept of volume is shot to hell. As a child, I was a screamer, an exclaimer, a singer, etc. In short, I was loud all around. It drove many people nuts, particularly the adults in my life, who invariably told me to tone it down. After a while, especially during the pivotal 6th grade year, which saw the first big blow to my self-esteem, I learned that it was better to be silent, discreet, inconspicuous and therefore hidden from critical eyes.

Where this presents a problem is in real social situations, like graduation, or a sports game, or really any exchange in which more than two people are involved. I can't hold my own in these situations. I don't know how to barge in, cut people off, or make my point. I'll start to say something, but it's either too quiet or devoured by the existing momentum of another's soliloquy. I may have a very good idea in mind, but I just can't get it heard. This has been a great contributing factor to my ongoing isolation; it's not that I want to be in the spotlight all the time, but to actually be included, heard, welcomed would be so very nice. Nonetheless, this has remained elusive over the years.

A runner's legs grow thick and strong, a swimmer's arms as powerful as legs. That which is not used atrophies. Such is the case with my voice. There is this need inside me to shout, proclaim, sing, project, SPEAK for crying out loud, but my voice does not follow my heart and stays timid and weak, still afraid of sixth grade disapproval, despite the extraordinary progress I've made in other fields. I understand the mantra of "Practice, practice, practice," but I have no direction to motivate me through the mire of imagined criticism. I'm afraid to sing in my own room and car, for Pete's sake, out of fear for disturbing others with a sound not unlike a cat with its tail caught in a garden edger. Yet, I want to be loud again, badly, and I'd rather not wait until the magical age of 75 when all inhibitions go to shit and I can say and do whatever I want while people understand that I'm just old then smile and nod. Maybe I just need a better grasp of what it is I want to say. What do I want to say?

A Thousand Feet in the Air

Whew! Okay, I'm back after quite the hiatus. Where have I been, you ask? I've been face-down in the pages of a script. I received a follow-up E-mail from one of the Script List folks, basically asking me, "Dude, where's your script?" I decided it was time to stop putzing around and get the thing done.

And now, it's done! I sent in all 120 pages, rewritten to death and resurrection, this morning, and now, there is so much potential ahead. With this weight taken from my shoulders, I have leaped a thousand feet into the air, but it is important, on my way down, to find a place to land.

Writing a really great script requires a firm grasp on human emotion, something I struggle to understand on a daily basis. The way to reach the intense anger, joy, and sadness depicted in movies is foreign to me, owing to spending so much time isolated in my head. I can handle complex systems; I can create cultures down to the assistant to the middle shaman in charge of sprinkling shaved rodent hair over the heads of ceremonial dancers, but for the life of me, I cannot be satisfied with my characters' reactions. I can write "She YELLS" or "He breaks down," but I can never tell if the situations surrounding those short statements would, in the real world, elicit such responses. I have no gauge, and it's made writing an incredibly frustrating process.

Emotional people fascinate me. When I see someone cry or laugh out loud or really lay into someone, I'm almost paralyzed with wonder and sometimes end up having to give account for my staring. When friends are emotional, I struggle to relate, but being unable to do so, I resort to intellectualism. "Interesting" is a favorite, non-committal word. The roots of this are many, but the fact of the matter is, while I can feel emotion inwardly, my inability to express it outwardly, like those fascinating people I observe, is inhibiting me from getting my work to reach beyond the system and touch the heart of the reader.

I used to write scenes that made me want to cry, but I believe they were in prose. When I can get inside the character's head (my realm), it works, but in the screenplay format, where all is visual and audible, without scent, touch, or thought (which must be depicted visually on film), I'm stuck. I cannot convey the emotion as I want, nor can I get my readers to understand the emotional depth that I had envisioned. So, sticking with New Year's Resolutions, I've got to figure out how to open the bottle of tears and let the words flow out. This next script had better make someone react, or so help me, I will figure out how to express my annoyance off the page.

Lovely Lady Liberty

I just finished uploading my photos from the long weekend in Sequoia National Park. Lots of people were excited to see them. Of course, a fraction of those "lots" actually knew I'd been to Sequoia.

In the weeks preparing for this trip, I'd gone through a lot of internal debating (big surprise there), mainly on the subject of whom I could invite to accompany me on this trip. It had to be someone available, someone with whom I could get along for three straight days, someone who could get along with me for three straight days, and someone with whom I could feel comfortable sharing a bed for two nights. The list narrowed and narrowed and narrowed until I was left with one person: myself.

Of course, this less than ideal decision presented a number of other concerns. What if I got stranded in the snow without cell phone reception? What if I went hiking in the foothills and either fell or encountered a cougar? The thought of being alone in the wilderness frightened me; I felt it was my destiny to die out there, but I was going to go anyway.

When I actually got there, the fear melted away. The place was so beautiful. If this were my time, I'd gladly take this as my place. Over the course of the next three days, I set my own schedule, ate where I wanted, took as long as I wanted for photography, and felt wholly free to interact with everyone I met along the way, mostly travelers from Europe. I was not alone; I was not lonely. Of all the feelings I felt most strongly, freedom was the chief.

I've spent much of my life and most of my school years holding back from doing things because I wanted someone to go with me. A combination of indecision on my part and indifference on the part of others kept me indoors, on the computer, away from real experience. I loved it and hated it. It was fuel cell for my fantasy but a prison for my reality. However, since graduation, since logging off of Facebook, since ending my utter reliance on other people to have fun, I'm doing more and I'm having more real experiences.

I realize that I am failing miserably at my New Year's Resolution to make 2011 the year of the relationship, that shying away from others is contrary to the mission of this blog (to overcome the isolating symptoms of Asperger's), but to be honest, the feeling of freedom standing in the snow, surrounded by a cathedral of red trees and nothing else but the sound of silence, was supreme. I felt happy. I felt whole. I did not have to give account to anybody.

Of course, this leaves me with one final dilemma: Where is that line between freedom and loneliness? Would I have benefitted more from bringing someone along, or was this the right choice? I suppose the only way I can know is by going on more adventures, seeing who's interested in joining me, and putting forth the effort to meet new people who might be more interested. Fortunately, I still have the freedom to make those decisions.

Enter the Rabbit

It's that time again when the years shift gears, and the sights and sounds of the past make way for the hopes and fears of the future. This upcoming year, I seek to focus on the hope aspect as I make my Ass Burgery resolutions for 2011, the Year of the Rabbit, my year.

Bun
I want to keep exploring religious experiences and learn how to better understand and connect with the divine. This will mean being more open about religion with the people in my life and asking to attend services with them. I may start reading the Bible at some point in the year; I just need to figure out pacing.

Meat
I need to re-think my workout routine to incorporate more variety; instead of just doing weights during the week, it will be important to work on my cardiovascular health and flexibility. I'd like to find some new activity groups and take a class or two, if I can find one that is convenient and affordable.

Cheese
I want to make some more friends, and I want our friendships to be unmasked, which means cutting down mightily on the showmanship and focusing instead on reality and intimacy. I always vow to work on correspondence, but really, it's a struggle all the time. Surrounding all of these elements, I will be developing healthy boundaries to stave off the psychoses.

Lettuce
This will be the year I learn to love myself. This will involve taking more pride in my accomplishments, reflected on The To-Smite List, and really letting go of the past. I discovered a new technique for handling demons, which is to feed them rather than fight them. I look forward to putting this technique to the test and tending to my family of pet demons.

Tomatoes
I want to get a stable job and put my finances in order. I'm already taking steps toward this by creating a budget chart and investing in Personal Finance for Dummies. Learning to be aware of and to manage my bank accounts will be a revolutionary step toward responsible adulthood. Also, I want to train my focus so that I can finish my projects in a timely manner, while taking into account the fact that I do need to have fun here and there.

Onions
This will tie in with my demon work, but I want to learn to embrace my emotions instead of hide from them, both in my mind and in expression. I want to revel in both happiness and sadness.

Ketchup
I want to find someone who will treat me with respect, who can handle my light and my dark, and who will actually enjoy my devotion. I'd like to be in a relationship longer than three months.

The Massager

Holy crap. My parents gave me a seat-back back massager for Christmas. I'm trying it out now. Again, holy crap. This thing actually works really well. I freakin' love back massages and before now, I had to rely entirely on the two people I dated a year for anything like this, but now, this device may just be my key to independence. Reminds me of a song...

You Know... (Part 2)

You know your love life has gotten stale when you wake up in the morning with a big hickey on your nose... from the Breathe-Right® Strip keeping your sinuses open.

You know your family knows you well when, after years of turning down alcohol at family functions, you get beer for Christmas.

You know you've been subjected to false advertising when your Bark-Off® ultrasonic device doesn't actually stop the dog from barking, but instead pisses him off and everyone else as well.

Gooble Gobble

I won't be offended if you don't get the title reference. That being said, I logged onto Meetup.com and joined a group for people with Asperger's Syndrome and other forms of High-Functioning Autism. I got a kick out of the symptoms list on the About page. The familiarity is frightening. Should I start going to meetups with my fellow aliens, I may have a blast or find myself amidst a great gaggle of miscommunication. In any case, pretty much all of the symptoms apply to my life, but these especially:

• People think you are an ass, and you have no idea why.
• You can't make accurate social conclusions: You can get a joke (stated conclusion), but you will not know someone is angry, or that they are angry with you (or you assume anyone angry around you is angry with you).
• Ever get these responses? "You think too much," "I have another call," "That makes my brain hurt thinking about it..."
• You can mimic/mirror people and an environment for a couple hours. You may have a "speech" mode and use tricks to get through social situations (feels like a performance).
• You do have facial expressions, they just don't always match. Your response will not always be perceived as as you expected it to. Example: You are excited about something, but people think you are angry. Same thing with voice inflection. You won't know why they think that, or what to do about it.

My Kid

The focus of this blog will soon shift into the realm of boundary setting, following the guidance of this marvelous book I've just completed; however, before I do, I would like to refer to a recent violation of my boundaries in which I was approached on the street and told that I would, then and there, sponsor a child with Children International.

Lacking the ability to say no, I caved, even though I was not sure I wanted to or could do it. I then spent the next two weeks resenting the decision and telling myself to get out of it as soon as possible. I'd keep forgetting, and so, inevitably, I got the packet in the mail. Ergo...

This is Carlos:

Carlos is 6 years old. He lives in Chile. He loves soccer and art. His family makes $160 a month. But I... But boundaries... But... Okay, I confess. This kid's cuter than an armadillo wearing spectacles and a cravat. Apparently he's going to write me a letter in a few weeks. Then how do I respond to a 6-year old? I don't think he'll have much appreciation for an onslaught of my average existential drivel, so maybe I'll stick to drawing him pictures. Lots of pictures. Of el PieGrande.

I'm going to give this another chance as long as I can handle it. This could turn into a really cool experience, as I'll basically be helping raise a kid who has nothing. Who knows? Maybe he'll grow up to be artsy fartsy like his Unky Kyle. (Wouldn't recommend it, kiddo.) I'll add updates here as I get them, probably starting in three weeks or so.

Damnster: The Damned Hamster

Picture a hamster. Cute little devil, isn't he, albeit a little gluttonous? Well, to work off his gluttony, he decides to go for a jog on his wheel, but don't that beat all... some sadistic bastard has decided to hang a juicy strawberry just out of reach beyond the wheel. Oh God, that strawberry looks good!

So the hamster, glutton that he is, starts running. He runs and runs, or rather waddles at high velocity, over-sized testicles wobbling to and fro and catching on the bars of the wheel ever so often. In any case, this hamster is on a roll. He can see that strawberry. He can smell it. He can nearly taste it. It's a few friggin' centimeters in front of his face, and he's hustling as fast as he can to get it.

Of course, he's going nowhere. The strawberry stays suspended before the hamster's greedy, beady eyes and slowly dries up and withers. That verklempt hamster just keeps going, tears mixing with sweat as he watches his prize fade, not noticing that his own body is withering away from exertion. His own balls just aren't dragging anymore. With a groan, he seizes up and rolls out of the wheel into his wood shavings.

He stares up at his prize with his greedy, beady eyes and realizes that it's still hanging right in front of him, but now there are no bars between them. Yet, he's exerted himself so much that he just can't grab it. Damned be the hamster who cannot step off his wheel!

I won't write an essay on the symbolism behind this anecdote about greedy little rodents, but let's just say the hamster and I have a lot in common. However, today I learned how to get off the wheel. Once I get my strength back, I just hope the Powers-That-Be will replace the stale strawberry with one that is fresher and more delicious.

Boundaries

I've been reading a really useful book for the past two weeks called Boundaries by Drs. Henry Cloud and John Townsend. I've responded to every chapter on The To-Smite List, and so far it's been very helpful at giving me a jumping-off point for clarifying where I end and the rest of the world begins. Check it out.

Updates and Thanks

It's amazing how quickly this last month has passed, and already Thanksgiving has swept on through like a turkey with a jet pack... and a lot of meth. Nonetheless, tardiness aside, I'd like to take a moment to express thanks for a month of multi-layered progress:

Bun:
- I'm learning to add the spi- to the -ritual.
- I'm discovering that a life of misery is not the will of God.

Meat:
- I have started to incorporate stretching into every workout.
- I am learning how to subsist on more than crackers and mashed potatoes.
- I have done the unthinkable and attained mastery of my domain.

Cheese:
- Having removed myself from Facebook, I am attracting more direct and personal relationships.
- I am practicing the principle of not letting the sun go down on my wrath.
- I am learning to handle confrontation and, once initiated, resolve it.
- I am removing the pressure to socialize, in favor of something more genuine.
- I am learning to communicate more directly and efficiently.
- I am taking further interest in the detailed lives of others.

Lettuce:
- In absence of a logical reason to be depressed, I've decided to be cheerful.
- I'm discovering the things I like about myself.
- I'm raising my awareness of my limits and flaws and addressing them directly.
- I'm learning to separate my past behavior from my current, progressive self, and thus stop the trains of thought at the station.

Tomatoes:
- I have started to take more regular breaks at work.
- I'm finding ways to make work more exciting, for instance, pretending that I'm the HR equivalent of Jack Bauer with limited time to sort 500 applications.
- I'm letting myself spend money.
- I'm planning ahead.

Onions:
- I'm discovering that subduing my emotions, then chastising myself for having subdued emotions, is stupid.
- I'm exploring my feelings of sadness and anger when I feel them, instead of trying to force them into the shape of delight.
- I am acknowledging my moments of happiness with the understanding that though they may not last, they are enjoyable.
- I am letting myself be moved by music.

Ketchup:
- I am again single, but I am shedding bitterness as I become more aware of how I approach relationships.
- I am working to resolve previous issues that have corrupted my perception of relationships.
- I am re-discovering "No" with the understanding that the right people can still say "Yes" a week after hearing "No."

You own one too? Yes, but I loaned it to Sgt. Pepper.

I've hit a stumbling block on my path to a positive attitude, and it is the very nature by which I connect with people. I've never been able to grow close to a person through discussion of the weather or childhood frolics. No, the closest I can get to another person is through the broken heart.

Commiseration over past pain is the quickest way to intimacy, because it immediately places two people against an ominous foe: other people. They are then both on each other's side, fighting for and with each other, comrades in arms. This has long been the deciding factor in whether people become my friends or remain acquaintances. There must be a past history of pain, and in order to find the emotional intimacy I crave, I have to find it. The problem with this approach is that it invariably turns the conversation negative and frankly makes me come across as morbid. Maybe I am. Nonetheless, a story about past injury is the most revealing sort of story a person can tell, laying bare the vulnerable interior to scrutiny. Revealing it is a sure sign of trust and security in the other person. It is Connection.

So the problem being faced at this point is how to attain the same degree of intimacy, if possible, using a more positive approach, one that does not turn the conversation toward the side of gloom. Or if there is no alternative, then it becomes necessary to wait and see, to find a way to enter the subject and exit it, retaining the connection while shedding the gloom. Taking suggestions...

From the Rabbit's Mouth

The end of the week holds much to reflect upon. This particular Friday calls me to recollect the wise words of Thumper, the rabbit. You may remember him from his cinematic debut in the movie Bambi, especially his great big feet and penchant for clover blossoms (who can blame him?). But for me, it's his worldly wisdom that comes to mind, expressed in one line more profound than my five-year old brain was able to comprehend the last time I heard it:

If you can't say somethin' nice, don't say nothin' at all.

In the past few days, I've received a slew of critiques, both public and private, regarding the content of this blog. A fight even broke out on my Facebook profile because of it. The majority of the criticism comes from the vulgarity of the title, though "ass" is a multi-layered word, meaning many things, including donkey, buffoon, jerk, or derriere. I suppose it's true that he who maketh an ass of himself must prepare to be ridden, but by modern tastes, this statement has a wholly different connotation.

The point is this: I am an ass of the third kind, and I am so because I don't know how to limit my words, as Thumper noted, to what is "nice." A lack of understanding of social propriety is one of the most troubling symptoms of Asperger's Syndrome, but rather than keep my mouth perpetually shut as I have for years, I'm going to explore it.

Society has its own sense of disgust, and mine happens to be the opposite (e.g. daring to be so gauche as to publicly confess flatulence). Nonetheless, the intent of this blog is not to go on forever about what an ass I am, nor is it a blatant attack on the self-proclaimed "normal," but rather a way to highlight the areas in which I am most asinine and work on making them less so. While I enjoy my own brand of strangeness to the point of self-indulgence, it is simply not fun to be an alien among people.

That being said, I'm still making my burger, and I'm still working toward Thumper's philosophy. While the best I can do for those Hypothetical Post Viewers who want me to give up the journey or put the "blah" in "blog" is to present my puckered fourth kind, should someone have reasonable suggestions for how to improve the content of this blog or adhere it more tightly to my mission, I will gladly incorporate your advice into each subsequent post. 謝謝. 慢慢吃.

On Adam

I just finished watching Adam. You can read my brief review here. Lots to say about it; lots learned from it.

I'll start with the Netflix summary, which describes Adam as a man who suffers from Asperger's Syndrome. I suddenly found the description odd. At no point did he suffer directly from Asperger's Syndrome; in fact, it tended to highlight his brightness and honesty. His suffering only came from external reactions to his disorder and his desire to placate those reactions, from trying to be normal, "neurotypical," and trying to fit into a setting that didn't suit him at all. It wasn't until he had his job at the observatory, following his passion, that he found contentment with himself.

It gave me a moment to ponder the purpose of this blog. Am I only writing this in an attempt to conform, and if so, will it propagate the same suffering Adam experienced in his attempts to conform? Should I be quitting Asperger's or embracing it? The fact remains that, in order to survive in this human society, I need well-developed social skills but also the ability to distinguish my self-esteem from my social-esteem. Somewhere, there will have to be a point of balance, likely in the range of maintaining my manners of speech and courses of study while making a conscious effort to break out of routines and learn to cope among large volumes of people.

Moments that stood out for me included Adam's standard bowls of cereal and the stiff way he ate it, his love of the stars, his overwhelming discomfort at social functions, his directness about sex and Mr. Buchwald's potential jail time, and especially his complete focus upon the gyrating device when he's being counseled on his financial situation. All served as reminders of behavior to keep in mind, whether to change or retain.

While I would have liked a happy, romantic ending for Adam, it would have most likely come across as too sappy. In any case, the film moved me. I recommend seeing it as a fine specimen of independent cinema and a fair portrayal of Asperger's Syndrome.

Introduction

I've found quite a few blogs written about Asperger's Syndrome, mostly by parents of children with the disorder, but surprisingly few actually written by those with the syndrome. While this may be great for parents, it sure doesn't help one's self esteem to be the subject of scientific scrutiny. Case in point: April is National Autism Awareness Month. Asperger's is an Autism Spectrum disorder. To me, that makes April "National Kyle Jarrett's Brain Is Royally Screwed Up" Month. Then again, that just doesn't have the same ring to it.

I was diagnosed with Asperger's Syndrome in 2004, during a private meeting with a reputable psychiatrist. It may help to point out that I was not actually a part of this meeting, and that once my mom left the room and I had my own private meeting, the same reputable psychiatrist diagnosed me with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. I knew there was something fishy right away: there should be a hyphen between "Obsessive" and "Compulsive," right? In any case, it wasn't until the winter of 2008 that I finally— Obsessive─Compulsive! Ahh... Now where was I?

Asperger's Syndrome is surprisingly easy to describe to the unfamiliar. Imagine yourself at a Christmas party, and clinking around the Christmas tree is a model train. While everyone else laughs, jokes, connects, and enjoys each other's company, your attention is on that train. Observe the awesome mechanisms that move it forward. Listen to the friendly sounds it makes: Whoo whoo! Notice how you never grow tired of watching it circle around and around, because it lets you turn off your brain and avoid the insufferable mundanity of conversing about jobs, weather, and alcohol.

The problem with this scenario is that humans are social animals, and Asperger's is a social disorder. National "Kyle Jarrett's Brain Is Royally Screwed Up" Month, Q.E.D. Apart from the feelings of alienation and despair, the disorder works in both directions and consequently, has pretty much made me into an ass. I get offended by light humor, condescending toward those who don't play by (or understand) my convoluted rules, and reclusive around those who try to disrupt my compulsive routines and regimens with a little social time. How my friends have stuck with me, I'll never know.

What I do know is that I'm tired of Asperger's. In fact, I quit. If Whoopi Goldberg can conquer dyslexia, then why can't I change April to National "Kyle's Brain Is All Right" Month? I've spent so much time putting the "ass" in "Asperger's" that the time has come to work on the other half: the "burger." To do so, I will need to focus on the following seven components: Bun (Spiritual), Meat (Physical), Cheese (Social), Lettuce (Personal), Tomatoes (Professional), Onions (Emotional), Ketchup (Romantical)

This shall be my accountability blog, on which I shall face my failures and mark my successes. I make no claim of professional expertise or any pretense of family-friendly content. My language will be expressive and sometimes crass, which, if you are from Utah, will offend. In that case, I say "grow some."

Now let's flip some burgers.