Aspergers and re-writing Book of Ruth

KJV book of Ruth is a lovely story. Only I'd have Ruth and Naomi falling in love and happily reaping grain forever and ever amen.

There's a bunch of movies, books, where the girl getting the guy seems to fall a little flat when you see her best friend, the coolest of cool, sort of pushed aside or hidden inside a lavender taffata bridesmaids dress.

I was a bridesmaid once. Once was enough. Peeps said I should have been maid of honor because I was the groom's sister. No, thank you much. I barely survived the smaller role.

No, twice was I bridesmaid. They blend in my head. I remember being so hot I got a migraine and nearly passed out on stage, er, altar.

The second time I don't remember because I was in a blackout or altered state of some sort for most of it. My brother's wedding. I would mean I would be living home alone with my father.

More than panic. Disassociation. Derealization. And I couldn't tell anyone because there was no reason for it. And who would I tell, anyway? I had no confidants. I had magazines (Cosmopolitan--my sister-in-law subscribed) and books. Also, what would I tell? WTF was wrong with me anyway?

I had Aspergers. I always thought I was somewhat autistic, but straight A's in school made developmental disability an impossibility.

I learned to act. I studied the social cues. But I never got it quite right.

Someone saying I had "shifty eyes". Statements made-- after agonizing about when was the right moment for me to speak-- that stopped the conversations dead. Going on and on about an obsession no one gave a rat's ass about.

I should be grateful I had any friends at all. But my friends bullied me, insulted me, made it clear I was too weird for words. Still, they called. No one else did.

Phones. OMG don't let's even go there.

When I was in my tweens I would call my friend's number. They'd answer "Hello." I'd reply, "Hello."

They'd have to coax from me what the fuck I was calling about. It seems bizarre now, but no one ever taught me how to make a phone call. It was the sort of thing you were supposed to know without being taught, I guess. Many long breathy pauses I recall.

For a field trip to NYC (a couple hours away by bus--the smell of bus fumes still makes me giddy with anticipation) my mother sewed matching dresses for us. I remember the fabric, light cotton with little lilacs all over.

"If we get separated, at least there's a chance someone will see the matching dresses and say, 'Hey, do you belong together?'"

It made sense to me at the time and I thought the dresses were pretty. I wasn't into fashion or I might have cringed at the very idea of matching home-sewn mom and daughter dresses. Mommy sewed well but basic. She never taught me. I learned in home economics, badly. I remember sitting on the sidewalk at the bus stop the morning the skirt was due, trying to finish the hem before the bus came.

It wouldn't have mattered. If your work was good, the teacher assumed your mother helped you, so she gave you a C. If your work was bad, she gave you a C. We were fortunate one year that none of the burners worked so we couldn't make white sauce, which the teacher made you eat. One of the girls used oven mitts to put a cold tray of cookies into the oven and we howled over her stupidity.

When the teacher said to form groups, no one wanted me. It wasn't that I smelled or anything, but I had the misfortune to enter junior high with not a single person from my elementary school in any of my classes. Everyone else was fairly well blended in this junior high in Pittston Pennsylvania that combined elementary schools from boondock sort of towns into one ferocious brick building that was falling apart and smelled bad enough to stimulate the gag reflex (onions and metallic???). We were the last class to use it.

They called me banana nose. Only my best friends. There was a girl with a nose bigger than mine and in the cafeteria line one day a few boys bullied her, calling her banana nose. I felt bad sooo bad for her but sort of grateful my nose wasn't so bad it attracted the attention of strangers. I wanted to help her but I had no idea how. I didn't dare draw attention to myself. She didn't appear angry or anything, just hugged her books to her chest and took the abuse with head lowered.

S.M., a poor girl with lice wore a wig to elementary school one day. While jumping rope the wig fell off. Everyone laughed: "S flipped her wig." I didn't laugh. I felt bad for her but I didn't do anything about it. She'd ask to get into our games by saying, "I'll play the germ."

There was a fat girl a few years ahead of me sitting all alone. She knew me because she lived near my cousin's house. No one played with her because she was so fat. She asked me to sit with her while she finished her lunch. Normally the grades didn't mix. I was done eating and on my way to the playground. I was overweight myself but wasn't teased about it. I sat with her. I felt good about that but sad for her.

J was my favorite cousin. She died young after years of drug and alcohol abuse. She never gave me drugs. I do think she gave me my first cigarette, but that might have been my cousin J2. J's house was awesome cool because it was one level and the bedrooms were just three steps up from the living room. They had a white tree for Christmas.

J's house also had a finished basement with a bar and pool table. I spent many New Years Eve parties there. I remember the drop in my stomach when someone asked, "Are you ready to go back to school tomorrow?" After the Christmas vacation, going back to school seemed intolerable. Horrible. Terrifying. I don't know why. I did well in school. I wasn't bullied. I was a sort of passive class clown.

I was very impressed with the finished basement. J's father, my father's older brother (my father had 11 or 12 siblings, maybe 13. One was actually my dad's niece. Catholic family.

[I keep looking at the date and thinking I need to pay my bills...that's an Aspie trait. I didn't know that before but it's sort of comforting to know I'm not alone. All those panicky drops in the stomach I learned to block completely around age 11--it was block or die--now they are dull nagging feel-bads. Not pleasant but I can live through them]

Thanksgivings in Maryland
Summer cousin trade
Ice cone stand
popping tar bubbles with toes
Dad ate bubble bath fizzies thinking they were mints (they tasted terrible!) So why eat them? Apple--tree

Both Uncle J and Uncle G were superintendents. So was Uncle O (dad's favorite brother which I didn't know til my brother told me after Uncle O died)

So many relatives, had a hard time keeping them straight. Harder than it should have been, thinking back. I could never remember names/faces of cousins or who they belonged to.

disappointed groom was bald.

funeral calling the pall-bearers: all same name, named after my grandfather.

Ruth's funeral. fuck me naked running backwards.

dont die dont die dont die

I Love Her but My Strength is Gone

my mother, who died of cancer in 1975. That was handled ... it wasn't handled. It was appalling, looking back. I want to learn to do better

It's not happening to me. I have to be strong. Fuck. Those were the only words I heard on how to deal with my mother dying when I was 13:

be strong.

I'm 51 now and my strength is gone. K said that---everyone expects her to magically be well. She's been so strong. 

How long can you be strong? With so much against you?  Now cancer, metastisized.

how long can you be strong?


when can you reject the gauntlet and let fucked-up humans or nature or gods take its course?

help her, please

help me help her

give me the right/wright/write words to say

re-invent elopement

Maureen might remember. Is aunt anne still alive?

Like Bastard out of Carolina

starts with her mother's life. Even though narrator wasn't there. Heard it all from aunts and uncles.

Polish/Italian
Nat'l Catholic/Roman Catholic

first and last brave thing they ever did?

not to call them cowards, by brave here I mean dashing against the rules. After breaking that one big rule they became the keepers of the rules.

like Babci. If, in effect, she "raised" me after my mother died, I should have been more affected by her Alzheimers, involved in decisions. I hardly saw her. I had no interest in where they kept her--I trust them to figure out the best thing to do.

There's always been someone to figure out the best thing to do. But...

who am I? Back to the everlovin, motherfuckin I
Hello? is there anybody out there?

We are all unique, caged inside the outlines of our bodies. No way to meld. We cry for the other who does not exist. Once again: I, alone.

Some men are islands.
This is a quotation from John Donne (1572-1631). It appears in Devotions upon emergent occasions and seuerall steps in my sicknes - Meditation XVII, 1624:

"All mankind is of one author, and is one volume; when one man dies, one chapter is not torn out of the book, but translated into a better language; and every chapter must be so translated...As therefore the bell that rings to a sermon, calls not upon the preacher only, but upon the congregation to come: so this bell calls us all: but how much more me, who am brought so near the door by this sickness....No man is an island, entire of itself...any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind; and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee."

also sneaking a bit of Key West in there via Ernest Hemingway. Conch chowder.

gifts should not have strings attached. if they do, they are grants, not gifts.

learned that writing about the traveling medi-van that couldn't give out condoms because they depended on a grant from Catholic Charities. I wrote an article from the pov of the medi-van trying to stay open to help however they could...Connie thought I should have written from the POV of patients being deprived of life-saving devices because of stranglehold catholic church has on the charities it funds.

Today  I might write from the idea that even without catholic charity funding, there should somewhere in the county be a big pocket willing to take up the slack without such demands or worse ones. But everyone has demands when they grant you something. Would you allow the NeoNazi party to fund a county health-care project?

GODWIN

I said neo, not nazi.

same difference. This blog has been Godwinned.http://knowyourmeme.com/memes/godwins-law
eom

Childhood parodies. sick humor

[spinning on the Davenport] the phrase came to mind as I was watching What's Eating Gilbert Grape?
(we'll need the National Guard to get her out of There...uh, sorry)

thinking what would happen to a child like Leonardo DeCaprio in my household. (the NOISE)...splat, spinning on the Davenport.

Poor codependent Gilbert Grape. Like Tom in Menagerie. Escape or self-sacrifice for love.
Self v Non self; a price to be paid.

There's always a price to be paid.

House burning down at end of Gilbert. Blow out your candles, indeed.

I was 13, or, my dead mother is better than 10 live mothers

That's a tender age, they say. I guess so. Plus I was weird anyway. I was way in trouble while my mother was still alive. I don't know that her staying alive would have helped me any. Look at the mothers still alive. Some of them are awful.

I wouldn't trade my dead mother for any of their live ones.

So there.