"Asperger syndrome or Asperger's syndrome or Asperger disorder (
/ˈɑːspərɡərz/[1] or /ˈæspərɡərz/[2]) is an autism spectrum disorder that is characterized by significant difficulties in social interaction, along with restricted and repetitive patterns of behavior and interests. It differs from other autism spectrum disorders by its relative preservation of linguistic and cognitive development. Although not required for diagnosis, physical clumsiness and atypical use of language are frequently reported"-Wikipedia on Asperger's Syndrome
When I was young, I was a little odd. I saw doctors and therapists... I was put on and taken off of meds. I was diagnosed with one thing and then the next. People didn't seem to get me, nor I them.
I felt like a freak. An unwanted child in a world that just didn't make sense to me. "Who were these people around me, and how can I relate to them?" is something I asked myself every single day. I always seemed to connect with adults much easier than other kids. And to an extent, I still do- I can speak with ease to the parent of a friend, or older students, teachers and just people out and about. But put me around a group of people vaguely my age, and I freeze up.
The one thought that truly lingers is the judgment. It's like being cut, deep inside. You know you're different, but you can't understand why... It makes the judgment so much worse, because there is no hope to rectify and correct the difference. Judgmental eyes piercing you, to the bone, destroying you with each gaze. Whispers about me behind my back.
I found a measure of happiness in the dissection and creation of art. I couldn't communicate with other people to a "normal" extent, yet when I was still practically a toddler, I made a 3-dimensional "haunted house" model out of paper and tape, that featured functioning doors and windows you could open to find "ghosts" and "monsters" behind, drawn on the paper, and a fairly intricate layout inside, featuring furniture drawn on the walls and floor. I basically designed what could have been a real house. I also wrote a lot of stories. Epics, like my comic-book characters "Flower Man" (Basically a rip-off of "Captain Planet"... He's gonna take pollution down to zero!), "Cyver Man" (because I couldn't spell "Cyber Man"... He was a computer-based hero who could control technology) and my in-depth psychological study/children's book series "Sloppy Susan" (about a woman named Susan who was clumsy and always got herself into some mischief... It was thrilling)... I created pieces of art and stories to escape from the world that seemed so oppressive. At a time, it almost felt like the outside world was false, and the one inside my mind was true, because I felt so at home, away from judgement.
As the years passed, I began to notice symptoms and ticks. And with these, I began to understand why others would glare at me strangely... Why I was always on my own at school. I would flap my hands or rappidly rub my fingers over my lips when I got excited. I would sometimes speak in a highly-pitched voice, and had little control over my emotion. I'd cry and scream over nothing. At a glance, I looked like a spoiled brat, but inside me, it felt normal. I would shy away from socializing, because everything was so scary to me. "Oh my god, the girl over there just looked at me... Quick, I need to run away."
As one diagnosis after another failed, I began to crawl further and further into myself. After my father left, my life had been shattered. Now, not only did the world outside make no sense to me, my own little world inside of my family, my haven, fell apart. I sought comfort in food, and despite being a thin child, I ballooned up to an enormous size- something I still struggle with 15 years later, as I try to regain my physical health. This only added to everything. I didn't know which end was up. My mother was unable to cope with everything, so I was constantly being shipped to my grandmother's house for weekends... Sometimes full weeks. Sometimes a month or more. Memories of seeing my mother sobbing all night long while my father screamed at her over the phone still stuck with me. Memories of seeing fists thrown, people shreiking, and my family in the hospital, defeated by abuse, even after the abuser was gone...
It became a cycle of sorrow. The difference consumed. I was so desperate for conformity. Just to be accepted, yet it never came.
Years passed in this cycle. I was no longer a child, I was now becoming a teenager.
And so, when I was fourteen, I decided to hell with everything. To hell with the difference.
When I was fourteen, I decided to commit suicide...
(Part Two coming soon)
