I feel most at peace when I was writing spiritual prose such as this:
I am not at peace now and haven’t been for a couple of years. Not since a relationship ended that pretty much tore me in half.
I am really tired. Tired of autism. Tired of life. Tired of this world.
My health is not as I wish it to be. My mind is suffering. I’ve thought more about leaving this planet these past couple years, than prior. Part of it is most definitely having several chronic pain conditions; another part, equally frustrating: my hormones. And then there is my brain. Good old brain.
I am not suicidal. I say that so no one has unneeded concern. I am at the place where many of my friends out there understand. The existential depression and the anxiety of unknowns. And, then there is the wrecking ball of 2020.
Waking up between 1am and 3am most nights for the last months in pain isn’t helping. Today was 1ish. And what did I wake up to, some bully on Twitter telling me she expects me to change my Twitter name. The same bully who has hurt a couple of woman I respect and love. I am so tired of some people.
More lab tests and undeterminable ailments, not adding to my sense of ease.
My entire life, since I was three or four, I’ve happened to get ailments that of course almost no one can figure out; and even then, I have to lead them to the water; and if they do figure it out, it takes years and years, e.g., hEDS, POTS. Add that to the fact that I typically know more than most doctors, when it comes to my own pain and body, and this world is unbearable in more ways than one.
Case in point, last year a doctor couldn’t find my uterus and then gave me a damaging drug to counter a sexually transmitted disease she was ‘certain’ I had. I didn’t. I took the medicine, panicked, panicked more, couldn’t sleep, etc. only to find out my labs were fine and she was bonkers (at least that’s my diagnosis of her.)
Come to think of it, maybe it was that med that triggered all this trouble in my tummy. When people can’t find parts of you that clearly exist, professional people paid for that job, and prescribe you things that you don’t need at all, and scare you in the meanwhile, and make assumptions … I don’t know what to say, except it’s hard. And this has been the story of my life.
The older I get, the more I think I am in the Matrix or hell. I feel like these characters continually pop up to scare me into thinking I’m insane. But the truth is they are just glitches in my life. Unexpected BLEEPS! I find it interesting, the long string of challenges I’ve been given. Messed up, but nonetheless, interesting. Great stories that make my friends and I laugh until we cry. I mean whose life is this bazaar? Well, maybe yours.
I remember having to make a map of my life stress in a college class on mental health counseling. The sample was so damn simple!
“Plot your peak points of stressors in your life like this.”
The chart the professor held up was nothing like mine. While one could clearly see his obvious peaks and valleys, on the colorful sample chart, mine was just one black, top floor high-rise. One thing after another, after another. And I was younger then. Twice as much has happened since.
Like things I don’t talk about with you all, due to privacy. Precise to say my heart was torn out and stomped on, put back in, without much care, and then hooked up to some wires that jolt me to tears every few days. In other words some trauma. (not recently)
And now I am going on eight weeks of intense stomach pain. ER. Urgent Care. Nurse Practitioner. Based on my history of medical care, since I’ve spent over 1.000 dollars thus far and seen lots of random professionals, we ought be getting closer to an invalid diagnosis soon. My coworker said it right. In regard to women’s health care needs, we are archaic in this world.
Healthwise, I feel like a cross between a guinea pig and a canary.
Add that to the growing mental health and identity list: autistic, dyslexic, dyspraxic, OCDer, and likely ADHDer . . . oh and PTSD and GAD, and I literally don’t know what to do with myself.
I’ve become very dependent on escaping through Netflix binges; ones that soon end and leave me feeling abandoned.
Then there’s the OCD that has set in with social media. The click here, click there. I swear the movie Social Dilemma made me use Facebook more! What’s up with that? Commodity, I am. Algorithm eating me. Chomp!
Remember when I wrote that 1000 page blog Everyday Aspergers? Here. Let me get a link. I randomly put in a number and this came up. Fun fact. this blog has more hits than that one? How did that happen? That dang Samantha Craft Traits List! By the way there is a newer version here.
Random thought: I think I’m still depressed from my doggy Violet dying in early-August. Something else I didn’t share much about. I’d really prayed for a sign that it was the end of the road for her. I didn’t want to bring her to the vet, unless it was really, truly time. And, as it happened, she kept her end of the bargain, and showed me, and it was very hard and traumatizing. I can still hear her crying. Sorry if that triggered anyone. It is what it is. And I feel terribly lonely without her.
I recognize I’m depressed. And, I recognize I am allergic to most everything that could possibly help my pain or depression. That even an over the counter pain kill hurts my stomach. Allergy pills–I’m allergic to. Anxiety pills make me extremely depressed or anxious. Anti-depressants make me have suicidal thoughts. And melatonin–evil spawn, never again. Can’t smoke caniabas (can’t spell it either) cause I have asthma. Can’t eat even a sliver of it, cause I get paranoid. Can’t take too much of anything, as it builds up in my system.
My only saving grace is cough syrup, which I down regularly, with my doctor’s approval. It knocks me out for a good three hours of sleep. I should have taken some last night. But then I wouldn’t be here writing.
I am missing the creative aspect of ‘Sam.’ Missing her desperately. I feel like little bossy me has stepped up to write, write, write– advocate, advocate, advocate, and she’s pushed back the other me. The tender me. And I miss her. I miss her desperately. I miss that girl from Everyday Aspergers. I don’t like who ‘Sam’ has grown up to be. Just because I have a voice, do I have to use it? Can I just curly up in a ball and let someone else take over? Like a curly fry?
I’m thinking/reflecting/pondering, on how I can be a better version of myself; not for the world, but for me.
Did you know that I was serving as a ‘seer’ before I started writing about autism. It’s when I wrote the Wounded Healer. I encourage you to take a look. It’s what part of me wants to write the new book on. But bossy Sam just put together the first 40k words of a book on autism . . . blah, blah, blah. Boring. I don’t know.
I tease, even as it’s quite serious. I also tease, even as it’s quite serious, that I hear dead people. I also can sense ailments in folks. It makes it hard to get massages.
There was this one time …
I walked into the massage parlor (I like the word parlor) and I felt innately that the woman assigned to massage me had cancer. I could even sense where on her body. (She was diagnosed less than a year later.) She also had the spirit of her dead mother about. I told her as much; as I kept hearing her mother during MY massage. When I’m tuned in, they do that, the spirits. Not much fun. Would make for a good mini-series on Netflix, though.
Anyhow, I told the woman, I’d barely just met, who was massaging my bare/bear back (I tried to look up bear or bare and came up with bear backpacks and bear-back writing, and I’m too tired of figure out the spelling, dyslexic nightmare.)
I told the woman who was rubbing my back. “I know this sounds strange, but did your mom pass on . . . ”
Then there were some other questions and so forth.
This spirit was ADAMANT and relentless that she was at her daughter’s wedding ceremony!
She told me so.
Over and over and over.
But, after lots and lots of back and forth talking, the massage lady rested on the fact that her mother was alive when they were married.
So, I kept trying, in hopes the mother would be quiet and I could get a massage in peace. Finally, I got some clarity and asked what was in the basket near the chair in her living room, the album. That that is what the mom meant.
Turns out . . . Wait for it (I told you mini-series). Now realize this is a complete stranger to me; I have no idea where she event fricken lives, but I’ve been in her living room!
Turns out the album I ‘saw’ was the album she’d put together recently when they RENEWED their wedding vows and had a ceremony by the sea. And turns out, that it just so happened to be the day they scattered her mother’s ashes. (Do I use the word just too much?)
Now that is the shit that happens to me!
And then I go on to this stiff, white-collared employment panel, with all these big wigs in the autism hiring initiative companies–SAP, Auticon, JP Morgan, and I have to put on my grown up pants and talk up the benefits of universal inclusion design and do my part, my role, my job. When all the while I’m picking up all these messages. All these empathic pulls and pushes and tugs. All these insecurities, or other feelings. Maybe pride, maybe hunger, maybe love.. All these jumbled emotions.
So how did the panel go? Honestly, it was a shit storm. An utter shit storm
It’s really hard being able to read between the lines of people. To feel them in places you don’t want to. Really hard.
And then there is this:
Months before the pandemic, I dreamt of our local high school and it was empty of all children. I was told telepathically that they had to close the schools. I was then shown symbolism of a pandemic: lines and lines of adults lining the stairs of the school and climbing down; their nose bleeding to indicate ‘a pandemic.’ I knew it. I saw it. I was told, without words, that the children weren’t as sick. A similar thing happened with the protests and riots. I wasn’t watching the news; haven’t had regular television programming for 19 years. And I dreamt of specific people entering a Target store and looting it; there were broken windows, a fire, police cars, protests on the streets, etc.
I could write 50 pages on my dreams and waking visions that have come true. Example: Angel and Mary.
Oddly enough, I was visiting a seer well over a decade ago, when I lived in Lincoln, California, and he told me I hear your grandfather and he is singing: Everyday, Everyday, Everyday I write the book and smiling. Beyond that I’d been told by a seer, in my early-twenties, before I was married, that I’d be changing vocations halfway through my life, and speaking in front of large groups of people around the world. She said I’d be much happier, too. Waiting for that shoe to fall.
This was before Internet.
Another seer (before my middle son was born, as I was on my way to the hospital, for a pregnancy checkup, and happened upon her in the corner of a nutrition store), she told me I was going to have a boy and his birth would bring about significant change in the world. More recently, less than a decade ago, a local seer told me I’d be writing a book and it would reach people around the globe — heal others.
All of this seemed so unreal and foreign to me. But it kept happening. It’s not like I saw many seers. (That’s a funny sentence.) Those were it. And they all said the same thing. Most without knowing the slightest thing about me.
The last one I saw, about five or six years ago, was a shaman. He told me I was pure. Clear. That there was nothing but light and that I’d been a ball of light in my previous life. I’d like to believe that is true. I think I am pure with all these cold prickles that attach to me.
I feel like socks with lint. Windows with streaks. Tongue with morning breath. I need to shake off the world!
I am picking up the woes of the world and the woes of my partner and the woes of my boss, and the woes of that SAP executive, and I just want it all to stop. Not life. Not them. Just the intensity of this universe (and my stomach pangs.)
It was some seven years back, I began to sense I wasn’t much of me anymore. It’s about when my voice changed to this soft, subtleness (people comment on it; I’m still in awe when I listen on video). I must seem a kitten that roars. That’s how I see it. A giggly kitten that hiccups and roars like a lion. It was then the paintings and prose and writings poured out. I’d tapped into something or something had tapped into me.
Since then, almost everyone I meet, even if just a few words scribed through text, I feel the energy, the vibration, and I know things. Blahhhh!
In fact, I did something out of character. I felt it so intensely from one person on social media this morning that I wrote “Back off.”
I am protected. I know that. I know many of us are. The light barriers.
The most distinct, was that Shaman. In retrospect, I think the point of that whole happening was to show me that there is truth in things we cannot see. After he told me I was pure, he went on to say there is only one aspect of your life at this time you need to be cautious off. He didn’t know why, but it had to do with a little girl in a tree reading Nancy Drew books. His words didn’t resonate with me, and I told him as much. But he was adamant.
Within 24 hours, a man I’d been in contact with through Facebook, private messaged me; and I kid you not, he wrote a note very much out of context and a bit peculiar: “When my childhood sweetheart was upset she’d sit in tree reading Nancy Drew books.” I immediately felt that pit on my stomach and knew he was dangerous. (I also thought for a few seconds did someone tap my phone at the Shaman’s office!) I’d almost let him into my interior circle. I went to his Facebook page and dug around and soon found many red flags. I took measure to protect myself.
Events like that are not uncommon in my life. They happen frequently. I have bazaar things happen each month, if not each week. That’s one of the reasons I can write as much as I do. My life is like an ongoing suspense/horror/love story. Only I’m not sure of the next chapter or script, at all. Not even a little bit.
Well, that’s not true. There is a hint to it. I think I’m ready to transition. From caterpillar to butterfly to phoenix.
I am ready to move on. Whose with me?