Jealousy & Aircraft Carriers Don't Mix

While cleaning out Mum’s garage after she passed, I came across an old, black vinyl bank envelope, First American Title Company gold emblem on the front, zipper open, overflowing with papers, books, and seemingly hundreds of random clippings of Three Dog Night concert publicity ads. A manila envelope stood out from the rest with my name written across the top. “Goldmine,” I thought. I quickly placed what appeared to be a priceless treasure trove into my Prius for a later investigation.

A few months later, when I finally felt emotionally equipped to inspect such past paraphernalia, I pulled the mysterious envelope out. My name was on it, after all. No need to feel as if I'm committing espionage now, though I often feel as such when examining Mum's things. 

Mixed in with clipped coupons for items such as No nonsense pantyhose (expiration date 09/30/83), Purina 100 cat food (expiration date 11/30/83), and Cocoa Puffs breakfast crack (NO EXPIRATION DATE!), was an invitation from my second grade teacher, Miss Scott, to join my classmates on a summer field trip to quietly, and in single file line, invade the USS Kitty Hawk Naval aircraft carrier. 

After curiously pondering the fact that I'd never known Mum to use a coupon, not to mention what they were doing in a manila envelope with my name on it, a wave of resentment suddenly and surprisingly hit me as I was reminded the reasons given as to why I was not allowed to join the mob on that highly anticipated incursion.

 The engine room beckoned my inner-most seven-year-old curiosity contraption. I wanted to witness first-hand those waterproof doorways Miss Scott so eloquently described. What did twenty stories above water look like, exactly? At what length would the flight deck have to be in order to launch a supersonic F-14 Tomcat from it without it landing on the ocean floor?

Though a decidedly peculiar topic of study in the second grade, I'd become obsessed. The carrier's identifying number, 63, became etched in my mind and I still refer to it as lucky and use it for pass codes and such.

My lack of freedom to pursue this intriguing special interest came in the form of a completely foreign concept and belief system. Mum and Nana whole-heartedly believed Miss Scott, with her tight-to-scalp red curly locks, elongated face, large teeth, and mint-green polyester garb that went swish-swish-swash when she walked, had 'a thing' for Papa. I seem to recall her asking him once to don his uniform in class for show and tell; he was a Navy man after all. So Mum and Nana didn't fancy Miss Scott in the least bit, and were quite insistent on keeping me from attending the military ship overtake extravaganza.

I cried. A lot. 

Cocoa Puffs. Hmm. This could be fun.

I'm OK, You're OK

I haven’t written for this blog in quite some time and I miss this outlet, the interaction, the going inside and finding little nuggets of interest others may or may not relate to. I questioned myself as to why I haven’t written in so long. The answer was simple – having “special interests” is a part of identifying with Asperger’s Syndrome. Putting this blog together and learning about having Asperger’s and all it entails had become a special interest.

Within three months I had purchased and read every AS book I could get my hands on, including Aspergirls and Asperger’s on the Job by Rudy Simone (my favorites!!), Pretending to be Normal by Liane Holliday Willey, Look Me in the Eye by John Elder Robison, Asperger’s and Girls and The Other Half of Asperger’s Syndrome by Tony Atwood, Thinking in Pictures by Temple Grandin, Parallel Play by Tim Page and more. I couldn’t seem to get enough of “figuring it all out”. (And now I believe the majority of people I know are on the Autism Spectrum. . . that’s a future blog in and of itself.)

I found so much peace in writing and sharing what I had learned, yet at a point just couldn’t drag myself back to my computer to enjoy that passion. Amazing how it happens so quickly (I wonder if other Aspies feel the same). I'm like a 'player', moving on to 'the next' at the drop of a hat. I realize I've hated myself for it.

I’m learning that what I once thought were limitations aren’t in fact ‘limitations’, but just aspects of me. Not the ‘me’ I’ve always wanted to be. Not the ‘me’ I have mimicked in the past in order to fit in. Not the ‘me’ I have believed others wanted me to be. Not the ‘me’ that feels the need to be accepted by everyone. Just ‘me’, now, and being OK. I can socialize sometimes and sometimes not. I can socialize then need a few days of ‘down time’ and that’s OK. I can wear a hat in bright places and that’s OK. I can wear earplugs when places are loud and that’s OK. I can take breaks throughout the day to clear my mind and that’s OK. I can wear my favorite pair of jeans and Uggs everyday and that’s OK. I can not look like a supermodel and that’s OK. I can write and enjoy my blog sometimes and sometimes not and that is OK. There is peace in that and that’s OK. 

My definition of Asperger's for today: Cramming for no test. :0)

Do You Like Me? Yes or No (Please Check One)

“Twirl my hair? That’s absurd.”

“EYE CONTACT?! Forget about it.”

In my teen years I read all the 17 Magazine articles on How to Let Him Know He’s The One, Flirting: 101, and How to Catch His Eye - to no avail. No matter how hard I’d try to make that initial eye contact, smile, or toss my head back when laughing – it was an epic failure every time.

The day after I had put my toys away and ceased barking like a dog at school (see previous blog, Unleash the Hounds), my life changed. Like canines, dinosaurs, The USS Kitty Hawk naval aircraft carrier, and any other special interests I had conjured up in my young life, a new special interest appeared and in human form. He was tall, thin with dark hair and dark eyes. He was in my Homeroom class. His name was Bobby.

I’m learning that “special interests” are an integral part of the Aspergian nature. Some might define them as obsessions, some hobbies, but whatever the definition is for others, I see them as a means for expertise and mastery. I can only speak for myself, and my pattern is as follows:

• Find something that strikes my interest.
• Research online all I can find on the subject (Wikipedia is a good place to start).
• Buy or borrow every book I can find on the subject.
• Do nothing but read those books (anything or anyone else gets in the way, unless they too want to discuss the subject).
• Bring this subject up in just about every conversation I have with others (which others love . . . not).
• Visit locations where I am able to gather more data.
• Find something else that strikes my interest.
• Repeat the cycle.

I found an insightful blog which goes into detail on the special interests of those with Asperger’s, and you can find it here: Life with Asperger's: The Dreaded Special Interest

“Where was he born?” “What is his birth date?” “What is his astrological sign?” “Are our signs compatible?” “What is his nationality?” “What type of music does he like?” “What are his hobbies?” “Where does he live?”

The questions multiplied. There were so many questions that I began to list them on paper, hoping one day I’d have the courage to ask. Day after day I would walk into class and see him sitting at his desk, three rows up and to my right. I would turn a deep red, feel heat pour over my body, and was sure my forehead displayed in blinking neon the word “crush”. I thought I could hide under my long, blond bangs, doodle on my “Pee Chee” folder, or pretend to read and maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t notice.

One day he started laughing, and took his school book up to our teacher, Ms. Juarez, pointing at something in the book.  They then both started giggling. He then pointed to me and said “this picture looks just like you!” Kids began jumping out of their chairs to look as I sat frozen, mute, and blushing.  I felt like I was going to melt into a puddle of lava. I was wishing I WOULD melt into a puddle of lava and just be done with it all. I’d rather face a horrible, grueling death than to look this boy in the eyes, much less bat my eyelashes at him like the articles said. The bell rang, and I ran my sweaty little armpits out of there.

At some point I ended up with Bobby’s phone number. I’m sure a friend gave it to me, for other girls seemed to have no problem speaking to him in person. So I would call. And we’d talk. And I’d ask my questions. And I’d see him at school - and would avoid him like the plague, behaving as if he didn’t exist. I did this for years. Now that I am aware of the characteristics of Asperger’s, I believe I was perfectly satisfied knowing the information of Bobby, not Bobby the human, not Bobby the soul, not Bobby - the clueless teenaged skater boy in physical form. I had become an expert . . . , which eventually gave me the space to discover another special interest: theology.

I never did learn to flirt and still don’t understand the concept. I’ve learned that if you are interested in someone, just say it – no games. In my adult life, I’ve only had two serious relationships, but my method seems successful as I am now engaged to be married to the most amazing human being I’ve ever met, and maintain a great friendship with my previous beau.

I did learn, as I grew older, that seeking a person’s “data” is not nearly as satisfying as actually having a relationship with them. Though it may be difficult at times, it sure is comforting to know someone is in your corner and on your team.

Years later: While visiting London in 2003, out of the blue I received an email from Bobby. He had tracked me down through the high school reunion website. Though I admit the eye contact was minimal, together as friends, we attended our ten-year high school reunion. Isn’t life amazing? Not bad for a timid, Aspergian girl. ;0)