I'm thinking about having a dog.

I can think of lots of good reasons, worthy.

I'm thinking maybe a Whippet or a Frenchie, or a favorable mix, because that would match the family lifestyle. It would be good to care for a dog, young or old.

Having my eye on this, someday, I noticed a bulldog-pooch pic lockscreen on my co-workers phone the other day. I don't remember her name. We run into each other like once a year. It's a big company. I was displaced momentarily on call at one of our sprawling locations.

"Is that your dog?" I ventured, stricken. It could after all have only been some cute wallpaper stock.

"Yeaah, that's our Lavendar," she beamed behind tinted glasses, and touched me. On the arm, like we were friends. A sort of pet.

I'm not against touch. There's just something about some people's touch that takes something from you. That's what I felt. I hoped it didn't show on my face.

"Is it a bulldog, Frenchie; or a Boxer... or a mix...?" I said displacing my disturbance with sincere interest, small talk. I had only seen the picture for a couple seconds.

"Both! how did you know?! but she's on the small side. Takes after the French Bulldog more, right?"

"Oh, I love Frenchies," I added remembering a delightful monograph I'd read in which the writer/enthusiast said Frenchies are like potato chips... you can't have just one... and that is saying a lot...

She interrupted my thinking: "But I told my family No More. No more babies, no more puppies. No more rescues. No more. And I can't deal with either end," she said sweeping the bangs off her brow, and holding her temple like staving off a migraine.

My visuals all over the place, but I tried to keep pace: "Uh, huh."

She touched me again.

"I just can't deal with the potty training, or the incontinence. I can't. I'm DONE."

I nodded, sympathizing, for her as much as for her charges.

She looked about 65, though, it's not age that matters. She faded good humoredly.

"You're right," I thought to myself: "Best save your strength-- for when you need it."

It's not the cloudless sky

nor the stillness of the sea

that most reflect me

It's the midnight hue

the turbulent dark water

the endless abyss

the rarely seen moon

the mournfully, soulful tune

melancholy blue.

Geoffrey Chaucer would not take no for an answer. the guy got published in an age where there were no printing press. he rocked the self promotion of his first book: "cooking for peasants in a syndicalist agrarian society". a best seller that, even when the literacy rate was obe in a hundred who kbew how to spell the word Cat. then he got into the whole Canterbury bit. tale here, tale there. obviously just ride on the first book. next book was "summer drinks in kibbutz societies" another all rounder. a real trailblazer, considering that mixing fluids in precise proportions required an understanding of basic arithmetic. oh, and he didn't stop with his next book, "nihilism or communal production: pie edition" oh, they just couldn't keep them on the shelf.

"it sells like hotcakes" he explains, "once you tap in a real theoretical desire to designate the mode of production and the means of governing, it's just 'add a pinch here', 'pour two cups there'."

the thing to remember is to not, NOT EVER suggest to socialist spider monkies, that the fact they are marching so nice and orderly on parade, shows just how massively repressive they are and how they abandon any personal responsibility for the token 'social' in their ism. idiots like that don't know a Thylecine from a Euplerid. just goes to show that all they really care about is sex.

and what does the medieval english laureate has in his pockets?

"oh..it's a little thing i'm working on. you see. i suggest in my soon to be published three-volume research, that people are soending too much time shuffling cards and not playing. the true devision of resources in this world is with playing cards. and the more shuffling we do, the less efficiency we have. and so i am planning to introduce this " and he sticks out the little crank oparated machine. he puts a stack of cards in, crabks it up a bit, and the deck comes out random as a jewish hack in a Chinese covid lockdown.

"i plan to give it as a gimmick. you buy the new trilogy, and you get the shufflegin free.

oh, what will he think of next.. i wish i had a Shaksperean cus to throw at him, maybe from the taming of the shrew, plenty of stuff in there, but my mind goes into different things and i am lost in a tempest if shuffling..........

I am made of things,

things that are constantly breaking

― Jenim Dibie

He puts a hand gently on my back, careful not to cause me more pain, and guides me out of the room and the wreckage left behind. We're silent for a long while, none of us really sure what to say or how to act. Finally, as we head out into the hallway, the heavy door closing behind us, he decides to speak.

I will report the damages and the break-in in a little while. For now, come on, let's go clean those cuts. At least we are already in a hospital, so that shouldn't be a problem. I don't even know how everyone else managed to overlook the racket that went on downstairs but then again, stranger things happen in life, right?

He rubs his face, looking exhausted, consternation coloring his features, probably already visualizing the mayhem that will follow after he breaks the news to the security staff - and in consequence, the police. He could keep it to himself for now and let someone else find the disaster area, but I know he's not that kind of a person; no matter the situation, he would always do the best thing possible, whatever the circumstances. I nod slowly in response to his words, still feeling a bit out of it after everything that happened, resembling a damaged machine or a radio that someone played for too long, leaving just static behind - just a lot of white noise everywhere.

Letting him touch me and walk me upstairs was a struggle, taking all my willpower not to flinch under it. It wasn't that I found it repulsive or putting off after what occurred between us - no, that had nothing to do with it. But every time I felt his hand on my body, I heard the white noise stretching and twisting, turning me into a bunch of unsteady, grey lines and out-of-tune magnetic waves that tried to find the right station but failed miserably every time. Whenever he touched me, it felt like his fingers might take out the wrong little piece from the wooden tower, build out of my worn-out structure, causing it to fall apart. I felt fragile, not made from skin, muscle, or bone, but from thick bruises painted on the ruins of something that once was a home. My walls were broken, windows shattered, and I had no doors to protect me, not a single room to hide in. And Charlie was a breeze, a potential storm; just one wrong gust of wind, and it felt that I would become merely the sand between his open fingers.

I shiver and shake my head, hoping it will stay in place, staring at the ground and following the lines and patterns of the linoleum floor as he gets the necessary medical supplies from a storage area. We later sit close to each other in a small, currently empty office, my hands resting on his knees so he can take care of the injuries properly. It feels intimate somehow, private. I try not to think about it and instead; concentrate on the pulsating wounds spread against my skin like some abstract form of art. But then I sense his stare on me and look up automatically, noticing the irritation he tries to hide, his face seeming hidden in the shadows created by the lamp behind him. It's a strange and surreal feeling, but his agitated state reflects in me like a mirror and becomes that of my own, something safe and mundane to focus on, something that brings me above the surface of the water and lets me stay there.

What were you doing here in the first place?

He asks in a low, almost harsh voice, and for the first time, I straighten my back, raising my chin in a challenging way.

I was visiting newborns. What do you think I was doing here? The pain got worse, and I needed your help. Simple.

My attitude doesn't faze him, but something in him grows sharper, colder.

What about the basement, Eleonore?

My bravado falters just a fraction, and I can tell that he notices it. I don't respond, and he sighs.

But I guess we will circle back to that later as well.

He takes a deep breath and gazes at me for a moment like he's trying to scan my entire network system and understand how the wiring works. Good luck with that - I think and don't look away, building up strength for whatever he might say next.

You didn't call that you were coming.

It was implied.

Not well enough.

I can sense tiny embers moving under my skin, and I take the subtle heat with relief, finally something to warm my cold bones.

Charlie, is this the first day that we met? How many times did I actually warn you I was

going to come, and pay you a courtesy visit? Not. That. Many.

I throw my hands up in desperation, groaning, irritated as the skin around the cuts opens wider - allowing the dirt and rust to move deeper under the fractured tissue. I mumble some nasty things in response to the unwanted pain and put my hands down, back on his lap, too tired to focus on my non-existing polite side that I just had less and less these days. I look up at him as he disinfects the scrapes and cuts on my hands and suck air through my teeth as it stings like freaking hell. He doesn't react in any way and wraps my hands up in bandages where it's most needed, giving me some space so I can still move my fingers around. I stare at his focused yet strained expression and manage to bite my tongue at the last moment. He saved my life, sparring me just inches from death. We both knew I was so close to giving up, finally too worn out by the things that were constantly ripping me apart. A piece of faded material can only take so much. I gaze at him and shake my head. I think it would forever remain a mystery to me how he was somehow always able to sew my threads back together - mending me when everyone else in his place would just throw the old fabric into the trash. He finishes, and I carefully move my fingers. The skin still stings, feeling pulled and stretched out, hands seeming more fragile than usual, but beyond that, they appear to be more or less functional. Mmm, what was the physical damage, in comparison to everything that was fucked up on the inside anyway?

At least you didn't break anything.

His tone is unexpectedly soft, and I find myself blinking without control, feeling things in me start to crumble like pieces of dry cement. The sensation is so powerful that I nearly see the white dust covering the clean floor beneath my feet, coating everything in sight.

I'm so sorry.

I say quietly, shutting my eyes tightly, guilt spreading in my veins like an infection.

For what, for no open break? Because I can assure you it would not have been pretty.

I look up at him, and somehow he smiles despite the mood in the room. I shake my head slowly.

Just, in general. I will send you a list, and you can pick something out yourself.

Very entertaining.

Not particularly.

I can feel his gaze on me again but avoid it this time; I know what's coming next.

Nora, I...

I don't want to talk about it.

I blurt out of habit before I can think, and he sighs. I watch as he gets up and starts to walk around the room in circles. I feel nausea returning and close my eyes, slowly counting to ten, so I won't snap at him again, grabbing the sides of the metal chair and pressing my fingers into it until the pain distracts me. I had no control over my actions anymore and was terrified of saying something I wouldn't be able to take back. After a moment, when my stomach stops doing Olympic somersaults, I look up, and my eyes widen in surprise, even my exhausted state fading into the background. I watch as he stands about 6 feet away from me, his forehead against the wall, the palm of his hands low, and tapping against the thick surface, back moving in a rushed rhythm as his lungs rise and fall. My eyebrows furrow, forehead creasing. He's angry. I never saw him angry. Well, upset, sure, a bit judgemental at times, and disbelieving my truths for a good reason. Yes, that I was familiar with, but not anger. The raw form of it.

I stand up quietly and walk up to him, putting a hand on his left shoulder and squeeze it; he doesn't shift and look at me, just keeps tapping on the wall as if I wasn't there. My hand slips down gently until it reaches his, fingers intertwining and wrapping tightly around his warm skin. I press it so tightly that I can feel his pulse; it's rushed, chaotic. He doesn't say anything. I turn him around slowly, so I can see his face, but he keeps looking down. I lift my hand and put it on his chest, fingers gently stroking the material of his shirt, waiting patiently until he calms down. He finally breaks out of his haze and looks up at me. I can't read anything from his face - there's too much going on there, too many things, that I fear touching.

Nora, who was that man?

Charlie.

No, stop. He could have killed you... or just let you die, whichever came first. You need to warn me about people like that. What if I was too late? What if I didn't make it in time?

I gaze at him, confused for a moment, the gears in my brain turning very slowly and unwillingly, refusing to push through any additional effort today. But ultimately, the information breaks through. He wasn't angry because of me, the trouble I got him into, or the mayhem that my presence in his life caused; he was furious because he felt helpless and unable to help and protect me when needed, feeling weak against the things he could not control. Well, I guess they both got to experience that unsettling feeling.

Well?! Why won't you answer me? God dammit, Nora!

His voice breaks slightly at the end, and my heart shrinks under the ache and softness that attacks me without mercy, ready to explode if I take even the slightest breath. I feel him. I feel every little pained part of him growing and expanding in my cells. It's so much to experience at once. I blink away the tears that are on their way and hold onto his hand tighter, feeling his pulse exhilarate under my skin, giving me sudden strength to find peace inside of me, to find peace for him. I tap my hand against his chest to the rhythm of his heartbeats, closing my eyes and listening to the music trapped there - it's a melody that unexpectedly invites me more than I could ever anticipate. A smile creeps to my lips as I tilt my head slightly, creating a song I know I could listen to on repeat for days or weeks, and it still wouldn't get old.

This throws him off, and I sense that he is slowly relaxing.

What are you doing?

It's just something my mother did when I was little and couldn't calm down.

He stares at me for a moment.

You don't talk much about your mother or your parents, for that matter.

I told you why before. We have complicated relations since her daughter has the talent to wrack lives, but I love her. I love them both. That one thing hasn't changed. Are you feeling a bit better now? I hope you are.

I don't know. This whole thing has set me off. When I found you and saw you lying there on the ground and screaming, I thought I would lose you.

Well, you didn't. I'm still here and will irritate you as long as you let me. But I think that wasn't the only reason you got angry.

I challenge him, standing on very shaky territory; he sighs again and steps away, seeming awkward and distant now. I want to say something, but I'm just not sure what it should be. He crosses his arms and turns his head towards me as if defending him from an invisible threat could jeopardize something extremely important and worth everything. Our friendship.

I had no other choice, I had to save you. And I had this feeling that it would work. I don't know why, but I did. I'm sorry. But you have to know one thing. If I had to do it all over again to save you, I would. No hesitation.

I stare at him and his expression, the entire body language, and feel my chest tighten at the sight. How many times could a heart break? Sometimes, it can break from the beginning, each and every day. It's limitless in its power to crumble, and somehow it keeps on beating just the same. I feel my eyes start to sting, but for the very first time, I don't stop the tears for fear that someone might see. I let him see all of me.

Charlie, I'm not mad or upset about that. Once again, you saved me. How could I feel even one negative feeling towards you? And let's face it, I wouldn't even be here if it wasn't for you. It's okay, I promise. I do.

My voice is so soft that it feels like silk that I would like to wrap myself in. I'm surprised that I can be so tender, but at the same time, I'm not surprised at all that I can be so soft towards him. Not anymore.

Is this that scene in a movie, when you make a standing ovation speech and then disappear out of my life?

My cheeks are still wet from the tears, but somehow a shaky laugh bursts out of me as if sunlight, breaking through dark, turbulent clouds. It was a shock that I could master up a smile after this day, but that was the effect he always had on me in the end - a sensation of the sun coming through the clouds, even on the darkest days. He tilts his head, gazing at me with soft eyes, and lifts his hand, gently rubbing away some of my tears with his thumb. His touch is such a relief that I automatically lean into it.

Nurse Evans, was that sense of humor slipping from under those pretty pastel scrubs? Well, may the heavens have mercy on me.

He smiles but then grows serious again, concern still visible in his stare.

Are you sure that you are okay with it? Won't this mess everything up between us? With everything that you have been through? After everything that you have lost?

No. Nothing can.

You can't be sure of that.

I don't say anything in response but come closer, wrapping my arms around his waist and putting my head to his chest. I hold him until I feel him gradually relax as the warmth of our bodies blends together, each of us softly soothing something else in the other. Then after a while, I step aside, stand on my toes, and kiss his cheek, letting my hand lift and trace the side of his face with attentiveness. A little glimpse of heaven, for the damned tortured souls - I think and force myself to snap out of it, something in my gut telling me that if I let myself sink into this moment for too long, I might never want to come back for air. It's a very disturbing thought. I take a deep breath, smile at him, and squeeze his shoulder just before I head for the door.

Come on. I need to get out of this hospital. Oh, and by the way. Great 'saving' technique. I would say you are close to a black belt at it. Both professional and enjoyable.

I glance back, not being able to stop myself, watching his face turn into a faint shade of crimson. My smile turns dark and I relax as well, the easy, familiar banter between us giving me the strength to go through another day with my head held up. There was something about him, something powerful enough to remind me of the person I once was. He gave me the courage to find her once more and rebuild her into someone that could stand on their own. I was so grateful for his help but was also all too aware I had to find my own light and my own strength. And that meant forgiving myself. It meant confessing my sins instead of hiding from them.

Alright, Mister Evans. I don't have all day here. I need my support system to follow me, and guide me through my miserable existence.

I walk out and head for the elevators, feeling his disapproving stare on my back.

You do realize that we still need to talk about that man in the basement and how you know him in the first place? I won't let you run away from it. Not this time.

I hear the sternness in his voice, the power behind the words, and nod calmly in agreement, knowing I no longer wanted to run. It was a strange yet oddly liberating feeling.

Yes, but not now. I'm afraid I'm currently out of order.

I walk in into the special double-door elevator, stumbling a bit, and he follows, the shiny metal closing behind us. I needed some alone space to process what happened today. Though in truth, there was never enough time to adjust to the constant turmoils of my life. Always spinning, always gliding just inches below the water, hoping for a little more air. Just enough to survive. I think about the broken pipes around me, the blood on the floor, the never-ending pain, and Jeremiah's words. I close my eyes, and other things play out as well. The memory of Charlie's lips on mine invading me, those arms wrapped so tightly around my waist, my wounds, his light spreading through my cells and replacing everything else, pushing away the darkness and letting new things in. My brain had a difficult time - simultaneously processing how to move my limbs and coordinate the feelings that shifted endlessly, moving from an overwhelmed state to complete utter numbness. My life was getting more complicated with each passing day, and decoding it became a real struggle. I felt like I was continuously spiraling down a rabbit hole, with only tiny glimpses of the perfect blue sky in the distance.

Let me take you home then.

I break away from all the buzzing thoughts and nod while he wraps his arm around my waist gently and letting me sink into his familiar embrace. His scrubs making comforting sounds as I close my eyes again, the elevator gradually moving up into something that spoke of a little more mundane. The monsters, for now, left seven or eight floors below.

________________________

https://theprose.com/post/230936/with-all-my-senses ( the beginning )

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Previous chapters :

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49. https://theprose.com/post/496088/developing-some-truths

50. https://theprose.com/post/513634/slow-burn

51. https://theprose.com/post/514578/a-little-game-of-hide-and-seek

If you have been in therapy before, or have ever picked up a cognitive behavioral or dialectical behavioral therapy book, you have likely encountered the adage that “thoughts are not feelings.”

This observation is often intended to help a therapy client distinguish between their interpretation of a situation (and what their thoughts are telling them about that situation) and the emotional reality of how that situation affected them. Take for example this passage from the Dialectical Behavioral Therapy Workbook for Bipolar Disorder by Sheri Van Dijk:

Van Dijk does on to explain that this patient is actually feeling angry or disappointed by how she was treated. But as Van Dijk acknowledges in her own text, determining the difference between a thought and a feeling is really quite difficult. Our emotions shape how we perceive the world, what we think about, how we evaluate information, and how easily we can “break away” from repeating an upsetting idea to ourselves over and over again.

Conversely, the content of our thoughts impacts our emotions. When we dwell on unhappy subjects, we make ourselves physiologically and psychologically more sad. When we are used to interpreting others’ behavior in the most negative possible light, we move through life routinely feeling belittled, judged, and alone. The relationship between affect and cognition is a two-way street that is never shut down. So why do we even bother trying to cleave thinking from feeling in the first place? They don’t operate separately. They bleed into one another, shift and intertwine and progress in parallel, always.

“Thoughts are not feelings” is also something that patients who heavily intellectualize and analyze their emotions tend to hear from their therapists — especially when a therapist thinks all that analysis is blocking the patient from sitting with how they truly feel. Take for example this exchange I had with a therapist many years ago:

If my therapist’s goal was to help me connect with and validate my own emotions, she could not have done a worse job. Rather than hearing the anguish and panic evident in the metaphor I provided, my therapist decided to correct me for expressing my emotions in a way she didn’t approve of. This made me trust her a whole lot less, and it made me feel that the way I emote is somehow “wrong” in her view, and that I shouldn’t open up to her judgmental, censoring ass anymore. (Though I’m sure she’d want me to just say her actions made me feel mad or ashamed).

When therapists chide their patients to share a feeling, and not a thought, they are typically requesting the patient provide a straightforward affect word such as “joyful”, “irate,” “disappointed,” “bashful,” or “sad.” And if I pondered it for a moment, I could explain in this case that seeing so many friends suffering did in fact make me feel both guilty (because I could not help them all sufficiently) and sad (because witnessing their pain brought me sorrow).

However, in that therapeutic appointment, I did not feel that emotion words such as “sad” or “guilty” did justice to the enormity of what I was going through. My mood was not just a tiny bit struck by my friends’ crises. I was alarmed and had been alarmed for weeks, and quite literally could not stop thinking about it. My mind kept generating panicked thoughts about how much was on my plate, and how little I could to do to make a difference in the lives of others. Emotions were embedded into the content of my thoughts. My thinking was clearly quite subjective, flowery, and intuitive — it was emotional. Yet my therapist shut me down for conveying my feelings by sharing my thoughts.

Unfortunately, this approach is very common under a variety of therapeutic approaches. Cognitive-behavioral therapy (CBT) teaches patients to avoid so-called cognitive distortions by identifying whether their thoughts line up with reality. If a patient’s thinking is not strictly rational or grounded in evidence, then they are encouraged to dismiss or set out to “disprove” those thoughts. In this therapeutic approach, any and all emotions are considered valid, and to some degree unavoidable — but inaccurate thoughts are treated as a problem a person must train themselves out of having so often.

Since our feelings and thoughts are impossible to fully untangle, it’s hard to put this approach into practice fully. How can I really allow myself to experience my sadness without also observing that my mind is flashing with images of my family members dying? How can I find space to acknowledge my anger, when that anger primarily takes the form of internal rants about how misinformed everyone is and how nobody ever listens to me? Those thoughts also reflect my emotional reality. If my therapist were to neglect them because they aren’t “really emotions,” they’d overlook a huge part of my interior experience.

Dialectical behavioral therapy (or DBT) also involves instructing clients to draw a firm line between their thoughts and their emotions. Returning again to the Dialectical Behavioral Therapy Workbook for Bipolar Disorder, Van Dijk tells the reader that a statement such as “I’m an idiot!” is a thought, not a feeling. But is there a more emotionally charged thought to have than one that rejects your entire selfhood like that? It’s hard to imagine ever thinking of oneself as an ‘idiot’ and not experiencing a flood of negative emotions at the same time.

To say merely that one is feeling ashamed and embarrassed is to lose specificity in this case. “I’m an idiot!” (or “I feel like an idiot”) conveys that a person is experiencing profound negative emotions directed toward themselves, and that those negative emotions are connected to concerns about intelligence and capability, probably provoked by a perceived-screw up. That says a lot about why the client is upset and what past experiences and future concerns are being activated by their present situation. Why would a therapist ever want to replace such a rich, contextual discussion with vague faffing about their feelings?

Another reason that therapists and self-help books distinguish between thoughts and feelings is because many people do try and use their intellects to push unpleasant yet unavoidable emotions away.

Take for example my old colleague Brendon, whose parents had expected him to serve as their translator and unpaid employee when he was very young. Helping to manage a small business’ legal documents and keep its operations afloat at the age of ten years old had been incredibly stressful to Brendon. He had stomachaches and anxiety migraines as an adult that dated back to the experience. Yet whenever Brendon discussed his past, he was quick to dismiss his own trauma by highlighting all the generous things his family had done.

“My childhood was not perfect,” he’d say to me, after describing a harrowing encounter with government officials that he was forced to navigate on his parents’ behalf as a child. “But my family paid for my college, and they love me, and they moved to this country when they were in their mid-thirties and the adjustment was so very hard.”

It’s clear in this case that Brendon was engaging his intellect in order to keep feelings like resentment and sorrow at bay. In social psychology we sometimes call this motivated cognition — the practice of using our thoughts to arrive at the conclusion that we want. This is yet another way that thoughts and emotions cannot be cleanly severed from one another. We often try to think our way into feeling certain things — just as we often feel our way into specific thoughts.

Would it have been helpful for a therapist to redirect Brendon away from his motivated cognition with the phrase “thoughts are not feelings?” I don’t think that it would. Because in addition to the intense emotions Brendon was experiencing, he was going through a variety of meta-emotions too. Meta-emotions are the feelings we have about our own feelings, particularly feelings we’ve been socially conditioned not to discuss.

For instance, if a boy grew up learning that it was unacceptable for him to cry, he might become angry with himself for experiencing sadness as an adult. His anger is a meta-emotional reaction to his sorrow. I happen to experience this one a lot, by the way. It’s only in the past year that I’ve finally learned that when I feel the desire to go on snarky, cruel social media rants it’s often a signal I’m burying some sadness I think is too ‘pitiful’ to feel. I’m a toxically masculine man who hates his own weakness, and so I start intellectualizing away from my sadness by thinking very deeply (and very emotionally) about all the bad takes on Twitter that piss me off.

Brendon felt bad about resenting his parents. But he did not believe resentment was an emotion he deserved to have. And so he covered up his resentment with the meta-emotion of guilt — and that meta-emotion came with a series of specific, corrective thoughts. His parents did so much for him. His parents struggled so much more than he had. Their needs should always come before his own.

Brendon probably heard these messages from his parents as he was growing up — or he had it reinforced for him by the surrounding culture. There are a lot of conflicting influences and contradictory emotions swirling around inside of Brendon — and if we focused only on his emotions, and not on his thinking, all that complexity and personal history would be missed.

Many Autistic people are highly familiar with the complicated meta- emotional and cognitive maze that Brendon found himself wandering. We tend to live largely in our own heads, detaching from an overwhelming world by dwelling on our ideas and personal interests. We also are quite accustomed to being told that our reactions to things are incorrect.

One interview subject that I spoke to for my book Unmasking Autism, a young woman named Crystal, told me that she would experience meltdowns as a child when an unexpected change of plans threw her for a loop. If her elementary class had field day instead of indoor recess, for instance, she’d thrash and cry on the pavement in distress. Another interviewee, Eric, told me he used to get cranky and snap at people when he was at busy work conferences that became too noisy — particularly when the sound system made crackling feedback sounds that only he seemed able to hear.

None of the neuro-conforming people around Crystal understood she needed a consistent, predictable structure to her day, and no one planning Eric’s professional conferences recognized that Autistic people like him often require safe places to retreat from social data and sound. And so instead, both Crystal and Eric were frequently told by others that they were explosive, being sensitive “babies”, or making their feelings up. Experiences like these teach Autistic people that we cannot trust our own feelings, and that we should always closely analyze our reactions and make all our “wrong” emotions go away.

Because of these numerous invalidating and censoring experiences, most Autistic people are quite bad at knowing how they feel — especially in the heat of the moment. Scientists often call this inability to recognize emotions and body sensations alexythimia, and it manifest in many ways.

Autistic writer and researcher Stevie Lang has observed that during sexual encounters, Autistic folks can’t always tell if they have genuinely consented to an activity, or if they merely want to want something for the sake of pleasing their partner. During an argument with a loved one, an Autistic person’s speech might become clipped and loud without them even realizing that they are angry. An Autistic person I spoke to told me that she needs days to process and reflect on an experience before she can tell how it made her feel.

I am often the same way. Big losses and surprises throw me for a loop and leave me numb. “I’ll think about this and get back to you” is a life-saving phrase in such cases. My partner knows that when we experience any challenge, I’ll probably send them a lengthy text message explaining my true perspective and needs after a day has passed. It’s just the way I work. It’s how I and many Autistic people cope with the fact we reflexively censor and block our feelings. And have been blocked.

https://www.hihonor.com/eg/club/topicdetail/topicid-75234/

https://www.hihonor.com/eg/club/topicdetail/topicid-75236/

https://www.hihonor.com/eg/club/topicdetail/topicid-75242/

https://www.hihonor.com/eg/club/topicdetail/topicid-75244/

https://www.hihonor.com/eg/club/topicdetail/topicid-75249/

https://www.hihonor.com/eg/club/topicdetail/topicid-75250/

https://www.hihonor.com/eg/club/topicdetail/topicid-75256/

https://www.hihonor.com/eg/club/topicdetail/topicid-75258/

https://www.hihonor.com/eg/club/topicdetail/topicid-75262/

https://www.hihonor.com/eg/club/topicdetail/topicid-75263/

https://dotnetfiddle.net/dDtV8B

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https://ududsamsu33.cookpad-blog.jp/articles/730730

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Thinking is part of how we arrive at how we feel. So for a therapist to tell us that all this crucial interior work is invalid because “thoughts are not feelings” is devastating. It shuts us down and makes us feel like we are wrong about ourselves all over again. This is only compounded by the many other invalidating experiences Autistics have in a standard therapy office, such as being told that our emotions look too “flat” or that we explain experiences in too much detail. We are always to much or too little. We truly cannot win.

Most therapists are non-Autistic white women who, for a variety of cultural and sociological reasons, believe that empathizing with a patient by looking at their face and instantly identifying how they are feeling is key. But Autistic people don’t work like that. Non-Autistic people are bad at detecting our emotions. Our facial expressions and nonverbals don’t look like theirs. We often convey our inner truth through lengthy stories, elaborate analogies involving our special interests, complex systemic analyses, and media references that echo how we feel inside.

Thoughts are feelings. And feelings are thoughts. Just as behavior is communication. Many decades ago, psychologists and neuroscientists did away with the concept of Cartesian Dualism, which tried to look at the mind and body as separate entities. The philosopher René Descartes believed the body was physical matter, and that it operated on animal instinct — which is still how many people talk about emotions today. He also claimed the mind was entirely spiritual, not physically instantiated, and that it was rational and moral in ways the body could never be. None of this is actually true.

the pacific ocean is the largest body of water on the plant. it contains all sorts of animals, sunken ships, unsunken ships, soon-to-be sunken ships, volcanos, seaweed, massive amounts of water. there are plenty of islands in it and even an entire continent is stuck at one of its corners. there are all kinds of storms, swells, tsunamis, waves and tubulences, much about it is unknown, it is heavily polluted and parts of it are in dispute over the territorial ownership. sights, sounds, smells and taste are all involved. oh, and some coconuts..

now here's the thing: we must find either a cement mixer OR a blue park bench as the most resembling the pacific ocean.

what arguments can you raise for the cement mixer, what arguments for the bench.

here's a few

cement mixer and its resemblence to the pacific ocean.

----------+--------+++++-------------------

-contains more stuff in it than a park bench.

-much of the contents are mysteroous to us. it is true that it is nominally designed to contain cement, sand , gravel sand, and water, but it may hold other things, like a sunken ship, or a school of fish, it may even contain coconuts.

-the cement mixer is designed to turn around, using powerful hydraulics or electrical currents, and turn that in to a circular movement. not unlike ocean currents which move around, driven by powerful forcces, primarily the sun.

-the cement mixer has a high value , usage and importance.

-regardless of the motion of the mixer, the vehicle that carries may be in motion.

-if either the cement mixer or the vehicle is mishadled, the results will be disastrous.

-as the mixer is at work, there is a soothing, wave like sound, as the gravel and sand grind against the inner walls of the mixer.

blue park bench and its resemblence to the pacific ocean:

-+-+-+-+++-++++-;;;;-;-------------++++

-its blue. maybe deep , intensly dark blue. maybe it is a new coat of azure. just like the sea. really, that was obvious.

-though many could claim it, they come and go in the end. the bench stays where it is forever.

-the planks that make up the seat are separated. looking at it from the front, it is clearly a series of waves.

-the wood contains eyelets, and burrs, which swirl down, tempring you...tempting you...tempting you..

-the backrest is a merciless tsunami.

-if you lick different parts of the bench, you will find ample similarities between it an the low tide scum, or the Mariana abyssal, or the great japanese 'research' whaling ship.

-the bench is coated with a plastic lacquer, and one or two of the planks are newer, pvc fake-wood . well...plenty of plastic in the ocean.

-ants that pick on whatever the last guy sitting was eating (very hard to tell at this point) resemble the endless chain of maritime freight.

- spots of dried bird shit bespatter the seat. one looks like honolulu, one like Samoa, another like Hokkaido...

-if you drown here, no one will help you.

I can feel myself

Slowly slipping away from me

Forgetting the things that I used to love

The reasons to live

The reasons to die

So I'm stuck mere existence

Just floating around like—not a ghost—

Nothing I can think of that is neither here nor there

Except me

I do the same things over and over

Day after day

Watching the clock

Knowing the feeling of two hours

Exactly how long a minute actually is

Because I watch the time so much now

Do you know the feeling? Of time passing? I feel it

It breathes down my neck

A tick

....tick

With no boom

It's like I feel my soul flickering

Like a candle in the wind

My will fading

Like paint on aged wall

Blotched ink on faded paper

I don't wake up with excitement

I don't look forward to the day any longer

I teach the kids, exercise, drink a lot of water

I do only things that are good for me now

Do you know the feeling? When the thrill of doing something you shouldn't do leaves you? I know it

It's what makes life worth living you know

Doing things you shouldn't do

Enjoying the thrill of defying something, someone, yourself, society

No matter how little you do defy

And when that's gone, what is left?

I can feel the hollowness in my being

A silence where my curiosity used to be

I do things

But I put them off for much longer

There's a pattern

But there's no rhyme

I'm starting to feel like the poems I write

Do you know the feeling?

You know sometimes, some times

Most times

I don't want to do what I'm supposed to

What I'm expected to do

I don't want to act a certain way

Or chat a certain way

Or tone down my smarts for someone

Or cloak my humanity

because it's what's expected

Some times

I want to do what I want

Walk how I want, speak the way I want

Dress the way I want

Go wherever I want

But then I can't exactly

Unknow the things I know

The people I know

Or unchoose the things I chose

Or unbelieve the things I believe

So I guess I'm pretty much stuck

With the life I have now

So I take my two hands

Out of my two pockets

I can't possibly go home with them in there

They'd ask who the hell I think I am.

Sweating profusely I tried to wipe my brow to no avail. Today the sun seemed to be a bit closer to earth, and it was scorching our bald heads. The land was barren, and the mirage continued its peculiar dance. The chains on our hands and legs were heavy and hot. Mopping my brow for the umpteenth time, I suddenly realised that it was probably the last time I would be using my hands as a pair. My mind raced back to all the things I’d ever done with my hands both good and bad. I thought where I had been and what I had done, the souls I’d touched and the ones I’d destroyed. A terrifying scream startled me jolting me out of my deep reverie.

I was now alive at the moment. I could feel my breath, I could smell the strange odor of feces, urine and sweat mixed with blood. The stench was choking me. The crowd cheered loudly as the butcher pumped up his axe in the air while doing a celebratory jig.  The crowd was baying for blood, a look at their faces and you could see they were relishing everything that was going on. I was left wondering what kind of frenzy they would be in once the beheading started.

Up in the very important box you could see Mulei and Maria his wife and their entourage were enjoying the scene. My heart was now beating loudly like the tum tum drums of South Africa threatening to bust out of my chest. I felt like I could die. I swallowed hard as next guy in line was unchained and escorted by two humongous men to axe man’s arena despite the struggle he put up his hands were held firmly on the blood soaked log.

Meanwhile, the axe man was revving the crowd up with a small performance with his massive blood stained axe. With a wry smile on his face the king gave the signal and in a fraction of a second the axe was on the prisoners’ hand, cracking his bones while splashing blood all over. Simultaneously, the prisoners’ screams of pain were silenced by the rapturous applause of the crowd.

Next in line was an old man, and I was after him. His chains were undone. He walked slowly with a determined step and knelt before the axe man. Suddenly king Mulei stood up and with a wave of his hand the crowd went silent, but my heart thundered on, for a moment I thought the other prisoners could hear it.

“Citizens of Tuaa, your king greets you, today we have to appease our gods” Bokonos’ voice broke the hot afternoon air and reverberated around the amphitheatre.

The crowd roared and clapped with excitement.

“Today thieves’ hands will be chopped off so that they will never steal again” he continued and the crowd burst into another rapturous applause.

Looking around, I could see the last prisoner's on the ground, and it was still twitching.

“This man’s hands will be chopped off for trying to grope the queen, he deserves to die but being a merciful king I will let him live but with a warning.”

Another loud cheer met his last word. A broad smile crept from cheek to cheek on the queen’s face as she clapped to the words of the king. With a wave of his hand, the crowd fell silent again and that eerie feeling that my heartbeat could be heard returned. Suddenly the old man’s voice broke the silence.

“I’d rather die today,” he said resolutely.

I was taken aback, and so was everybody else in attendance. The king Mulei trying to show who is in command retorted “so be it you fool”

The crowd went ballistic again. The old man with a determined face scanned the crowd, the king and then bowed. The axe man was now doing his pre-beheading jig and both he and the crowd were loving it. King Mulei watched with a wry smile plastered on his face. This stupid old man had disrupted his plans but the show had to go on. Mulei let the axe man dance for a while, a tactic he used to fill the crowd with anticipation. Then he finally gave the signal and with one clean swing the axe landed on the old man’s neck which dissociated from his body. It rolled on the floor spilling blood until it rested near the pair of hands that were still twitching.

The crowd was ecstatic. Warm blood that had splashed on me was now trickling down my face and bare chest. The old man’s head lay in a pool of blood with flies swarming all over for a taste of fresh blood. The scene was ghastly I nearly vomited, but I managed to keep myself together. I was next and this sent cold chills down my spine, my feet were like wobbly like jelly. As the old man’s headless body was being dragged away I observed that the queen relished every moment of this.

Suddenly a large bust of wind tore up the amphitheatre and black clouds engulfed the blue sky. It started getting dark. Everybody was both surprised and confused, you could see it on their faces. The place fell silent that you could hear a pin drop. In a jiffy the old man’s head started floating, and his eyes turned pure white. Everybody was shocked, some fainted and others got on their heels and fled, the courageous ones were left behind to witness this peculiar event. The head was now midair spinning around slowly occasionally throwing bits of clotted blood.

“Today we will witness the end of Mulei’s reign” his shrill voice was deafening.

The guards had dropped their spears and scampered away. The old man’s head swirled around for a while, finally settling on me. His white eyes elicited no emotion, I stood there too afraid to move, my feet were heavy, and I had no energy.

“You are our saviour, the head said.

In an instant the twitching hand came alive. It felt its way, took the keys that had been dropped by the guards. The hand unlocked my hands as well as the other prisoners who were still shell shocked but they immediately took to their heels. I tried to follow them but I couldn't Some magnetic force kept me rooted on the spot. Pandemonium broke out as soon as the head and hand fell down and a lightning bolt hit the very important person’s box.

I could see the king Mulei, his wife and their entourage trying to escape. What happened next still baffles me to date. I was struck by lightning on the top of my scalp, but I felt no pain. Instead, I experienced the old man’s pain. I could clearly see what he had been through. His family had been tortured and killed by Mulei’s men. Then I was taken back to the memory of the incident that had caused his suffering and death. He was the king’s cup bearer. As he was serving the queen her wine, he accidentally spilled some on her chest. In the process of trying to wipe some of it off with a cloth, the queen let out a scream, claiming that the old man was groping her.

I wasn’t in control of my body. I picked up a panga and a sword and made my way up toward the very important person’s box. I was moving with extreme pace and athleticism that it shocked me. Mulei wasn’t in the box when I got there, but I caught a glimpse of his entourage. I started to run in their direction, and soon I was upon them as they made their way to the awaiting chariot.

I could spot the king now. A sudden spur of energy filled my right arm and I flung the spear which soared through the air and hit King Mulei on his back protruding from his chest. As he fell down, I could see Marias’ inaudible screams. Suddenly I blacked out.

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