A Continuing Theme

Those of you who have read my previous post may remember my description of my blogging style as being rather ad hoc. Therefore, it will probably come as no surprise to you when I reveal that my parenting style is, *coughs*..somewhat similar. Using the phrase 'somewhat similar' in the sense of EXACTLY THE SAME. Ahem...

But aren't we all just making this shit up as we go? Or is that just me?

Before I had children of my own, I had such lofty, ridiculous ideas of what a perfect mother was like.  For the record, Mr 5 informed me on Saturday evening that I AM one. A perfect Mum. I guess that settles it. Oh, and it involves giving them hot dogs for dinner and putting Scooby Doo on the telly, just in case you were doing it wrong. You're welcome.

My pre-children lofty ideals involved nothing of the kind. Sigh.

There is probably a reason why I was so deluded. Until I had children of my own at age 30, I really had little to no experience of being around babies or children. Except for being around a younger cousin or two, and perhaps nursing them now and again, absolutely nothing. I never babysat or really spent any time being a full-time carer of a child or children.

I was so judgemental of other parents. If I heard a child having a tanty in a shopping centre I would be the first person to roll my eyes in scorn. My children would never behave like that! If I saw somebody feeding an infant commercially prepared baby foods, I'd shudder. How hard could it be to puree  home made mush?

I have always been a shy, quiet and introverted person. I also have an official diagnosis of Asperger's Syndrome. This happened at age 40, three years ago. Somehow I did vaguely realise that my extreme need for solitude and quiet time would be a challenge for me once I had kidlets. However, I still wanted them. I figured I'd probably have two children at the most and that they would most likely be quiet little bookworms like me. Wrong.

My boys are quite articulate and love a good chat, particularly Mr 10. They're not shy and say whatever they think without reserve. They also make me laugh constantly, which is a plus. On the flip side,  there are heated arguments and rivalry. This means constant noise and attempts to smooth things over and restore peace.

I also didn't realise that having children meant remembering stuff. A LOT of stuff. Like their names. I mean, there's a reason I call all three of them 'honeybunch'. Shut up. It beats constantly tripping over their respective names until I hit the right one.

Don't get me wrong, I love my boys passionately. I'm the kind of mother who can hug her children and say 'I love you' a million times a day, but on a practical level I'm sadly lacking. I couldn't organise a piss-up in a brewery, as the saying goes. I'm also extremely ad hoc regarding routines. Even when I have managed to sustain a good habit, such as exercising everyday, I don't have a routine. I just do it whenever, at different times of the day.

I suck big sweaty balls when it comes to time management and multi-tasking. I'm constantly off with the pixies, so I suddenly snap out of my little world and realise it's dinner time when my stomach starts growling. Somehow, I'm quite astonished that the Dinner Fairies haven't arrived. I realise with a start that I'm the one whose supposed to be wearing the fairy wings and tiara. This is my job. 


 
When I do try to plan in advance and write lists, I'm STILL quite capable of forgetting essential stuff on the list. Alternatively,  I'll end up forgetting to take the list. This means that I'll try to rely on my dodgy memory and become confused about which ingredients I needed for which recipe. Plus, I agonise over making decisions about the simplest thing, so I don't really like grocery shopping. I tend to just randomly chuck things in to avoid this pointless indecisiveness and then end up buying way to much crap.

By the time I've lugged all the crap home I'm too overwhelmed to cook, anyway. I find cooking for a family everyday a chore and somewhat stressful, instead of the relaxing ritual it seems to be for some people. So I stick to the most basic, boring meals of meat and veg, or salad, spaghetti bolognase or roasts. Sometimes (okay, a lot of the time) I cheat and buy a cooked chook to have with salad or just order take-away. Then, I feel guilty that I'm bringing my boys up on crap.

I'm constantly going on at my boys about picking up after themselves, but the truth is, I'm just as disorganised and messy. At least I've got hypocrisy down to a fine art. Winning!

Unfortunately, Mr 13 seems to have inherited my tendency to forgetfulness. He forgets and leaves things at school, such as his sport uniform. Then I forget to ask him when I pick him up. I end up feeling sorry for him because I suspect a lot of 13 year olds are similar, except they have a mother who's got all that shit covered. On the positive side he also has a good heart and a sense of humour and I'd like to think he got some of that from me too, so it's not all bad.

When it comes to teaching my boys organisational skills, I may as well attempt to teach them how to speak fluent Japanese. NO FUCKING IDEA IN HELL.

I rarely talk about my Assburgers Asperger's here as I fear it will sound like me whinging and whining as weepy violin music swells in the background. I realise it's not a death sentence and I'm not in a wheel chair. This is the one of the best things about it and yet at the same time somewhat frustrating. Just because people can't see anything debilitating on the surface, that doesn't mean that I don't have genuine struggles.

The shrink (I say shrink because it's easier to spell) who diagnosed me assured me that some women on the spectrum that she sees are sometimes quite austere and don't like to show affection, not even to their children. She added that from a psychologist's (did I spell it right?) point of view this (showing love and affection) is much more important than routines and a spotless home. I cling to those words everyday. She may have just been trying to make me feel better but it's all I've got, so don't rain on my parade, okay?

So yes, my boys may always live in CHAOS*, but there will also be cuddles!  LOTS of cuddles. And cakies! Let's not forget about those. As if I could. Shut up.

* CHAOS stands for Can't Have Anyone Over Syndrome. I read this on somebody else's blog, but am unable to remember whose. So if I stole it from you, sorry! But I did mention my memory issues. Erm...what was I saying?

Are you a forgetful person?

Do you ever feel like a hypocrite?

Linking up for I Must Confess and Laugh Link

And a VERY belated link up with The Lounge.

 No, I didn't forget, I just have dodgy internet connection. Outta here.....
 

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What I Suck At

What do I suck at, you ask? Okay you didn't really ask, but I'm telling you anyway. Don't worry, I'll make it quick, even though I could write a thesis on this topic. 

At the top of the list I would have to put blogging. I never seem to get my act together for these linky things. Case in point: on Monday I finally got around to writing my I Must Confess post after dinner, only to somehow manage to accidentally delete it  before I posted it. Genius.  I can't remember a word of it but I’m sure it was BRILLIANT. I can say that since no one will ever know. Ahem...

What I really, really and truly suck at is being organised. In every conceivable area of life I am woefully and abysmally disorganised and forgetful.  The only things I remember are eating and the words to every Carpenters song. I can assure you that this is definitely not helpful in life. Well, eating is somewhat helpful in order to survive. Eating cakes the size of your head isn't. Not that I would ever do that. Especially when I can eat cakes twice the size of my head. I'm classy like that. 

The thing is, I got my diagnonsense  diagnosis of Ass Burgers  Asperger's a few years ago and that’s when I realised that I have significant impairment or issues with what is referred to as Executive Functioning.

According to Tony Attwood’s Complete Guide To Asperger’s Syndrome the psychological term executive function includes:

• Organisational and planning abilities
• Working memory
• Inhibition and impulse control
• Self-reflection and self-monitoring
• Understanding complex or abstract concepts
• Using new strategies

I may have burst into tears upon reading this section. My tears miraculously disappeared as I read on and discovered Tony Attwood’s absolutely brilliant solution to these issues.

He says: one solution to reduce problems associated with executive function is to have someone act as an ‘executive secretary’.

This is the Reader’s Digest condensed version but he then goes on to add:

I encourage a parent or teacher to take on this very important role of executive secretary. We hope that this will be a temporary appointment as the person with Asperger’s Syndrome achieves greater independence with organisational skills. However, the executive secretary mother may not be able to resign until her role is replaced with an executive secretary wife.

Upon reading this sheer brilliance my tears just evaporated.  Now I felt like killing someone. I was INFURIATED by this advice. What I would like to know is: where the FUCK is my executive secretary wife?

Oh wait. All I have to do is grow a cock, divorce Micky Blue  Eyes,citing irreconcilable cock differences, ask a well-organised woman to marry me and be my executive secretary. Easy peasy. Why didn't I think of that? Any takers out there, pending my sex-change?

No? How rude. Hmph. Oh well, I can always get a cheapie sex-change operation overseas and then place an add on E-Harmony:

Middle aged woman turned pretend man with a pretend cock seeks executive secretary wife because Tony Attwood says I need one. You will need to be extremely well-organised but clearly insane and have a striking resemblance to a pre-anorexic Karen Carpenter; she is the only woman I could possibly consider 'turning' for. 

Then I would just sit back and wait for the eager responses to come piling in. Done. 

Meanwhile, I am left not only cock-less and executive secretary -free, but I have conveniently backed myself into a corner where I am expected to be not only my own executive secretary, but also to my three boys who all would appear to need one as well. And I suck at it. Did I mention that? 

Other things I suck at:

• Parking
• Talking
• Cooking
• Sewing
• Craft
• Team sport
• DIY/Decorating
• Art
• Dancing

And almost anything with an 'ing’ on the end of it. Except catastrophising. I’m brilliant at that. Gotta be gifted at something. Right, that’s me. I’m off to grow a cock. Cheerio. 

Linking up with Robomum for The Lounge

                                                     What do you suck at?
                                                     

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The Weird And Wonderful Things I Do When (I Think) Nobody Is Looking

There is nobody around. No one can see. I am safe. If anybody actually saw what I am about to do they would seriously think I am crazy. They would probably hastily edge towards the nearest exit, eyes darting back towards me suspiciously,  as if I was some sort of strange, thoroughly alien species they had never seen before.  I would immediately be placed into the same category as those misfits sometimes spotted on public transport or doctors waiting rooms. Whenever you see them, you avert your eyes, embarrassed. After all, they may be a little - shall we say - 'special', so we shouldn't embarrass them, right?

I cannot suppress this urge. To me it is as unstoppable and as natural as breathing. If I don't do it I will feel restless, twitchy, agitated, anxious and unsettled. I have always done this, ever since I can remember. I've never known anyone else who does. From an early age I realised this. I am the only one who does this. Other people don't. I must not do it in public! To compensate for this I did other things, but they were thought of as slightly strange too.

If I had ever let anyone see me, especially the other kids at school, I knew there would be consequences. I would be tormented and bullied. Just like I was when I had a 'fang', a spare, rogue tooth growing above my front top teeth. Mercifully, I had it removed and the kids forgot and left me alone. So I knew I could never let them see this thing I did and still do. Never! It is a secret. That is the only way.

However much I try to hide it and do this alone, somebody will inevitably catch me. My family. I cannot get away from them. Not completely. They walk into a room and catch me, unawares. I stop, mortified.

"Why do you do that, Mum?" Mr 9 will ask, bewildered, maybe even a little scared.

"I don't know." I answer, embarrassed and unable to explain.

But I do know. Now. I didn't a few years ago. My family are used to it, though. Sort of. They still think it's bizarre.

To see somebody, a grown woman, standing there, her entire body gyrating backwards and forwards, blissfully rocking. My arms will also unwind, unbidden and I will jerk them back and forth as well.

Why?

Because Aspie's ROCK!! In my case, quite literally.  This is what is referred to in Aspie speak as 'stimming,' short for self-stimulatory behaviours as described here.

While it's believed that most people on the spectrum engage in these behaviours as a means of dealing with anxiety, I have to say for me personally when I am 'stimming' or rocking, which is my most common one, I am usually in my happy place. Listening to Carpenters music, merrily rocking away. Because let's face it why wouldn't you head bang to the Carpenters?

There seems to some controversy or question raised over whether ASD people should be made to stop or reduce their stimming behaviours. I can only say from my own experience I am SO GLAD and grateful that my parents never made a big deal out of it and just let me be and do it. I really don't think I could stop myself even if I tried. Of course I'm lucky that I've been able to control my most extreme stim of rocking while in public. As I child I did other things. I would jump up and down on the spot or skip. Such a shame I still don't engage in those ones as I could sure as hell do with the exercise!

Occasionally when around other people I might fidget and twitch in an unusual manner causing people to look at me quizzically and enquire "Are you cold?"  Mostly it isn't a problem for me, except for the odd moments recently at home when I've started rocking only to stop abruptly, remembering that the boys friend/s were here and might spot me. Awkward.

The way I look it is, if that is the worst thing I do alone then so be it. Picking your nose and eating it is far worse. No, I don't do that. I really don't. I do pick at my ears sometimes. Shut up.

The only other things I may have done when nobody is looking is to engage in Covert Cakie Operations, otherwise known as sneakily eating cake when nobody is looking so I don't have to share. Ditto Covert Chocolate Operations. But nobody saw me, so it can never be proven. So ner.

Linking up with Kirsty from My Home Truths for I Must Confess.

                                 
                                           What do you do when you think nobody is looking?
 

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Awesome Asperpowers Aspergirl

My task today is to convince you that I am awesome. It shouldn't be too hard. I believe I will be able to do so. String a few witty words together. Illicit a laugh, and we're on our way. If only we could see ourselves the way others do. You see, it's not you I need to convince. It's me. Ah - the old 'it's not you, it's me.' Sadly, I have never truly believed I am awesome.

In fact, of late, I have been feeling decidedly un-awesome. That's not really a word, I know. But whatever the extreme opposite of awesome is, that is how I feel. Like a tremendous pile of poop, quite frankly. Especially after saying hello to wonderful world of panic attacks. Again. I really believed I would never go back there.  Yet here I am. Drowning.

I didn't want to write a sooky la la post. So I apologise. I hate feeling sorry for myself. Wallowing in self pity. But the reality is this. I've spent a good part of 20 years suffering from recurring vertigo and dizziness, which has mostly been dismissed by specialists as 'anxiety'. It has changed who I am as a person. I cannot leave the house without fear. I wake up and it is there. I struggle to get out of bed head spinning and nauseous.

Then, I've also struggled all my life with just about everything that would generally be considered relatively 'normal' ( I hate using that word, but couldn't think of an alternative way to explain) making friends, getting a job, being organised, communicating. All of this finally had an explanation when in 2011, at age 40, I found out that I have Asperger's Syndrome. I'm one of those females, who fell through the cracks and finally got a late, adult diagnosis.

Me, being awesome. Being 'Agnetha' actually
at the ABBAWORLD exhibition a few years ago.
Yeah, definitely should have gone with Frida, I'm
 meant to be a redhead.

Now that I have the diagnosis, I have some validation and self-awareness that I didn't before. But the daily struggles of dealing with it do not magically go away. Do I have a life threatening illness? No. Am I disabled the way somebody in a wheel chair is? No. But, just because this is something that cannot be seen by others does not mean that I don't have genuine issues and struggles. One of the hardest things about it is the level of exhaustion of 'keeping up appearances.' As detailed in  this post by Tania A. Marshall.

To add to it all, I suspect I may have unresolved anger and issues about it, (the late diagnosis) but I don't know who or what I'm angry at. Certainly not my parents who are completely wonderful and could never have had any way of knowing. I spent years going backwards and forwards to shrinks and I basically had to figure it out for myself and request a diagnosis. Then it  all seems a bit like, yes, you have it. FUCK YOU. There is no real help or support. I haven't been offered any, anyway.

Well, all I was given was some details for a support group which wasn't anywhere near where I live. I am stupidly fearful of going to an Aspergers Support Group. I have this bizarre fear that I won't even fit in with a group of Aspie's. Awkward.

Some of the online forums relating to ASD I have visited have left me with a feeling of overall gloom and hopelessness, instead of being inspiring and uplifting. I don't know if I was just reading the wrong threads and topics. One in particular was a site for children of  'Aspie' parents. It was not light reading or positive at all.  The posts were all extremely negative and about how terrible and awful it was to grow up with an 'Aspie' mother. Comforting.

I certainly hope my boys do not feel that way. I do have a lot of guilt about the way they are being raised. I can hug them and tell them I love them a billion times a day, but all of the practical things to do with parenting, I suck at. Keeping an organised, tidy home. Remembering everything that goes with having three children. Constant socialising at school and sport. The shrink who diagnosed me told me that the hugging thing is way more important, and that I should move towards an acceptance of a chaotic but loving home environment and upbringing for my boys. I'm trying to. But it's hard. I do tend to unhelpfully compare myself with others constantly.

Then, there is also the fact that as a family we have been through so much over the years, that I won't go into in detail, or this post will turn into a weepy, melodramatic saga (oh, wait.. too late). that I would defy anyone who actually does have amazing confidence and posititvity most of the time, to come out of it all unscarred.

So I am struggling. Panicking. Anxiety ridden. Exhausted, mentally and emotionally, when I read this post  also by Tania A. Marshall, yesterday. It details the traits of females with Aspergers. I don't expect you to read all of it, but the point that struck me (well. most of struck me  and I identified strongly) was number 74. This trait:

An inner resilience, strength and ability to bounce back from stress and setbacks time and time again.

And then I realised. I AM fucking awesome and I AM fucking amazing. And that is exactly why. I will pick myself up and keep going plowing on through the pile of poop, until I feel a little bit less poop like. I have done it before and I will do it again.

I am an amazing Aspergirl with my fucking amazing Asperpowers.

I AM FUCKING AWESOME.

Linking up with Kirsty from My Home Truths for I Must Confess.

Why are YOU awesome?

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Talentless Technophobe

As you may have noticed this Bogan Blog is bigger, better and more bogan than ever.

I am responsible for the 'more bogan' bit and my brother is responsible for the 'better' bit.

The bigger part, I just made up. It's still the exact same size as far as I can tell.

I have a new header. Thanks to my brother. He is talented.

"If you don't like it, let me know," he said " it only took me five minutes."

Bastard.

You see, I can't even draw stick figures.  You'd think that mother nature would have balanced it out a little and given me a few artistic genes as well. But no, my greedy brother took all of them. Hmph.

There are many more ridiculously artistically talented people in my extended family, so clearly this is genetic trait.  So why did this part of the gene pool bypass me completely?

Not that it deters Mr 4.

"Muuum! Draw Spiderman!" he demands, thrusting pen and paper at me.  My attempts are pitiful. This does not stop him from returning with further demands, each one more complicated than the next.  After Spiderman, he'll want Green Goblin. Then, characters and space ships from Star Wars that he has in lego sets. All way beyond me. 

As well as having zero artistic talent, I am also an astonishing technophobe.

Just using Blogger leaves me in a perpetual state of confusion, causing massive brain explosions. As my Mum says, if my brains were dynamite they wouldn't blow a part in my hair. (She has lots of other funny sayings too but I'll save them for another post.)

Walking home from school the other week Master 11 enquired hopefully:

"Mum, can I get an Iphone?"

" I don't even have an Iphone!" was my indignant reply.

Impervious he continued "Can I get an Ipod for Christmas? Or an Ipad?"

I don't have those either.  We are such a technologically deprived family.  It's quite tragic. 

If we ever do end up purchasing such gadgets, I may never work out how to use them. Or, by the time I do they are already out dated as the next model has usurped them.

That's the problem. Technology changes so fast, it's hard to keep up.  Especially for a technophobe.

I fear my boys will grow up and I will not have documented every second of their existence with photos, videos etc.  After all, shouldn't I have uploaded every cute thing they have ever said or done to Youtube?

Instead I miss photo opportunities on a regular basis. Despite charging up the camera, I turn it on only to have the red light blinking frantically at me.  This happened when I took Mr4 to Featherdale Wild Life Park last term with Playgroup. Consequently I missed a chance for a cute snap of Mr 4 with a koala and other animals.

This photo has no relevance to this post whatsoever,
I just don't have any current photos, of course. Oh, shut up.

Undeterred, I charged it again before our recent bogan road trip. Again, same thing. No go. This means there is no photographic evidence of our trip.

The only positive side is having no photographic evidence of my double chins. Bonus.

It strikes me as absurdly ironic.  As an introverted Aspergian I'm supposed to be a techie geek. I should have computer skills and knowledge of a genius like level rivalled only by Bill Gates, a suspected Aspergian himself.

Since my diagnosis I have been trying to work out what genius like talent or savant skill I possess, as many Aspergians are reputed to have them.   I have come up with: NOTHING.

I guess I can always  comfort myself with the knowledge that not being able to purchase or work out a computer, camera, phone or any gadget pretty much falls into the category of First World Problems.

Besides, my alarming lack of skills and talent will never stop me from banging on here in this boring as batshit bogan blog. So ner.

Do you have artistic talent? Are you a technophobe? (Somebody please say yes...)

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Meep Meep

Today I am linking up this past confession with My Home Truths for I Must Confess. Thanks to Kirsty for hosting the link up and giving me the opportunity to take part!

Now to the stunning revelation(s):

I have a confession to make. More like two confessions to be honest. The first startling revelation is that I have actually been watching Big Brother.

Gasp! Shock! Horror!

It's purely for research of course.  After all, I have to keep up my reputation as a Bogan for the sake of this blog. That's one excuse. The other is that it's my bonding time with Master 11. Where once I used to dance around to the Wiggles with him, now we watch Big Brother together. The things we do. He totally forces me. He does! Oh, shut up.

Besides, watching a bunch of gregarious people who love the sound of their own voice and seek attention in the form of cameras on them 24/7 is oddly fascinating to me.  Perhaps because I am the polar opposite. An intensely shy, introverted Aspergian who flees in alarm at the sight of any form of camera. 

I destest drawing attention to myself.  In fact, I just realised that I haven't had a photo taken of myself since March. As for talking, well, let's just say that conversation skills are definitely not my strong point. Slight understatement. That's like saying that sensitivity is not really Alan Jones's strong point.

Anyway, I was getting to a point with my revelation, and that was to my second revelation.  The house mates on Big Brother invented the expression of a 'Meeper.' This is meant to describe a person who doesn't really fit into a group as such, so they kind of 'meep' or hover around conversations, then ineffectually try to join in.  However, somehow it doesn't quite work for them, so it's almost as they've just gone: "Meep Meep!"  Inevitably, Meepers seem to end up draining and dampening a conversation instead of keeping it flowing.

My point is, watching this, I realised that I am probably something resembling a 'Meeper'.  Worse still, I am not even particularly good at 'meeping' As I've mentioned conversation skills are not my forte.  Particularly in groups.

Whenever I take Master 3 to Playgroup, I suspect I 'meep'.  I awkwardly hover around conversations taking place, utterly clueless as to how to join in.

I'm a Meeper like Road Runner,
shame I can't run fast like him too.

Finally, not wishing to appear totally aloof, I make a fumbling attempt to say something, but never overcome the awkward feeling that I am, as they say on Big Brother, 'meeping'.

This probably has a lot to do with two things:

1. My shyness
2. My Asperger's

Since having children, though, I have to regularly be in situations that require making small talk.  Something that, as a shy, introverted Aspie I am seriously woeful at. Hence my 'meeping'.  Sometimes, however, it becomes even worse.

Take for instance, the time I took Master 8 to a McDonald's party for a school friend.  What was hours of Happy Meal filled fun for him, was excruciating for me. I was forced to sit with all the other Mum's and make chit chat.

It all started okay with banal comments on the weather and how the year was flying by. Then, the conversation took a serious turn when one Mum remarked that a friend of hers had recently suffered a late miscarraige but had still had to deliver the baby as the pregnancy was so advanced.

"Imagine having do that," she said, her eyes wide with horror "I don't think I could do it! It would be so awful!"

"Yeah, it is," I responded "that happened to me."

Her eyes widened further. She gaped in disbelief, obviously wishing the floor would open up and swallow her. But she could never have known. Trust me to drob a  bombshell and kill a conversation.

Another time, a Mum at Playgroup confided how worried she was as her father was in hospital having various tests. I helpfully shared how Micky Blue Eyes had had cancer, while her worried expression turned to one of blind panic. Realising my mistake, I hastily apologised. But it was too late.

I truly mean well, it's just that I have terminal foot in mouth disease combined with 'meeping'. I'm a 'Foot in Mouth Meeper'.

So, to avoid such social gaffes I usually stick firmly to what I do best. Shutting right up. That, or, where I once used to be extremely self-concious about eating in public, I now enthusiastically shovel food into my mouth at social occasions. After all, it's rude to speak with your mouth full, right? As long as I keep shovelling I don't have to talk.

I'm unsure if it's too late to cure my 'meeping' and general social awkwardness. All the literature I have read regarding social skills in ASD seems to be directed at children.  So, at the mature age of 41, am I stuck with my 'Foot in Mouth Meeping' tendencies? I guess so, since the only answer I have is this:

Meep Meep.

Do you 'Meep'? Say the wrong things? Or are you the king or queen of chit chat?

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Driving And Other Tragedies

Linking up an earlier post with My Home Truths for I Must Confess. A little late, but better late than never as they say.

I  Must Confess: I am a 41 year old P-Plater.


As I am now the mature (ie over the hill)  age of 41, you could be forgiven for assuming I am an experienced driver.  Wrong.  Embarrassingly, I am in fact, still a P-Plater. 

At age 16, when most adolescents are clamouring for independence and consequently a driver's licence as a means to that independence, it simply never even occurred to me.  Then again, it never occurred to me to have a crush on Jon Bon Jovi, like most girls my age either, so I guess I really was an odd one.

At age 21, it did somewhat belatedly dawn on me that perhaps I ought to get moving on it.  So I dutifully procrastinated for another two years before finally obtaining my learner's licence at age 23.  Then I began driving lessons.

Nervously, I approached the car in trepidation on my first lesson.  There she was.  The Instructor From Hell.  This woman would have scared Satan.  A miserable, hard faced bitch who proceeded to chain smoke throughout my lesson.

She would occasionally remove the cancer stick to snort with derision at my (lack of) driving skills. I turned left when she said right.  Right when she said left.  Went too fast.  Then, too slow.  Got muddled at roundabouts.  Terrified, changing lanes.

 Let's not even talk about reverse parking.  Even the most competent drivers struggle with this one.  Try doing it as a novice driver under Satan's supervision.  I lost count of how many times I hit the curb while she sat scornfully puffing cigarette smoke in my face.  I couldn't say anything.  I was too shy.  She was too scary.

Mrs Satan had no mercy however, and promptly booked my test, before I was ready, eager to be rid of me and my nervous driving. 

Fail.

Uncaring, she booked it again.  Fail again.

"You're hopeless," she informed me bitterly, echoing the nagging voice in my head,  "you'll never pass."   At this stage, getting a driver's licence was the equivalent of sprouting wings from my back and flying.  Impossible. In my mind anyway. 

Third time.  With these helpful thoughts swirling in my head, it was just as Mrs Satan predicted. 

Epic Fail.

So humiliated was I by my hatrick of failures  I gave up and put it all firmly in the too hard basket, never to be spoken of again.  There it remained for a good 12 years.

Then, I started  seeing a counsellor during a particularly stressful period for our family, when Micky Blue Eyes had cancer (that's a whole other story).  She prodded me into action and I finally got my learner's licence again.

Micky Blue Eyes, obviously deciding that once you've beaten cancer, nothing is scary anymore, happily took me out for some lessons.  The 'happily' part was rather short lived.   After several arguments, nearly leading to divorce and an alarming incident where I hit the accelerator instead of the brake nearly smashing into our front gate and into the back of the old 1961 EK Holden that had been in Mick's family since it was brand new (sadly, now departed),  I once again booked an instructor.

Fortunately this one wasn't scary, even managing to smile and be encouraging.  I plodded along to lessons getting closer to sprouting my wings.  Then, I was also Up The Duff again.  Another tragedy struck.   I lost the baby at 19 weeks.  Suddenly,  driving didn't seem that important to me.(That's a whole other story).

Some months later, I managed to pull myself from an abyss of grief, and attempted my driving test.

 Fail.

Second try. I did it!  I finally sprouted wings!

 The first time I drove the car by myself, it nearly felt like it.  It was only a short trip to the local shops, but I came home, triumphant, beaming.  I pulled up and flew to the front door, exhilarated.  Then abruptly, I stopped, deflated, like a popped balloon. People your age have been driving for years, the nasty voice in my head informed me.  What a fool!  I felt small and pitiful.

I shouldn't have though.  Now  that I know I have Aspergers, it has caused me to re-assess lots of things.  Driving is one of them.  No wonder I struggled with it.  Lots of Aspie people do apparently.  It just took me longer to grasp it.  But I did.  Now I have officially sprouted wings and flown.  Something I need to remind myself whenever I am facing things I think I can't do or cope with.

Just don't ever ask me to reverse park however.  Despite finally acing it in my test I've never attempted it again since.

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Wallowing

"Darkness surrounds my loneliness.  Pervading my soul, it stirs my silent anguish."  I wrote those melodramatic words feverishly on a scrap of paper at around age 14 (there abouts) as I sobbed in my bedroom.  My favourite past time.  Nothing has changed at age 41. 

It seems at times there's nothing I like better than a good old sooky la la sobbing session.  Not to be confused with  Weepy, Mopey, Why Me?, Melodramatic Melt Down Mode, which I quite enjoy at times too.  Instead of silent tears of despair, this version involves racking, heaving sobs and sometimes howling like a banshee.  Occasionally items are thrown.

Especially when my husband has the audacity to inform me, in the midst of it all, that I should be jumping for joy.  In my defense I'd had a raging headache for 3 weeks straight ( I kid you not) and could not be held accountable for my actions.

Of course I would like to believe that I am just an extremely sensitive individual with deeper emotions than others.   Somebody who feels things intensely.  Instead of just the miserable, pitiful, wallowing, self-indulgent sook I really am.  After all I have a real reason to sook.

All my life I have never fit in with others.  Painfully shy, quiet and introverted, I would rather the ground open up and swallow me into a vortex than to have to answer a direct question or be the centre of attention for even a nano-second.

This probably explains somewhat why, when I heard Carpenters music for the first time at age 11, I was immediately drawn to Karen Carpenter's voice.  Rich, soothing, intimate.  Singing such unspeakably mournful lines like:

"I'll say Goodbye To Love, no one ever cared if I should live or die..."  OR

"Day after day, I must face a world of strangers, where I don't belong, I'm not that strong.."

This was EXACTLY how I felt.  As well as this, naturally:

"What I've got they used to call the blues, nothing is really wrong, feeling like I don't belong..."

In fact, I've never belonged.  In addition to crippling shyness, I am also an Aspie, an affectionate term for a person with Asperger's Syndrome.  I was not aware of this fact until age 40, just last year.  However, I've always been acutely aware that I am different from others.   Others love socialising for hours.   Others don't  love blissfully rocking backwards and forwards to Carpenters music for hours.  Instead they would possibly be more tempted to open a vein if they had to listen for even a second!

Sometimes it's hard and very disconcerting to realise that I am 41 and basically haven't matured beyond age 14.  And that I will always be different to others.  The quietest person in the room, no matter where I go.  In fact, if I had a dollar for everytime I've been informed of how quiet I am, I would be a very rich woman indeed.   It's funny how people think it is their duty to inform you of this, but somehow they never tell overly loud people to just shut the hell up.  But I digress.

Then, on top of all my wallowing, I end up feeling agonisingly guilty for feeling sorry for myself at all.  After all there are many people battling life threatening illnesses ( which I've experienced directly with family members) and I just can't seem to get it together, get over it, get on with it, get a job, or even socialise without feeling like I've been run over by a truck.  But, as Rudy Simone says in her book Aspergirls: Empowering Females With Asperger Syndrome "telling a person with Asperger's to just get on with it is like telling a person in a wheel chair to just take the stairs to get to the second floor" And I'm sure this applies to anyone suffering from depression, Aspie or not.

So I will allow myself to wallow.  A little bit anyway.  To have my frequent 'sook' sessions. I'll put on Karen, allow her to soothe me.  Then I will quietly get on with life the best I can.  As a quiet, shy, Aspergirl who needs a good sook as much as a good book.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rNGanUj8HHI

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