I made it there plenty early and found I recognized quite a few faces in the room. While moving my way through the practice, I remembered that so much time on my mat is spent trying to remain present, to really listen to the instructor’s words so I don’t have to crane my neck to see what everyone else is doing, to not succumb to the nasty self-criticism that pops up when I lose my balance or when I have so much fear that I don’t even make an effort to attempt what the instructor suggests.
In some ways, it feels like everything I had gained while consistently practicing yoga some years ago was gone, but then I remember crying on my mat so many times, my heart feeling like it was being ripped from my chest, and I know my mind is much more at peace now than it was then. Tonight, I did not cry. I felt frustrated with my uncoordinated body and my weak muscles, but I can remember a time not so long ago when my body was amazing me with its abilities.
I can feel my resolve hardening to get my mind, body, and soul in peak condition for the trials ahead. I know that I can trust no man to fulfill me, and I must look towards myself and make sure I am meeting my own needs every. damned. day.
This city is riddled with memory. As I leave the studio, I am hit with nostalgia as I pass by the coffee shop that I used to spend so much time at. Settled at a table in the desolate cafe with my iPad and a decaf latte, I am finally fulfilling my daydream of sitting down to do some work at my old haunt. The truth is harsher than the daydream. I have a minor flashback of the day I ran into HER in this very same cafe, and I was only able to hold it together for as long as she was looking. The moment she left, I crumpled into a heap of tears in the midst of my classmates who had no idea what was going on. I have cried in this cafe so many times. Some of those times I was alone, others I was on dates or with a gal pal. Crying in public was a pretty regular thing for me not so long ago.
My flashback is interrupted by the piercing scream of a tantrum throwing child, reminding me that I am currently considering being in a relationship with a man who never wants children, and that at this moment in time I’m not sure I want “children” so much as I want a baby. If my kitten taught me anything, it’s that living things don’t stay babies for long. Of course the only two men in recent history that I was actually hoping to have kids with have now both procreated, so I have that thought floating around in the back of my brain for my mind to inconveniently wander to any time I start daydreaming on the subject of babies.
So much of this feels like a skipping record, but then I remember that I’ve become very efficient at cutting out toxicity from my life. When I acknowledge the hurdles I have glided over in the last 8 months, I see that my time in the trenches was not a waste. I now value myself independently of how men perceive me and/or treat me. That right there is worth 35 years of bullshit.
I decide to read my horoscope rather than get any work done, but today I can’t even play the game where I pretend to believe anything it says. I pack up and head for home. My head has been spinning for days about so many topics that I want to write about, yet I haven’t found a way to format it into written word. Feeling isolated from my lover, I reach out to him only to find myself lost in my head, still unable to put any of my thoughts into words. Reluctantly, I get off the phone and sit down to writing. Finally, I have discovered a narrative in which to hang all my thoughts which seemingly have nothing to do with one another.
I’m finding right now I have three identities which I am finding difficult to blend coherently. My survivor self is very much still recovering from trauma. She finds it difficult to do basic everyday tasks and to stay sober and needs emotional support from others. My political self is loud, proud, feminist, and not afraid to speak her mind, but my autistic self is doubting and worrying incessantly all while isolating, isolating, isolating. The medication does take much of the anxiety down to a dull chatter in the back of my mind, but the greater the stimulus, the greater the reaction. These three selves are so chaotically different in their forms that it is difficult to imagine them all residing within one woman. If you could imagine such a thing, you’d have a pretty decent idea of what it’s like to spend a day in my shoes: clear minded and opinionated, but terrified of judgement and backlash.
At this point I’m not sure how to reconcile my need for social support with my reclusive tendencies. I actually have learned to cherish living alone, with no one but my cats to disrupt my “routine” or lack thereof. I have a difficult time imagining any sort of life partner that would allow me to live as freely as I do currently. Additionally, I find any location that is not my house to be mildly stressful and full of discomfort. At times, this is even true of my own home. I used to judge myself more harshly for being a homebody, but now I’m realizing that it is part of my neurological profile and not likely to disappear.
It has been a strange journey, recognizing that so many of my hopes and dreams for the future are actually incompatible with my neurology. By this I mean that regardless of my ability to attain such goals, many of the things I used to think I wanted from this life would be more likely to result in endless stress than with anything approximating contentment.
I guess my true resolution for 2017 is to just keep on being my authentic self, whatever that entails. I’m not sure if that will ever translate to a family or a career, but I can no longer remain a slave to what I thought my life should be like by now. I never planned to be abused or to be diagnosed with autism in my 30s, two things that have greatly shaped my perceptions over the past few years. I have learned that my self-worth can only be defined by me and not by the willingness of men to be in a relationship with me.
Here’s to another year of not sacrificing myself for anyone. I will continue to shout my truth from my second story window in the hopes that perhaps a kindred spirit will hear a resonance of themselves in my words. Other than this, I have no real expectation. Keep on shining your weird little lights, my friends.
