I was intrigued by an essay positing that people with autism experience identity differently from neurotypicals. The writer had surveyed thousands of people in online groups, asking the simple question, Who are you?

I didn’t really care about or agree with the writer’s theory but I was prompted to ask myself the question.

Who am I? My mind went blank. It briefly sampled a few images of myself and then rejected all of them, probably in less than five seconds, before I landed on an answer.

I’m a weirdo.

This response surprised and upset me, but there it is, that’s what I came up with. I’m a weirdo. What the hell am I doing here? etc.

Just a few days earlier, I’d expressed my sadness at losing various identities that had once provided a sense of cohesive existence. I no longer identity as a mother. I no longer think of myself as a writer. I used to think of myself as a Badass; “You don’t know who you’re fucking with” used to be my attitude toward the world. That self is long gone. I’m just too broken to fight off aggressors or most of the time, even idiots. And finally, old age has ruined my identity as someone who is attractive and fuckable.

Losing these different identities is like losing layers of my very being, leaving me with nothing. So I was grateful to find this comment in response to the Who Are You essay:

Having had my most fundamental sense of ‘self’ identity dismantled, or demolished, several times throughout my life, I feel as if the older I get, the more ‘nothing’ I become. I often feel I am just a thing that happens, a consciousness floating untethered in space. Notions of personal history or identification with any description feel irrelevant. There is nothing transcendent or liberating about it, and it can be very discombobulating. What interests me more than identity is what remains in its absence….

YES. I could never have expressed this as lucidly! But the nothing I’ve become still struggles for answers to everything, in particular answers about itself.

My whole life has been overshadowed by the mystery of What’s Wrong With Me. I’ve read that this is the result of childhood trauma, but who knows. It makes sense that if your parents or caretakers reject you, your lovability will always be in doubt (and therefore, What’s Wrong With Me?) It’s such a poignant situation, isn’t it? Well, it’s poignant when it’s about someone else. For me, it has been a fucked up, desperate preoccupation that’s led to countless suppositions. Genetic depression, Pathological Demand Avoidance, ASD, Avolition, PTSD, and of course Girly Brain. All these conditions probably apply, which still leaves me nowhere but gives me an excuse when I need one. Now, when I do something stupid or can’t figure out how to open something, I just shrug and smugly announce, “Autistic!”

Reducing myself to a weirdo is certainly destabilizing, a word that now crops up everywhere but still serves a useful purpose, unlike “intention” and “intentionality”. Maybe since words still affect me so intensely, I can say I’m a weirdo with a thing about words. That works, don’t you think?

Meanwhile, when I’m not wondering What’s wrong with me, I’m wondering what’s wrong with everybody else. My hair person was complaining about her sister, who I’ve never met but analyzed as harboring a primal jealousy toward her younger sibling. I recently explained to my dermatologist, who was going on about her anxiety, that she had “boundary issues”! Try saying that with a straight face! Last night I explained to my husband that his inability to control an outcome was the source of his distress. I am an endless font of this shit. I will tell you what’s wrong with you EVEN IF YOU DON’T ASK!

I would really love everyone to ask themselves Who are you? and then tell me your spontaneous answer. Any other weirdos out there? *And don’t try getting away with cognito ergo sum unless you’re Descartes.

The Sanskrit word upeksha means “equanimity, non-attachment, nondiscrimination, even-mindedness, or letting go.” Upa means ‘over,’ and iksh means ‘to look.’ You climb the mountain to be able to look over the whole situation, not bound by one side or the other.

In Buddhism, equanimity (in Pali, upekkha; in Sanskrit, upeksha) is one of the four great virtues (along with compassion, loving kindness, and sympathetic joy) that the Buddha taught his disciples to cultivate.

Equanimity isn’t indifference. It’s a balance that comes from inner stability–remaining centered when surrounded by turmoil. It’s a state of acceptance, but not in the sense of being resigned or defeated. More like being at peace with things as they are.

Does this sound like self help gibberish? I learned the concept from a podcast by an expert on family estrangement. It’s my first podcast! That’s how much the subject weighs on me. Being powerless in a critical aspect of your life is so fucking difficult. It can lead you into a never-ending loop of regret, guilt, anger, remorse, and despair.

I am beginning to see that the best way to approach insoluble situations is to do nothing. Not just do nothing, but to feel nothing. Nothing can be a good choice, and in my interpretation of equanimity, it is essential. Accept what is and let it wash over you. Don’t react to the feelings or urges attendant to helplessness or misery. Just go, Uh-huh, and go about your business.

Until this week, I would have called this approach “denial” and I would lobby hard against it. What’s more pathetic than denial? I am constantly pointing it out and deploring it. It’s part of my Just Admit It worldview. Everyone hates me for this bossy, superior stance but there you go. I want everyone to face their own life, even if it’s a tragedy, and to face up to their demons. I feel it’s their duty, as a human being.

But once you face up to it, why keep suffering? Recognize the truth, evaluate its awfulness, and then stop struggling with it. If you can’t change it, assume a state of equanimity. Say to yourself, My parents are awful, my kid hates me, I am useless, everyone’s crazy…and then return to a state of calm. I think if I practice this enough, it may set me free from my daily torment.

I will aim to only get mad about the things that are fun to be mad at. Bad grammar, hideous denim, and the ex-wife. Also, music awards shows. Did anyone see that stupid American Music Awards the other nigh?? Oh my god, so awful. I guess I should go write an exegesis.

Namaste or whatever.

All my life, I’ve wondered what the fuck is wrong with me. I’m curious and reflective by nature, and relentless about trying to figure shit out.

I find it amazing that other people aren’t consumed by questions about their own psyche but I accept that most people are focused on other matters. Good for them.

Me, I know I’m fucked up. Chronically depressed is one way for me to understand why I’m always sad, tired, hopeless, and easily annoyed. But it isn’t enough. There is also a complete lack of will to do anything useful.

As a teenager, I was thrilled to discover the term neurasthenic. What a romantic-sounding Victorian condition, and one that seemed to cover all my bases. I could think of myself lying on a velvet fainting couch, one pale arm dangling listlessly toward the floor. Neurotic doesn’t sound as appealing. That goes double for Fibromyalgia.

So imagine my excitement at discovering a WHOLE NEW DIAGNOSIS that doesn’t even exist yet in the US. Ready? It’s called PDA, or Pathological Demand Avoidance. It’s considered “a behaviour profile within the autism spectrum.”

Those who present with this particular diagnostic profile are driven to avoid everyday demands and expectations to an extreme extent. This demand avoidant behaviour is rooted in an anxiety-based need to be in control.

Well, I wouldn’t have thought of myself as autistic, but the description feels so right, so resonant, so me:

• • resists and avoids the ordinary demands of life
  • uses social strategies as part of avoidance, eg distracting, giving excuses
  • appears sociable, but lacks understanding
  • experiences excessive mood swings and impulsivity
  • appears comfortable in role play and pretence
  • displays obsessive behaviour that is often focused on other people.

Furthermore, “People with this profile can appear controlling and dominating, especially when they feel anxious. However, they can also be enigmatic and charming when they feel secure and in control. It’s important to acknowledge that these people have a hidden disability. ”

Godammit! I have a fucking disability! I would like one of those things for my car. I want everyone to know that IT’S NOT MY FAULT. Instead of regarding myself as the laziest person on earth, or some kind of incurable renegade, I can explain my entire life with PDA.

It’s the reason I didn’t go to high school, didn’t learn a trade or profession, didn’t want to apply for any job unless it was absolutely imperative, and managed to get fired from nearly every one of them. It’s a feeling of NO, I WON’T that is underlaid with a profound sense of BECAUSE I CAN’T.

PDA diagnoses are split equally between the sexes, unlike other ASD’s. Maybe having a Girlie Brain is another feature of PDA, for all I know. Or maybe it has helped me to work around it.

When we look at our own behavior, or the behavior of others, we tend to see it through a particular lens. If we don’t believe in psychology or genetics, we label rude people as assholes. We can label reclusive people “unsociable”. If you’re in Al-Anon, you view people as “enablers” or Co-dependent. Using a lens informed by a wider understanding, you might suspect that someone is autistic, or bi-polar, or suffering from social anxiety. The more you know about brain science and genetics, the more you can appreciate the complexities of personality and behavior.

Just as we know that Donald Trump is a monumental cunt, we understand that he is driven by pathological neediness and insecurity. It doesn’t help us, but it’s just good to know.

Now I’m relieved to know (i.e., believe) that I’m not a lazy underachieving piece of shit, but rather a poor thing with a Disability. So there, haters.

Thoughts, arguments, or counter-diagnoses?

When I first saw the picture above, I saw a guy about to jump.

I still see that, but I’m aware that it’s just an ad for some new Nike’s.

My brain is not good, or let’s say it’s not operating in a beneficial way.

I once had a thriftshop painting of a guy holding a baby, and it looked clear to me that he was about to throw it off a balcony.  I liked to ask people to look at it and tell me what they saw. I wasn’t the only one who saw that but the vast majority saw a guy holding a baby, even tenderly holding it.

I saw this painting at the vet’s office and was reminded of the guy-with-the-baby picture:

Here, I see a guy about to throw the dog off of something, even though he is sad about it. He’s thinking, “Well, I wish I didn’t have to.”

I remember taking the Rorschach inkblot test when I was around 12 years old. Some genius had figured out that I was troubled. I recall seeing people sitting despondently, waiting to get shot or something. After a few of these inkblots, I realized that my answers sounded nuts. I can’t remember if I decided to make up better reactions.

Lots of psychological notions are amusingly archaic but the theory of projection is still pretty sound, don’t you think?

Trump is projecting, every time he rants about corruption or liars or crooks. That’s just a big Duh.

I’m sorry, I don’t know how Trump got in here. I wish he were only a projection of my hatred of authority, or my dad.

At least I don’t see dead people. I see despondent people.

Read more about Rorschach here .

Read more about those Nike’s here.

And if you’re thinking about jumping, don’t.

No one warned me about the Weiner documentary.

I expected a fun, lurid, behind-the-scenes look at Anthony Weiner’s well-earned fall from grace. But it’s deeply depressing, on every level.

I had hoped to get over it, but now he’s back, and who knows for how long. What did we do to deserve Weiner? Will we ever be free of him?

The first thing that comes across in the movie is how physically unattractive he is. Believe me, even if he were a saint, you would be struck by the physical aspect.

Frail and short, he is also encumbered by an enormous nose, the type that must have brought savage teasing throughout childhood and adolescence.

The name and the nose combined make a lethally unfortunate burden. You feel his anger and resentment in all his machinations.

He is rude to his wife on nearly every occasion, and her silent misery hangs over the film like a shroud. Why is she with him, you have to wonder. By all accounts an intelligent, competent woman, she seems like she’s like the victim of an ancient curse. She married a bad-tempered frog who just keeps getting froggier instead of turning into something good.

Weiner seems gripped by a need to show the world that he has the right stuff. He appears to believe that he deserves power as well as respect, but he goes around alienating everyone around him, including his idealistic supporters. He can’t accept that people will draw the line after enough of his lies and betrayals.

Of course he is a pathological flasher and liar! He is a walking lesson in what happens if your name is Weiner and you have a gigantic nose. What the fuck does anyone expect?

Here’s what we need to know: Why did Huma marry him and stay for so long? And why didn’t Hillary offer Huma the benefit of her experience?

I’m afraid to find out.

Thanks for nothing, James Comey, you fucking cunt.

Thoughts?

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I scrolled by these shoes today and felt their sadness.

They’re trying hard to look gay and festive and boho, but you can see right through that shaky facade. They are about to cry.

I don’t know about you, but I can see sadness everywhere. It’s either a gift or a pathology, depending on your value system.

I read a good thesis on empathy as a spectrum, with autistic indifference on one end and a kind of hysterical hyper-compassion on the other end. Neither extreme is any good.

A high degree of empathy isn’t the same as being depressed, although I’m depressed too. It’s just an involuntary response in the right supramarginal gyrus (part of the cerebral cortex.)

I don’t know why an abundance of empathy seems to result in an acute sense of the tragic rather than an overload of joy. It just doesn’t seem to work that way. Certainly not unless you’re stoned.

When poor Hillary Clinton spoke at the Commander in Chief forum last week, she was criticized for not smiling enough, and even worse, for appearing “joyless.”

Imagine being graded on how much “joy” you appear to exude!

Life would be even harder for those of us who feel the sadness of shoes.

When I was getting to know my husband, he complained once that I was not more “celebratory.” I remember feeling wounded but also furious. I think I screamed something like, “Celebratory isn’t even a fucking word!” I figured he was comparing me to his ex, who literally wore party hats.

Maybe there’s a spectrum for celebratoryness, which totally isn’t a word, with me at one extreme and the ex at the other?

Here’s one thing I learned recently and I wish I’d understood it forty years ago, before having my first child: There is a spectrum of human sensitivity, and is apparent in early childhood.  Some kids are more like dandelions and can thrive anywhere, while others are more like orchids – highly sensitive and more permeable.

With intervention, highly sensitive children can learn to process their environment in ways that make life less traumatic for them

If you’re always accused of being “too sensitive” or you suspect that your kid is anxious or depressed, read this.

But first, look at this Fendi sneaker:

It’s like an animal or bird crashed into it and died, but it won’t fall off. This shoe is not only sad, but embarrassed. It wears its shame wherever it goes. And so can you for twelve hundred bucks.

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I went to see my psychiatrist when he returned from his three week vacation. Before I could make a peremptory statement about my hair, he said brightly: “New Hair!”

He had no idea what I’ve been through, hair-wise. This is the new corrected hair, a desperate follow-up to the horror of the Real Housewives hair. It is so much better, right? But still a shock to my system and a challenge to my identity.

I started to say something about the hair and he continued happily, “It’s a softer look.”

Naturally, I took umbrage and we talked about hair and self-image for the rest of the psychiatric hour.

I don’t want a softer look, first of all, because that implies that my former look was hard, or harsh. I don’t want a softer look because I don’t want to project “softness.” If I have to project anything, I would choose tough. Then he confused me further by calling my former look “forbidding.” I argued that I wasn’t trying to look forbidding but merely “attractive.”

Then we had to define the audience I wanted to appear attractive to. I explained that I wanted to be attractive to the guy in the next lane if I wanted to cut in front of him. If I’m attractive, he will smile and gesture me into his lane. Being attractive is a tool in one’s social arsenal.

We talked about black hair and red lipstick, which I defended as a classic look, citing Snow White, Betty Page, and Veronica in “Archie” comics.  If you have black hair and pale skin, you need to work with what you have. You’re not going to be a California blond, after all. The way I look is pretty consistent with how I looked at eighteen. Clearly, in the eyes of my shrink, I looked like a kooky Goth or maybe a biker/dominatrix.

I had to deconstruct my appearance and think about the message it sends to the world. We are all attempting to project something with our hairstyles and fashion choices. I’d rather not think about it but I discovered that above all I want to look attractive, while still being true to who I think I am. I want to look fuckable and intriguing but I don’t want to look fashionable and I don’t feel comfortable in prints or high heels. I don’t want a Softer Look. I hate change. If I’m not projecting the right Me, I will have to dye my hair black and find a new way to distract myself from the bludgeoning pain of existence. I will also have wasted a fucking ton of money.

Thoughts, confessions, insults?

On Saturday, I met my Living Idol,   Patti Smith, and I was crushed that she didn’t ask to be my best friend.   She was actually perfectly nice, and autographed an old book of her poetry for me, but the distance between my fantasy and reality was intolerable for the rest of the day. I was overwhelmed by a feeling that   my life was totally pointless. I wished someone would shoot me in the head.   I felt a little like Mark David Chapman.

Today, I described the experience to my psychiatrist, who said, “Who’s Patti Smith?”

But he understood my feeling, because he is a good psychiatrist. My  disappointment at not being recognized as the Chosen One had already settled down; I am grateful to Patti for all the joy and inspiration she’s given me for 35 years. When I replay the encounter in my head, it is pleasant and fulfilling.

Your whole life is a narrative that you create in your head, and it is subject to emotional states, varying needs, perspective and the passage of time.

Some people need drugs to shift the narrative from unendurable darkness to something more moderate.   Other people seem to operate from a narrative that has little to do with reality but casts everything in a favorable light.

At my grief group tonight, I cried at every single story of loss, and wondered how all of us parents can create a narrative that will allow us to find meaning in our lives, not to mention acceptance of finality. I think the idea is to trudge through every day and month and year until you believe you’re something more than a grieving mother.

I think I use this blog as a way to shape my ongoing narrative.   It helps to structure my thoughts and feelings. I’m gradually learning not to be rattled when someone doesn’t like what I write. I’m even going to ignore a new outburst from that Crazy Russian Lady. I think this proves that I’m mellowing with old age. Or maybe I’m just  exhausted.

Isn’t is weird to see people going on about their business while a disaster devastates  one part of the world and a ruthless massacre takes place somewhere else? If you follow twitter, the incongruous tweets illustrate how most people go right on advancing their agendas and talking about what they’re wearing or what they ate, NO MATTER WHAT.

I know that humans are wired like this, wired for adaptation to nearly any  circumstances. Instead of celebrating this feature of humanity, I’ve always found it incredibly sad. People survive wars, torture, earthquakes,  amputations, every kind of loss. They learn to  absorb  these tragedies and and for the most past, we expect them to return to “normal.”

Even if we can’t go to Japan to help out, should we shrug it off and go right back to slobbering over shoes or worrying about our Klout scores?

I feel guilty, sad, angry, confused, and conflicted.

In my own life, I can’t move on and get back to business. It feels like a sin to even consider it.  Resilience  seems like a cruel joke.   But that’s what  survival is about.

I wish resilience for the  people of  of Japan, but less resilience for the people of twitter and elsewhere, who haven’t even missed a beat in the rhythm of their daily bullshit.

Thoughts or  advice?

Psychiatrists have defined a new subgroup of what is known as ‘adjustment disorders.’ Somewhat similar to post traumatic stress disorder, post traumatic embitterment disorder is triggered by a negative life event which “is experienced as a violation of basic beliefs and values.”

The predominant emotion in PTED is embitterment. PTED patients also complain about feelings of injustice and rage. A recent German study used a PTED self-rating scale to determine the prevalence of the disorder. The scale is described as a reliable and valid measure for embitterment.

Having spent nearly two hours reading about this new diagnosis and searching for the PTED scale online, I was extremely bitter in my defeat.   I WANT TO TAKE THE TEST, GODAMMIT!

I love psychological tests. The one for OCD starts with questions about germs and counting and then casually asks if you ever have thoughts about poisoning your dinner guests. Once you start laughing, it ruins the decorum of the test, but I recommend taking it.

Bitterness seems like something that’s hard to quantify. How bitter is too bitter? How long do you get to feel bitter before it is considered pathological? Maybe such enduring bitterness is the only sane response to some events. Who gets to decide?

I know a woman whose husband had an affair 30 years ago. They are still together, but she talks about his infidelity as though it happened yesterday. That seems pathological.

Then there is artist Hugues de Montalembert who was blinded by muggers who threw paint thinner in his face.   An interview I once came across referred to the artist as “still bitter.” Now that sounds pretty accusatory, doesn’t it? Is he supposed to get to a point where he feels, Oh what the hell, shit happens!

If tragedy doesn’t beget embitterment, what kind of culture have we become? When you see funerals outside the US and western Europe, there is wailing and all kinds of openly emotional displays of grief.   It always seems more human and sane than the understated mourning that is so prevalent here.

If bitterness is pathologized, one journalist has suggested, then what about extreme racism? That seems far more delusional and crippling, to me, anyway.

Personally, I like being bitter. I like to hold a grudge, and it’s a point of honor with me. People who give up their grudges strike me as shallow. A good grudge should last a lifetime. It can be invigorating, or even comforting.   Ma Haine Dure!

Of course it is good and healthy to forgive, if the thing is forgivable.   Some things aren’t. If anyone can find me the PTED self-rating scale, I would be glad to post my results (if the scale goes high enough, that is.)