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.

Understanding the symptoms of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder doesn’t help to alleviate them, but it’s good to know that others have felt as angry, numb, desperate and insane as oneself.

I wish I’d learned about this earlier, thereby to have avoided lashing out at everyone in my path, but oh well, what’s done is done.

I’m reading a book that explains about triggers – things that reignite the original trauma, making you relive it, over and over again. But I can’t avoid the triggers and I don’t even know which traumatic event to begin with.

Meanwhile, I went to my first meeting of a Bereaved Parents group. Cancer, suicide, it’s all the same agony. We are  each  clinging to our dead child’s mattress. We are all members of an elite group: the walking wounded pariahs whose stories are too awful for civilians.

A nice lady held my hand and gave me her phone number. There are no steps and no Higher power, just the bond of shared grief. I wish the group met more often.   I have problems up ahead, like ordering a gravestone and Mother’s Day. Lucky for me, I have a supportive husband who never says to hurry up and Get Over It.

Today I stared at tumblr images for five hours. I’ve stopped caring about Libya, fashion, and Mrs. Palin.  Sometimes  I sleep in my clothes so I don’t have to get dressed the next day. I even forgot to blog about how I smashed my finger with the trash can and had to have the ENTIRE NAIL REMOVED.

I am still sort of me, though. We watched a new episode of New York Housewives and I cursed at them aloud with the same happy contempt. Is there a German word for that?

*photograph via here.

I went to a dinner party and someone’s sister-in-law sat on my Vivienne Westwood handbag. I believe I have post traumatic stress disorder due to this event, and I’d like to sue her fat ass to kingdom come. There’s a photo of the bag somewhere here if you want to better understand the Horror.

Meanwhile, I’m resorting to my big Paul Smith bag from January 2007, and everyone will think I’m a dope who just jumped on the Yellow Bandwagon. Hmph, as if. I’ve even started wearing my yellow shoes just to show that I’m not afraid to match my accessories. Sister Wolf makes her own rules, Godammit.

Please take a moment to pray for my injured bag, may she fully recover her former glory, amen.