Cocoons Can be Comfy

an introverted autist retreats

Messy Emotions

Hey, there. Been a while since I just pulled up my chair to talk. Figured it was about time.

Life has been busy- as in a constant buzzing circle of activity there is little escape from. 

Emotions have been messy-as in spilling like runaway grape juice on a white countertop.

Not that all is some nightmare or something. 

My sweet girl is bouncing back to her sunny self-in spirit if not yet on her feet.

She sings a lot. Always been my day brightener. My songbird.❤

And I know she deserves every ounce of me right now.

Yet, the sheer load is crushing my shoulders some days…

Particularly, on the days someone else I love gets cold…

Unkind. Snippy. Judgmental. Impossible to please.

I want to shout, You were the one who was supposed to get me! 

But, it only makes things worse when I do.

And I don’t entirely blame him, I guess. 

I, after all, was supposed to be the one who gets him!

Sadly, neither of us seems to get the other much these days.

Or, my nagging fear is, maybe we actually do. 

For the first time deep-down do.

And it’s a bitter disappointment.

Oh, we were never traditional fairytale, anyway.

Some sigh at our serendipitous meet-up story. I would share the whole spiel, but, I just don’t have the energy. Plus, the whole anonymity bit.

But, yes, it was sweet. Two wounded Aspie souls finding one another in an ugly sea of cruel humanity…

But, truly, it’s also been lots of scrabbling since we met. Hard. Dirt-poor, tearing-out-of-hair, head-butting hard.

Honeymoon period? Not much to speak of. Really didn’t have the luxury. Second-timers, both of us. 

Ready-made family and all that jazz they make cutesy TV movies about.

But, I don’t want to pretend we are the only ones. I know we aren’t.

And I know well that life is naturally just different than film.

But, geezalou.

I did anticipate a togetherness I increasingly do not feel.

Our minds don’t seem to converge even as well as they did in the beginning, as imperfect as it was.

He nitpicks. He badgers. 

I try and I fumble. The kids scramble and grow fearful ( not of fists, as in my own childhood days, but of words thrown out harshly.).

I swallow my hurt till I can’t anymore. It spews out and I wound him as he is wounding me.

But it doesn’t feel good. It doesn’t seem right.

I’ve been here before. I don’t want to go back.

Especially not with him. 

Because there is such an incredible, admirable side of him I love dearly.

A part I fret is fast being lost to me as he sees more of the unpalatable parts of my heart.

Sometimes,  I hate to admit, I get that old-fashioned run-before-he-can instinct.

But, I know it would solve nothing.

Not to mention leave quite a trail of broken hearts.

So,  where I have no sure answers, all I know to do is keep pressing through and hoping for better days.

Perhaps, the stress will fade and we will be more in sync…


Slowly, painfully, I am learning

You loved me for who

You thought I was.

Yes, so sorry to say that

Even you who has seen

So much more of unadulterated me

And seemingly accepted

Things no one else could even see

Still received less of myself than

Pieces of my mask.

And, now…

As they increasingly crumble

And you see me fast losing

My bright “potential”…

What you thought you prized

You are sorely disappointed to find

Was nothing but a coward’s charade,

Meant to distract from the 

Never-ending parade

Of ugly neuroses and crying jags.

Your patience and enthusiasm

Understandably lags

As you discover I will likely

Never be the strong

Nor the fearless,

The capable

Or the peerless.

Yet, there you are…

Desperately trying to remold my

Mask for me,

Willing me to put it back on,

Hoping it blends into my 

Mottled skin and becomes me,

Or, at least, to improve the view

You’ve been stuck with…

Flowering Faces

Don’t try to tell me

Flowers can’t have faces.

If I want a scarlet somebody

Growing up in my mind’s garden

With peekaboo eyes

And pursed lips,

So be it.

If I want to fashion

A pink tree

With blue veins

And feather boas

Round her skinny limbs,

I have finally let myself now.

No need for permission,

Nor reminders it isn’t realism.

I know it may be childish scrawls-

Certainly strange ones-

But I no longer have that urge to

Change the oddities 

Inside me…

Instead, I long to allow them to


Show my face

In the flowery lines 

I decide for me…



It is almost comical how the word

Pops into my head

In that high-pitched, robotic tone

Straight from The Lego Movie.

Yet, it’s another of those rueful little laughs

Where my mouth twists in ironic angles

As I watch you bearing down to

Control our every action,

Dole out the acceptable reaction.

Heaven forbid we stray from the script;

Hell to pay if your reins are snipped.

I recognize the extreme tweaking your 

Boyhood self suffered under

In the heavy-handed barreling through

You do so well.

I can pinpoint your own Aspie “but-of-course-it should-be-this-way”

As you seek to Krazy glue us where

You think we ought to stand…

But, honestly, there are days it just can’t

Make it any easier that I can understand.

There are times I must scream-

Be it ever so fruitlessly-

That nobody appointed you sole leader 

Of our haphazard little band…

Of Newness and Routine

Something new…

Ooh, most say,

Excitement filling their tones.


It’s more,

Something new?

A question thick with dread.

Heaven forbid I express it, though.

For, inevitably, someone will pipe up

Through my nervousness about

How easy it is.

How simple.

How even a child can do it.

So, surely I…?

As if that does a single thing to

Reassure me?!

No, all it ever does is

Add to the awkwardness and

Cause me to further squirm in

My shame…

For the executive function it takes

To do things I do a hundred times

Can be monumental on its own.

Add too much newness too fast

And the wrinkle is more than wrinkled-

Everything gets wadded up

Beyond all recognition…

But try to get someone to 

Actually get that

And not throw your mentality

Straight into the hopeless stupidity



Hence, routine is my friend-

Often my only friend…

Drowning in the Sands of Time

Don’t have the energy for a poem to accompany, but this is an image that popped in my head a while back in connection to a different issue I was experiencing. Thought it also suited how I have been feeling the last few days, though, I should add we are on an upswing today with my girl’s mobility and spirits. So, that’s a yay! 🙂 Here’s hoping my anxiety will fade ( at least a bit) in the coming days…

Staying Out of the Hole

Surgery successful. 🙂 Figuring out mobility and stimulation for a frightened girl on the spectrum much tougher. This is a mish-mash of my thoughts in connection.

Too tired to articulate much.

Feel like my life has been

More or less sucked

Down a long, narrow hole.

Scrambling to stay up,

Dirt breaking beneath my

Flailing feet,

Snatching desperately at pieces of

Routine to buoy me,

Only to have them snap off in my hand

Like flimsy blades of grass.

Love and pain and helpless worry

Swell in my heavyish heart.

Feel so selfish to want for peace

Over what should be matter-of-fact sacrifice.

Isn’t this motherhood, after all?

Where is my willing patience

And brimming bowl of sage advice?

Instead, I am full of prickliness and

Clumsiness and

Overpowering waves of inadequacy.

Terrible to fixate on my own feelings.

What about hers?

She is the stuck one, after all.

But, oh, every hour now is reduced to

How do we survive it?


Every moment is extra sets of mindfulness 

I struggle to possess.

Offers of help just

Make me cringe.

They are just full of churchy obligation,

Not genuine friends.

And I feel the urge to swipe out with a teeth-gritting,

No, damnit.

This is our challenge.

Take your simpering faces and 

Your steaming, unappetizing 


And let us alone.

We have to figure it out our

Own way,

Preserve independence another day.

All I can hope for is it all

Getting easier over time.

All we can do is look down the weeks-long tunnel

And know betterment lies on the other side…


Coming up on my loved one’s surgery tomorrow. Feeling my creativity going into freeze mode, my efficiency tuning up, like a well-behaved orchestra awaiting the conductor’s baton to wave.

Any extraneous functions are tucking into their proper departments, as if they know they must sleep for a while.

This is never an easy or enjoyable process, mind you, this shifting gears and anticipating numerous adaptations in the recovery period. 

But, a necessary one, of course. And, where things become necessary, especially when another’s welfare plays in, I somehow access bendy regions of my brain I cannot otherwise. 
I suppose that is the other end of my creativity side, in a way, as I stretch my flexibility and lend it to someone else in the name of love.

At any rate, I am likely to be a little quieter here for a bit.

But, it’s all right. She’s more than worth it. 🙂

Color the Night

An autistic brain I can find much to celebrate in. EDS? Not so much. But, still, somehow, we find strength and brightness to push forward in. My hands were hurting like hell, but I wanted to cover the whole page with color…

Feels like every day

Another thing I could do

Falls away…

Pain rises up

With a wicked grin

And seeks to master me.

Hands ache.

Shoulders shake.

Limbs and lungs

Seem every moment ready

To give way and break,

Along with my weary heart,

As the person I was,

Inadequate as she always appeared,

Begins to further shrink,

As  I become lesser physically even than I feared…

But, yet, I must press on to conquer,

If not the pain,

Then, perhaps, a way to seize

Joy yet inside my brain.

I could sit by and curse the Creator’s prerogative.

And I do let sadness in, but to rise up from it?


In autists’ unique and varied shades

I will determinedly color the night

And in this, I will brave beyond the black

And bathe in the light…

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