“One Day at a Time”
At one point in my life I was just trying to get through one hour at a time. Actually I have vivid memories of it sometimes being 15 minutes at time in which I would be praying to God in utter desperation. Such times could come again but I would hope to be stronger if, or more likely, when they return.
Fleet-footed moments of heart-stopping anxiety visit far too often even now, maybe just to keep me in practice. Uncontrolled thoughts of a scary future fraught with frets and worries frequent my mind, “pissing on the present,” as they say. These visitations may be the by-product of Bipolar Disorder and/or my Asperger’s Syndrome. In any case, my current goal is to learn “mindfulness” through meditation to correct this distortion of time and consciousness.
Long the slogan of A.A. and other methods of recovery, “one day at a time” can also be a celebration of, and desire for, peace– world peace, as well as inner peace. Yusuf/Cat Stevens expresses this poetically, as always, in his song, “One Day at a Time,” in this video link:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e-Xpa7pNKRc&feature=channel&list=UL
(Click http://www.independentauthornetwork.com/ellen-stockdale-wolfe.html for information on, and to purchase my Bipolar/Asperger’s memoir.)
“Moonlight Savings Time”
I awaken to moonlight– it is that particular slant of silver that lights up the front yard at 3 AM. What really has awakened me is my husband’s breathing. It is labored like he has just run up a flight of stairs. At times I awaken because I do not hear his breath and some alarm goes off in my head to check on him. If I cannot hear him breathing I put my hand ever so lightly on his chest so as not to wake him, to see if I can feel his heart beating. Feeling it pulsing in my hand I am reassured once more. I am not alone in this breath-check business. My sister-in-law confides in me that she wakes up at night to listen to my brother to see if he is still breathing. My grade school friend says much the same. Our husbands are relatively well. They have diabetes, heavy smoking/drinking, and a delicate frame among them, but they are not on death’s door so far as we know. And yet we are plagued by morbid fears.
In the wee hours of morning hobgoblins of fear loom large. My husband’s heartbeat, a mere flutter, seems so delicate. I am reassured that it is beating just as I am reassured that he is breathing. But the breath itself is so fragile. It scares me– the fragility of the breath, the fine line between breathing and the cessation of breath.
I prowl the house. Through the bathroom skylight the stars beam brightly, offset by the shining, silver sliver of moonlight. It will be a clear day tomorrow. But it is already tomorrow. It is so still my ears hum. My husband, who knows so many interesting things, tells me the humming I hear is the sound of the nervous system. Our bodies hold such mystery.
I look out the window, now hearing my neighbor’s dogs barking quietly. I look for coyote thinking that is what they are barking at, but see nothing. The moonlit grass on the lawn is an expanse of white, looking almost as if it had snowed, and the water in the marsh sparkles spangles of moonlight. The deep woods behind are pitch dark, the home of many a creature. Nothing stirs. It is too early for the birds. The house across the way is always dark; it is up for sale. And in the other direction, at this hour, no light shines in the driveway of the house down the road.
I am reminded of a line from a poem by Tagore “Faith is the bird that feels the light when the dawn is still dark.” I am at my most faithless at 3 AM.
Along with the supreme beauty of Tagore’s thoughts, a frivolous line from an old song runs through my head, like a commercial ruining a masterpiece of film: “There ought to be a moonlight savings time…” and the line continues “so there would be more time for loving” or some such drivel—perhaps meant for the piquant ting of a new fling.
I check email and surf the web to try to dispel the feeling of aloneness but it merely accentuates it. Finally, chilled, I go back to bed. An owl hoots in the distance– a reassuring sound. My husband is breathing freely now. His body is warm in the bed and I am filled to the brim with love for him as he lays in a heap, so trustingly in the arms of sleep. Our marriage is an unlikely and unexpected wonder. A seemingly endless source of ever-increasing love. A double-edged sword, for with that love comes the terror of its loss. Death can come in an instant, at any time. We live our lives in daily denial of how vulnerable and powerless we all are.
Perhaps the only control we have is over our own thoughts. I score low in that department. Perhaps all wives check their husbands for breathing. Perhaps there is an army of women out there prowling the wee hours of the night, at times by moonlight, checking on their husbands, their children, their animals to see that they all have that breath of life still flowing.
“There ought to be a moonlight savings time…” I thank God, at such times, there is not.
(Click http://www.independentauthornetwork.com/ellen-stockdale-wolfe.html for information on, and to purchase my Bipolar/Asperger’s memoir.)
5 Star Book Review of “Washed Up” by Alistair McHarg
There was no question I was going to buy and read “Washed Up,” by Alistair McHarg, after having read and loved “Invisible Driving” by the same author. Swept away by his memoir of Bipolar Disorder, I was equally disarmed by “Washed Up.” His memoir reads likes fiction, and “Washed Up” is his second work of fiction but it reads with the reality of nonfiction. In recovery himself, McHarg follows the adage to the “T” of “Write what you know!”
The Master of metaphor (and simile) in both books, in “Washed Up” McHarg shows us his talents at characterization. The characters are so real, I felt like they were a circle of friends, feeling for them, and feeling with them, through their individual lives.
Cat, my favorite, a gutsy, young woman who manages to sell sex (and somewhat kinky sex at that) to men, does so without losing respect for herself. Kinky sex pays very well and often is surprisingly asexual. This is the case here and we almost cheer Cat on, sympathizing with her that she has to earn her money this way, though she comes out of it relatively unscathed physically and emotionally. My real fascination with Cat was that she is the first exotic/erotic dancer/stripper I have met in literature or elsewhere and it is a totally intriguing peep into this line of work. I loved reading about what it was like dancing in the club where she performed.
We first meet Cat after the opening chapters in which we are introduced to some of the main characters, Ned, Brent, Andrew and Mickey, at an AA meeting. Cat appears out of nowhere and we wonder what in tarnation she has to do with these guys in AA and their wives whom we meet early on. But we find out soon enough.
The plots are interwoven like the threads of a spider’s web, captivating us with a simple complexity that engrosses. The wives and girlfriends of the AA guys and Cat suggest a theme on the strength of women in the world of “Washed Up.” The men are too preoccupied with recovery to fight the women’s feminine wiles and beguiling ways. An interesting theme by a male author.
Mickey was my other favorite character, epitomizing the virtues of caring within the organization of AA meetings that have helped so many. AA members may be powerless over alcohol but they are powerfully “there” for each other. Although not always. In “Washed Up, we see they are not all saints, when jealousy rears its ugly head within the intricacies of the intertwining relationships and plot shifts.
The ending is powerfully understated and brought a tear to my eyes. We go through thick and thin with these guys and their somehow powerful women and we come to care for their welfare.
Like “Invisible Driving,” “Washed Up” would make a good movie thanks to McHarg’s excellent storytelling abilities and the visual writing that make the scenes appear before our eyes. He uses emotional rhythms and syncopated plot twists to create a seamless sequence of memorable jazz.
(Click http://www.independentauthornetwork.com/ellen-stockdale-wolfe.html for information on, and to purchase my Bipolar/Asperger’s memoir.)
5 star Book Review for “The Complete Guide to Asperger’s Syndrome” by Tony Attwood
A Must-Read for all therapists and special ed teachers!,April 27, 2012
Tony Attwood is the patron saint of “Aspies” and this book holds true to his dedication to, and total understanding of, those of us with Asperger’s Syndrome. His understanding of all aspects of Asperger’s Syndrome is astounding and he is particularly gifted in his understanding of girls with Asperger’s Syndrome. He totally “gets it” when it comes to theory of mind and emotions in Asperger’s Syndrome. Would that all therapists could understand and have the knowledge he has and so clearly presents in this encyclopedic covering of AS. Reading Tony Attwood’s guide brought me to tears– that someone could care so much about those of us with the syndrome and understand us so well. He explained me to me in ways no one else had and eventually brought me to the point of getting officially diagnosed at age 61. “Congratulations, you have Asperger’s syndrome!” says it all. He accepts the syndrome as a different way of thinking and feeling which is presented in a positive light, without making light of the difficulties involved in having AS. He understands that the diagnosis often brings relief, particularly for those of us who fell through the cracks and were never treated, and carried lots of guilt and poor self-image for our “failings.” Can’t recommend this book highly enough for all those who need to understand AS– therapists, parents, teachers and, last but by no means least, for those who have AS.
(Click http://www.independentauthornetwork.com/ellen-stockdale-wolfe.html for information on, and to purchase my Bipolar/Asperger’s memoir.)
5 star Book Review for “Nobody Nowhere” by Donna Williams
The second time I reread this book was on a whim, long after suffering a breakdown myself. I was much older and wiser on this second reading and, as I reread her story, I realized that I, too, was on the spectrum, as I had begun to suspect. This book gave me the courage to get diagnosed with Asperger’s at age 61.
I would recommend the sequels to this book: “Somebody Somewhere,” “Like Colour to the Blind,” and “Everyday Heaven.” They make up a set. Donna Williams’ poetry is also very special. Read “Not Just Anything.” She is a brilliant woman and has conquered her pain with courage and intelligence and creativity!
“Inspirational” (a 5 star review for “Eye-locks and Other Fearsome Things)
This book is worth the time. The writer is unbelievably honest about her
experiences and she had me caring about her from the very beginning. She is a
very brave woman for being as open and detailed as she was. Her mental battles,
her struggles with everything and as for the writing, the delivery of her
thoughts was intense and well delivered. I have epilepsy and I can tell you that
after reading her story it has helped me. She has inspired me and reminded me
not to forget what I know. This is a story that I highly recommend and I want to
say thank you to the writer for allowing me to experience it all.
Michael Edward
(Click http://www.independentauthornetwork.com/ellen-stockdale-wolfe.html for information on, and to purchase my Bipolar/Asperger’s memoir.)
Monday Blues
A weekend together
and my heart
is filled full with you.
I am touched by our love,
warmed by your touch,
and mourning your absence.
I miss you & your presence
in our loving shelter
from a harsh world.
(Click http://www.independentauthornetwork.com/ellen-stockdale-wolfe.html for information on, and to purchase my Bipolar/Asperger’s memoir.)
Bipolar Opposites
I see the fire in you
igniting your thoughts,
flickering and flaming
all of the time,
filling you with images
that you paint into words.
Your eyes are strong,
you can stare at the light
and be filled with the fire
without getting blinded.
The fire for me,
if I look too long,
leaves me on my knees,
groping in darkness,
until like a fog, lifting,
I can see again.
(Click http://www.independentauthornetwork.com/ellen-stockdale-wolfe.html for information on, and to purchase my Bipolar/Asperger’s memoir.)
Asperger’s and the lack of empathy myth
www.springerlink.com/content/j2k1732t42110565/
(Click http://www.independentauthornetwork.com/ellen-stockdale-wolfe.html for information on, and to purchase my Bipolar/Asperger’s memoir.)
WELCOME!!
Welcome to samples of my writing showcasing “Eye-locks and Other Fearsome Things.” “Eye-locks” is a Bipolar/Asperger’s memoir in narrative form that describes the triumph of love over mental illness. While not a lesson plan it documents my therapeutic journey to finding love against all odds. Useful for therapists, and for patients with Bipolar Disorder and/or Asperger’s Syndrome. A scholarly, autobiographical case history of my story was the showcase article in vol. 13 no. 1 of Psychoanalytic Inquiry in 1993.
For the full length narrative non-fictional account click http://www.independentauthornetwork.com/ellen-stockdale-wolfe.html for a short bio, a full description, and to purchase my book.
About MOONSIDE…
Learning to love is an ongoing process and I am writing posts on new lessons learned.
All the original abstract painting is posted to advocate for Bipolar Disorder and Asperger’s Syndrome– for it is those very handicaps that feed my art. The more realistic nature art is dedicated to raising consciousness for animals and the environment. All other art work is purely for your enjoyment.
Finally I have also posted selections from my nature writing and poetry. My nature essays were published in a small paper in upstate New York for a year and a half. The poems have appeared throughout my life, coming and going as they please.
This is an award free blog.
All work on this blog is under copyright and may not be used by anyone, for any purpose, without permission.
A Reluctant Tenderness: Asperger’s Fear of Love
June 21, 2012
It is the first heat wave of the summer. For me, that means high anxiety bordering on panic. Not terribly together to begin with, I become totally undone in the heat. Nuzzling up to my husband in bed over morning coffee alleviates some of the gloom and doom. Today, the longest day of the year, is a day I dread, as a child of the longest night.
Tom gets up and brushes his hair. For the first time in all the time I have known him, he offers to brush mine. “It will feel good!” he says. Just in time, I override my almost instinctive Aspie reluctance to try anything new and say, “Okay.” He comes over to me and gently runs his two brushes through my hair. It is hard to say whether it feels GREAT due to the physical act itself or because I feel the love in his hands. I see love all over his face, now wrinkled in a tender smile. As he brushes, he says my hair is beautiful. And to think I almost said no to this. It took me years to learn to overcome my fear of closeness. A battle I still fight.
How did we, two Aspies, get to be so close? We have had 25 years together and gone through some pretty rough times and some pretty tough losses. Maybe the losses have made us more aware of mortality, our own and the mortality of the other. The future is no longer an endless expanse of space reaching up to the sky. It never was. Youth suffers from an “optical delusion of consciousness,” to use Einstein’s words out of context. I now make much more of an attempt to savor every moment with Tom. Of course, I often fall way short of that high aspiration. Partly it is due to my being Aspie, and partly it is a limitation of human nature.
I am infinitely blessed to have Tom in my life, a feeling I have had during most of our time together. It surfaces much more intensely these days. Tom struggles with his Aspieness as well. He shows more love to me while in his “during-the work-week mode.” I understand this now. We both need lots of alone time. It has taken years to learn these lessons but, oh, have the results been well worth the struggle!
Despite our limitations, this moment in time, born this morning, is one I will add to my treasure chest of memories, which I hope will always be there, tucked inside my heart until the day it ceases to beat.
Good Grief
(This is dedicated to my brother who died a year ago this Father’s Day after a long and courageous battle with lung cancer.)
It is Springtime and I am doing my annual Spring cleaning– maniacally giving away old and unused clothes and items that no longer serve or never did. Some things I remember as I go through the linen chest– others are totally forgotten as to origin and use. And then it hits. In the corner of the chest is a neatly folded piece of green check cotton cloth. I immediately know its source. It is the cloth my Mother used to make curtains for her kitchen. Mom was always making curtains. When my husband and I were married she made curtains for our first apartment. We are still using them. Seeing this green check cloth brings me back to a hard period in my life when seeing my Mother was my only joy. We are sitting at the table in her kitchen having tea and laughing. It is a happy meeting. So many years ago.
And now with the sun shining and the birds singing and fresh air wafting in through the windows I am struck with uncontrollable grief. Tears that feel they could go on forever. It is as if she just died yesterday. But there is one difference, the remorse and the resentment I felt at the time is finally gone for the very first time. Some harsh words from my Mother as she lay dying, my lack of empathy and leaving without saying goodby for what was to be the last time– all this led to fifteen years of not being able to think of my Mother without guilt and deep regret. It was as if all of the good times we shared were negated by this one memory. Now the tears seem to be some sort of liquid acid dissolving the stone of resentment, guilt and remorse that squelched all the good. I feel cleansed and feel like I could cry a good, long cry as I go outside to sit in the sun. The sun seeps down in the wound like a salve.
Grief is not just a human phenomenon. Elephants will stand over the dead body of one of their herd, in some way showing respect for the departed spirit. And I think of examples close to home. The doe we saw one day going over to the dead body of a fawn on the side of the road. Or the baby rabbit we saw crossing into the middle of the road where a large mass of flesh with fur lay. And even closer to home– my husband and I adopted my Mother’s dog once Mom got too sick to care for her. Ko-ko had stayed with us many times in our house and loved being there. We never took her to see Mom again because the parting was too hard on both of them. We did take her toys though, from Mom’s house one night, and put them in our bedroom, among them a corroded rubber Santa. We were sitting at dinner that night and Ko-ko went into the bedroom. We heard a heart-stopping yelp and then whimpering. We went in and found Ko-ko with her old Santa in her mouth. The Santa was her version of my green check curtain. A stabbing wound and tears.
Clearly animals feel grief. Some die of grief just like humans. Grief binds us together, human and animal, and perhaps provides the special appeal of the new life in Spring. Yet when Spring inspires happy faces and a general feeling of well-being, and flowers are blooming everywhere, the contrast can be cruel. As T.S. Eliot so eloquently put it: “April is the cruelest month.” But once it is June the new life has settled in and we can go out in the yard and bake in the sun– the universal giver of life.
We humans have no prerogative on grief. Our lives entwine with happy moments and tragic in this vast web of existence, and Spring and loss are just two facets of possibility.
(Click http://www.independentauthornetwork.com/ellen-stockdale-wolfe.html for information on, and to purchase my Bipolar/Asperger’s memoir.)
MOONSIDE 
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