Losing Our Words and Losing Our Meanings

Hello My Dear One,

I've found that I'm losing my words. Or, more accurately, I'm losing my ability to communicate with words, out loud, with other people. Oddly, it's not been with my Hebrew or Yiddish words, I use them rarely anyway, or my ASL signs. Neither have I lost my understandings, or lack thereof, of French, Italian, German, Latin, or Mandarin Chinese. No, it's not the "foreign" languages that bother, it's my "native" one, English, that I seem to struggle with.

To say that English is my first language is a partial truth. As someone with learning disabilities that include dyslexia, as well as Asperger's Syndrome, language itself is a construct. My native tongue is a cobbled together, linguistically questionable one called "Arin." It's an unofficially unrecognized dialect of English...probably.

Poetically, I see my language as a Monarch butterfly caught between a windy current and a milkweed leaf, like a moment where magic sometimes happens. Sometimes the ideas, sounds, and scribbles float aimlessly and uncontrollably, and are blown away in the gusts of air that propel them. A sudden aphasia of confusion descends and the meanings are caught in a cycle of knowing and unknowable. Other times, all the thoughts, letters, and words come together in an incredible array of colors, patterns, and visual textures. The message lands softly on the perfect spot, and holds fast creating an image of detailed beauty.

In reality, it's more apt to be like strands of wet spaghetti thrown at a wall. If the pasta sticks, it's done enough to eat. If it slides down into the dust bunnies in the corner, not so much.

When I write, I have the time to think about each word. I have the time to sit and look at each one as it appears on the page. I can pause for minutes, hours, days, weeks, and even months at a time. I can write, delete, rewrite, delete, and rewrite a thousand times more. Each sentence is handcrafted one consonant, vowel, and grammatical convention at a time. There is a natural space between the words, and a cohesiveness to the ideas. And there is a hope, that the words themselves carry with them, of clarity and understanding.

When I speak, however, my language comes in fits and spurts. It's like a "rough draft," that is poured out hastily so that nothing will be forgotten or lost. Therefore, many, many edits will need to be made. And when speaking, that sounds like the speaker has an inherent indecisiveness. Or worse, that they are incompetent about a subject.

Perhaps, some of my communication troubles are linked to my writing. People who know me, have in all likelihood read emails, letters, posts, or text messages from me. I can write a good email, as long as I take my time. Texting goes ok, again with breathing spaces during the conversation. And hopefully, my longer missives are finely crafted communications.

Perhaps, some of my difficulties stem from the rapid nature of communication today. With the constant deluge of information of daily input, we have come to expect an instant response to our inquiries. We await that return text as though our lives depended on it. We cannot stand to sit still in our unknowing, when we can search for answers to billions of questions in a matter of nanoseconds.

In the end though, I know that the majority of my communication problems stem from within. I think and feel in a way that is not neuro-typical. I see and assess my surroundings in ways that take longer and more circuitous routes than those who are wired in non-aspie/non-spectrum ways. The pathways that the neurons take in my brain are in radically different formations than that of someone who is not on the autism spectrum. I reach conclusions that are atypical, a word I first learned in grade 7, when I had to use a thesaurus for a Language Arts (grammar) quiz. Ironically, my teacher marked my response using the word atypical as incorrect because she thought that it was not a word. But I stood my ground, and in what I see as an ironic twist, she left education for waitressing a few years later. Maybe she realized that if the student could be right, the customer was always right.

Regardless, I know that how I say my words will be a challenge for me and for those around me. The meaning may be good, but the terms and the syntax may prevent the listener from hearing the message. Sadly, the older I get the less tolerance I have for those who try to wordsmith what I say as I am saying it. I know full well that I may not have expressed my concerns, hopes, or whatever other thoughts in the best way. But, I am doing the best that I can. I wish that those listeners would wait a breath and hear me before they respond. Maybe we might both be heard more clearly if we paused for a moment.

Just Listen

And maybe, that's what we all really need if we want to be heard. If we don't want to lose our words. If we don't want to lose our meanings. We need to stop and listen. We need to breathe before we spew out a response. We need to wait into the conversation and hear what each other is trying to share.


And when we do that, we will gain more words, more meanings, and more trust in each other's abilities to work together.

Thank you for taking the time to listen to this part of the journey.

Be well, love your neighbor as you love yourself, and remember to actually love yourself.

- Ari

Of The Holiday Beast of Mental Illness, Of Dave and Steve, and Of New Years

Hello My Dear One,

Happy New Year.  Happy New Beginning.  Happy January.  Welcome 2014, welcome to the hope that comes with the replacement of the old calendar covered with marks, tears, and dirt, with an unblemished shiny twelve new months.  Say adieu to the old year and bonjour to the new one.  But let's make sure that we don't lose the lessons learned from the last year.  Let's remember what was, and envision what might be, but let's keep an eye on the short term before and after now, thinking of what has just been and what might come.

Ok, so I'm not really that optimistic and flowery, not to mention I celebrate Rosh Hashanah as a more accurate New Year for myself.  But still, I look forward to the upcoming months and the inherent belief in the possibilities for change, renewal, and rebirth.  It is Winter, and therefore, we must suffer the dark and the cold with the hope that Spring will eventually come.  But before those first tiny buds of growth appear we must suffer the holidays of December, the potholes, and the problems that come with Winter. 

Last month, much as it is every year for me, was a doozy.  It was once again the "Holiday Season," the time of year when a merchandising and marketing blitzkrieg of overpriced, unwanted, and unfairly produced stuff occurs, a bombardment of things that could have defeated the Third Reich itself.  It was a commercial assault that aimed to blanket us with the insidious belief that "wants" are really "needs," and that you may not survive if you don't get what you "need." Yes, it was December in the United States of America, a month devoted to obsessively and compulsively shopping at all hours of the day and night, both prior to Christmas, and afterward for the big sales that follow.  It was the time of year that can bring out the best and the worst in people, as the act of giving becomes a battle to profess one's love through the quantity of gifts that can be bestowed.  Often, it is a losing battle for both the givers and the receivers, as added debts of money and guilt are placed upon each person, like necklaces made of millstones rather than pearls.

It was near.  The neon lights within the darkness.  The hope that the ice would eventually melt.  The candles that are the prayers for renewal were about to burn.  The time was very near.

Yes, even within the monetary battle for supremacy there is still a glimmer of the root truths of the winter holidays.  For all the glittery trinkets that surround us, there is a need for marking the darkest day of the year and the light that will follow.  Chanukkah, Christmas, Solstice, Kwanzaa, New Year's Eve are all celebrations that incorporate light into the darkness, both literally and figuratively.

But what if one is overstimulated by too much light?  What if the promises of hope are greater than the possible realities?  What if the darkness can blot out the light?

Unfortunately for me, and for my family, the beast of my mental illness has a particular nearness and problem with the issues of light in the darkness.  The beast becomes so engrossed in the mania of the holiday season itself, that the complimentary anxiety, depression, stress, anger, and overall dis-regulation strengthen into an all encompassing break with reality.  That horrifying moment of collapse and meltdown comes pouring out of him, out of me, creating pools of dark, gooey, urine soaked, and blood filled nightmares across the wooden floors of the world around me.  The pools ooze out further, seeping into the cracks between the boards, and contaminating every surface they touch.  It is like watching my own soul bleed out, and lying helpless as it happens.  And as the pools continue to spread, my loved ones cannot help but be touched by the mess I am creating as it rushes around their feet, their ankles, and their own souls.  

This is what the Holiday season has so often been for me.

And over the years I have lived in the shame of my beast's behaviors.  I have lived in the shame of feeling out of control, unable to contain the madness as I damage the life around me.  I have lived in the shame of feeling as though beyond the obvious mental illness that is wrong with me, that I am a cultural failure as well, hating Christmas, not out of my faiths but out of some deeper darkness.

So, I decided to do two things about it.  First, I decided to get the professional psychological and medical attention that I needed to rebalance the neurochemical disaster in my brain.  Luckily, or perhaps divinely, I was able to schedule an appointment that happened within 24 hours with my trusted provider.  This gave me an almost immediate respite from the chaos that had been encircling my day to day life.  It also gave me the opportunity to explore some of my Christmas angst in a safe and supportive space.  I was able to gain new insights, and some of that led to a direct change in how I approached Christmas this year.

Secondly, I have decided to share a piece of myself that I have until now kept hidden within its own tomb of deconstruction.  For the first time, I am willing to share two of the names of my Beast.  I say two of the names, because there are other names I cannot speak, that cannot be spoken, that even I haven't discovered or yet myself named.  But as J.K. Rowling, through the character of Albus Dumbledore said, "Fear of a name increases fear of the thing itself."*  And so, I must name the thing that has caused some of the greatest fear in my life.

Let me tell you about Dave and Steve.

One of the parts of my Beast is a mellow dude who brings the party with him wherever he goes.  He is a fun, relaxed, easygoing person who enjoys the unexpected happy moments of life.  He appreciates adventures, challenges, and travel.  This is the guy you want to go to the beach with, go out to eat with, watch a game with, frankly, do anything with that would be a stress free and delightful experience.  I like him. Heck, everybody likes him.  He's a great guy.

This is Dave.  Yep, Dave will attend events that I myself would rather spend hiding under a heavy rock than actually going to, graciously accepting invitations to things that I run screaming from.  Dave doesn't ramble about the elegance of ancient Hebrew scripture and how to parse each word apart to ascertain truer meaning of texts.  He can simply shoot the breeze, talk about cars, sports, and even "guy stuff."  Like I said, Dave is a great guy.

But for all the fun of Dave, there is another part of my Beast, and his name is Steve.  He is another of the anthropomorphic understandings that is my experience with Bipolar Disorder 1.  Steve is the screaming maniac who has the ability to traumatize, batter, break, destroy, and horrify anyone and anything in his rage driven path.  Steve has a darkness to him that can blanket out each candle of hope, each star shining down, each lamp along the way, and the sun itself shining its brightest on this floating sphere we call home.  Like Bipolar Disorder itself, the burning self-exaltation and the inkiest darkening of the world at large, these two identities of Dave, and Steve coexist in a state of constant competition for attention.  They battle a never ending game of Tug-O-War, where the losing side is always me, or the people around me.

And Steve has left a lasting mark on everyone in my family, my wife, my in-laws, and in particular on my sons.  Christmas this year brought out the worst of Steve, with a gory meltdown a few days before the 25th, filled with angst and angry words.  It was traumatizing for all of us and I myself was horrified by the magnitude of the psychological earthquake that rocked our home in a way that will need repairs both physical and emotional.  All I can say is that I am sorry for this and that I have been dealing with the fallout as best I can, combined with new medication and therapeutic sessions.

Dave and Steve originated over 35 years ago, and I suspect they were actually varying male identities of myself that I could name when I was a very young child.  And I could this while still being told how to act like a girl.  I needed to keep my split sense of self together by having inner male counterparts to exist even when the world around me attempted to make me conform to the body on the outside.

But the truth of the matter is, Steve is and was sexually open, fearless in conduct and behavior, and an alcoholic.  That guy is really an immature pit of illness made manifest as an excuse to relinquish personal accountability, and I regret most of my actions and behaviors while under the unmedicated influence of him.  And I'd like to atone and make right all that which I can. 

So, in this is the time of year, when we make resolutions, often to lose weight, exercise, quit smoking or drinking, have more money, or somehow be a "better" form of ourselves than we were last year, I am resolving to be less intimidated by Dave and Steve.  I have decided that in this new Western calendar year to stop and listen when I hear the low growls of Steve, or the all too exuberant musings of Dave.  I have decided this year to be a "better" version, not of Steve or Dave, but of myself.  I have come to learn that for all their chatter, I am a completely valuable and worthy human being.  Regardless of my past actions, and the sins - the separations from G-d and my fellow humans - that I have committed, I am a man of integrity, dignity, and honesty.  I cannot be anyone but myself, even when my Beast tries to tell me otherwise.

As I reflect over what I have experienced these past few years, I find myself in a new and different place.  The Beast that I was unable to acknowledge, has become the Beast that I can name.  An with his names comes my own ability to call him out directly, to say, "Dave, I'm good enough," or "Hey Steve, SHUT UP ALREADY!" And I will be able to say to them both that I am the one who runs the show, and when they try to, I will be ready for them.  

And this time, this time, I was more ready for them.  I was able to call them out for what they were, what they were trying to do, and even why they were trying to do it.  And instead of letting their madness overtake me, I ran to the professional help I needed, rather than running away and attempting something hurtful to those I love.

I know that I will always have to battle them.  I know that my Beast is a lifelong war that will never truly end.  I know there will be pain, suffering, and harm in all forms throughout the coming years.  And I know that as long as I have faith in G-d, faith in myself, and faith in the support that I receive, I will lessen the blows from my Beast.

Thank you for being there with me as I do battle.

Be well.  Love your neighbor as you love yourself.  And remember to actually to love yourself.

-Ari



*Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone