The Inner Circle

As you know, I am still reeling from my Great Aunt’s death…but it has left me with a strange, sinking feeling that I will never be the same. We now have no reason to go to Harrodsburg, since the family gives us very little information and treats us like strangers. I would love to be a part of this special inner circle they have, but there is no effort or desire to bring me in. How do I get myself in with these people-damn my mother’s name? That seems to be the only way I can get in with these people-especially since my uncle Allen and my mother have a strained relationship. He seems to rule their opinion of my mother, and therefore, of me. I wonder what strange thing happened between them that they got so bad about? It almost seems that they want to exclude us from the family on purpose. Hopefully, we can get those things resolved before they die, too. There is so much they keep from us, that we are just strangers, just outsiders.

I have always been an outsider looking in whenever I was in a group. My youth group at church, my Girl Scout troop, and even my theater friends in high school-so much, in fact, that I always keep wondering if there is some magic to being neurotypical, to being able to infiltrate these great and wonderful cliques. It must be so magical to be in the inner circle….

Have I ever been on the inside, even in my own family? It pains me to say no. My mother and I are all we got when it comes to friendship and reliability. How I wish I could enter the inner circle-somewhere.

Facebook and the Mellaril Nightmare

I was recently reminded of a time when I was bullied mercilessly, so I decided to bring an archive up about that, and some backstory:

I got in touch with my old theater group recently, and it is mostly fun. There were people who really liked me and literally made friends with me right away. Considering that I was bullied throughout school, it still puzzles me that people would befriend me at all, even on Facebook. I am trying not to react to Facebook emotionally. After all, I now live in Kentucky, two thousand miles away from people I knew. It’s hard for me to make friends, and I am still struggling here. Perhaps it matters to me because of how much I miss them. Again, why am I missing them so much? I should be making new friends here, but it’s hard. I miss the old ones terribly. Then again, there is a lot I should be wary of. I remember being told that people made fun of me behind my back about the way I talked to myself-vividly. When I was told, I almost gave up theater and friendship right on the spot. I swore I would never contact those people again-they hurt me, they made fun of me. After all, don’t you make fun of people you hate? But somehow I recovered-maybe. Here is a little backstory on why I talk to myself: It’s what is supposed to be my “inner monologue.” Somehow I lost that when I got sent to UCLA’s neuropsychiatric unit as a child. I heard songs stuck in my head. I had a more severe autism at the time, so I could not properly tell them that I heard songs in my head. I guess I told them it was “voices,” because the next thing I get is stuck with some pill called Mellaril – and acting like a zombie around the unit. I barely remember how or why I convinced them to take me off, but apparently that is how I learned to make an outer monologue. I learned talking to myself was apparently less crazy. Of course, I remember very little of the time I was in the UCLA neuropsychiatric unit. I barely remember the feeling I got with Mellaril. Being an eleven-year-old kid stuck in a psychiatric unit is not fun for anyone, and certainly not fun for someone with Autism, separated away from her family. So that’s it. That is the reason I talked to myself. This is what I am working on now – making my inner monologue an inner monologue. I still get wary of people who have teased me and made fun of me. Sometimes I think of taking them off my Facebook Friends list. Usually I don’t, just to see if they have changed any. I don’t know about you, but I have always wondered about people.