I’ll admit it: it rankles me that there will be daily prompts a few days beyond November, and so I’ll end with my first, true “meta” post and mention that I will not
integrate the extension into my own series. Today is the final day, all the rest is but Fauxvember.
While I’ve never found anything to be “superb”, I have deemed things to be “
fantastic”. An episode of television here, maybe a photograph I’ve taken there. Mostly, though, it’s irony. Real example: “Nonstop anxiety dreams all night. So today looks to be fantastic.”
One useful thing about the
property on which I live is that residing in the mother-in-law apartment out back means the profane screams which mitigate my autistic brain’s true desire to throw something across the room when I am overloaded can’t bother anyone.
I will never be
rich. I will never be anything other than on-the-edge, especially once I’ve finished depleting family resources and even if I successfully find my way to all potential benefits through Social Security. That’s what post-midlife has in store.
While I assume there must be extroverted autistics (how, though?), I myself am a
mix of autistic and introverted. In fact, before diagnosis I’d unknowingly mitigated some of my autism feature set through a sort of do-it-yourself introvert’s toolkit I still use.
As winter looms in the distance, I can’t say that I’m looking forward to the seasonal impact upon pre-existing thoughts, like how I don’t see that I ever will be even remotely close to financially
secure, and so if downhill hasn’t started already, it will soon.
I hate having people in my home. I don’t even like having people come to my door. I hate landlord inspections and repairs. I don’t have
company over, ever. (I did have to suffer a post-surgery babysitter.) I’m fine with my two cats, thank you very much.
Lately this seems a sort of journal of a
woebegone brain, a fact which just spirals back in upon itself and makes things even worse. Maybe some of the past day or so worth of posts balances that out a bit, again, for however long that lasts.
There’s no escape from the
hum of the world. Not for me, anyway. Neither the mechanical nor electronic nor even the natural. I can’t even get out of the city. I’ve no idea even what it would sound like only to hear my own, internal, sound were the external muted.
One exciting thing about being a midlife-diagnosed actually-autistic person with, at the very least, social anxiety and obsessive-compulsive disorder who only rarely ever has been even close to self-sufficient is how regularly you
hollow out your family’s finances.
second day in a row, I spent more than my daily budget. Yesterday because I’d not put an SD card in my camera, and today on breakfast out because of the stress of having spent that money. Now we see how I do with eight dollars a day until December.
After a pendulum day, I’m left wondering whether or not the physical and psychic exhaustion will
abate soon enough to allow for making any sort of even somewhat-appropriate dinner. More appropriate, anyway, than the remains of a latte and potato sticks.
It’s not unusual, I suppose, for people in midlife to chart a new course for themselves. But what do you do when your midlife included an autism diagnosis which retconned your life? How do you
build a new future when the foundations of your past were a lie?
For the life of me, I can’t think of a single thing I’ve ever called “
superb”. I’m not sure if I’ve ever even used any of its true synonyms. Do people really use this word in their actual lives about actual things? What could possibly be worthy of it.
selective about the places I go; call it rigidity or call it routine. I’ve two walkable places I regularly go for meals out, plus my favorite place which is further afield and thus takes effort. It’s closing at the end of the year, and it’s irreplaceable.