I am a messy person. My mind is messy. My life is messy. It is my normal, and it manifests itself outwardly in messy non-pristine spaces in my life. I have tried over and over (and failed miserably) to be neat and orderly, but my mind is noncompliant. It is typically not even on my radar that the empty glass sitting on the end table should, at the very least, be put in the kitchen sink. As a result, if the people in my life were more tidy-conscious, they ended up spending a lot of time picking up after me. It caused major meltdowns of frustration on both theirs and my end. On the one hand, I didn’t understand why I couldn’t SEE the mess. I would flog myself internally and on a regular basis to try to force my mind to change, upset that I hurt someone I cared about. In the same vein, they didn’t understand why I couldn’t SEE THE MESS, and many times took it as a personal affront and attack on them because this was important to them and if they were important to me, I should, naturally, at least try to make an effort. I couldn’t argue with them. It made sense. Why couldn’t my mind comply?
A resulting effect of my messiness was a feeling of being parented, especially by my previous partners; and because I had no understanding or inkling of WHY, this also contributed to the demise of those relationships. I was branded lazy and callous to their feelings. It was a recipe for disaster and set me up to fail…every time. The realization that the common denominator of this equation was me did not go unnoticed, and I harassed myself repeatedly, raking my delicate ego over the coals, trying to figure out why. Why was it so hard for me? Why did my mind constantly fail me? I ended up believing the snarky comments that I was lazy and unmotivated. I was too afraid to voice my mind and in hindsight, was truly completely clueless how to explain the correlation that the chaos in my mind was spilling over into my every day life and exhibiting itself as a pile of magazines left untouched on the floor next to my chair for weeks at a time. The more stress and anxiety I felt, the worse it would get. I tried to pour all my effort and energy into being better. Doing better; but it was exhausting, and the eventual outcome was always the same. Failure…My mind could not maintain that singular focus over an extended period of time, and the exhaustion would give way to tears and weeping and depression and more internal flogging. This was the perpetual cycle I lived for most of my life.
Because my mind is in constant chaos; neat, orderly spaces make me extremely nervous and uncomfortable. To me, it is a sterile arduous existence; everything having its own place and spot to neatly fit in at the end of the day. The never ending cleaning and picking up and perfecting. Perhaps, it is a metaphor for my messy life; knowing I lack perfection, I am inherently drawn to the imperfect. It was and is hard to observe my friends and family falling neatly into the lives of their choosing, seemingly without effort. Natural and unforced. I do understand that this perfection is truly my perception, and nothing is perfect, but still…the life I thought I wanted eluded me, and I had absolutely no idea what formula was needed to get there. Everyone had their own spot, their own niche that they comfortably carved out for themselves, and I was still searching, still longing to belong…somewhere. Anywhere.
I did try on the role of the doting housewife…twice. My attempts were comical. I can share that now with bemusement as I understand the WHY. It was infinitely more painful and confusing living it and drowning in the seemingly overwhelming expectations I faced daily. After the demise of my second attempt at marital bliss, I began to seriously question and challenge the perceived “normal” I felt forced into all my life. A concentrated profound journey of self-discovery ensued. This wasn’t me. This wasn’t who I was, or for that matter who I wanted to be. It wasn’t even close. I was determined to stop the internal abuse I had heaped upon myself and the expectations that continually forced me into spaces that were not me; and accept the mess that I was. Perhaps even learn to love myself and my messy mind.
I started to embrace the reality that my life, my mind was a little messy, and that messiness was comfortable to me. It made me feel safe and secure; and although I was not sure why yet, I grew increasingly more comfortable in my own skin and began to like who I really was. At my core. Like my dad always did. We were so alike my dad and me. I wonder if he saw himself in my life and the decisions I made, the struggles I faced, the seemingly continual failures of trying to fit into a space I did not belong in. I noticed as the years passed, he seemed to also accept and come to terms with his messy life. He accepted who he was and even though, at the time, I did not understand why he was the way he was he did seem to find his peace. I so wish we could have spoken about these things, and shared our stories with each other. I am left to speculate with the knowledge I now possess, and while I do understand him so much better now, my heart aches that I cannot tell him this, that I cannot thank him for being who he was because ultimately, it helped me understand myself in ways I never thought possible.
Asperger’s brought me one huge step closer to loving the mess that is me. I am comfortable coloring my life outside the lines and living on my own terms, to the beat of my own bongo. This is my happy space. And because I know this, I can live my own defined version of imperfect perfection without apology or compromise. I can enjoy and celebrate my life with a partner who loves and accepts my messy quirky mind and the weirdness that seeps out of it. I can develop routines and checks to live with someone who is naturally tidier than me, and recognize and identify my triggers so I can act accordingly to avoid frustration meltdowns. It is the final gift my dad gave to me, and it is by far, the most precious.