My Diagnosis + Liberation (Or: The Diagnosis of Liberation)

My Diagnosis + Liberation (Or: The Diagnosis of Liberation)

I’ve always known I’m different.

As a young girl, I sought refuge in the forest, talking to trees, creeks, fairies.

I lived within a rich world, teeming with imagination so tangible, I could touch it. Taste it. Feel it.

Like magic, stories flowed out my fingers into notebooks.

I drank words as though they’d offer an elixir, protecting me from the sharp awareness of how I didn’t quite fit…

…with my family, at school, and in the way I gently—yet intensely—lived in the world.


Looking out the window of the car, I’d track the moon, the stars, and feel lifted out, magnetized toward somewhere—anywhere—other than where I was.


I especially loved my grandfather on days the air felt thin and harshly sucked dry; he’d tell me stories and I’d comb his snow white hair.

Grandma said he “always had a soft spot for the underdog.”


I believed in magic, revived dying bees, made friends with the neighboring cows, and ached to feel crisp, blistering wind on my face while standing in the middle of the naked field, oaks bearing witness.

That’s when I was free. Liberated. Allowed every cell in my body to feel electric. Wild stirred me out of the hushed quiet … and always would…


That slightly-set-apart feeling stayed in my bones, set in deep, affecting the way I walked, moved in the world: My head, never held straight—slightly tilted—from all the vacillating between slicing shame of being different and yearning to be noticed, seen, accepted.

I’ve become a master cloaker, easily hidden, able to disappear and ghost whenever I don’t believe I belong.

That’s an old story. It’s run its full course: Not belonging. Not to my family, not to a circle of friends, not to any one culture, not to any one thing.

…Certainly not to myself.

Because: I didn’t belong, I was too much. Too much to handle. Too sensitive. Too weird. Too much. Then: Not enough. So, I’d hide, go deep.

…Oh, how many times I’ve gone under, gone to the dark for cover. For safety.

These stories?

So done. So complete.

And, frankly: b o r i n g.     

(So boring.)                  


With few exceptions, I’ve kept my diagnosis quiet.

I’m sharing it now because it has kissed me with the greatest gift: Seeing myself.

Understanding who I am. Realizing I don’t need to change. Embracing me.


I’ve found the wild within—that slithering wind, that call of an intense storm, the bright sky blackened with pink and gold, bruised with purple—the lightning-fire that resides in my spine and moves up my heart.

It’s always here.

I’ve come to welcome it.

Love it whole.


If you read this post, you know my daughter has Asperger’s—or high-functioning Autism.

Girls are rarely diagnosed. It shows up differently in us. The m/f diagnosis ratio is an astounding 4:1.

I, too, have Asperger’s.


Fiercely independent and sometimes rigid/stubborn.

Hyper-sensitive to sensory input.


Intensely passionate.

Highly creative.

Requires extensive time alone.



…amongst other things…


I’m aware of the challenges. I live them.

I’m aware of the gifts. I live those.

And I’m finally, finally, finally free.


Just like the little-girl me who revived and saved dying bees, so, too, I’ve revived and saved myself.

The Real me.

The All of Me, me.

The Whole, Complete me.

The one who refuses to hide in a dark cave. Ashamed. Tired. Different.


See, I am different.

I am made of wild, ecstatically fierce and loving neurons. They light up, fast, sparking new pathways and webs of connection.

Revealed, I’m clay-faced, raw, present.

You feel it in my poetry, you’ll see it in my gaze.

I revel in freedom, unveiling myself, dancing, trilling, welcoming you to my world: lush, thick and voluminous, knowing the drumbeat of my soul and the wings that touch the cosmos.

When I feel all of me, I feel all of you. See all of you … and ask you to meet my gaze and let the electric wind pull laughter from our throats … eyes bright, alive.

And if you don’t get me, if you can’t meet me here, if you are afraid and shake: I don’t care.

I’m liberated in my wilderness.

I’ve merged and married my succulently sweet, round and gently, erotically crystalline, catalyzingly soft, wholy-holy Self. 

I’m home—embraced—in the edgy grace. I’ll hold you, there, too.

Here I am: Muddied.

Soil under my fingers.

Stars in my hair.

Eyes of lightning.

Fingers of love.

Soles of diamonds.

Heart of fire.


This is Not Your Average Break-Up Letter

This is Not Your Average Break-Up Letter

Dearest You,It’s been awhile since we’ve talked. Really talked.

I wish we could sit in that café where we shared a loveseat; I rested my head upon your wide shoulders and you slowly inhaled the scent of my hair, kissing the top of my head.

Or we could meet in my car where I’d feel your strong hands wrapped in mine, your lips pressed against them.

If we were in your bed, I’d savor one last time the weight of your thick legs curled around mine, nose buried in my neck, chills cascading down my back.

Mostly, I wish we were on my sofa – where you said you loved me – so we could breathe in this moment of truth.

I’d look into your unsteady eyes, hoping you’d see my heart.

But you are in another state.
Across town.
On a business trip.
Picking out furniture with your new girlfriend.
Planting seeds to harvest with other women.
Holding her.
In a bar at 2 a.m., asking to come over.


You know I write to process, to navigate the unknown and become clear.

It’s how I face myself.
It’s how I face the truth.
It’s how I’m facing you.

My words are all I have to give you.


It seems only fair to let you know that the stories I’ve written in my life are changing.
The plot.
The patterns.
The characters.


Stepping back, I see the similarities.

In each of you, I see the intricate ways you intersect in my heart with common themes of inconsistency, unavailability, and dishonesty all woven together with patches of vibrant beauty and moments of tender sincerity. None of it black and white.

It’s an artful, literary display of lessons spread across faces, across years.

Each of you etched upon my skin a powerful, repetitive myth.

One I am done with.


My whole being aches for a new story.

It is time to feel the steady pulse of my worth.

I am ready to consciously dream new patterns into creation.

I will weave words of golden flowers along my spine.

I will spin all your patchwork lessons into a delicate crown and place it upon my head.

In this story, I choose nothing less than love.

In this story, I choose me.


If you’re brave, come sit with me.

Feel my warm palms against your cheeks.

Hear me say that I love your wild, red flamed spirit; your blue throated wisdom; your radiant sun of a soul. This is how I saw you: the real you, your true essence.

Now, too, I see the tempered version of this you choose to be … and the dulled version I chose to be with you.

Feel my hands slowly leave your face.

Be well. Be happy. I wish for you all that you need.

…It’s time for me to go.

I have a new story to write.