Introducing Crystal Marie, Deeper - New blog on Substack

 

This is the year, I am finally committing to my writing practice in earnest. Determined to finally write that next book and give myself the accountability I need to put in the time needed for that to happen, I've opened a blog on Substack - a reader supported platform for writers. The following is a portion of my about page there. 

Follow the link below for more. I do hope you'll consider joining me there. 

Crystal Marie, Deeper

Many an artist’s bio begins with a similar tale of knowing they were an artist from the time they were old enough to hold a crayon. The truth for me was that I had always been a writer. As an awkward, shy girl, in the 70s, I beamed when my story was selected to be read in front of the entire 3rd grade class. It happened again in high school, and then again in the one year I managed to go to college.

My first blog was called Other People’s Flowers, based on an obscure quote I stumbled on in a book of collectable ephemera, by the 16th century French philosopher, Michel de Montaigne:

"I have gathered here an offering of other people's flowers, bringing to them of my own only a thread to bind them with."

I wrote my first blog post there in 2006. It began as a place to share my work as a collage artist and connect with other artists at a time when Facebook was only for college students, and Instagram wasn’t a thing. I quickly learned that connecting to the deeper meaning in my work was as important to me as creating the work of art itself.

That blog became the place that I could be vulnerable and authentic in a way that life had never afforded me before. The more I wrote, the more I discovered about myself. The more I discovered, the more I wanted to know.

Fast forward to today, many years of therapy and healing from childhood trauma under my belt, newly diagnosed as autistic, an explanation for that awkward, often silent and scared- not shy, girl that I was. An explanation for the way that words will roll across my tongue demanding that I speak them. A reason for the melody that I hear when I write. So often dissatisfied if I can’t place them just right on the page.

Here, on this blog, I’ve named Crystal Marie, Deeper, I honor the girl who so often retreated to the closet under the stairs, book and flashlight in hand, to explore mystical, magical worlds in far away lands, as words danced across the page for her.

Speak

 

Speak. And when shame rears its ugly head and tells you to be silent, SPEAK LOUDER. 

I'm not insecure

 

After all these years of beating myself up for not being able to overcome my self-consciousness, I find that I'm not really an insecure person who can't get past herself, I am autistic. The times I'd stress and spiral over social interactions, and micro-analyze casual conversations were sensory overload and processing disorders. I couldn't talk therapy my way out of my looping thinking patterns and self-defeating thoughts no matter how hard I tried. It wasn't a character flaw or a lack of will power and certainly not a lack of faith, as my long time counselor implied. It is simply a matter of having a different kind of brain. What a relief it has been to discover this. Suddenly there is a wide open field in front of me after years of clinging to a craggy narrow path. 

There is a common misconception about autistic people, that we lack emotion or empathy. That we are not social or engaged in the relational aspects of life. So much of the research has centered on a specific demographic with specific outward traits, that girls from my generation and with my compliant and quiet personality, just did not fit the profile. And as the way of the world is still very centered around the patriarchal views, even as the science evolves, the mainstream misconceptions remain. 

The truth is we are highly emotional and empathetic. Many people who self-identify as empath's are likely undiagnosed spectrumy people, trying to make sense of why they feel everything so deeply, and see details other people often overlook. 

There is no filter. 

We feel it all and have trouble regulating our emotions. I am a crier and a laugher mostly. Many of my smiles are forced and many days I can't remember how to train my mouth into a grin when a camera is pointed my way, but my laughter is genuine. I love to crack jokes and love to hang out with my friends. The higher energy involved sends me crashing under the covers afterwards, but it isn't because I'm shy or simply introverted. It's because the energy required to be out in the world, when there is no filter to keep from absorbing it all, is physically exhausting. 

Yesterday was an annual visit to my doctor. I really would benefit from seeing her a lot more frequently, but her practice is private and the appointments are expensive out-of-pocket and out-of-network, so I limp along throughout the year until she makes me come in for bloodwork to get more refills on my prescriptions. 

This year, with the new diagnosis in hand, I discussed my chronic illness packaging with an enlightenment that has been missing my entire adult life. The connection between Autism and the health issues I have is strong. The generic "connective tissue disorder" and diagnosis of Lupus only covered some of the symptoms. The newest diagnosis of Mast Cell Disease and Mastocytosis, covered a bit more. The knowing of the one thing, has lead to the discovery that the likely umbrella for what I experience physically is EDS - Ehlers Danlos Syndrome. All of the myriad unexplained and seemingly unrelated symptoms, the way they've increased in severity over the years, all of it fits this newest diagnosis. Another piece of the mystery is solved. 

Many patients with EDS take a medication known as LDN and we discussed the possibility of me giving it another try, since I hadn't given it a fair shake when I tried it for Lupus many years ago. The doctor mentioned the potential for vivid dreams and suddenly I find myself laughing with her about the vivid sci-fi like dream I did have when I tried taking this med before. 

I was lying on a bed in a room on the second floor of a house. Nothing was familiar, but I knew my family was downstairs, as if we lived there. Staring up at the ceiling, I felt a dizzy sensation and realized the ceiling was moving, but it wasn't a ceiling at all. It suddenly dawned on me that there was no roof on the house and I was staring at the underbelly of a slow moving spacecraft. Like, Star Trek level, intricate looking machinery that was vast, and a mere inches above the house. 

As I watched the thing above me, I was keenly aware of how conspicuous and vulnerable I was. I remember thinking that I hoped "they" didn't see me. I wasn't afraid, but I didn't want to be seen and I didn't know why. I had no idea who they were or what was happening. 

Recalling that dream, those words in my own thoughts leapt out at me "I felt conspicuous, vulnerable, and didn't want to be seen." This was what life has been like not knowing I was Autistic! A trip to the grocery store on a particularly hard day came to mind. It wasn't anything happening in my life that made it hard, it was the loud volume of the music over the speakers, the glaring overhead lights, the crowds, the feeling of not finding what I needed, and every single last person that I walked past sent me into spirals of self conscious looping. 

Do I smile? Say excuse me for standing in the spot someone else wanted to be? Smile. Don't smile. Be polite. Say hello. Look friendly. Don't speak! OHMYGOD! That sounded stupid! Don't look! You looked rude! You look weird! You are making a big deal out of nothing!

I felt conspicuous, vulnerable, and didn't want to be seen. 

Recounting this hard day to my therapist later on, not yet knowing the truth, she cocked her head and simply said, "life is not supposed to be that difficult". 

Indeed. 

Knowing the truth about my brain and my physical health is everything. Knowing may not change everything around me, but it changes something pretty profound within me. 

I am not insecure. I am hyper-sensitive, I am unable to filter. I have a sensory processing disorder. Now I know on hard days that I can simply duck my head, put on a pair of headphones and keep to myself. 

I am not flawed. I am a beautiful empathetic human being. 

I Grieve

Listening to podcasts all afternoon as I packed paper packs in the studio yesterday, it hit me that I grieve the end of my marriage the same way I grieved my father's passing. Not for the loss of the relationship I had, but for the loss of a relationship that never existed. The loss of hope that it ever would be. 

I did not mourn for the father I had, I mourned for the father relationship I never knew. A healthy love from a healthy man who could love me unconditionally and with the nurturing a little girl needed. 

I do not mourn the loss of this marriage that is finally coming to an end. I mourn the knowing that, at 56 years old, I've never known real "romantic" love. Always my relationships have been an act of desperation. Connecting with someone to fill a void. Always that someone has been glad to prey on my desperation. Always I've lived in the illusion of it. Always, I've wrestled with my own demons. 

Tried to purge my own personhood. Contorted. Distorted. 

It has been nearly three years since we separated - over a year since the paperwork was filed in court. As the final (please for the love of god, let it be the final) court date draws near, the memories unfold in my mind. Scene after scene of emotional abuse and my unyielding hope that I could find just the right combination to make it work. 

To somehow prove to myself and the world that I was worthy of it. His love. Knowing full well, and yet somehow blocking it from my mind, that he was a clinically diagnosed narcissist, incapable of giving or receiving anything resembling it. Chasing my own tail.

In the past three years, I've found that combination I sought in order to be loved. It never had anything to do with him. 

For all those years it took me to finally see my own worth and love my own self--I grieve. 

Wound Care

Writing my stories, even in this relatively obscure way, where I know that maybe a few dozen people will happen upon these posts and read them now that this is no longer the hub of my creative life and teaching schedule, comes with no small amount of internal backlash once I hit the button to publish. 

A part of me is off and running, forming new posts, pulling out other long buried memories. Ready to write it all out of my system. But the other part of me, maybe the wiser old crone inside of me even, is cautioning to take a slower approach. 

These are wounds that I am opening, revealing, allowing to be exposed to the air and other peoples scrutiny for the first time in decades. They have not healed properly under cover of darkness. The exposure is painful and requires new dressing, salve to ease the inflammation, rest. 

Wound care.