Archive for Monologues

So I’m Not the Only One…Really?

Every time I think I’m the only one who has ever said, thought, done, or experienced something odd, I find another Aspie who describes the experience precisely. In the past few weeks, a couple of commenters to this blog have described things that I’d never thought another living soul had ever experienced. I’ll share their comments, in the hopes that others might discover that they are not the only ones, either.

1. In her response to my Like a Deer Caught in the Headlights post, Soph wrote about the experience of being talked at and overwhelmed:

“On one recent occasion I literally did feel as if my brains had been scooped out and this person’s thoughts were all I had in my head. It actually was like brainwashing.”

I couldn’t believe it. She had described exactly how I felt every time I talked to my mother. My mother was quite a relentless talker, and she would talk over, under, around, and through me. It left me feeling like an empty shell holding only her thoughts and feelings. It took many years of recovery and empowerment work to be able to hear my own inner voice.

Even now, I find that when I’m around people who are relentless talkers, who won’t let me get a word in edgewise, or who won’t respond directly to anything I’ve said, I feel just plain lost. It’s like I just go away. Even though I may seem like I’m doing okay, my brain and all my senses are on total and complete overload.

Last week, I had another experience with someone talking at me. I am happy to report that this time, I just got up and walked away. Just like that! I finally realized that I had a very simple choice: I could protect the other person’s feelings, or I could protect my own very sensitive neurological system. I chose wisely.

2. In her response to my post about my second OT visit, Linda wrote about having a sensation of falling when going to sleep at night:

“I sucked two fingers at night until I was fourteen because the stimulation helped balance my system so that I didn’t have strange floating, falling and tipping sensations.”

This comment really knocked me out. As an adult, I have sometimes had the sensation of falling down when I’m falling asleep. I’ll be drifting off to sleep, and then I feel as though I’ve slipped backwards going down a stair or walking off a curb. It feels as though my legs have gone out from under me. I feel weightless, and then, I feel like I’ve hit the ground. I always wake up very startled by this sensation, and I nearly always let out a shout.

I’ve always wondered what this experience is about. I emailed my OT about it, and she said that she had heard similar stories. She didn’t have an immediate answer as to why I would have this experience, but she said she’d ponder some possible explanations. I’m wondering whether it has something to do with my gravitational insecurity. I have an appointment this week, and I’m looking forward to hearing what she has to say.

If you feel so inclined, let me know whether you’ve had experiences similar to the ones I’ve described. It’s been a very great relief to me to know that I’m not the only one.

© 2009 by Rachel Cohen-Rottenberg

Like a Deer Caught in the Headlights

Does this ever happen to you?

You’re outside, enjoying your day, puttering in your garden, or taking a walk, and then someone comes along and decides to tell you, in exquisite detail, all about his or her entire marital history, job history, or experience as a small-town government official. The topic doesn’t matter. It’s the sheer amount of time it goes on. And on. And on.

And the person doesn’t tell you the story once. Oh, no. That would be too simple. The person tells you the same thing, over and over and over. More than you need to know. Way more. Way, way more.

I never know what to do at times like these. I just stand there, hoping the person will be quiet soon. I am so afraid of being rude that I don’t dare move.

In these moments, I know that I’m looking at one of the following: a fellow diagnosed Aspie (in which case, the person may not mind being told when to stop); an undiagnosed Aspie (in which case, the person may be anxious about going on for so long, but doesn’t know when to stop); or a self-absorbed NT (in which case I start to feel a little pissed off).

A version of this scenario happened to me yesterday. I really like the person, but I was completely overloaded by the time I managed to extricate myself. I kept trying to give little hints, but they didn’t work. And of course, the more overloaded I got, the fewer hints I could toss out.

I’ve been in this place before. Many, many times. Perhaps I’m not putting out the right signals to let the person know to wrap it up. Or perhaps the person sees that I’m somewhat defenseless against these monologues and decides to take advantage. Yesterday, I don’t think that the person was taking advantage. He’s a good guy. He just didn’t know when to stop. Maybe he was waiting for me to tell him?

Of course, the hardest part is that I’ve also been the person doing the endless talking, telling the same story multiple times, and not knowing when to give it a rest. (Yes, I’ve been that person. So many times, you shouldn’t know.) Perhaps that’s why I don’t interrupt and say that I need to go to the bathroom, or chop wood, or catch my plane to Iceland. I figure that either I’m getting an object lesson in keeping it short, or I’m burning karma for all the times I didn’t.

In any case, I have to learn some self-defense and retreat strategies when these types of things happen. Today has been a failure-to-launch day from beginning to end. I’ve barely been out of the house. It’s partly that I’m exhausted by yesterday’s monologue, and partly that I’m dismayed to find myself filling the role of endless listener yet again.

Does anyone have any words of wisdom about how to disengage from this sort of thing? Like I said, I’m so afraid to be rude that I just get paralyzed.

© 2009 by Rachel Cohen-Rottenberg