I’m a problem-solver, a twisted problem-solver

Which is better in a way than being a firestarter. Though, in my own, way I start fires every damn day.

No, this is a topic that has only really come to make sense to me, in a broad kind of way., lately. I do not consider myself a problem-solver in a typically autistic way… Science and numbers are beyond me, as are puzzles like crosswords, Sudoku and Rubik’s Cube etc.

Instead, I can examine the pattern of my life – and analyse my own perspective – and see that it is all based, fundamentally, on trying to solve a problem. It explains so much of my past, and why I encourage others around me to just.. Give something a go. Because you just keep.. Trying. Whatever it takes, y’know… To solve the problem.

And I like it. On reflection, it has been misconstrued as resilience, or optimism, when in truth, I am an infinite, crushing mess inside. But still I like it. It is perhaps one thing about myself, and my journey, that I can say I am proud of and I like. I wonder if it is the case that others give up more easily in the face of things, but I – in my determination to solve the problem – keep plodding on and trying something else…

I wonder if that is my general fascination with people… That I don’t understand them and they are a constantly-evolving problem to try and solve…

Interesting…

Jane and George went to the supermarket.

George spotted a packet of biscuits that he fancied. They weren’t on the list, but he felt he deserved a treat so put them in the basket. That night, George opened the biscuits and had a few. They were very nice and he enjoyed them. He looked forward to returning to them another day.

Some days later, he went for the biscuits after dinner. There were half as many now as when he last had them. Confused, he asked Jane if she’d eaten any of them. Jane said she had. Jane said she thought they were for both of them.

George was very irate and spent almost half an hour telling Jane, in a very upset voice, that the biscuits were his. George explained that, in the supermarket, Jane had shown no interest in the biscuits and did not indicate that she would ever want some. George also tried to explain that he had chosen them and put them in the basket thus meaning they were, obviously, his.

Jane said it was fine, she would never eat biscuits ever again, and asked him if he was happy now.

Up, Down, Fuck You Up

For some time this is genuinely what I thought Mark Ronson and Bruno Mars were on about in their song, but no.

Instead, I’ve decided it’s an accurate portrayal of my day. Especially because I am now in a funk from which I have no idea how to recover. Every word or action from my boyfriend has exacerbated it and I have now alienated him for the evening too.

Not ideal when I need him to reach out to me and fix this.

Not ideal when I blame him almost entirely for triggering this mood, but he still can’t understand why.

As such we’re sat in silence; I at the table, he slumped on the couch like a sad, pathetic shadow. Whatever his deficiencies, I know I am responsible for driving him to this state, just as he is responsible for mine.

Some would say we’re probably not meant to be…