White Wasn't White...

My Aunt can't smell. Not a thing... That means she also can't taste. One is impossibly linked to the other.... In the middle of winter a few years ago she slipped on a patch of ice and hit her head...She made a full recovery, except for one (well, two) things. Imagine that, you know that the fire is there, you can see it burning, but you can't smell the smoke.

That is what it's like to have Asperger's sometimes. You know what people are telling you, you see what they are doing, but you question everything. I feel like I have a certain amount of intuition, but it's more of an emotional sixth sense. I used to attribute it to the fact that I grew up in an extremely abusive household, I was walking on eggshells all the time because I never knew what kind of mood my mother or stepfather were going to be in, so I learned to decipher the air. I could feel the tension, or the ease. It could also happen the other way around, though.

There was a beautiful, clear day and I was sitting cross-legged on my bed. I may have been ten or eleven. I had a hand-me-down white eyelet bedspread that I just loved, and my bed was made just so. The world, MY world, was at peace for a second. Just then my stepfather flew into my room, smacked me open handed across the face and exited as quickly as he had entered. I didn't even have time to exhale before the blood started to run from my nose onto my gorgeous, white bedspread. There was never an explanation for the smack and I ended up having to dye the white to black. I never let me guard down again after that. Peace wasn't peace...White wasn't white.