I had no one to talk to. This actually was nothing new, I had always been a strange child without any close friends, but in combination with the cultural and social isolation, it was even getting to me. It must have been even harder for my very sociable sisters. I had a lot of questions, ideas, areas of interest that wanted exploring, and we didn't even have access to a library except on the rarest of occasions. Of course, the animals were there, and I talked to them as if they were people, because to me, they were just as interesting, maybe more so.

I didn't know at the time that I had Asperger's syndrome, and neither did my family. My mom chattered on about what an odd toddler I'd been, how I wouldn't wear clothes, how I only walked on my tiptoes, how I was inconsolable without my favorite blanket, forcing her to make the long trip back home for it if she forgot to bring it with to the daycare. They criticized my countless aberrant behaviors and eccentricities, mocking me openly even in front of company (we occasionally had other very religious people over to visit on Sabbaths). They said that my inability to conform and be just like everyone else was evidence of a rebellious spirit, and many hours were spent praying for me and trying to cast out the spirit of rebellion from me. So I stayed to myself, stayed up late at night until 1-2 in the morning and slept in late, escaping from them into my dreams where anything could happen, where I was free. I slunk off into the woods, or up in a tree, or behind a big stump with one of the dogs or cats. I spent a lot of time drawing, mapping out diagrams of my ideas, or just thinking on paper, doodling stuff in order to generate more ideas. Someone had given us a few Discover magazines, and I read them over and over, trying desperately to understand them even though much of it was over my head due to a gap in education. I talked out loud to myself, argued out loud with mysef, played mental videos of things that had occurred before (I had and have a photographic memory) and laughed out loud at some things, or groaned with chagrin at embarrassments, sometimes hitting myself on the head. My hands fidgeted constantly; tapping on hard surfaces to the rhythym of a classical piece playing in my head, or worrying some object to tatters, flinging a yo-yo...at one time I was even attempting to polish a piece of obsidian by hand and simply carried it around with me, rubbing the surface with another piece of stone. My mind was (and is) just as restless: I'd pick a word, such as "pink", and take the "ink" off of it. Then I'd go through the alphabet and try to match it up to each letter in turn to make words (dink, fink, kink, link, mink, pink, rink, sink, tink). The more words there were the better. If the results were unsatisfactory, I'd go through the letters again, allowing words such as blink, brink, and clink. This is only an example, I had lots of similar exercises to play with. I frequently employed them when we were forced to sit for hours listening to Denis pontificate on some hopelessly redundant or overbearing subject, or while Mom prayed out loud for a whole hour. Sometimes they stood me in the corner. I didn't mind, because the wood paneling made lots of neat apptterns for me to find animals and other shapes and ideas.

I paid very little attention to the weather or to my own appearance. I liked the weather whatever it was (especially rain) and since I lived in my head most of the time, I often forgot that I had a body. I knew intellectually that I had a body, but I didn't particularly identify myself with it. For example, they once forbade me to go on my daily walk. I was accustomed to walking, running, and climbing several miles a day, and I felt quite suffocated at this restriction. So, I locked my bedroom door, tied a heavy nylon rope to my bed frame, and threw it over the sill of my 2nd story window. I threw my backpack to the ground, as well as my leather gloves (I didn't know it yet, but throwing the gloves down was a huge mistake). I had visions of cascading slowly and gracefully to the ground as the lady in the James Bond movie "Octopussy" had done. However, when I clambered out the window and put my weight to the rope, I was on the ground within half a second and a resounding thump on the soles of my feet. It was a little scary. Worse, all the skin of my palms had been peeled off by the rough surface of the rope. My hand were raw. I shrugged, put the gloves on, and set off on the walk. The hands didn't bother me again until after I came home and got scolded. I simply forgot I had them except when I paid attention to them.

Perhaps one can see why they decided to start calling me "stupid", "retarded", and many other names indicating a lack of identity with me. I was strange. I did strange things. I asked odd questions. I forgot to brush my hair or to change my clothes. I went out in the pouring rain and came in soaked through with a beaming smile on my face, dripping water and leaving muddy tracks. I sat alone on the porch holding one sided conversations with animals or with nobody at all, because there was nobody I felt close to.