slinging the bullshit

Page Three

I’ve read that many of us with Asperger’s have about us — no matter how high our intelligence — a certain naïvté, to say it politely; a gullibility, to say it less so. We take people’s verbal words to us very literally, and we believe those words. This has certainly always been true of me. In the weeks leading up to moving into landlady’s newly purchased rental property, and in the first month or two of being there, landlady spewed from her mendacious mouth many things that I believed. Scales slowly, slowly falling from my eyes did not begin in earnest until we were planted on her property with no place else to go. The miracle of having had my family kept with me, kept together, slowly, one blotch at a time, began to develop little black holes of rot. By the time two years had passed, there was nothing but rot.

Here are a few of the cowflaps she threw me in those early times, which I in my Aspergian gullibility believed, and looked forward to:

           1. she and I, both estranged from our human families, would have each other to spend holidays with

           2. she would take me to see my father’s grave, who at that time had been gone for five years

           3. I would give her cooking lessons, and paint a mural or two for her

           4. the broken windows and toilet, etc, in my apartment would be fixed

           5. we would together clear out a wild section of the property to be made into a little sort of park for her clients to use

           6. my animals and I would have at least five years in that apartment. when the time came that she wanted to move her business into the rental house, an apartment for me and my animals would be built onto the side of the house. we would have “a permanent, stable” place to live.

Those are the highlights. And I believed them, every one. And looked forward to them. And not one iota of it ever happened, or was ever going to. When I’d been in her building and having a so-called friendship with her for about a month, I began to see how many lies she told in the course of an average day. Lies to her clients, to her staff, to the other tenants. And finally the light began to filter through the haze of my Aspergian gullibility: She’s a compulsive liar. She lies to everyone else, so, ipso facto, she lies to me too. And she will continue to do so. Now what. Well, that comes later in the story.

Many people over the last three years have speculated with me as to why she rescued me and my animals in the first place. We’ve all agreed that she has this Messiah-thing going on, that it swells her ego to see herself as savior. But several people have suggested to me that this deeply disturbed person bought a house and put me and my animals into it so that she could control us and own us. This was a thought I had had many times myself during my final three years as her tenant. But why, I still want to know, would it have been important to this psychotic yuppie to own and control a low-income woman and her innocent animals? The sheer love of the power? That’s the only reason I can come up with. A few people have said that envy may have been a factor too. That she envied my writing ability, and my limited artistic ability. And it’s true that while we were “friends” she did confide to me a desire to develop her interests in art and writing. She cannot draw (I’ve seen samples), she cannot write (ditto; very small samples). Maybe in her truly delusional mind she believed that by owning me, she could absorb by osmosis what she saw as my talents. Talents she desired for herself. It’s certainly a possibility.

Whatever sick internal forces drove her to save me and my animals, there was no kindness there. There was no compassion. There was no sincere wish to see me and my animals safe and secure. There was no doing good for its own sake: she expected things in return. Since I have no money, the repayment she expected was to be taken out of my heart, out of my dignity, out of my self. Over time I would realize that what was expected of me was way beyond gratitude. Slavish devotion was what was expected, and suffering with a closed mouth, and other mean-spirited and unreasonable prices to be paid for her great financial sacrifice. But at the time that she decided to buy the property and put us there, I had been shocked, as I’ve said. I asked her several times if she could handle it, as I’ve said. And I was assured that she could, and that she should buy this property, as I’ve said.

If  you’ve never known someone with this level of mental disturbance, then you’re very lucky. I bitterly report that this landlady was neither the first nor the last very twisted person to be in my life. But she was the one who set in motion the destruction of my life, knowing full well that that’s what she was doing, and sadistically enjoying the task. And if you think I never saw that sadistic joy in her face or heard it in her voice and words, then please think again.

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