Unlike most men, I do like shopping. Unfortunately, I’m not very good at it. Aside from the stress and fatigue it can cause, I’m often faced with indecision and insecurity.

Yesterday’s project was shoes. I’d prepared myself and looked online for examples I liked, and I’d even stooped to asking my ex girlfriend for her professional opinion. She’s in fashion, and she knows very well what would be suitable for a man my age.

I had set my mind on a pair of chukka boots, preferably dark brown, leather, simple. I did find some decent models from the start but they were either unavailable in my size or simply didn’t feel right.

Then I found a pair that was perfect. These boots were gorgeous. The male equivalent of fuck me pumps. Masculine, elegant, full of character. They were 25% above my intended maximum budget margin, but they were 100% worth it. They looked great, and I looked great in them.

Then the shoes ate me.

It was a metaphysical experience. I shrank, then disappeared. These shoes were too big for me, not in a literal sense, but metaphorically. I realized that while this would be a sensible purchase, I’m not in a position in life, or a in a state of mind, where I could wear these.

What would I need fuck me boots for? I have no life. I have no one to impress, nowhere to go. The elegance and self-assuredness of these shoes would be a fake, entirely out of sync with who I currently am or where I stand.

This was a very unnerving and disheartening feeling. It depressed me utterly and I felt drained and desperate. I couldn’t bring myself to look for alternatives and went back to the clinic. I’ll wear my sneakers and thicker socks. Rejoin the shuffling hordes and keep a fitting low profile.

I’m at the bottom here, and killer shoes don’t change that. Maybe in another life, like the one I nearly had but missed, maybe I’ll get onto it and boots like these will fit me.

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Looking at my OpenID again, and being frustrated again by how not open it feels, or at least not independent. I have one with myopenid.com and chi.mp but both are privately held businesses and both are American.

I’m not against services being US-based, and face it, it’s where the internet came from, where it’s at (*) but geopolitics are what they are, and local politics <cough>SOPA</cough> aren’t the most stable either.

The Open ID Foundation seems more, well, open. It’s not a .com and it’s governed by a board made up of independents as well as corporate representatives. But it’s also sponsored by Google, Yahoo! and PayPal (in my thinking a despicable player ever since the Wikileaks issue).

Even so, it doesn’t even offer openIDs as such.

Accounts with Google, Yahoo! or MySpace (WTF?) are openIDs by default, but the point would be, for me, to not depend on corporations like them (even though I still see Google as not malicious per se).

Apparently, you can roll your own openID on your server. Good, I have a local, independent registrar and a liberal, sustainable host (100% hydropowered, not bought through emissions trading).

I suppose, on the internet, contrary to its foundations and intentions, you’re never really free. But you aren’t in society either. It remains a struggle.

(*) Yes I’m aware of the origins of the internet and the world wide web

Every year I like to attend the Remembrance ceremony. This year I had to “make do” with the local one at the place I’m staying. Not that it matters.

I think I like to go because my granddad fought in the trenches as a young boy. He got gassed, was moved to the infirmary and was “visited by the king” — in fact the king was nearby, at a safe distance from any action.

My granddad was also a communist. His dad had been active in the formation of the Workers’ Party. They both refused their medals.

I never met either, but I think those dudes are awesome and deserve being remembered.

Fuck war and fuck imperialism. Fuck religion and old regimes. Long time anyone fought for something of real value.

Had to appear in court last Monday. Ironically, it was a dispute about hospital bills regarding my previous admission to the psych ward two years ago. You know, the one they kept me four months, failed to spot my autism, and discharged me without much of any follow-up therapy or support.

In any case, the wait was long, the actual proceedings quick. A settlement had already been arranged. The judge asked if I had anything to add and I said no. She asked if I was going to accept the settlement and I said yes. That was that. A speedy trial, if I have le mot juste.

Interesting to see though, the Proceedings of the Law and the Courts of Justice. But even though the building is a cool 2005 Richard Rogers creation, the actual hearings are still tedious. I’d never want to be a judge like that: no formal announcements of O Yay, O Yay, or Honorable Lords Presiding, no pomp or circumstance, no elaborate bowing or approaching of the bench.

Last time I had to do with the court was when I was screwing a lawyer. She begged for a recess. Hope next time will be more of that, less of stuffy bailiffs shuffling old paper.

Hadn’t been out for quite a while, and honestly not much has changed. I still feel uneasy in crowds, uncomfortable with loud music and chatter, and get bored quickly. One thing has changed, the unrest that drove me to extremes and long bitter nights on the tiles. Today I’m comfortably numb and at ease. Nice day to watch some trashy sci-fi.

Running into people from ages ago is like opening a scrapbook you can’t remember you kept or why.

Most remarkable in this case is how they really badly ROTFL sad seem frozen in time. Late 30s, early 40s retro bourgeois rocking Young Guns Wham. And me, I drift in the cloud feeling Hype Machine isn’t quite up to par anymore.

The past means nothing to me. It is the past. It exists only in memory, and later not even that. And today is just today, the waiting room days soon to be forgotten.

I’m in crisis again. Is this still a just pic upload? Maybe I should really put everything on my journal.

Went to pick up a laptop (netbook actually, Acer Aspire One SSD) from some nice, geeky, expat couple who lived across from the park. It still looked glorious in the early November light.

Thursday I went to this center for autism therapy. Not the first time I looked for psychosocial help, but the first since my diagnosis.

There’s only one thing I can say: it’s not going to be that one. Too direct, too tight through the corners, too superficial. Might have worked three years ago, when I had support and foundations — a job, a relationship, a goal. And who knows, it might work in three years.

Now I need more fundamental help, not tips and tricks. On Maslov’s pyramid I’m far away from personal and emotional development. Today I need safety and guidance. With admin and money and housing (my move is three months away).

I need somewhere that offers me the same sense of security I’ve had so far. People I can vent to, ask what to do, trust. Also: people who’ll set goals and deadlines for me.

Next week or so I’ll be seeing someone else who’s going to try and find a spot for me. High hopes.

Sure, life’s easier no doubt, if you can walk, talk and think. But it sort of implies I don’t have “real” autism, but some kind of vague disorder that doesn’t really hurt, and lets me be just like anyone else. I’m 41 now, and I can tell you looking back: I haven’t been able to function one bit, at all, ever.

My life’s a mess. I suck at people skills, relationships never last, jobs always become hell. And those are the “big issues”. I also redo my laces dozens of times a day because I can’t stand it if one is tied more loosely than the other. Leaving the house takes three hours because I’m constantly distracted. My paperwork is months behind because I keep organizing and reorganizing instead of getting something done.

And so on. And so on.

Much more correct would be that my illness affects only my functional skills. And to me, because I seem normal, that’s as big a handicap as the other issues are to someone with core autism.

Calling one end of the spectrum “high-functioning” and the other “severe” ignores the fact that it’s a debilitating condition in any case. It makes it look like one is worse than the other, or even that there’s good and bad autism.

It’s called a spectrum for a reason, and wherever you find yourself within that range, you suffer because of it.

PS And yes, you’ll be reading more about this now, but no, I’m not turning this into an “autism blog”.

“You must be relieved, now that you know?” is what I hear.

What I know, is that I have Autism Spectrum Disorder or ASD. Together with no less than 0.6 percent of the population. W00t! I finally belong to a club.

But no, I wouldn’t call it a relief. It doesn’t relieve me of anything. To the contrary: it burdens me with more anxiety, grief, remorse, doubt and uncertainty than I’ve ever known.

I would call it… good? It’s good that I know. Because now, maybe, things can change. Change for the better. Change because I want to. Change with intent and preparation.

Not change that jumps out at me from nowhere and paralyzes me and fucks up my world and my hopes and my life.

Not that it’s gonna be easy. It’s gonna suck.

But, now I’m 99.99 percent sure I’m what 0.6 percent of the world is: bearer of a neurological brain dysfunction.

Those are good, clear numbers. I could work with that.