Eighth Dimension: #66 Colours

Had a sad little realisation the other night, I've noticed that colours don't seem so bright anymore. I remember my chlidhood spending hours in gardens and looking at everything wide-eyed, taking in every mark and detail I could see. I admired every flower, turned over every rock and ran across every lawn, everything was brightly coloured, fresh and new.

So what changed? I used to write poetry and stories for hours at a time with crisp description and sheer volumes of text with colloquial ease. Perhaps it is just the winter, but I can no longer just admire the scenery with an innate calm anymore, I look outside and feel closed in, cut off from all I used to interact with. I have grown jaded and any semblence of innocent admiration has been replaced with a coarse examination of my surroundings.

Only recently have I started to feel comfortable with where I am and who I am with, yet I still can't summon up the ability to relax into easier times. I still watch every move I make, every social encounter with such care and curtailing myself with a precision akin to the most biting of remarks or the analysis of a confident psychiatrist.

I miss the days where I was struck by lackadaisical creativity and thoughtful energy that the very air seemed to be my playground. I was fond of employing lesser known literary techniques and weaving symbolism into the smallest of notes and tales, even into the most formal writings I produced always had an air of fancy about them, almost a bounce to the writing. Yet instead of thinking in freedom and opportunity I have inverted to thinking of limitations and boundaries that I sometimes ponder what I have lost about myself.

Perhaps it was a sudden realisation as a child that I was no longer free. The constant jibes and instruction pushed me forever into watching what I said or did, from correcting a teachers' mistakes to voicing unusual opinions such as on the maltreatment of trees in the school grounds. I started losing my physical freedom around the age of seven, but can't help but feel my intellectual freedom started being nipped at around the same time. I was visiting the hospital regularly both for physical ailments and a psychologist who would prod at my thoughts and mannerisms like an intriguing yet ultimately unappetising side-dish on an otherwise flawless main course. Once diagnosed with Aspergers Syndrome it simply got worse. Not only would I be going to hospitals every month in a vain attempt to get me to understand how and why I'm different, but they arranged 'help' to come to schools to tell me how I was supposed to act and think.

Contrary to what some might expect, I was hardly a problem child, I would sit and read for hours upon hours. I was told to stop, normal children went outside to play games and sports. I had to give up sports because of my health, I was told to stay inside and read while the other children were sent out and not allowed to come in and talk to me. I was told to stop using long words and putting too much effort into work, because the other children would taunt me for being clever. I was told to focus on expressing my ideas on practical matters, as I would need help with those instead. I even lost my singing voice. I have been whittled away over the years by sets upon sets of contradictory advice and orders, horrified by looking back and seeing how much I've really lost. I can (grudgingly) handle the loss of physical ability and denial of things that once I enjoyed doing (dance, sport, even walks in the forest) but realising I can no longer see the beauty I once saw and can no longer voice myself in my truest manner stings a hell of a lot more.