An on-going narrative.
As a child, I was drawn to the mysteries of my sensory experience, and to the mystical feelings which ran deeper.
Rolling a snowball larger than myself, I carved a tunnel into its center and was transfixed by the sunlight interacting with the crystals of ice. The deeper feeling was a sense of that hollow, hallowed, inner space glowing with light.
The Catholic Mass, recited in Latin by a priest in robes, the wafting of incense smoke, the chalice pulled from the tabernacle at the alter, the transubstantiation of the Eucharist and wine into the body and blood of Christ, all spoke of something un-named in my inner world.
I did not realize until much later in life how set apart I was by the tendency of those on the autism spectrum to live in their own world.
Nor did I have a word for my hyper-sensitivity towards common, normal human noises such as eating, drinking, crinkling wrappers, and whistling, which triggered an automatic reaction of disgust, revulsion, emotional anguish and pain. As far as I knew, I was utterly unique in this regard.
In my thirties and forties, I made concerted effort to get to the root of the issue which was playing so much havoc with my life. I went to more than thirty practitioners of conventional and alternative medicine, and none of them had a clue.
It was not until I was in my sixties that I learned of the word recently coined by the professional world to give a name to what is now termed a neurological disorder - misophonia. I sometimes call it an interesting anomaly, and it certainly has been a primary shaping factor in my life, especially in relationships.
Both autism and misophonia have guided me to live in my own world, where I developed ways of seeing things that are not generally found in the mainstream.
In my teens, the anguish turned to seething anger, and my attraction to the mystical turned into a quest to know God and the 'highest truth.'