I read my therapist a segment of a book review that described how a nine-year-old Aspergic had constantly baited his therapist. This matched something that had happened between T and me. In fact, I told her I needed her to be angry with me. In those days, anger was by far my strongest emotion, and I felt that wasn’t taking me seriously if she didn’t respond in kind. Anyway, she did get angry with me and I took that as evidence that she did care and I was getting through to her.

I brought this up because it reinforced my desire to tackle my Asperger’s head on. I told T I want to see an Asperger’s specialist. She asked why. I said a specialist might have an insight into how I’m feeling, and maybe he could throw light on things she couldn’t see. I also imagined that he might have a more structured approach

“You’ve shown me a lot of things I couldn’t see, things I didn’t even believe could exist. But I don’t think you entirely understand me. I don’t think you understand just how unnatural the process is for me.”

She hinted that it is unnatural for everyone, but I still feel – rightly or wrongly – that it is especially difficult for me to come to grips with the wandering, aimless nature of psychotherapy.
I told her, “I have found love and support and friendship on this planet, but I am still an alien. I live in a world created by and for people who are not like me.” And I cried. “I have a fantasy that there is a place that was made for me. And I want to look for it.”

She said, “I give you my blessing. But I want to hear how it goes.”

It was at that point that I told her I wanted to keep seeing her as well. I don’t know how the time and money will work out, but we’ll work that out later.