A Worst Case Scenario
Art, Death, and Asperger's
by
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Tragic, humorous, and strange, a Baltimore artist struggles with grief, depression, undiagnosed Asperger's syndrome, and dreams of the past and future. From the Introduction: Not who am I, but what am I? What is it? There seems to be an it, or a thing. There’s something about me that has never been the same as most others, some thing that sets me apart, speaks another language, marches to another drummer. Could I be from another planet? I’ve also been able to hold down little jobs for steady income, pay bills on time, and have friends. People seem to like me, and usually have a positive response when they meet me, but the thing that sets me apart, and it seems to be growing. I’ve always been “different” in a way I can’t explain, and in some respects, a loner, but people shun me, either. Nevertheless, I’ve never “belonged.” I’ve always been regarded as a bit odd; but now I want to say things in words about strong feelings I have, I’ve always painted my feelings. I know the art rescued me from others’ hostility. I’ve never been a part of any group, or desired to be so. I like men, but I don’t think I’ll ever marry. I have problems being close-up in any day-to-day contact with anyone in my adult life, and I don’t have a yearning for it, either.. I love people; but it seems, in a rather remote way. I need to tell the remaining people that are closest to me that I’m stuck, and things are really bad, worse than they have any idea, but I don’t know how. I know they’d be shocked, then terrified I might do something Marc or my two cousins did. I’m not. And if I would try to talk to them I’d dredge up so many hideous things, they would dread the phone like I do. They would dread picking up the phone when they’d get other calls, because they would be terrified of the phone, as I am, period. The phone’s ring could become the harbinger of bad news. They would startle when it rang like they never knew possible. Like I do. It’s like my life has been fractured, split into pieces going in all directions. I just want to paint. I don’t go out for weeks at a time. I’ve been stuck renovating three houses at the same time and have trouble painting. God, what has happened to my life? Do I still have an actual life? What about the dreams? They don’t make common sense. They indicate time goes backwards sometimes, somehow. Maybe that’s how I can review things in some kind of organized way. Organize it backwards. Could I actually be from another planet? Am I dead? What if I’m a dead alien? That wouldn’t surprise me, because it’s so ridiculous. Maybe I can still escape, if I’m being monitored by the mothership, as long as they haven’t lost contact with me. I mean, I don’t know. I don’t remember anything. I’m speculating. I seem to have had a life, and remember so many little details. I’m betting on the alien right now. That is more reasonable. Otherwise, how can I wake up to remember the future? These earth people say so aggressively it’s not possible. But it is . . . Art: "The drawing was about as dark and gloomy and morbid and pessimistic as anything I could express. It was my bleak outlook. It said how I felt about life. It did convey what I felt inside. It was a success in that respect. I felt as though this big black thing was coming down, out of the sky, down on whomever or whatever it wanted to take back to true Hell. It descended like a tornado, appearing like a big black wing, and would come down and suck something up to the sky into smithereens through something like a church dome (I dream about tornados often). This had a face that was a clock that told its own time. This thing would come down at a certain time: its own, whenever that is, something we can only view passively." Death: I had missed the call by only about twenty minutes. My mind started racing. I quickly decided to call the Budds back from the Caller ID. Oh, God. Mrs. Budd answered. She asked if I was the girl in the red truck who would come to visit Marc and Paul. I told her I was. Her voice was troubled and apprehensive. I just asked, after quickly putting it together; she didn’t know how to tell me. I asked, “Did he kill himself?” “Yes,” she said, sadly, slowly, “he did. They found him in his vehicle.” “I knew it. I knew it. I knew he was going to do it,” I said. My voice was flat and emotionless, but I knew I hadn’t actually known. It was always hard to picture someone doing it, unless it was due to terminal illness. The picture of beautiful Marc, dead, maybe stiff, came to mind. Oh my God. Asperger’s: How can anyone get to the screws and wiring and the welding and the atoms and molecules and allow me to see another’s needs and be able, capable, of closing the gap? Constantly editing the length of a party, sometimes holiday gatherings, or sometimes avoiding them altogether with well-honed available excuses? “What are you doing Saturday?” to which I always reply, automatically, “Working,” although they describe something I might want to go. I’ll say by rote, “I’ll come by for a couple hours,” and sure enough, I’ll stay a couple of hours. But I care, I do care. I might not know how to say it or show it. Why do I still get invited? The parties and events, earlier than evening hours, are avoided altogether, because right away, when I get up, that’s painting time. Getting into the painting mode is like a meditation. Once the gears are shifted into something else, it can be hard or impossible to get it back that day. The painting I’m working on bothers me the whole time I’m socializing. I see it; I see what I’m going to do it next, but real-life forces me to stop. This engine churns on and on, overshadowing everyone and everything, every aspect of life, then why? What could have been done differently? Why now has the engine fallen silent, motionless, broken down, now? Is it repairable? Dreams: "Nothing out of the ordinary happened over there, after the shooting incident, for years. Not until this event with the steak knife. In the dream, my father and Sleepy were fighting on our patio. They both were large men. They were wrestling like sumo wrestlers. At one point, Sleepy stabbed my father with a steak knife, and it sunk deep into his head. I then woke up. I swear to Jesus Christ, I had that dream. So, when the boy told me Sleepy had stabbed him with a steak knife, my mind went blank. I couldn’t believe it, and yet it was real as all hell. I wanted to scream, 'I dreamed this!' but that is never an option. It was trivial with the guy bleeding all over the place." The book is based on the life of the author Lynn Barnes, and is current as of this printing.
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About the Book
Lynn, a Baltimore Surrealist artist, reviews her unusual life without any knowledge that Asperger’s Syndrome, a mild form of autism, exists. Her life and circumstances certainly are the result of something. She has always been “different.” It is impossible to explain herself or confide in anyone, even the closest friends and family.
Depressed, overwhelmed, and not knowing how to describe what she’s going through to anybody, she tries to figure out things on her own. Can she find some clues in her dreams?
Nothing she tries works, and she is ready to give up. She looks back, going deeper and deeper into her past. What is it, the thing that makes her different? Has it prevailed throughout her entire life? Maybe; so, does it have patterns? She begins to see there are. Are they responsible for things turning out so badly?
Does whatever "It" is make it possible to dream of the future and possibly travel through time? The Last Exit before The Toll: Art, Death, Asperger's, and Dreams is the story of her journey to find out the truth of the mystery. The story is told in an unusual timeline; it is told backwards (in decades), a timeline never used in books, but the usual way we get to know each other in real life. The book also features pictures of her singular, highly-detailed art. One chapter spotlights her epic painting, "Poe's Last Supper." The large. (4'x 6') oil painting depicts Poe on his deathbed in a hospital, but he hallucinates he's in a Fell's Point bar drinking with his characters. See more on the book and art (in vivid color) @ lynnbarnes.net A passage from "What Kind of Kid Were You?": In earlier childhood, I could be a handful. I don’t know what happened. It was as if something would take over. I’d persistently asked questions and would make comments out loud or sounds. The other kids would crack up. I understand now, they didn’t think I was stupid, although it felt so at the time. I would ask outrageous questions, whether the teacher acknowledged my raised hand or not. They sometimes wouldn’t. Many times what I asked, or my comments, made me sound like a smart-ass. Right after the words left my mouth, it sounded different than what I was trying to say. This would drive the teachers up a wall, right out of their minds. My third grade-teacher, the elderly Mrs. Mitchell, got so fed up; she separated my desk from the other kids by sitting me up front, next to her desk. Bad move. I already had everybody’s attention up front. Everybody could then hear everything I said. I did it one time too many. I said something, and the whole class shrieked. She went ape-shit. She went over the edge. She would have hit me if she could have gotten away with it, if it weren’t for my mother. The best she could do was throw a cartoon-like tantrum. She jumped up and down with her knees a little bent. She stopped writing on the blackboard and made tight fists, clutching the chalk. “SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP!” she screamed. It was almost the same as the tantrum Mozart would throw at the costume party in Amadeus, when he wanted his penalty (except more aggressively). I did shut up, for then. The image stunned me. I had no idea I got to her that badly. A note was sent home. Another note; one of many. Let me tell you, I got away with nothing at home. I got whipped. My mother was strict. The only-child-spoiled-brat wasn’t correct. That wasn’t it. The same basic kind of behavior got me whipped at home, but whipped or not, it would come out. I know my mother was driven crazy sometimes. She would practically lose her mind. I was also hardheaded and wouldn’t back down if I thought I was right. I would face my punishment, such as staying out of the woods. I wasn’t going to stay out of the woods. We played our roles in that one. At school, I don’t know exactly what happened, because most of the time I was so sincere. I really did want to know something, or I would make a comment about something. It wasn’t appreciated. Most of it was innocent on my part. To me, it was a simple, reasonable question. Isn’t that what a teacher is supposed to do? Aren’t they there to explain things, help kids sort things out? After all, most questions are not entirely stupid. I must admit now, though, that some of my questions were torturous to them. It’s easy to see as an adult. My memory is exceptional; that’s why I can remember little details about things, such as a certain incident. This happened with my fourth-grade teacher Mrs. Sanders. . . . One time, she was writing on the blackboard and made the comment, “You kids have to get outside. The sun is shining,” referring to the upcoming recess. What the hell did that mean? People say stuff like that to one another and take things for granted. I often require a little clarification. I guess everyone else knows what an off-handed little remark can mean. Some parents will also say, “You kids get out of the house. The sun is shining,” although I don’t remember my mother ever saying it. I decided to ask Mrs. Sanders to clarify her remark. “What exactly does that mean?” I asked. “What does what mean?” “We have to get outside because the sun is shining?” The class titters. “What do you mean, what does that mean?” “Does it mean something special that I missed? Like, if the sun isn’t shining, we stay in?” “Of course you don’t stay in! Of course you haven’t stayed in, have you?” Hell no, they made us go out in subzero temperatures, and we girls had to wear stupid little thin skirts or dresses, because no slacks were allowed back then. Sometimes it felt like sheer punishment. I have a crystal-clear memory of a really cold, windy day, and about six of us second-grade girls huddled and squatted against a brick wall like animals. “I know we never have. I was wondering if this was a new thing. Maybe we have to go out when the sun is shining and we now have the option of staying in if it isn’t. I sometimes would rather stay in, anyway.” “That’s not what I meant! It was a simple little remark that everybody else understands and you’re making a big deal out of it!” By then, she got the impression she had been mocked. The class was trying to control their laughter. I got to her, and they loved it. They thought I was cool, making fun of a teacher like that. “Why is it such a big deal to answer the question? Since you said it, why don’t you explain it? I have a project I’m working on, as you know. Why should I stop working on my project because the sun is shining, or was it meant like, since you are going out and the sun is shining, therefore, you should have a nice day? The having to go outside part is what makes no real sense to me. We have to go outside, because the sun is shining, and we have the option not to do so when it isn’t?” I needed to understand the logic of the statement. The kids had been giggling and just cracking up to that point. By then, they were scared; but there was an involuntary burst of laughter. Then it was silent. Some lowered their eyes. Another note.
About the Author
Lynn Barnes grew up in Severn, Maryland, and was a Fells Point resident for seventeen years. She went to the University of Maryland for a BA in Visual and Performing Arts, and continues to work as an artist and writer. She lives in Orlando, Florida, with Hieronymus African Grey and Kayla Triton Cockatoo. See more information and art @ lynnbarnes.net