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 w