When I was younger I had a recurring nightmare about being chased by clocks.
They weren’t real clocks. Not as such. I just never had the right words. I was walking down the corridors at school in the early morning, through the music department, where I used to go to practise before registration. There was always something behind me. I didn’t know what it was, but I started to walk faster. It didn’t go away. There were people and movements and abstract things that told me that time was running out of my control. I ran to class, but it didn’t make a difference. The day was over. The time was gone.
The dream went away, but the feeling stays with me. I can’t put a name to it. Reading tells me that this is what most people call “anxiety”. The word seems shallow compared to the depth of the emotion. It’s like seeing the tracing of a brilliant painting, the colours translucent shadows of reality. It doesn’t come close to describing what I feel.
I wonder about time. I wonder, as something to which society so rigidly clings, at how little it is absolute, and how much only perceived. A great rippling canvas stretching out into the distance: but coloured, folded, warped and stretched by each of our individual sensory perceptions. Some autistic people describe having no sense of objective time, hours passing without note – a luxury occasionally afforded by my beautiful empty days. There are those people who always seem to be lost, showing up late to everything or not at all. Sometimes I feel like one of them. But the virtues of punctuality in social settings, it seems, so inextricably linked to the dreadful sin of rule-breaking, were deeply ingrained in me.
I lived with the feeling for so long it all but faded into the background. Over the years, it became a part of me. It would build up inside me like the invisible coiling of a spring, tightening, squeezing into smaller and deeper spaces day by day as I held it at bay. As I balanced and juggled an ever more complex schedule, with dates and hours and deadlines and people, so many people; until I didn’t know where I was or what day it was or where I was supposed to be. Until I didn’t know who I was apart from this feeling.
And then one day it would release. Suddenly. Cathartically. I would be alone one night when it broke: a storm of crying, words and tears and noises spilling out of me like a forgotton stockpot bursting its lid off the boil. No one saw or heard those moments. Cradled carefully away from the world, they spilled out intermittently into those rare, precious, and ever-narrowing spaces where I was safe.
These days, I recognise the signs. I trained myself to see the slow changes in reaction and ability, responding to the quiet buildup of ever-suppressed anguish. I can predict, sometimes, when a situation will make things worse. And then time speeds up around me and I know that I am lost.
I can’t tap the feeling once it’s bottled. I can’t siphon it off. The tears won’t come. Sometimes I hear a song and it bubbles up, just for a moment, and I wish for that sweet relief – the still, deep sleep that follows hours of crying – but it won’t come. To keep something so deeply buried gives the illusion of power; as if I could possibly control something so primal, so powerful. So many years spent hiding this from everyone, bricking up every outlet, so afraid for this side of me to be seen, that now there is no outlet at all. Nothing but this violent breaking apart, spewing the poison from inside of me, leaving me empty and clean. The heartbreaking relief every time I don’t damage anything in this outpouring, that now I’m safe again. The hope that I can rebuild myself. Remember who I am. Who I was.
There are no more clocks, but the nightmare is here. It is me.