Mental health blog

I think this blog may be standing in for a while as a way for me to monitor my own mental state. Which when I am stressed / overloaded / depressed, and thus not fully assimilating more than a fraction of my experiences, is difficult to do. So apologies to my readers if this is not your cup of tea.

Because today I feel like shit.

I mean seriously. The pressure at work is unrelenting. The social demands – probably laughably benign from a non-autistic perspective – are confusing and they are constant. Usually my job is well suited to quiet focus and isolation, but now is an exception. The merciless expectation, drilled into me through every interaction to perform, perform, PERFORM; at the same time as delivering all of a million things in none of the time. Keeping track of the million things when I can’t parse words and everything has to be checked six times. My colour-coded “to do” list is not up to this. I am exhausted by lunchtime; every lunchtime. I cried through two separate meetings today.

I can still just about cope outside of work. One long (alcoholic) drink and at least a quarter jar of Nutella down and I feel better. I mean, more relaxed. The thing is, I won’t get anything done tonight. There is ironing that can technically wait, but shouldn’t. There is music practice, which can’t wait, so won’t happen. There is an ever-increasing list of actually urgent things shuffling forward to Saturday, when I should be resting, or maybe putting some out-of-work time into workplace things. Things that at some point, on a day like today, I will have to do.

Some day, in a week, or two weeks from now, I will break down. I will curl up on my sofa and sob. I will have crossed the line from rationing non-essentials like ironing and music practice, into food, or sleep, or rest. There will be no time to take care of myself as I struggle to perform the basics, ever more slowly, in the waking hours available.

This year, I am afraid of that time. I fear it because of how it feels, for me. But I fear it also because I can’t hide. This year I can’t draw in and focus on my work, avoiding the pressure of interactions with such high expectations. This year I am expected to smile and learn; to be positive; to have energy throughout. And already, I can’t.

I am afraid of the exposure. I am afraid of the shame. I am afraid of negative consequences from not being able to hide. I am afraid of taking time off work or failing at other commitments. I am afraid of forgetting what it feels like to be OK. Again.

Autumn is here

This time of year is usually difficult for me. Often SAD comes on gradually. Sometimes it’s sudden. Usually it’s both.

I noticed I was starting to get tired at the beginning of the month. I’d known it was coming; it didn’t seem so bad. Maybe the weather changed; maybe it was just more people around at work, back from their summer holidays, more admin and communications draining my resources just that tiny little bit more than usual. It’s always justifiable, always reasonable, in the beginning. Whatever it was, quite suddenly, the demands of every day left me flagging, unexpected struggling to navigate the familiar walk back home. So I rearranged my schedule, putting the chores back to the weekends, then concentrated on enjoying my evenings and got on with life as usual.

Now I’m sitting here and feeling tired, so dead tired, but not wanting to sleep. Now I’m planning the days ahead in the knowledge of not be able to function except on weekends, and maybe not even then. And suddenly nothing difficult can be done with less than two weeks notice. Life contracts to form a new, smaller normal.

It’s all of the little things, and the big. Things are stressful at work and I’m struggling to access support. I have a running injury; so the let-out for all of my everyday frustrations, that quiet time in the middle of the day to relax and recharge, is gone. I feel slow and tired, all the time. It’s hard to concentrate, to organise my tasks and focus on what I should do. I’m not sad. But I don’t want to do anything. I don’t want anything. Gradually, suddenly, autumn has crept up on me again.

Every year comes round again, every year the same; but different. Last year was different. This year is different. Last year I coped by reducing external pressures and focusing on things that made me happy. This year the pressure is unrelenting. But this year I have support from mental health services that I’ve never had before. This year I have an employment support coordinator to help me navigate my professional nightmares. This year I have a counsellor who knows I have a history, who won’t just drop me the instant I’m sub-clinical by GAD-7 or PHQ-9. This year, however isolated I might feel, crying at my desk at work, I’m not alone.

Maybe this time, things will be different.

Fat shaming, gender roles, and becoming a woman with autism

Those of you who were diagnosed autistic as adults will probably understand when I say it takes a while to grow into the identity. There’s the tearing down, sudden or incremental, of the person you’ve built on lies of neurotypicality; the grief; the acceptance; and the beginnings of real life.

The process isn’t steady: it comes in fits and starts. Against a smooth background of progress, I encounter every so often those single jolts of realisation, “eureka” moments that seem like a physical leap forward from where I’ve been.

I’ve known for a long time that the images we see and the views we read in the media, online and on television, can have a strong influence on our unconscious biases. The constant bombardment of idealised female physiologies, the skewed representation of women towards youth and a specific body type, twists the self image of girls from early in childhood: that if they do not fit this trope, they are a failure. There are further, deeper issues around “thinspo” and “fitspo”: online media specifically designed to encourage disordered and self-damaging behaviours around eating and exercise. These issues are well covered in the more progressive online literature, as well as, ironically, by much of the same media that perpetuates the problem. But something I read recently cast this type of media message, for me, into a different frame.

The piece from Beauty Redefined, which very eloquently and sensitively explores the benefits of a “media fast”, doesn’t strictly cover anything I didn’t know. But it sets out the problem in a slightly different light. Instead of just telling me again that these messages towards women are wrong and harmful, it suggests tools I can use to choose which media messages are safe to consume. I was intrigued: it made me think. And considering those tools for a while brought home to me a new understanding on why being an autistic woman, in this world, can feel so dreadfully wrong.

The narrow, idealised pictures we see of women in the media aren’t just physical: they’re personal. The few roles available for women in books and films paint them as social creatures, valued by society for their prettiness, but also for their “traditional values” of kindness and sensitivity. They have many friends. They organise parties. They answer the telephone late at night and babysit their siblings’ children. When a friend is in trouble, they always know the right thing to say. The role of this comfortingly conventional woman is defined entirely by her interactions, not with the world, but with people: who she knows; who she supports; who she loves.

This picture of women painted by society as we know it is distorted enough from a neurotypical perspective. From an autistic one, it is almost unendurable. In my darkest moments it was to this impossible stereotype that I compared myself, doomed to failure and shame. To be autistic was to diverge from every part of the societally accepted female identity. A lifetime of niggling doubts had coalesced overnight into something monstrous; and I suddenly saw myself marked, judged all my life by something that everyone but me could see. My lack of social skills had me constantly labelled as aggressive; insensitive; uncaring; I’d learned not to listen, to try not to be hurt by what I could not understand. But now I knew of those people accusing me: that they were right, and I was so, so wrong. It didn’t matter that I didn’t feel or mean those things. It mattered how they saw me. How I looked.

When first I realised I had autism I forced myself to read on and on, no matter how much it hurt. I read about how I was different, how I was less, in order to learn to be more. Endless reams of well-meaning advice for the parents of young boys; myself described in such condescending terms, a million miles from where I had learned I should be. And it wasn’t just the popular media, by any means. There was autism psychology, emotional maturity and developmental trajectories: bald statements in print, coldly enumerating the skills I lacked at each level of my childhood and adolescence. The tone of pity – or not even pity, but pragmatic acceptance that people like me just need to be cared for and tolerated. Like we couldn’t ever have value as autonomous adults, or command respect as our own selves.

When I read about autism, even now, it makes me want to change. Sometimes that change is about learning and growing, but mostly it’s not. I don’t feel encouraged by what I read to reach out, to connect with others and learn new social skills. I feel obligated not to inflict my naivity on the world. I don’t feel eager to develop my appreciation of the wider picture: I feel ashamed of the narrowness of my focus. What I see written about us entreats a primarily non-autistic audience to tolerate and accept our limitations, but never to encourage, accommodate or seek out our strengths. It paints autism as an embarassment. It tells other people about me, that I am less. It tells me I’m not good enough the way I am.

But back then, when I was at my most vulnerable, I had to read; I had to learn to be a better person. If I didn’t read and absorb and accommodate the world’s expectations, it meant I was lazy. And worse than that, it meant I didn’t care about the people around me. I had to protect them from the horrible impacts of autism. From me.

The parallels between this thinking about personalities and the distorted body images encouraged by fitspo and thinspo are closer than a breath. What’s written about autism is meant for non-autistic people – as if we didn’t exist – with no regard to the damage it can do. Like thinspo, coverage of autism is all about looking a certain way for other people. It’s never about being and feeling a certain way, interacting with people authentically, as myself. Even the labels, conjoured by disordered thinking from these caricatures of reality, are aligned. “Lazy”, “selfish”, “undisciplined”? These are all traits that the body-shaming media silently attribute to “fat” people – and particularly fat women – by implication, for not trying hard enough not to be who they are. “I just feel sorry for them – think of [ how much healthier they’d be / how many more friends they’d have ] if they [ weren’t so fat / acted more normal ]?” Wrapped up in the guise of caring, people who just want you to be healthy, to be happy. Keeping your failures hidden from the world. Helping you to change who you are.

I don’t need to change who I am to be happy. I don’t need to become invisible to be loved.

I do need some support and accommodations at work. I need guidance to navigate office politics and clarification of what’s expected of me. I have a lot to learn about many things, for which I will need time and patience and acceptance, just like anyone else. But I don’t need the guilt. I don’t need to feel bad every time I ask a question, that I haven’t “developed the skills” to be completely autonomous. I don’t need to force myself through social interactions that drain the life out of me and give nothing in return. I don’t need to ration the supports I request for fear of being seen as lazy or undisciplined. I help other people with the things I’m good at, and they help me. I am not worthless because I think and socialise differently.

I’ve grown as a person since my diagnosis. I’m becoming more comfortable with this identity. But sometimes I still need reminding of the benefits of a media fast, to clear my mind and remind me who I am.

Perilous meetings, part 3: is there another way?

I have to admit, I’ve been putting off writing this post for a while. As in, months. Maybe more. I don’t like to write about things until my understanding is complete. Perfectionism is a problem for me.

Sometimes in life, you can know you don’t have all the information, but you have to act on it anyway. Time doesn’t stop for me to make sense of what I’m doing. I am acting on this understanding now, incomplete or immature as it may be. So I will try not to be ashamed of sharing it with you.

The last two posts I’ve written were about the dangers of workplace meetings, and the methods I use to determine whether it’s worth the risk. Today’s post takes a more positive stance, asking: what’s good about meetings, and can I reap any of those benefits elsewhere?

And that quickly, I am out of my depth!

From my analytical standpoint I think there are two main reasons why meetings are, in principle, a good thing. Firstly, and quite simply, information exchange. A lot of things can be discussed in emails or reported in briefings, but neither of these quite matches the immediate efficiency of reciprocal conversation. My difficulties with speech are quite subtle – enough that I will be blamed for my “inappropriate word choice” as harshly as if the intention were to offend – and although I’ve thought about script cards I can’t quite bring myself to use them, for fear of being told I’m over-dramatising. So verbal, in person conversation does fill a unique niche for me – as for many people – that is very difficult to replace.

The other reason is really a variety of reasons, clustered weakly under a heading I could perhaps designate as “connection”. The very act of being visibly present and participating in discussions creates ripples: subtle effects on the interpersonal relationships of those involved. The nebulous concepts of approachability and trust seem to hinge on the contents of these reciprocal interactions. It’s about “staying in touch”, “maintaining an open dialogue”. If I were feeling cynical and utterly unsympathetic to human foibles, I might say it’s about reminding people you exist. But it’s an unfortunate reality that if you, like me, avoid group coffee breaks and water cooler small talk, you may find the only remaining option for connection hinges on an effective presence in team meetings.

Intellectually, I can see how it might be possible to achieve things in unstructured meetings. From what I’ve observed of social interactions, neurotypical people can and do select the focus, progress discussions and make firm decisions in conversation that they then act upon. But my experience as an autistic person is that I can’t do that. Not in social settings, and not in work meetings. I just can’t keep track. So I need to find another way.

There are a number of things I do at work to try to fill the gaps that “risk management” can create. Some of these are relatively easy. I keep on top of my emails and the news on our Intranet. If there’s something I’m aware of that I can’t find information on, I’ll email someone to find out more. Wherever possible I stay ahead of changes in policy or procedures by looking up the written documentation. I also have regular chats with my line manager, where I ask explicitly for updates on anything that might affect my work or job role. Such a proactive approach may seem like overkill, but it helps me to see straight away where I might need more information, and to avoid any unpleasant surprises.

But for reciprocal interactions, one-on-one meetings have been a complete revelation. I wrote about when I first discovered this, and have done my best since then to build on that insight. Now I keep up with some colleagues and contacts through coffee breaks, where I can practise handling the flow of conversation between work projects and outside interests. And while I can’t be completely confident in the attribution, I am starting to see a difference in how often those colleagues approach me, and the level of trust they show in my technical judgement. We’re working better together since I started experimenting with this form of connection.

Of course, one-on-one meetings can’t cover everything, and there are times when it really is essential to have everyone in the same room. I’ve noticed that people – including myself, when sufficiently relaxed – sometimes need the context of a wider conversation to bring the right thought to mind. And it’s not uncommon that, while one person might have most of the pieces to one particular puzzle, the different pieces others bring mean that sometimes you don’t quite know how the picture will look until everyone has had their say. Most of my team work quite independently on our projects, so it’s usually possible to slot extra pieces one by one into an already clear picture, but it doesn’t always happen that way.

These meetings are as risky and difficult to deal with as any other. But I find that by pacing myself, being aware of meeting goals and avoiding less constructive group settings, I can save myself to contribute more effectively to these essential interactions.

I’d like to say I’ve got the balance right, and it’s certainly true that I’m seeing improvements; but this is very much a work in progress. Recently workplace meetings have got harder and harder for me. Although there are many good reasons for this, it’s tricky to break out of the spiral of low confidence repeated “failures” can bring. The final piece of the puzzle, ironically, may be to ask for help from other members of my team. I’m not quite there yet, but I think I’m moving in the right direction! Until then I’ll keep pacing myself: building trust through one-to-ones, avoiding risky situations, and saving myself for those larger workshops where there really is no other way.

Baby steps 🙂