Disconnect

Someone at work today asked how I was coping with the long nights. People are aware of my SAD. Offhand, I said I’d been OK up until about the last week or so, but I was getting a bit tired now. No big deal.

Then I thought for a minute about when time got away from me. Maybe it was a bit more than a week. Maybe two. Perhaps three.

I no longer have a sense of time.

I remember the moment I first felt panic that the minutes were slipping away. It was in the middle of a Saturday morning, on my way to the shops, when that afternoon I had somewhere to be. There was that horrible sinking feeling in my gut, chasing the hours that slid through my fingers, realising how completely I’d misjudged. I panicked. Rushed my shopping, called a taxi. Lost the taxi. Found the taxi moments before it pulled away, a breath away from being just one more no-show. Deep breaths, shaking, as we crawled through traffic on the interminable journey home.

I made my afternoon appointment, overloaded, but invisible. No one saw it: not for a moment; not the merest flicker. I passed, exquisitely. I paid with the Sunday. It wasn’t enough.

Three weeks ago.

In winter, I cannot cope with overload. In winter, I do not have the capacity to recover myself. There is not enough daylight, and not enough time. I cannot expose myself to the risk of uncertainty; I cannot allow myself to panic. I must be slow, quiet, centred. I must be calm.

On that Monday morning I went into survival mode. The plan had already lost the non-essentials several weeks before. But this was the morning when I drew a breath, and relaxed. I forced myself to slow down, to breathe. Not to stop, but to keep moving, no matter how slow. Don’t fight it; just be. It didn’t matter if I was late. It didn’t matter if I didn’t show. Nothing mattered, but to be calm. To keep moving. One step at a time.

It’s a curious feeling, to be centred in the eye of the storm. I am slow, while the world spins. I am quiet, while the world screams. I am; and somehow, strangely, the world is not. Steadily, methodically, I move through this madness without feeling. I am calm. I do not connect. Displaced from reality, I am serene.

I do not want. I do not feel. I am not hungry or thirsty. At night I wait passively for sleep that takes hours to come. The choice to begin each day is one I no longer allow myself to make; for if I allowed myself that choice, then I would choose wrong. I know this, without feeling sadness. I feel only the weight of my self as I sleepwalk, dreamlike, through the wild cold winter. I still know that the winter will end. I still remember what it was like to live.

I do not stop. I must not stop. Until it ends.

One step at a time.

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Are you afraid of the dark?

This time of year can mess with my mind! Sometimes it’s exhaustion, sometimes depression. At the moment, apparently, I’m a child again – the idealised version: happy and eager, with the sort of “can do” attitude that comes from having no concept of limits. But as a child, I was afraid of the dark.

It’s strange, coming home in the night time. Turning off the main road and into my quiet side street, where the street lamps don’t work and the darkness looms like a yawning cave. Some of the houses have outdoor lights that switch on and off as I walk past.

Unlocking the front door, I turn on the lights. The house is silent.

I go inside. Flick the switch in every room. The dim brightness of artificial light is eerie in the empty quiet. There’s a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach. I switch on the radio to drown out the silence.

6 pm. It’s early, but the darkness says it’s late. I cook, eating dinner to the sound of the radio, the stove cooling noisily in the background. Closed blinds keep out the night.

7:30. I curl up on the sofa, watching TV. I’d like to read, but that would mean going back to the silence. Why is it this cold stillness, so welcome in the daytime, seems so threatening at night? I turn up the volume to fill the empty darkness.

11 pm. Lying in bed, I stare blankly up at the ceiling. Moonlight streams in through thin curtains. Wrapped warm under weighty covers, comfortable, I drift towards sleep.

Moving lights; and a shadow rises, suddenly, from beside the bed. I jolt awake, heart pounding. Focus. Switch on the bedroom light.

Of course, there’s nothing there. I hear the neighbours’ car, pulling slowly into their driveway.

I know it’s ridiculous. I go to sleep with the lights on.

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.