A Pain In The Art

Here's my latest painting, which I managed to knock out after a whole lot of the usual lack of self-belief, anxiety-induced executive functioning deficient dithering and inertia (a new thing about which I was recently made aware), which is produced whenever I'm faced with the prospect of needing (even wanting) to put paint to paper.

I may not be improving when it comes to how I feel about my painting, but I have got better at believing in my ability to draw - so, in order to postpone the "dreaded deed", I simply drew a number of things until I felt suitably girded in the loins to take the plunge and get out the painting gear.  And here's the result.

Of course I wasn't happy with it, and gave a running criticism of it while I was doing it - it will be a miracle if the day ever comes when I am, and I don't.  Nor did I particularly enjoy doing it, because I was so fucking uptight and anxious about whether I was getting it "right", and doing it "properly" (those words are the bane of my existence: I shall have them engraved on my gravestone - 'She died right, and properly: indeed, she was a right proper charlie').  

I know "great" artists are often depicted as tortured, hyper self-critical souls, being driven by the unrelenting need to improve and perfect their art, which is often seen as a sign of their greatness, but I didn't want to be one of those kinds of artists who suffered for their art.  I mean, for fuck's sake, I don't know how they ever managed to get anything done if they suffered anything like the bloody insecurities and almost catatonia-inducing fear of making mistakes which I do. 

Perhaps that's the point, though.  Perhaps they don't feel the same.  Perhaps they aren't driven by the same things.  Perhaps at their core they believe that they are great, and they're driven to prove it; and what they fear is being proven to be average.  Me, I have no sense of my own ability, so I constantly seek to measure it against other people - which means I end up trying to copy them, trying to follow directions which I don't fully comprehend (but think I do), and trying to adjust myself to suit another person's modus operandi.  So whenever I pick up a paintbrush it's like there are two people with me at the easel - there's me, and there's whoever is the latest 'guru' artist to whom I've taken a shine, both fighting to stamp their mark on the paper.

I often find myself  wondering whether I'm lying to myself when I say that I love painting.  I mean, you wouldn't think this was the case given the torturous (and tortuous) process I have to go through to motivate myself to do it.  It's like pulling teeth without an anaesthetic.  Perhaps I should just use a bit of reverse psychology, and come out and say, "I FUCKING WELL HATE PAINTING!!!", see if that changes anything.  

Perhaps, though, it's not that I hate painting, but rather that I hate painting the way I think other people paint, or the way I think that other people would tell me I should paint.  After all, I am (annoyingly) also oppositionally defiant, so if I even feel as if I'm being expected to do something (yes, even if it's something I want to do) then I automatically will do the opposite.  Don't ask me why - it's one of the great, unfathomable, frustrating mysteries of my personality, which makes me want to tear my head off and stamp on it.  

So, you want me to paint - I don't want to; you think my paintings are great - I think they're not good enough, probably never will be, and all I can see are the mistakes I made; you think I'm a good artist - I think I'm average, and not as good as... (insert long list of artists' names here), and never will be.  It makes me wonder how I've managed to produce anything at all with a brain like mine.  I should just go and eat worms.

Weebling To Thirty

Do you remember those toys called Weebles, which first appeared in the 1970s, and had the tag-line “Weebles wobble but they don’t fall down”?  (I just googled them, and it turns out you can still get them.)  They were great fun, and I especially loved the tree house, in which they lived.  I really wanted to live in that tree house.

Anyway, this is not a post about Weebles, per se.  This is about the fact that today is my AA birthday, and I have somehow managed to cobble together thirty years of consistent sobriety (that’s 30 years, in case anyone out there has problems with discerning the letters in words - though my internal grammarian baulks at the informal and technically grammatically incorrect use of numbers within a piece of text).

But enough of that pedantry.  So where do Weebles come into this miracle of recovery, you may be asking?  Simply in the fact that I’ve decided that the Weebles’ means of locomotion is one I share when it comes to describing the way I’ve done my recovery (and can be extended to encompass the way I “do” life in general) - namely, I’ve wobbled a lot but I haven’t fallen down.  Sometimes I go from side to side whilst remaining stationary; frequently, it seems I’ve gone backwards; oftentimes I’ve gone round in circles; but ultimately I have managed to make slow, tentative, frequently tortuous, forward progress.  

This is how come I happen to be sitting here now, the bemused (but grateful) recipient of the gift of thirty years of sobriety, which I have to tell you I was never really sure I wanted in the first place, didn’t ever really make a conscious decision to go after, but rather (in the classic autistic way, I can now see with hindsight) simply copied my way into; and for the first ten years wished I could give back, and return to the ignorance of not knowing that alcohol was not the solution to anything in life but simply one more problem to add to the pile.

Briefly, my journey of sobriety began with my second, and last, visit in 1988 to the psychiatric ward of my local hospital, after I’d been arrested for criminal damage, and had then tried to kill myself with an overdose.  

After this I was given the choice of either going home (where I was extremely miserable), or going to the local rehab unit for alcoholics/addicts, which conveniently happened to be next door to the hospital.  

Even though my initial visit to psychiatric had been for a two week detox from alcohol, which I’d voluntarily kept extending until I’d outstayed my welcome at the seven week mark (I felt strangely safe and at home there, after the initial terror on being admitted), I don’t recall any of the staff ever using the word ‘alcoholic’ to describe my drinking.  I believe I was initially considered to be possibly suffering from manic-depression (bipolar disorder), because I suffered extreme mood swings (due to both the effects of coming off alcohol, and what I now know is a combination of autistic meltdown, and ADHD).  

What is most remarkable is that, despite the fact that medication seemed to be freely and routinely prescribed to patients willy-nilly, I escaped the psychiatric system without ever being given anything other than the standard sleeping tablet, which I only took during my stay there.  It was years later, when discussing it with my best friend, that I realised just how blessed I had been, given that I had so many things for which I could easily have been medicated, especially given that, due to complete ignorance on the part of the staff, I was being misdiagnosed (autism not being widely recognised, especially in females, back in1988).  

And, distressingly and painfully uncomfortable as my life has frequently been since then (living without anything chemical to replace the alcohol and mute the chronic anxiety, and general sensitivity to everything around me), I am extremely grateful for being kept safe from what could have been a disastrous transference of my addiction to alcohol to an addiction to prescribed medication, as has happened to so many other people I know of.

To continue (before I weeble myself into a standstill), I chose to go to the rehab unit as the lesser of two evils.  And, as with my stay in the hospital, once I got over the shock of moving into an unfamiliar environment, I settled in and duly repeated the same pattern of becoming dependent - duly becoming the longest-serving resident, clocking in at a year and a half.  Yet again, I had to be almost forced to leave.

After I left and moved into my own home, at the age of twenty-three, things proceeded downhill from there.  Despite having been taught all things domestic by my dad starting at the age of seven (and then being expected to take care of him), I was hopeless at looking after myself.  And, whilst I’d come away from rehab with the knowledge that I couldn’t ever drink safely (‘one drink is too many, and a thousand is never enough’), there wasn’t a great deal else that was keeping me sober.  Essentially nothing had changed.  

Add to that an escalation in my undiagnosed anxiety, and a full resurgence of my also undiagnosed and raging eating disorder (compulsive overeater/under-eater/bulimic - in remission for a number of years now).  Plus I’d discovered that I could get mildly stoned on certain over-the-counter medications, which I used whenever I had to leave my flat.  A joyous existence, what ho!

It’s not surprising that, after nearly ten years of this, I descended into a state of hopelessness and depression, in which I wished daily that I could die, and finally progressed to the planning stage.

And at that point God stepped in and, in a remarkable act of Providence, reunited me with someone I’d met at the end of my time in rehab, for whom I’d briefly worked as a voluntary alcohol services counsellor (yes, me, counselling people - it doesn’t bear thinking about, I know), and who was now firmly steeped in the AA Twelve Step programme.  Through her, God saved my life.  

She became my AA sponsor; introduced me to the real recovery programme (it’s in the Big Book, not the meetings); helped me find a God of my own understanding (a Friend who loved me, rather than the critical and punishing father figure in which I’d come to believe); was the first person to recognise that I suffered from chronic anxiety, and the first person who identified me as being autistic; and she has been with me on this journey for the last twenty-one years.  Having just one person who truly knows me, and accepts me for who I am, has made all the difference - and for that I am extremely grateful.

What’s also remarkable is that, despite the struggles, I have never had the desire to drink alcohol again since sometime in the first year of my stay in rehab - the obsession to drink was removed (as it says in the Big Book) without me even realising it.  I have also never wished I were dead, and thought about killing myself, since reuniting in 1997 with the aforementioned person who is now my best friend and who, ironically, has also turned out to be a fellow autistic; and thoughts of wanting to die plagued me daily from the age of about seven, after my mum left us.

So, here endeth this brief overview of my time in recovery.  I can’t say it’s been easy (I’ve never been known to do anything easily), and there have been frequent set-backs, but I have to say it is ultimately worth it; and I will, no doubt, continue to wobble my way in Weebly fashion through the rest of my life.  

Therefore, I guess all that’s left to say is:-

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME, HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME, HAPPY BIRTHDAY DEAR LISA WEEBLE, HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME!!!!

PRACTICAL SUGGESTIONS - Conflict With People

I’ve been meaning to write some posts like this for, oh I don’t know, maybe two or three years?  Don’t know where the time (and the inspiration) went…  

I had intended starting with how I deal with my sensitivity to noise (I’d made notes and EVERYTHING for it), but then something happened last week which has shifted my focus, so I’m going with that first instead, in case I lose momentum.

I don’t know what it’s like for you, but I have a real struggle having to stand up for myself, no matter how minor the issue might be.  The anxiety I feel makes me want to curl into a ball and hide.  And last week I was confronted with just such an incident.  

I looked out of my living room window and saw christmas lights hanging from my trellis-fence, fencing which I paid for, so there is no dispute about ownership - it’s mine.  And on going outside and checking, I found that the lights were draped on both sides - which meant that my neighbour had come into my garden to hang them, and had never bothered to come and ask me first.  

My initial reaction was confused and diffused by the voice in my head that tells me that whatever I feel is bound to be ‘wrong’ or over-reactionary due to my being autistically over-sensitive, anxious, and paranoid.  So when I spoke to my friend that evening and told her about the lights, I described how I felt as being “a bit miffed”.  

Imagine my surprise when she said that she’d be steaming angry if it happened to her, and that she wanted to come down here, remove the lights, and return them to my neighbour, along with a few choice words. 

As we spoke, I was able to begin to process what I really felt and thought: and imagine my horror when she then said that I was going to have to go round to my neighbour’s and tell her that what she’d done wasn’t okay, and to ask her to take them down, otherwise she was going to continue to take advantage if I didn’t put a stop to it now.  She only moved in about a month ago, and already she has shown herself to be a bit of a bully - not threatening, but the kind of person who expects to get her own way, and rides roughshod over everyone else in order to do so.

At that point my real reaction kicked in - gut-clenching fear at the idea of having to go and deal with her, and possibly start a conflict.  That’s what I’d felt earlier when I first saw the lights, but part of my instinct for survival is to avoid anything which has the potential to explode into an argument or disagreement by minimising what I feel about it.  Plus I’m just plain slow at processing information, so it took me until the next day to fully realise just how far beyond ‘miffed’ and into ‘piffed’ (with a double ’s’) I really was.   

And then I remembered that I’d got another option to the dreaded talking - writing.  I could write her a note (or, in my case, a letter).  I’d done it before, with another neighbour, and it had helped tremendously, giving me a way of alleviating the feeling of being powerless to do anything because of my anxiety.

This way I could relieve some of the stress and fear about not being in control - not knowing how she would react, but possibly even worse not knowing what my own reaction would be: would I babble incoherently?; become mute with fright and brain-freeze?; or bolshy with impulsive anger?  And, knowing myself, would I forget who was actually in the wrong, feel guilty and end up almost apologetically grovelling for forgiveness, and for her to do me the favour of taking them down, if it wasn’t too much trouble…  All in an attempt to try to control her, and hopefully stop her from being angry with me (which is how I assume she’s going to react, because it’s what I assume about everyone, given that I cannot for the life of me ‘read’ people.  And I am a depressed donkey whose default position is to expect the worst…*big sigh*).  But then I would hate myself.  And then I would blame her, and then I would hate her.  Not a happy place to be. 

So yes, writing.  A way to have some control over my part - what comes out of my ‘mouth’, as it were.  I also use writing for when I have to phone people (eg to report repairs).  I write scripts for myself to help me remember what it is I need to say, otherwise I’m likely to forget the words, or lose focus and babble.  These are as specific or as loose as I need them to be - so sometimes I literally write whole sentences to say, or I’ll just need to make a note of key words or phrases as prompts.

I know this suggestion won’t be useful to everyone (for those of you for whom writing in itself produces stress and anxiety), but I hope it might help someone who might not have thought of it, and who is labouring under the illusion (as I was) that there is only one way, and that I HAD to learn to be able to confront/challenge/tackle/communicate with people verbally, and in person.  As my friend frequently reminds me, “There are many ways up the mountain.”  

Therefore why would I keep persisting in trying to follow the hardest route, which keeps me stumbling about at the bottom making no progress, without the necessary means to overcome the obstacles in my way?  As I’ve remembered just recently, trying to use force will always create resistance.  Better to make use of the tools that God has given me to move into His flow, and find an easier way, one that relieves some of the stress.  Life’s difficult enough as it is for autistics without adding to it by trying to follow a neurotypical route.

So, I wrote my letter, read it to my friend to check that it was okay, and posted it (eventually).  It took me a couple of days to find the courage to go out and stick it through her letter box (under cover of darkness at the crack of dawn, I kid you not!), and of course I had the anxiety of wondering how she would react.  But it achieved what it was meant to - the lights were taken down that day, and I haven’t seen her to know how she reacted to the letter.  I just have to keep reminding myself that she was in the wrong.  

And I thought it might be helpful to add the letter here, in case anyone needed some kind of guidance.  So here it is:

Hi (I’m sorry but I don’t know your name),

I noticed on Friday evening that there are christmas lights on my trellis, and, given that they’ve never been there before, I’m assuming that they are yours (if I’m wrong, and they’re not, apologies, and please ignore this letter).

I am autistic, and I also suffer from social anxiety, and I found it extremely disturbing to see not only that they had been put on there without my permission, but that they are also on my side as well as yours - which I can only assume means that whoever did that for you either came into my garden, or leaned over the trellis into my garden.  

I was in all day on Friday, and I didn’t hear anyone knock on my door to ask me if it was okay for them to do that; but if they did knock, and I didn’t hear them (which is a possibility), the fact that they went ahead anyway, rather than wait until they caught me in, I find equally disturbing, discourteous, and inconsiderate.

I would never dream of doing any such thing to anyone else, especially knowing how anxious and distressed the idea of other people encroaching on my space and privacy makes me feel, and how difficult I find it having to challenge them about it.  I would appreciate it if, in future, you would respect my privacy and my boundaries, and ask before you decide to do anything that might affect me.   

So, having had time to think about it, I would like you to take down the lights: you do have your own trellis in the back, so it isn’t that you don’t have anywhere to put them.  I’ve also decided that I would prefer it if you did not put anything at all up against my trellis, having also had time to think about your question about planting a climber there.  I already have a honeysuckle growing up there.

As I said, I am autistic, so I struggle to communicate clearly with people to make myself understood, and the anxiety makes this worse.  This is why I have written this letter rather than talk to you directly, as I find it easier to express myself in writing - it allows me time to think about what I want to say, which talking to people does not.

Kind regards

Lisa

Blunting The Edge

My Lady Wren

Hi.  It’s been a little while since I’ve been able to sit and focus on something longer than a Literary Inspiration post (hence three in a row!).  Not that I’ve lacked ideas - just the ability to develop them beyond the initial draft.  Ironically, it wasn’t even as if I could claim that it was the internet that was distracting me, because it wasn’t.  

I’ve just had two weeks free from my compulsive internet trawling, using it only for essentials, like Sype.  But then I seem to remember the same thing occurring the last time I stayed abstinent - I gradually felt better, my brain calmed down, my mind got clearer, and my attention and focus improved, but I got very little or no writing done.  I did, however, do other things.

And it’s been the same this time.  I have actually managed to paint a picture (the first since July last year).  Whilst that in itself was great, the best thing about it was the fact that I enjoyed it, and there wasn’t the same amount of angst which usually accompanies it.

Whilst I have struggled to write any posts, I actually managed to write a bit of fiction, which I have done in the past, but have struggled with since.

And then there’s the fact that I have rediscovered the joy in my yoga practice, rather than it just being a necessity to my well-being, which is how I regard it (my alternative version to medication to help manage my anxiety and adhd, because I cannot take drugs due to being an alcoholic/addict).  Being obsessed with the computer means that my interest in everything else falls by the wayside - which includes my beloved yoga.

So, two weeks of freedom.  Again.  Two weeks appears to be my sticking point, at the moment.  It’s the longest I’m able to manage before I drift back to the internet.  I used to have the same thing occur when I was trying to become abstinent from overeating, which I used to find frustrating and disheartening.  

But I didn’t give up, and I got beyond that point when I was ready (which is usually not when you think you are), so I know that it’s just a part of the process, and not to listen to the Voice of Doom that tells me I’ll never be able to get completely free of this compulsion; or that I should accept it as part of the erratic nature of my adhd, and give up trying to manage it.  Accept that I need something to take the edge off of my anxiety, adhd, and all the other stuff about being me that makes everything I feel so acute, and that this is the lesser of the evils I have used (alcohol, medication, food, television). 

Except that it only works to take the edge of whilst I’m on there.  And then I’m left not only with the compulsion to keep going back, but also an increase in the symptoms that I was seeking to relieve.  My anxiety ramps up, I become more agitated, my focus and attention is shot to bits, and my brain feels like it’s melting.  Plus, I forget who I am, because I’m absorbing other peoples’ opinions again.

And here’s the other thing: I actually do have practical ways of taking the edge off, but without the negative consequences - with faith in a higher power, prayer/meditation, yoga, the change in my diet, and the barest bones of a daily routine to keep things ticking over and manageable - but no plans!!  They’re not instant, and they don’t render me unconscious (ie functioning, but not quite all here - like the walking dead, rather than someone in a coma), but they work to bring everything down to a manageable level.  

So, what happened to bring that ‘golden period’ to an end (other than me forgetting, yet again, the inevitable consequences of me web-trawling?)  Because there’s always a reason, as I learnt with alcohol, food, and any other addictive/compulsive behaviour - it doesn’t just happen that I find myself back trawling the internet, or with a drink in my hand, or bingeing on food. There’s a build-up which, if it isn’t being dealt with, turns into a mental and emotional tsunami.  

It may be the quietest tsunami you ever saw, because I am so poor at self-awareness, and so slow to process what’s happening to me, that it mostly doesn’t look like anything is wrong at all; but you’ll know it by the end result - me seeking ‘comfort’ and distraction on the internet from the feelings of restlessness, which I don’t recognise as being related to what’s happening in my life.  

Of course, this ‘comfort’ is only temporary, and not very comforting at all, given some of the stuff I sometimes inadvertently come across whilst trawling, and all that happens is that my life then becomes chaotic (more so than the manageable chaos which seems to be an intrinsic part of who I am - a trait which I have yet to accept as a fact, whilst I still strive to be Mrs Meticulously Tidy and Organised).

Here, then, are the events.

In November last year, I had to fill in an assessment form for the new disability benefit which is replacing the old one.  The DWP scares me to death, and I’m hopeless at filling in forms.

In January my friend Dee (who lives in Scotland, and I haven’t seen in person for about two years) visited on two separate occasions (staying overnight each time).  The second visit was in order to accompany me to the medical assessment I’d been called to attend for the new disability benefit.

Leaving aside the assessment, you’d assume that her visit would be a nice thing - and it is.  Except that I’m autistic - EXTREMELY autistic, and I don’t deal well with being around people, even in my own home, even when they are my closest friends.  It’s not relaxing, for either of us, as I have no idea how to behave, and I end up hovering around her.

As to the medical assessment, I haven’t had to go to one of these for quite a few years.  This ramped up my anxiety about the possibility of them taking away that money.

In February they informed me that, not only had I been awarded the new benefit, but that it had been increased substantially.  Yet again, you’d think this would be welcome: and it is.  But that doesn’t change the fact that, whether it’s good or bad news, I’m still clueless as to how to deal with it. 

Also as a consequence of both Dee’s visit and the assessment, she told me that I’m a lot further along on the autism spectrum than we thought - closer to the Temple Grandin autistic end, rather than the Asperger’s.  Whilst I know that I am extremely affected, it still comes as a bit of an unwelcome surprise to be told just how much so. 

Around the same time, I extended my circle of contacts from one (my friend Dee), to two.  And then, in the last week, I added another.  This is a big deal for me.  

I have been perfectly content to only engage with one person for a long time now (in this regard, I am classically autistic, preferring my own company to that of other people because of the stress engaging with them induces.  Plus, too many people offering too many differing viewpoints and opinions confuses me).  

But, as she said, she is coming up to her seventieth birthday this year, and, assuming she dies before me (jolly, I know!), I have no-one else with whom to share, or for support.  And whilst I may prefer my own company, and to have as few people in my life as possible, I do actually enjoy my limited interactions with her; and even I know that I need to have some people with whom to converse at a deeper level than simply to exchange polite greetings, the way I do with neighbours. 

It is also my fiftieth birthday coming up which, whilst I’m not consciously aware of it causing me any conflict (mostly because I just ignore it, the way I do every birthday - it’s just a number to me), no doubt there’s something going on.  

For one thing, I have found myself thinking more frequently about how I’ve got less time to do stuff, and how I wish I’d got my act together a lot sooner (particularly with regard to writing and art, but also with accepting and managing my autism/adhd).  I also sometimes find myself envying those who’ve been diagnosed earlier, which is not helpful, ‘cos it just leads to me feeling regret about my life. 

And then, in the last few days, I found out that one of my Aunts has died.  She is the last of my dad’s six brothers and sisters, and she was the oldest.  It wasn’t a shock (she was into her eighties), but, due to the distant and confusing nature of our relationship (of my relationship with the whole of my family), I have no idea how I feel, or what to do.

This culminated in me having the ridiculous idea (given that I cannot paint to order) that, rather than buy a card, I would like to paint one to send to her family (these are people I haven’t seen, or spoken to, for over twenty years).  And so I came on here to look for photos of appropriate flowers.  And got overwhelmed. And then got distracted.  And got lost for three days.  And now here I am, trying to drag myself back out of it.  Well it inspired me to write, anyway, which is the ultimate irony.

So there you have it - the anatomy of an autistic meltdown.

I hope that the only things melting in your life are food-related.

Śanti

Boundaries

Hi there (I’m trying to be less formal, but I’m really naff at knowing how to greet people.  And end conversations.  And then there’s the bit in the middle…  Well, that just about covers it all, then).

To the point of this post.

I did something remarkable, for me, the other day.  My local housing officer turned up for a visit, completely out of the blue.  She said it would only take five minutes (translation for us literal-minded autistics - it would be a short visit, but definitely not only five minutes long).  She just wanted to update my details, and as she happened to be in my village visiting other tenants, she thought she would just “pop in”.  So, was that okay?

Simple answer to that is “No”.  But of course, being me, I had a few moments where I considered saying yes, because that’s what I do.  I am one of those autistics who struggle to say no to people (this includes saying no to myself, the person responsible for coming up with my worst ideas), and to set boundaries about what I will and will not tolerate.  

I’ll tolerate almost anything, just as long as it allows me to avoid the discomfort of standing up for myself, and the possible consequences which may ensue (which are always dramatically awful in my mind, though rather vague.  If you ask me what I think might happen, I can’t really tell you.  I just KNOW it’s going to be BAD).  

And I also hate the idea of upsetting people, for fear that they might not like me.  So, basically, it’s all about how I look to other people…  How dumb is that?  Especially as most of those people are usually strangers to me, or ones who are of no real significance in my life - but I’m going to bend myself into a pretzel to not upset them; and then I’m going to hate both myself, and them, for the fact that that’s what I did.  And then I’m going to have a meltdown.    Methinks I should have me a Dodo Alert for when I’ve wandered into Dodo territory…  It’s a wonder I’m not extinct, too.

Back to my tale…

I said no.  Yep, I told her I was busy.  Fortunately, it was true - I was on Skype at the time, but I did consider cutting off my call for the moment while I talked with her.  My VERY IMPORTANT CALL, with my VERY IMPORTANT FRIEND, with whom I only get to converse three times a week.  

But even had I not been busy, it still wasn’t a good time, because I don’t deal well with spontaneous visits (spontaneous anything) - I can’t shift focus fast enough, and I end up saying things I don’t mean because my brain hasn’t had time to shift into gear.  And it just basically ramps up my anxiety levels, and freaks me out.  So, NO!  Just NO!!!  I don’t do people “popping in”, so go away.  Please.  (‘Cos I hate not being polite).  

So, yes, my mind, which has a fear of anyone in ANY position of authority (dustbin men, librarians, pen-wielding minor civil servants, anyone wearing anything vaguely resembling some kind of uniform - hello supermarket checkout assistants and shelf-stackers), had me wobbling for a moment, wanting to insist that the Housing Officer takes precedence over my friend.  And instead I ignored my mind, and I listened to the Voice of Sanity instead (commonly known as God, in my home).

What a relief!  I’d finally listened and acknowledged who I am, and what I can deal with, and it felt great.  I didn’t have to make some long speech, or try to explain in depth: I just had to say no, I was busy right now.  And nothing bad happened.  She accepted what I said, and arranged a day on which to return, which allowed me to be prepared in advance.

And today she arrived, and it was fine.  I got to tell her about my autism/anxiety/adhd; to explain why I don’t deal with spontaneous visits; and she seemed to understand (at least, she got why her unannounced arrival the other day freaked me out, which is all that I needed for her to get - another big change for me, ‘cos not that long ago I would have needed for her to FULLY comprehend my autism, and I would have expended ginormous amounts of energy in a futile attempt to explain it to her.  Me, the woman who can’t explain how to get from here to the bottom of my road - and it’s a straight road, and not very long).  

Even more impressive on my part, I didn’t apologise.  Normally I would have begun my speech with the words, “I’m sorry that I couldn’t…”, but I didn’t.  I merely stated the reasons why I couldn’t.  This is remarkable for me because I am a great apologiser.  “Sorry” has to be one of the most frequent words out of my mouth.  You bump into me, I say sorry.  You make a mistake, I say sorry.  You don’t explain yourself effectively to me, or I don’t hear clearly what you said, I say sorry.  I breathe, I say sorry.  

I often have Skype sessions with my friend where I literally have bouts of continuosly saying sorry, for no reason other than that I can’t quite get out the words that I want to say, so I fill in the gap with sorry.  It appears that I must think that it’s not so annoying having me apologising non-stop, rather than have her ‘suffering’ the silence that would ensue whilst I try to get my thoughts together.  I fear we have just wandered into Dodo territory again…  What kind of mind thinks up logic like this?!

Plus, I literally can’t stop once I start: I even find the repetition quite therapeutic, though I’m not sure it has the same effect on my friend.  Fortunately, she understands.  She’s very patient with me, and we just take the piss out of it.  It’s very difficult not to, considering that I am an erudite, bright, highly literate, intelligent, educated, intellectual woman with a gift for writing - and yet here I am, reduced to repeating “Sorry” like a faulty parrot.  Or one with sole access to an autistic whose vocabulary exclusively consists of the word “Sorry”.

So, the visit went well.  I said what I needed to say.  She did what she was here to do.  And off she went.  Oh, and she really liked my paintings.  And yes, it took longer than five minutes, but I was expecting that, so it doesn’t bend me out of shape any more.  I just had to channel the surge in anxious energy after she left, and find a way to calm down… which is how come I’m writing this.

And now here we are at the end… the other bit that I’m not quite sure how to do.  Goodbye?  Have a nice day?  Hope you’re more adept at setting boundaries than I am?  See, this is why I’ve taken to using Sanskrit terms plucked from my knowledge of yoga.  It’s so much easier - even if no-one understands what I’m saying.  Therefore:-

Namaste (and I wish you well on your journey to A LIFE LESS SORRY)

RECOVERY POST - AN INTRODUCTION

The AA Big Book on the left, along with other recovery literature

This is the second idea I’ve had for a ‘series’ (along with the Literary Inspiration one), in order to give areas of my writing some focus, and to hopefully help with the issue of continuity on my blog.

As I have alluded to on numerous occasions, I use the 12 Step Programme of AA to stay recovered, and to help me live my life (more effectively in some areas than others).  It is the primary framework around which I have built my world, and without which I would be completely lost (as opposed to only vaguely so).

My original intention when I started the blog, back just after I’d acquired my Asperger’s diagnosis, was to write about my life as an autistic, but with a focus on applying the principles I’d learnt within the Programme to this new facet of my life.  

It didn’t quite turn out that way, mostly because I kept struggling to try to fit autism within my literal interpretation of the parameters of the illness and recovery model of the 12 Steps, as written down in the Big Book.  Instead of adapting the Programme to fit it, I was constantly trying to adapt the autism to fit the Programme: it didn’t work.  It doesn’t work.  It’s not meant to work like that, even when using it for its original purpose of dealing with alcoholism.  And even there, I had a hard time getting to grips with it, because of my rigid, literal-minded, autistic brain.  But that doesn’t mean that there isn’t a way to work it, just not like this. 

And what that way is, I’m not really sure: I have no definitive answers, and I’m still frequently bothered and bewildered by it all, but I thought that a way of dealing with it might be to investigate the Big Book (and other relevant 12 Step literature), but in a different way.  Rather than approaching it in my typically rigid manner (ie believing that the only  ‘right’ way to do it means starting at the beginning, and working in chronological order), I would work organically, and go with the flow of how my own brain works; and it doesn’t work linearly, much as I might try to force it to do.

Inside of each of my well-used books

So to clarify, this is not meant as some kind of blog version of a traditional Big Book Study Group (which would be difficult anyway, given that there’s no way to interact as I don’t have a comments section.  There is a reason for this, but I won’t go into it here).  I’m not trying to teach anything (not my understanding of the Programme, as it applies to alcoholism, or overeating, etc, of which I do have long-term experience).  

I’m simply trying to share - which may include some of my experience and knowledge about what works for me in those areas (as prompted by the literature), but mostly I’m hoping that it can help to shed light on the areas of difficulty I have; how to deal with the business of living with the WHOLE of me on a daily basis; and inspire me to change what I can, and make peace with myself for what I can’t.

Most of all, this is the experience of an AUTISTIC alcoholic, compulsive overeater/undereater/bulimic, general addict, social anxiety sufferer, with adhd (have I forgotten anything??!)  I have no idea what the non-autistic version of all of these things feels like, though I’ve seen a lot of examples of them, and they seemed strangely ‘normal’ - less intense.  You have been warned.

I’m doing this primarily to help myself, but I hope that it will be of benefit to anyone out there reading it.  You also need to know that I won’t be following a schedule (just another word for a  plan!), so expect them when they arrive - hopefully more than once a year.

May you find hope, peace, joy, and love, and a simple path through the often confusing mass that is life - one day at a time.

Namaste

Higher Learning

“Knowledge without wisdom is like man without a faith - a self-propelled disaster waiting to happen.”     Lisa M H 

Yes, that’s me - the self-propelled disaster area, not waiting to happen, but in a constant state of happening.

Which idiot is it who said that “knowledge is power”?  Had they never heard that “ignorance is bliss”?  Do they not know that the ‘wrong’ knowledge in the ‘wrong’ hands (or minds, to be literally precise) can be a total liability, causing great harm?  And not just to other people - there’s the stress you can inflict upon yourself just from having an insatiable need to know, without being discriminating about what knowledge you seek, and why you pursue it.

Perhaps the originator of the phrase “curiosity killed the cat” knew this, and was being intentionally vague because he thought it might scare the arse off of people if he actually reported that “curiosity killed my Uncle Horace, who read one too many medical articles about how stress could contribute to a heart condition, and promptly died from a heart attack brought on by the stress he experienced as a result of continually reading such depressing news.”  Plus, it’s not quite as catchy as the cat version.

Which brings me, inevitably, back to me - the self-exploding, knowledge-seeking missile; who, had I been a cat, would have lost all nine lives within minutes of learning how to walk.

I like to think of myself as a seeker of knowledge and truth: which makes it sound terribly noble and worthy, as if I’m on some kind of crusade, searching for a latter-day version of the Holy Grail - information.  I should be wearing armour, a cape, and bearing arms.  I think a horse might be a bit too much, though: I hardly have enough room for a cat. 

The problem is that I’m not very discerning about the knowledge I seek, or what its impact on me might be.  I am a human hoover - I mainly suck up crap.  And why should I be surprised by this when I am a hoarder by nature?  

Random ideas pop into my head, about which I am absolutely convinced I need to know more (preferably right now, or I will expire on the spot): and off I go, back onto the internet - the Font of all Knowledge (dubious as it frequently is).  My true quest, it seems, is to find a legitimate reason for being on the web.  Again. *Sigh*  God, at this rate I’ll soon be overtaking the amount of time the Crusaders spent battling in the Holy Land.  Can’t I find another quest?

So, my latest ‘quest’ (which basically means I got distracted by a thought, and have since been in obsessive pursuit) has been for self-education.  Again.  I say “again” because I have a series of interchangeable ‘interests’ , with which I become engrossed (to put it mildly - I think the more appropriate terminology is obsessed, or hyper-focused), and repeatedly return to, ad infinitum.  My forays into the realm of academia have become a regular highlight, especially since I discovered the world of free, on-line learning resources.  

“Oh joy!  Finally, a valid reason for going on the internet.”  Er, not.  “But why?  WHY?!!!!!  Why can’t I, when everybody else can?!  It’s not fair!!!!  I LOOOOOOOOOVE learning!  And EVERYBODY says learning is a good thing - a means to self-improvement.  It makes you a more interesting, well-rounded person.  And it’s good for your brain - stops it from atrophying, and improves your memory.  I’ll miss out on all of those benefits.  It has to be good for me!”

This is what the knowledge I’ve acquired from other people tells me: people I know nothing about, other than what they choose to share on their sites - and even then I cannot get a read on them, or determine whether I’m meant to take what they say literally, due to the minor issue of my being autistic (impaired social understanding, anyone?).  Which brings us to the fact that most of these people writing this stuff aren’t autistic, so they’re not writing it for me: I just think they are.

But the wisdom of my repeated experience (repeated ad nauseam because I repeatedly ignore it) tells me that I don’t do well with academic learning; that I’ve already found my calling, which is for writing and art, for which I already have everything I need within me - I don’t need to keep looking for “what I want to be when I grow up” (I’m nearly fifty, for God’s sake: I could drop down dead tomorrow, and then it’d be a bit late for that!), or just looking for more. 

And then there’s the fact that it’s passive - I don’t actually do anything, neither whilst learning, nor with the knowledge I acquire, other than let it wash over me, and hopefully retain some of it (or not, since most of it goes over the top of my head anyway, for one reason or another - distraction and boredom being the two main culprits).  It just becomes another obsession with which to bore myself, and any other poor sod who’s unlucky enough to gravitate within my orbit at the time, until it fizzles out and I move on to the next thing that grabs my attention.  “Oh joy.”  *Sigh* 

But the real irony is that, despite apparently being extremely intelligent, I struggled with learning at school (other than English, for which I have a natural affinity), mostly due to a mixture of anxiety, easy distractibility and loss of interest, and just plain confusion about the subjects I was learning: they didn’t fit within the context of my life, other than as an abstract means to an end - that of passing exams in order to secure either a ticket into higher education, or a good job.  

And I don’t do abstract.  Nor do I do the formal model of education, or learning, but still I ignore my inner wisdom and keep on trying to fit myself into a round hole when I’m most definitely an alternatively-shaped peg.

So I guess it’s not what you know, but what you do with what you know.  Or what you don’t do with what you know.  Or even what you do with what you don’t know.  Or what you do when you don’t know.  The possibilities, it seems, are endless… like this paragraph.

And I guess that’s why we refer to the wisdom of Solomon, not the knowledge.

Knowledge you learn, wisdom you earn.

If You're Happy And You Know It, Flap Your Hands

“When I became a man I put away childish things, including the fear of childishness, and the desire to be very grown up.”    C S Lewis

Are you a flapper, a rocker, a spinner, or maybe even a twitcher?  In other words, do you stim?  For the uninitiated it means self-stimulation (think hand-flapping, body rocking, spinning around in circles, etc - not masturbation!)  

I stim, though, up until recently, I didn’t really understand why.  I kind of thought it was just one of those peculiarities attributable to people with autism: yet another example of the difference between us and the non-autistic population.

Strangely enough, given its conspicuity, it’s one thing about myself of which I’ve never felt self-conscious.  Of course, this could be due to the fact that I’ve been largely unaware that I’m doing it (difficult to feel self-conscious when you’re not even conscious); or that it’s considered an odd thing to do.  Why would I?  It’s part of who I am, what I do, so to me it’s perfectly normal.  Plus, having perfected the art of avoiding looking at people (because I cannot read their facial expressions, nor simultaneously listen to, and look at, them), I have no idea whether they are looking at me, or exchanging questioning glances.  

So it wasn’t until after I’d got my Asperger’s diagnosis, years later, that I discovered that people do, indeed, notice what to them is considered to be my odd behaviour.  My best friend told me how some of the members at our local Alcoholics Anonymous meetings would stare and point at me in concern, directing their silent questioning at her to find out what was the matter with me, whilst I remained blithely unaware.  

After all, it was perfectly logical to me to bend my body into a pretzel-shape to make myself as small as possible in order to hide (I also happen to have a problem with sitting ‘properly’, and stationary, on a seat); avoid all eye contact by staring at the floor; and then soothe myself by rocking.  I was astounded to learn that it produced the opposite effect - that I made myself conspicuous, which to some people would even appear as if I was attention-seeking.  Dread the thought.

My particular preferences are for rocking, hand-wringing, stroking (myself, particularly upper arms; and, if available, dogs, cats, soft toy animals, and anything else with a soothing texture), and patting/drumming/tapping (especially my upper chest, which produces a pleasant sensation, and a satisfying noise).  I do these for their soothing and calming abilities, which makes perfect sense - think of how people rock, pat, and stroke babies.  And yet some of those same people think we’re odd.  Have they forgotten how soothing, and effective, such things were?  Perhaps it’s  because they expect us to have grown out of the need for such things: but then they don’t have a highly sensitive nervous system like ours. 

I’m also a bit of a flapper, sometimes, though I don’t do it as frequently.  This I do when I get excited about something - it’s like there’s a surge of energy that needs releasing, so madly flapping my hands helps.  It makes me look like a sea mammal flapping its flippers, so we now refer to it as me doing my seal impersonation.  

Oddly enough, until I found out I’m autistic, and then read about flapping, I don’t recall ever doing it before: unlike the others, which I know I’ve done throughout my life.  It’s like I unconsciously started copying what I’d read.  I did it with stammering, too: never stammered in my life until after my diagnosis (I’ve always been more prone to becoming mute than babbling, when anxious), then suddenly I couldn’t stop tripping over my words!  

Having discovered that what I do has a name, I have become increasingly more aware of when, and why, I am doing it, which has given me the ability to choose whether I continue to do it or not in that moment (for instance, my best friend will sometimes tell me I’m rocking whilst we’re on Skype, which can make her feel a bit dizzy, and be rather distracting for her).  What I have not consciously tried to do, though, is attempt to control it.   And yet it has lessened, seemingly of its own accord.  

I put this down to a number of factors.  One is that, remarkably for me, I have accepted it as being part of my autism, and so haven’t tried to force myself to stop doing it (an approach which has never worked yet).  Another is that the level of general anxiety I experience on a daily basis has reduced phenomenally over the last few years, which means an automatic lessening in the need to sooth and comfort myself via stimming.  You can tell when I’m really anxious because I turn into a restless, rocking rambler again.  

I believe that my improvement is due in part to the practice of the AA programme, which has led to an increasing faith and dependence upon a God of my understanding (spiritual, not religious), one of the results of which is a reduction in my anxiety about the world around me.  Then there’s the practice of yoga, which has taught me how to calm myself, and control my anxiety, through the breath. 

So, this may well sound like it’s a post about how to reduce stimming, which would totally conflict with the title, not to mention a large proportion of the content.  On the contrary, it is, in effect, a celebration of what is, essentially, an intuitive, benign tool for self-care; and the fact that I have recently discovered a socially acceptable way of stimming.  I kid you not.  

Yoga.  Seriously.  

I can’t believe it’s taken me this long to realise it (I have, after all, only been doing it for twelve years), but it makes perfect sense.  When we stim we are unconsciously stimulating the autonomic nervous system (responsible for, amongst other things, heart rate, breathing, and the fight or flight response).  The practice of yoga does exactly the same thing.  However, it wasn’t until I started supplementing my regular practice with Kundalini yoga a year or so ago that I made the connection.

Kundalini yoga employs a lot of quite vigorous exercises, which are called kriyas - a number of which actually look as if they were designed by autistics!  Truly.  So, not only am I absolutely, positively induced to try to bend myself into a pretzel shape with my usual yoga routine (something I was naturally drawn to doing before I ever came across the formal practice of yoga), but I now also get to spin in a circle, rock backwards, forwards, AND sideways, and flap to my heart’s content (with variations).

So I say flap like a loon if you feel the need; and if anyone questions what you’re doing, just tell them you’re practising yoga!