“Oh shit! I’m lost,” was the first thought that entered my mind as I started to calm down, closely followed by “Oh double shit, he’s got the hotel key, I’m going to end up sleeping on the streets tonight.”
I had had a row with my boyfriend. A big row. The sort of row that had led to me being almost physically violent, really aggressive, yelling some fairly colourful language, and then storming off into the dark. Into the heart of a foreign city, very late at night, on my own. I can still see the street in front of me, still hear the French voices around me, still smell the cooking smells and see the people sitting at their tables with their pichets de rouge and so on…
As I stood in the dark and tried to figure out what to do next, given that I’d now landed myself in a rather precarious situation, I also felt rather sad and upset that what should have been a perfectly idyllic wonderful evening in a place I’d wanted to be for so long had turned out so badly. As far as I could remember we’d been planning on having dinner and were in the process of choosing a restaurant from the many available when we’d suddenly got into a huge fight about something and it had all gone horribly horribly wrong.
Fortunately, my then boyfriend, who these days goes by the title of “best friend”, was, and still is, a sensible and caring human being. He did the very best thing possible in the circumstances – allowed me to storm off, but followed me at a discreet distance so I didn’t know he was observing me, and, once I’d calmed down, he approached me and I burst into tears and we took some time out for me to sort myself out before we did eventually find somewhere to have supper. And I didn’t end up sleeping on the streets.
We already knew each other well enough by this stage that he was starting to observe that I had really strange behaviour issues when I hadn’t eaten and that my mood could change rapidly if I was hungry, but that he’d often suggest we should eat and I’d swear blind that I wasn’t hungry, even if, when subsequently presented with food, it then became obvious that I was hungry. There’s a whole blog post to be written sometime about my relationship with food, but for the time being, it was becoming obvious by this stage that I needed feeding regularly, even when I didn’t feel hungry.
So the evening was eventually rescued, and we concluded that we’d had some sort of a fight about something, but we weren’t really sure what, but that it had really upset me, and he apologised and I apologised and we agreed that we needed to go out for dinner a bit earlier the next night to avoid me getting too hungry and things were smoothed over. We went on to enjoy the rest of our holiday in Nice, eating good food, bathing in the Mediterranean, and so on.
The mystery of what the “argument” was actually about remained unsolved for two decades. Even though this incident was around 20 years ago, neither of us has ever forgotten it. Over the years we’ve occasionally discussed it and wondered what we were arguing about, but we’ve never really been able to pinpoint anything. My memory is that something just made me totally freak out and that it must, therefore, have been pretty bad and he must have said something dreadful to me. His memory is that we had looked at the menus of a few restaurants and he’d asked me which one I’d like to have dinner at and I’d suddenly gone totally berserk!
It’s never really made sense to us, and has just become “one of those things” and we’ve laughed about it since, and I’ve said what an idiot I felt when I realised he had the key (afterwards, whenever we went anywhere, he always gave me the key so that I’d never end up sleeping on the streets, even if I did go charging off into the night), and he’s said that he always had me in sight and was keeping an eye on me, and it’s just become part of our shared history as a somewhat bizarre incident.
Until three months ago. Until I started to re-view my life from an autistic point of view. Until I realised that the times I’d suddenly gone crazy while camping over the summer of 2016 were not, in fact, weird panic attacks, but were autistic meltdowns. Until I realised how similar those meltdowns were to countless incidents that had been happening throughout my life.
All these times, a familiar pattern. Suddenly, a switch flipping in my head, feeling like I was going to explode, completely losing control of my behaviour, feeling so totally disorientated and furious and unable to cope, needing desperately either to hit something or to run away from everybody and everything, to be alone, not being able to articulate any feelings or understand what was going on, words gone, the only way to deal with the huge pressure and bad bad feelings to do something physical, to get out the stress and the feelings somehow, a need for people to be far far away, unable to cope with the slightest touch, wanting to be anywhere else but here, massive massive rage, completely involuntary and uncontrollable.
Even sitting here trying to type up what it feels like I’m not really even scratching the surface. Maybe one day I’ll be able to do a better job of describing what the inside of a meltdown feels like, but it’s hard, because part of the problem is that in that moment there are no words for describing, it’s just huge strong feelings of wrong and bad and more wrong and more bad and a big big need for explosion and release of lots of terrible terrible energy…
And that was how I’d ended up standing in a dark street in Nice, thinking “Oh shit! I’m lost.”
It was early on in the holiday, possibly even our first night in Nice, and therefore either the end of the second or third day away from home. We’d travelled from home to London, and picked up the Eurostar to Paris, where we’d then spent a night. The next day we’d crossed Paris and boarded a TGV bound for Nice, a marvellous journey, watching the vegetation gradually change, and heading for the sea and the magic of the south. We’d then checked into our hotel, but were still tired from travelling.
And, as I’ve already observed, food had been a bit sporadic. My routine was out of kilter. I was tired, exhausted. Away from home, and although having a wonderful time, totally overstimulated. Even back then, at what was probably the height of my masking abilities, before mental illness had taken over my life in the way it subsequently did, and as a reasonably young fit woman, I didn’t cope properly with many aspects of “normal” life. Too much of anything too different too quickly often caused me problems, but I coped and coped and coped the best way I could, and adjusted life just enough that I could manage.
However, 20 years ago, I was exhausted after two days travelling, hungry because I hadn’t eaten for a while, and out of routine and away from the comforts of home. And my boyfriend did something as simple as asking me to choose a restaurant for dinner, to make a decision. I am not very good with quick decisions anyway. And at that moment I was totally incapable of making a decision. And my mind exploded. And I had a meltdown.
But we didn’t know it was an autistic meltdown until 3 months ago. Two decades of wondering what the mysterious argument was about are now at an end. There was no argument. My system was simply overloaded and I could no longer cope.
Another mystery solved, simply by knowing that I’m autistic!