Another Step

Having admitted to myself that I was autistic, and having already approached the doctor to be referred for diagnosis, I knew there was something else important that I had to do. I had to let my family know what I’d discovered, and the obvious place to start with that was to call my mother.

I recorded my feelings about doing this:

Deep deep breaths. That was a biggie. Told my mother.

And then noted some of the things that she had immediately said when I’d told her that I would need information about my early childhood and please could she start thinking whether there were any incidents that occurred in my early life that she could remember, or any ways in which I differed from my brother (who is not autistic) when we were young, and could she possibly just start thinking back to the time of my early childhood and triggering memories because the assessment people would want to know.

And without even a pause for breath, my mother remembered being summoned to my primary school (as I’ve described in Circles) when I was 4 years old. She recalled me learning to read at age 3. She recalled my nursery teacher commenting on my behaviour at nursery. She recalled something about a hearing test at 7 months that went wrong because I didn’t behave like a 7 month old should and the person administering the test telling her off about it. She told me how I didn’t respond to spoken words as a baby, only to singing, and how I hardly slept and constantly fidgeted in my pram.

And all this was instantaneous recall, the moment I asked, with no pause for thought. Memories from over 40 years ago. Little things, none of which seemed significant at the time, and none of which was ever followed up (because it was the 1970s and I seemed healthy as far as anyone could tell and when my mother asked what babies were supposed to do (I was the first child and my parents were young and inexperienced) she was told that all babies develop in their own ways so not to worry about anything), all started to indicate that my development when I was very young was, in fact, rather a long way from what would be considered “normal” by most people.

This first conversation was, it turned out, only the “tip of the iceberg” as far as my childhood was concerned. There were further pieces of information to follow, and I’m still, really, in the process of absorbing them all and trying to go through the questionnaires that we did as part of the assessment process. Maybe I’ll manage to write about it all thoroughly at some point, but that point is not yet.

My instant reaction to these revelations was to make a bunch of hashtags:


I subsequently went through a phase of finding these discoveries about my early life really rather odd and weird, and in many ways, traumatic. It was strange to think that there were things I’d never have discovered about myself and my early life if I hadn’t been going for an autism diagnosis. My husband and I had started to document my own memories of childhood a couple of weeks earlier, but this phone call to my mother took things to a whole new level, because I started to discover things that weren’t part of my existing life narrative.

Furthermore, since I was never able to have any children, I didn’t know whether the things my mother was telling me about my early life had any resemblance to any sort of “normal” childhood development or not, and I ended up having to do a lot of really triggering research to find out, research that brought back horrible memories of infertility clinics and pain and heartbreak and failure, so it turned out to be a triggering and difficult experience from that point of view too.

And, of course, my own memories of childhood had to be activated. And many of them weren’t that much fun either – I was bullied consistently through school and even when teachers tried to find out why things weren’t as they should have been, they weren’t able to come up with any answers, despite sometimes trying, as I described in Head’s Office.

These things are things I still haven’t yet worked through, things that still upset me, things that I know would have been picked up if I was a child today. I can’t help feeling that had I known that I really was different when I was growing up, not just naughty, that I would have felt less bad, been less self-blaming, and not become the suicidal burnt out adult I now am. I’m still not really in a place where I can consider all the things I want to consider – I have to do it a bit at a time, because it is difficult.

My mother, somewhat comfortingly, said to me a few months after that first conversation, that she wishes she had a time machine. Of course, there are so many factors at play that it’s impossible to say that changing one thing would have produced this result or that result (I KNOW all the stuff about autistic kids being “written off” and told they’d never be able to get anywhere in life – I had exactly the OPPOSITE problem and was consistently told how bright I was and given massive expectations accordingly, expectations that I could never fulfill so I was doomed to failure). However, maybe I’d not have been chastised for meltdowns, not been forced to wear wool polo necks which hurt me and so on, and not have learnt, through my early years, to behave and to internalise everything because I was frightened of the consequences and the punishments.

Furthermore, because I learnt fast and turned out to be academically able, by the time I was at secondary school exam stage nobody worried about me. I was succeeding academically, top grades of my year, therefore I must be happy. What nobody knew is that I hardly bothered revising for my O-levels because I assumed I’d be dead by the time the results came out. I didn’t tell anyone because I’d learnt by then that you just didn’t talk about that sort of thing. You worked hard, you behaved, you churned out the exam results, and everyone was happy. It was all part of the act.

Except that the act had a massive cost for me – the thing that had eventually made me as well-behaved a child as I was able to be, turned me into a mentally ill twentysomething and a burnt out thirtysomething. And nobody really knew why until I was in my mid forties.

Getting an autism diagnosis late in life is a weird thing. It opens all sorts of cans of worms that have been sealed shut for decades. I had long since closed the door on my childhood, and on everything to do with children in general, sealed away in a place in my head marked “Do not open – just move on with life!” but I was forced to reopen the door, to take the cans off the shelves, and to let the worms loose all over the place. It was part of the assessment, and it is part of coming to terms with why my life has turned out as it has. It’s something that needs to be addressed as best I can in order to move on and try to build some sort of future with whatever life I have left. I’m not sure it was something I particularly wanted to be doing at this point in my life – having just moved away from all things child-related after my own failure to have any, the last thing I needed was to go back to my own early life – but it turned out to be necessary, and perhaps going through the painful stuff now means that there will be less of it buried and I’ll eventually be less mentally ill as a result, more at peace with it all, and maybe, possibly, more at peace with my own childlessness and consequent response to children, which is something I still struggle with terribly.

And, as I have read in so many places and am experiencing for myself, getting an autism diagnosis late in life is not only about the future, and learning how to live from now on, but also about reframing past experiences, reviewing all of life that has gone before, looking back at so many times when things have gone wrong, or been inexplicable, and looking at them from an autistic perspective. It’s part of the process of making sense of life, and, of course, the later the diagnosis, the more of life there is to go through.

And in my case, it’s not just me who is reframing past events. Many of my friends have now made sense of experiences they’ve had with me over the years. My husband now understands things that have long been slight oddities in our marriage. And my family are trying to understand the whole thing.

I made the first phone call to my mother a year ago today. It had taken nearly 45 years for her to find out why her non-sleeping fidgety baby had messed up a hearing test at 7 months old. As soon as I asked the right questions and explained what I’d recently discovered, it became obvious.

I didn’t even know I’d had a hearing test at 7 months until I started gathering information for an autism assessment!


How To Be

I’m aware that this blog is becoming a bit erratic. There is still the story of my diagnosis to complete. There are hanging bits of part stories about discovering I was autistic. There are still random bits of semi-poems intermingling with journal entries. And I have yet to write about significant topics in a way that I eventually hope will be properly useful to others. It’s all a bit of a mess really. And I still have comments to respond to, and so many times where I’ve stated that I need to write a whole blog post about something and haven’t yet. But I can only do what I can do. My spoons are often somewhat limited and I work pretty much to capacity at all times, so I can’t do more.

And that’s just on the actual blog. Inside my head it’s even worse. There are fragments of posts, ideas, notions, concepts and so on. I have note after note after note on my phone, half-typed half thoughts about various things. It feels like I need a year or more to go through them all and construct coherent writings from them. There is so much to do, I’m so behind with things that I need to do to keep my life just about ticking over. And there never seems to be enough time, and by time I mean the sort of time where I’m functional enough to achieve things.

Maybe, however, this erratic situation, this state of chaos, is actually reflective of my own state of mind and my own current situation, which is also erratic and chaotic. Over a period of 24 hours last week I went from hating being me and not wanting to exist, to being content and still feeling this huge relief of realising who I am. I am still struggling to speak or get out of bed some days, but can be quite capable on others. And I have also realised over the last couple of weeks, that when I am out of the flat, in public, with other people, I have a situation that is still not resolved, and not even close to being resolved.

I do not know How To Be.

The problem is this:

I have always been regarded as somewhat “eccentric”, and even, maybe, some would say, a bit weird. That’s OK, I’m cool with that, it’s not a problem to me, I’ve dealt with it long since. After over 4 decades of being a bit on the interesting side of things I’m pretty used to it. I got really upset about being bullied and so on at school until I was around 15, but by then I’d largely learnt that it was just part of life and although it wasn’t much fun, I’d learnt to act “normal enough” to survive out in the world. I’d learnt to live with it, to cope.

The problem, of course, was that in learning to act “normal enough” and in learning to cope, what I’d actually done was literally learnt to act. I’d built a mask, and a pretty effective one at that. And the mask that I built was one of a rather strong and confident person. I wasn’t the stereotypical autistic girl “flying under the radar” by sitting quietly in the corner in the class, unnoticed. I wasn’t failing exams or dropping out of school. I was strong-willed, brash, and externally confident (even internally confident to an extent, because however much of a failure I was at friendship and sport and so on, I could learn things and pass exams reasonably easily, so that was what I did). I was told that I was capable and could achieve great things (largely because of the exam results and my capacity for learning things), and so the mask that I built was one of a high-achieving confident young woman.

However, this mask came at a price, and that price was my mental health. Constantly “being strong” and “achieving” in the way that I did in my early 20s was breaking me inside, and by the time I got to my late 20s I was very very ill indeed, heading for the serious episode of burnout at around age 30, from which I never really recovered, and my life was falling apart.

Up until last year I continued with the masking process to a considerable extent while out in the world. I continued to believe that the strong me was the real me, and once I’d recovered from being mentally ill (I really believed I’d get better at some stage) I’d be back to full strength. However, that continual masking was breaking me yet again, and, perhaps inevitably, I fell apart again completely, in the summer of 2016. And by that time the world had caught up sufficiently for the events to occur that eventually led to me being diagnosed autistic.

And, because of the sort of person I am, having discovered I’m autistic I’m determined to BE autistic. I don’t consider it something to hide away, I don’t consider it something to try not to be. It’s a huge part of my identity, and after over 4 decades being “somebody else”, the relief at being a more authentic version of me is huge. I suddenly realise it’s OK to allow myself to eat the same thing day after day after day if it makes me feel better, I’m allowed to stop forcing myself to take part in group conversations until I’m so sick I’m at the point of collapse, I can stim and fiddle with things and know it’s not me being wilfully annoying but is just part of my neurology, and I’m finally learning how to be myself after decades of trying to be the person society expected me to be and failing at it.

Which is all very well when I’m at home, or with tolerant friends or someone who can care for me and explain. And is absolutely fine when I’m in safe environments and have enough spoons to take care of myself. All very lovely – in theory all I need to do now is to be my fabulous autistic neurodivergent hand-flappy rocking-back-and-forth sunglasses-wearing eye-contact-no-longer tell-it-like-it-is self! Neurology explains everything, no more need for acting! Yippeeeee!

However, I’m a grown up person. I have to live in the world. I have to go out to shops to buy food. I have to be able to deal with other human beings if I want a life beyond the television and the sofa. I want to participate in activities that will be full of neurotypical folk who think it’s great to have a spontaneous chat about nothing at all and that such a thing takes no effort, who sit and stand too close to me for comfort, who are irritated by my stimming, who will expect me to use polite social niceties that mean something to them, who don’t even know what being autistic means, and who mistake my lack of social finesse, my sometimes inability to speak, my lack of eye contact, and so on, for rudeness or disrespect or similar, which, of course, it isn’t, it’s just that my natural way of being is different from theirs.

And so I come up with a dilemma. As I’m starting to emerge from burnout and beginning to go out into the world again a bit more, I’m finding that there are times I slip back into the old mask, which is probably inevitable after 4 decades of living that way and it becoming such a practised part of my act. It’s very obvious when I do though, because I start to feel very ill and bad rather quickly and I don’t have the stamina to maintain it for very long. There are also times when I catch myself doing something really obviously autistic (like losing speech or flapping my hands or something) and realise that if something went wrong or somebody challenged me, I’d be in deep trouble without being able to explain properly what was going on and with no carer on hand to help. And how DO you deal with a stranger who is standing so close to you that their “person vibes” are making you feel ill, when they don’t even understand the concept of “person vibes” (which, incidentally, is a term I just invented now)? They think you’re being awkward, but you’re not, it’s just that you can’t cope with that much person that close in that time and place.

I have no answers at this stage. But I’m coming up against the same problem that I read about from the parents of autistic children, but for myself, not a child. I’ve seen discussions about the extent to which autistic children should be pushed and made resilient and able to cope in life, and the extent to which they should be encouraged to be their fully autistic selves with all that that entails. I’m now considering to what extent I need to continue to use the mask I’ve developed in order to survive in the world and to what extent I can allow all my autistic traits and tendencies to dominate. On the one hand, trying to make autistic people “look” neurotypical can be massively damaging to mental health (don’t I know this from bitter experience), and how well we “fit in” or “look normal” is no measure of success in an autistic life because it denies who we are and can cause huge burnouts, but on the other hand we have to survive in the world somehow and that needs a certain amount of resilience and coping ability, especially given how little support there is in most societies for autistic people, particularly those of us who are adults. Add on to that the complications of late diagnosis and the concomitant identity crisis that arises from this huge change in life, and it’s easy to see how difficult it is to know how to proceed from here.

And this is not just about societal attitudes, but about practical survival and physical health. I’m not at the stage where if the supermarket discontinues my usual food that I don’t eat at all, but I did sit and cry for half an hour the other morning and declared that I wouldn’t eat or drink that day because we’d run out of the milkshake that I usually have when I first get up. My autistic brain said NO in big shouty letters, and I had to use my rational “learning” brain to argue with it. I had to allow myself to recover from what was basically a mini-meltdown over a milkshake, and then gently persuade myself that I was going to eat and drink and it would be OK to drink something different until my husband could get to the right shop to get the right sort of milkshake. This all takes energy (and, in my case, a very understanding husband), and it’s nobody’s fault – it’s just the way my brain works being at odds with what I know to be good for my body and overall health!

And going out into the world and coping with everything that the external world throws at me takes even more energy, even when people are trying their utmost to understand and be helpful. I’m quite good at it because I’ve been practising for a long time and I’ve learnt a lot of social skills which I can maintain quite well for the duration of most social events as long as I get enough downtime in between, but I’m also determined to be as autistic as I need to be where possible, because it’s so much easier, more relaxing, and SO much better for my mental health.

Also, while knowing I’m autistic is an amazing liberating relief, and while I really like being autistic me because it’s so natural and right and comfortable, I also rather liked the strong capable mask person (which is possibly understandable – since I created a persona it probably made sense to create one of someone I liked rather than someone I hated). I don’t want to lose some of those strong bits (being “tough” is something I enjoy in many contexts), and I still need some of that resilience to survive and to live any sort of sensible life.

However, I know that, aside from the briefest of interactions, I have to be open about being autistic. I read of people who hold down jobs and don’t tell their employers that they’re autistic – that wouldn’t be possible for me as I’m too obviously different, and at my best I can maintain that level of mask for only about 3 days absolute maximum, even when I’m going home in the evenings. In the past the jobs have just failed, and I’ve lost them. Without significant and noticeable adaptions there are things I simply can’t do. At the moment I’m not even close to being able to work, but if that ever changes then there’s no way I could hide such a big part of me. I can currently act neurotypical for an hour or so at most these days, certainly not long enough to hold down a job!

So I’m now stuck in a bit of an inbetween state, trying to work out where to go from here, trying to work out how I can take this new discovery, be myself, be openly autistic, enjoy the benefits that brings to me, even manage to advocate for other autistic people and educate others about autism, but still manage to live a life that doesn’t mean I’m sidelined for things, or unable to participate in many of the sort of events that make life interesting and worth living.

This post has turned out to be more a list of questions, of musings, of ponderings, than anything else. Maybe, a year on from discovery, six months on from diagnosis, and slowly emerging from burnout, this is a phase I have to go through. I have to ask the questions before the answers will start to emerge. I have to consider how I’m going to live my life, what I’m going to push myself to do, how much I can ask for adaptions to do things I’d be unable to do without them, how much I’m going to give up on some things because it’s too much, and where the balance will eventually lie. Maybe there will never be a full balance, but some sort of compromise between the bit of me that craves adventure and activity and the bit of me that needs solitude and peace.

And after two thousand words of analysis and consideration…

I still don’t know How To Be!

I am still having, consciously, to make decisions about whether to present the old mask to people, which is practised and known and I can do only for short lengths of time, or whether simply to “be myself”, which is new and unfamiliar to me and others and requires explanation and education but is so much more relaxing and feels so much more honest and authentic.

I suspect I’m still learning, trying things out, sometimes getting it wrong, sometimes getting it right, discovering what works and what doesn’t. I suspect that learning How To Be as an authentically autistic person who can actually manage to do things out in the world without getting constantly broken will be an iterative process, and I’m still very much at the start of that process.


To return to the place
Where my old life ended
And my old self
Into a million tiny fragments.

I messaged a friend
A year ago
And said
“It seems like I might have
Some sort of autism”

I laugh now at the terminology
And ponder what “sort” it might be
I’d quite like it to be purple
With a side order of cheesy chips
And a glass of beer.
Maybe also a beard
And nice eyebrows!

I digress

A tweet set me thinking:
Do I have a love-hate relationship
With this place?
I’m not sure.
I’m not given to loving
Or hating
Anything much.
They always seem
A bit strong
And the words are loaded
With overwhelm.


I got it.

The paradox in my head
About this place
At this time of year
After the events of August 2016…

Two words
Describe it
Perfectly for me


The support of good people
I know they are good
My brain tells me
But they are still people
As always
With a crowd of people
I get that sense of
That I always have.
No matter how much I belong
I never do.
And if I feel I might start
To be part of something
I get uncomfortable
And withdraw.

The trauma of multiple meltdowns
My life falling apart
The eventual admission
Of just how disabled I really am
And that to return
I need adaptions
I can no longer be
“A normal customer”
And I know the truth
About my life.
The eventual comfort
Of knowing why I can’t
Do what most people can.

I have nearly cancelled this trip
So many times.
Decided I cannot go.
Too much.
The risk of meltdown.
The inevitability of speech loss
In a place where face to face interaction
Is valued.
At what point do I just give up?

Apparently not yet.
Because I have started packing.
To return to a place of

Unsettling support
Reassuring trauma.

Where all the feelings get intermingled.

And the routine
Is simultaneously
Comforting and constraining.

The discomfort of becoming
Part of a community
Of never quite knowing
What to do
Or how to be.

But I am drawn back

Simple to say it is the music that draws me
But it is more than that.
Observing people.
Maybe even as close
As I come to being
Part of a community.
Skirting the edges,
Watching from the sidelines
Because throwing myself
Into the middle
Breaks me too badly.

I cannot keep up the acting
Or make so many conscious decisions
Or remember how to chat
Or cope with the noise
Or concentrate that hard
On doing the right thing
Or on explaining
Why I am not doing the right thing
For days on end.
It is too exhausting.

Adaptions are being arranged.
Separate eating.
People knowing I am autistic
And need time out
To recover.
Disclosure not optional
For me.

It feels strange.
After so many years
Of “just work harder”
To realise that I can’t.
And the only way I can do anything
Is with adaptions
To enable me to cope.

I feel sad that I cannot join in
But I have tried this
For so many years
And always the result
Is disaster.

Prior to my mask disintegrating
I could do 3 days
Before meltdown or shutdown.
Now it is more like
24 hours
Before I need to be alone
To recover.

But I have still not cancelled.
I am still going.
Facing things that terrify me.
But going to a place
I want to be,
Even so.
I said, a couple of years ago,
That if I wasn’t ill,
It would be perfect.
(I only knew myself to be “ill”
Back then).

It’s a place where the old, “strong” me,
The heavily masked me of my early 20s,
Would have flourished
(Although collapsed upon return)
But the me of now can barely cope
Because I am so burned out and mentally ill
After so many years of masking.

And now the place is imbued
With heavy significance.

Had I never gone there
Would I still not know I was autistic?

The question hurts my brain.

I cannot cope with the notion
That something involving people
Is so significant.

That makes me too vulnerable.

Part of me wants to stay away,
Part of me needs to go back,

Because everything changed.
My entire perception
Of my whole life.

It is all too big.

So I shall focus only on practical survival.
Loading the car.

I shall count socks
And think about jumpers
And try to organise things
As best I can
Because I know
My executive dysfunctioning
Means I will struggle
With the most basic things
After a short time.

Even the packing is a challenge
Right now!


There are usually two reasons why I might not update this blog for several days. One is that I’m too busy, doing too much out in the world and am therefore spending all my energy interacting with people out in the world and all my time simply doing whatever it is and therefore don’t have enough energy or time left over to write a blog post. The other is that I am simply unable to write at all because I cannot translate the thoughts in my head into sufficiently coherent words because I have run out of energy completely and it is all I can do simply to survive and get through the day.

Both of those situations have been the case this past week, which is why I’ve been absent. After a couple of really busy music events the previous week (and yes, I did leave two clear days between each for recovery), I then went out to lunch on Saturday, went running on Sunday, out to lunch again on Monday, and then had to drive over to the vet on Tuesday to collect a rat who’d had a operation.

It turned out that, when added to the musical activities of the previous week with bare minimum recovery time and no “well days” in between for me to gain energy, four consecutive days out of the house was too much for me (in fairness, I didn’t plan four days, because I’d forgotten about collecting the rat, and even when I did remember, just a drive to the surgery didn’t seem like it would be too much – but it was).

And then, on top of all this activity out in the world with noise, and interaction, and so on, there were other things going on. Several incoming messages to deal with, things I wanted to say and comment on, friends who needed support in various ways, a bit of family stuff (father starting chemo), a birthday, anticipation of the upcoming weekend (which is now happening as I type), and my spoon rations were stretched to their absolute limit. And last thing on Tuesday evening the very last spoon of my spoon overdraft was used and I went from “coping” to “not coping”.

With hindsight, the signs were there. Saturday lunch was the last “proper meal” I managed to eat, and my food intake got increasingly erratic over the next few days. I started to feel exhausted again. I gave up commenting on facebook posts I’d wanted to because I couldn’t find the words. Sunday I got wiped out by going for a run and lost speech again. And once I got to Tuesday night I managed about one hour of sleep in total.

I haven’t felt up to writing a blog post, not even a “poem style” one since then. I’ve tried on several occasions. I’ve lain in bed with the phone, sat on the sofa with the iPad, and at one point turned on the computer and managed to type a title before feeling so awful I had to go and lie down again. But that has been it. Today is the first day I’ve really felt anything other than absolutely dreadful.

And I finally figured out, yesterday, I think, WHY that is. Even if I had been wrecked on Tuesday evening I should have been OK by Friday if I’m thinking of the “two days for recovery” rule, which I’ve been applying and which has, on the whole, been reasonably successful.

But what I hadn’t figured on was the cumulative effect of stacking up many events on top of each other. I hadn’t figured that the two days are just what’s needed for recovery from doing something, but that they’re not enough for proper recuperation. If doing something takes me into spoon overdraft, then two days can usually get me back to a balance of zero, but if I don’t take MORE time alone with minimum sensory input then I never get chance to accrue any savings. I’m living on credit the whole time.

And now I’m paying the price. I was supposed to be going to the Air Tattoo yesterday with my friend. I was not well enough to go, not by a very long way. I wasn’t even well enough to e-mail him to tell him I wasn’t well enough to go, so my husband had to do it for me. It was left that there might be a possibility of going to park and view nearby tomorrow, but, as I type this, I don’t think I’m going to be well enough for that either. I’m still struggling to eat. My sleep is still really disturbed. And my mood is not, shall we say, at the top of its game.

And my husband isn’t here to do the communicating for me either because he’s out for the next two days running the 100K ultramarathon that I am missing terribly and want to be doing too, but am not well enough. I’ve been dreading this weekend for a few weeks now, knowing what sort of weekend I wanted it to be, what I wanted to be doing, and what I wouldn’t be doing, because of stupid burnout and being not well enough to have done enough training or anything.

And it’s turned out that I’m not even well enough to go and watch aeroplanes either. I’ve run through, in my head, the potential scenarios for tomorrow, and I can’t imagine how I’ll cope. There will be people, there will be noise, there will be nowhere to hide, nowhere dark to go. It will be a long day that will use spoons fast. Even in past years, before I knew I was autistic and before this particular burnout, it’s taken me several days to feel well again after going to an airshow – I now understand why. My husband has made sandwiches and has left them in case I go and need them, but my head just can’t make it work right now. I’ve been trying to get out of the flat for the last day and a half in order to do a few jobs – I need to go to the bank, my phone has run out of credit, and so on, but even that feels too much for another few days. I need more time, more space, more recovery.

All this makes me sad. Things that I want to do, things that I love doing, I just can’t. It also makes me afraid, afraid that people will stop asking, that they’ll think it might be “too much” for me and that decisions about what I do will get taken out of my hands because people will think they’re protecting me by not inviting me to play music or have lunch or go running or go to airshows or whatever. And I’ll miss out on opportunities that I COULD have taken (my functioning abilities are so variable that I can often do something one day that I have not a hope of doing the next, and vice versa) and on things I enjoy. I also worry that they’ll stop being genuine with me, thinking that I won’t be able to cope with difficult stuff, and I’ll end up with a confused “half-reality” which I absolutely don’t want, even if I can’t always help with that particular thing at that particular time.

I have to learn this stuff for myself, and I have to discover just what abilities I’ve been left with following the burnout of the last year, just how far I can push before I break, and what I can do to mitigate against the effects of going out into the world and doing things. I have to learn how the cumulative use of energy stacks up and what I can do about it. Even realising, this week, the difference that “accumulation” of spoon debt makes to me, it has become obvious why I’ve struggled so badly to hold down even part-time jobs. Even if I can get through the first week, the damage to my energy levels stacks up so I’m incapable of doing the same in the second week, and I eventually fall apart. Looking back now, it’s easy to see the patterns. And in a strange way, being able to see those patterns and understand why I lost the jobs is at least satisfying and persuades me, just a little more, to stop blaming myself (as I have done for years) for my many failures in the workplace.

Before my husband headed off to go running around the countryside we were able to discuss some of this. He reminded me that it’s still less than a year since the huge discovery that I was autistic (which is possibly the most life-changing thing that will ever happen to me), and it’s still less than 5 months since my diagnosis, and that I’ve actually come a very very long way from where I was back in December. I’ve recently done things that I could hardly have dreamed of back then, so it really is progress overall.

However, progress takes work and energy and costs spoons. Even if the general direction is upwards, sometimes things will go downwards. While I continue to be the sort of person who wants to go out into the world and do things and to push myself to my limits (or, let’s be honest, to test the outer reaches of those limits and to keep pushing until I break, which is probably going to continue to happen quite a lot because living a “quiet life” is so counter to my personality that in its own way it’s even harder than doing the pushing because pulling back also takes a lot of effort), I will, inevitably, break from time to time.

Today, however, just doing what I really need to do will test my limits. I need to pay the council tax, I need to contact my friend about watching aeroplanes, and I need to eat. All of those feel like really really big tasks right now, but they’re what I’m aiming for. Anything else will be a bonus.

A While, Maybe?

I’m still a bit behind with quite a lot of things, including stuff that I’d like to write here. Technically, today should be another rest day after the busy two-day weekend I’ve just had, especially as it’s the first time I’ve been out of the house for most of the day for two consecutive days in a very very long time. I’m also conscious that the weekend was preceded by a busy week and that my head isn’t working quite well enough to say what I want to say yet. The thought to word translation mechanism isn’t running smoothly – it feels as though it needs a drop of oil on the machinery or something.

It was an interesting weekend. Saturday I managed fairly well, although forming words became more and more difficult as the day went on, and by the end of the evening I was finding trying to translate my thoughts really laborious and hard work. Sunday morning was difficult – even my comfiest and loosest clothes felt scratchy and constraining, and I spent most of the day feeling gently nauseous. I never even attempted to remove my darkest sunglasses – even through them it was as though the brightness had been turned up to somewhere beyond maximum, and when I got home it felt as though my entire system was in overdrive. I rocked hard and bashed myself on the back of the sofa for a bit then fell asleep under my weighted blanket, which helped.

But it was a successful weekend. I managed to do approximately fourteen hours of orchestral rehearsal and concert, and both my playing and physical robustness were pretty reasonable. Not as good as they were in the past, but better than I expected in the current circumstances.

There were friends and allies there, including an old friend I hadn’t seen for years, and with whom it was good to re-establish contact. I wasn’t as social as I’d have been in the past, and not as much as I’d really like to be able to be for both networking and just getting to know folks purposes, but since I’m now officially socially inept rather than merely empirically so, I feel rather less guilty about going off on my own to eat lunch, taking a proper break from people now and again, and sitting in a corridor wearing ear defenders, rocking back and forth on my own. This is all OK now, and a great relief too.

I could easily have sat and sobbed about half way through Sunday afternoon, but didn’t. Having an explanation for why I feel so suddenly emotional about apparently nothing some of the time really does make it easier to deal with. Makes it easier to rationalise in my brain. It’s actually OK just to feel wrong sometimes, especially when I’ve been out in the world surrounded by people and noise and lights for hours on end. There’s a reason for it.

And years of musical training help – focus in on the playing, which is what I do, which is why I was there in the first place. In the same way as I went to the autism conference because of the intense interest and need to learn and pursue that interest, I keep returning to the world of orchestral and chamber music playing because I am driven there by that interest and the need to keep doing it and keep learning. Music is probably the longest lived “interest” I have and has persisted throughout my life, only vanishing when I’ve been severely depressed or deep in burnout. Trouble is, orchestras inevitably involve people – so I have to do quite a lot of work (being with people) in order to get access to the playing!!!

The aftermath of the weekend is interesting. I’m very tired. My word translation is off. I can feel myself struggling to say what I want even interacting online. I’m more triggered than usual by things – someone on facebook extolling the virtues of “cooking from scratch” made me really angry (I didn’t comment, just ranted at my husband a bit – he’s used to it). I drank rather more than I should have done last night. I’m still finding sounds too loud and lights too bright. And my executive functioning (ability to get my act together and do stuff) has taken something of a battering, as has my task initiating and switching ability.

None of this is surprising, given that I’d had an evening rehearsal the week before, then the final meeting with the autism assessment service, then stayed up all night watching the results of the General Election as they were announced, and then spent a weekend out in the world. Those things between them have used up nearly all my energy in the past week.

However, what’s different from how things have been for a long long time is that allowing the language system and functioning system and sensory system to decline, and just going with it now I know what’s happening, means that I am not ill after such activity as I would have been in the past. Not making myself chat to people at lunch breaks, spending time stimming quietly on my own, only making eye contact when absolutely necessary, not forcing words in order to “be polite”, and so on, all mean that I’m not feeling that awful “sick” feeling that I’m so familiar with to anything like the extent I would have done in the past. I probably appear slightly “odder” from the outside, but on the inside I’m actually calmer, and also, currently, considerably less depressed.

And I’m tired yes, but not quite so bone-numbingly exhausted as I might have been. Partly, I suspect this is because I’m continuing to recover from burnout, but even though I’m going out into a world that won’t always understand me or the way I work, the fact that I understand myself already removes a whole load of pressure, so this huge internal pressure I’ve always felt to “succeed” is now off.

I realise this is another rather erratic rambling blog post. And I’m still conscious that there are things that need sorting here. I’ve also been sporadic on the facebook page and not had much energy for twitter. I did manage to write one of the “poem things” after the first evening rehearsal though. At the time I didn’t manage to post it, so I’ll include it here.

The outside world,
Even when friendly
And something
I want to do,
Is sometimes

Last night
I returned
To an evening rehearsal.
So. Much. Input.

This morning was spent
In bed.
Mostly asleep.

When I got up
And dressed
My clothes felt like
They were trying
To suffocate me.

It took many attempts
To write a Facebook status.
I have still failed to make
A cup of tea.
Even filling the kettle
Beyond me.

I don’t know how long
It will be before
I have enough energy
To post this
On the blog.

A while, maybe?

Content Report

During my conference day I attended five presentations in all, three plenaries, and two from Stream A, which I had selected as the one I’d deemed most likely to have the least “child specific” content when the initial programme was published. I was, however, pleased to see that the slides for all streams had been included in the conference pack so I’d be able to look through them later.

At this point, I’d like to add a content warning. The titles of the talks I attended were: Exploring depression, Coping strategies for anxiety, Deliberate self-harm in children and adults with autism, Autism and psychosis, and, Catastrophising – why do we do it and how can we deal with it? As you can probably guess from those titles, this wasn’t exactly light-hearted subject matter, and suicide, suicidal ideation, and self-injury were discussed on several occasions. This whole blog carries, on the home page, a warning about such things, but this post might be a bit heavier on such content than usual, so might be one to save for later if you’re currently vulnerable. I should also say that I’m using language I wouldn’t usually use (for example “people with ASD”, and referring to autistic people as “they”) to reflect the way some of the speakers presented more accurately, even though such language is not preferable to most autistic people, and definitely not to me.

This blog post might also be one of the longest I’ve ever written, but I wanted to include the whole conference in one post rather than splitting it. I’m also aware that I’m simply reporting on the material presented and where I’ve commented on that material it has been entirely from personal experience. I have not, at this stage, made attempt to verify or refute any of the material from a scholarly or research perspective.


Tony Attwood began with his talk on depression, which linked in with his recent book “Exploring Depression and Beating the Blues”. He outlined the proportions of those with ASD who had depression as being approximately one third each of continual depression, cyclic depression, and no depression. He discussed “depression attacks” as something that “they” go through, and described how, at those times suicide was possible simply because the person suffering the “depression attack” would be desperate for the pain to end. Certainly, my own experience when severely depressed has been that my primary motivation for the suicide attempts I’ve made, or the ones I have planned but not executed, has been a strong desire for the pain to stop.

Attwood went on to discuss the overt pessimism of people with ASD, their diminished vocabulary to describe their worries, difficulties with friends, sensitivities to sadness in others, how sadness and anxiety seems to “stick” in the brain more than happiness, and how they accept “I’m stupid” messages more readily than others. Intellectual performance anxiety was also discussed, as many people with ASD struggled with sport and socialising they relied heavily upon intellect for self esteem (this was certainly the case during my own teenage years).

“Special interests” and their role in combating depression were discussed. The old clichés were wheeled out – dinosaurs received a mention, and the description of a child who had stated they “wished to be a robot” raised a titter of laughter from the assembled delegates. It was asserted that people with ASD liked to describe themselves by “what they do”, and there was a brief discussion of teenage girls with ASD and how they were not bitchy, and were likely to be interested in opera at age 15, so might come across more like a 25 year old while being emotionally less mature. While I’d have challenged Attwood on the emotional maturity thing, I recognised myself as a teenager who wasn’t much interested in other teenagers – although in my case I was into string quartets, symphonies, piano concertos, tone poems, and oratorios – my love of opera didn’t really blossom until I was at College in my early 20s!

There was some slightly uncomfortable discussion of how “Britishness” corresponded to “Asperger’s Syndrome”, with mention of Oxford and Cambridge, and the Antiques Roadshow, which Attwood subtitled “Spot the Aspie”! Train spotting and people who were still virgins into their 20s were also mentioned, and the assembled audience once again laughed obligingly, succumbing to Attwood’s skilful rhetoric.

Attwood’s slides provided an interesting checklist (presumably taken from the book – I don’t yet have a copy of it) of signs of depression, and he also discussed strategies that might be deployed to help. I very much liked his concept of an “Energy Bank Account” (pretty much the same thing as I use when I talk about “spoons”, and which I’m currently working on for my own monitoring of my own energy/spoon levels). He discussed the need to treat depression before an ASD assessment can accurately be made, he discussed exhaustion, and also mentioned that if enthusiasm for a usual, big, special interest was gone then depression might have taken root very deeply. He talked about animals often being better than psychologists in some circumstances – that very strongly resonates with my own experience!!! Medication was also briefly mentioned, as were unhelpful tools (such as alcohol – my own “self medication” of choice), and possible strategies for staying safe during a “depression attack”.


The second plenary was given by Wenn Lawson, who I’d been very keen to hear as I’m very much enjoying The Nine Degrees of Autism, which he co-wrote with Philip Wylie and Luke Beardon. Lawson, who, unlike Attwood, is actually autistic, was instantly relatable. He outlined how applause was painful, which is absolutely the case, and was keen to voice concerns that there might become an “us and them” situation with autistic and non-autistic people. He also mentioned the need to build resilience in autistic people.

Much of the first part of his talk was focused on the notion of object permanence, and how much the lack of object permanence in autistic people can generate anxiety. Object permanence is that knowledge that something is still there, even when you can’t see it. Lawson mentioned his need for a photograph, a visual reminder, of his partner. Lack of object permanence on my part is the reason that we don’t put food away in a cupboard in our flat – if it’s out of sight it simply isn’t there, so my husband leaves it as visible as possible to maximise the chances that I’ll eat!

Lawson also discussed how autistic people rely on being interested and how special interests can be something other than traditional “hobbies” – they could be connected to something to wear, something to eat, or similar. Of course, developing a rather strong interest in autism was the whole reason I was at the conference in the first place – so this made absolute sense to me!

Lawson also discussed how to develop resilience by giving options on plans, to make things less concrete to avoid anxiety when plans were forced to change. He used the example of a school timetable that was prone to change and suggested that actually writing extra options onto the timetable would, to an extent, prepare for possible change in advance, and also gave the example of a girl going to a restaurant who might have to cope with a different table or waitress, and how preparation in advance might be a useful strategy to help the girl cope with issues that might arise. This sort of resilience is a necessary life skill for an autistic person to learn and to practice on a regular basis. Getting outdoors and getting exercise was also discussed as a way of building resilience, and how doing so might usefully be linked to interests connected to technology, such as geocaching, bikes with computer chips (I thought of my own love of looking at the stats on my Garmin after I’ve been for a run), or, in other cases having an animal such as a dog.

The way that more able adults often worry about things more was mentioned and how insight doesn’t actually change the anxiety problems associated with change, but can make it worse, not better. However, it seems that autistic brains gain more plasticity with age (unlike neurotypical ones). Lawson then discussed the processing of information and mentioned his own synaesthesia, which associates colours with moods. He stated that the mood of the audience was predominantly yellow, although I can’t remember what mood yellow represented, partly because the person with the sharp jumper was asking their friend what synaesthesia meant and the friend was googling it on an ipad, and partly because for me, yellow is E major, so everything in my head instantly went into four sharps!!!

The need for different sorts of cues (visual, auditory, kinaesthetic) for different people was discussed, as was motivation. Clubs and social motivations are unlikely to appeal to AS people, so movement and response has to be initiated in other ways. Lawson, like me, fails to see the problem with using ipads and technology in the classroom or in other situations. He suggested that the sort of anxiety triggered by demands placed on the autistic brain might be ameliorated by, for example, sending a text message to an AS person rather than asking them with spoken words. He cited one of his own family members saying that strategies that make the AS person believe that they’ve thought of what to do themselves are often the most successful.

Learning to be independent is often possible, but learning to be interdependent can be difficult with high levels of anxiety. Lawson also discussed the difficulties that AS adults might have when unable to communicate effectively with neighbours and so on because answering the door or telephone provokes too much anxiety. Information that isn’t conveyed by e-mail / text will often be missed. He concluded by mentioning mindfulness and asserting that it is very underrated as a tool for coping with some of the difficulties caused by being autistic.


Khalid Karim and his colleague Sarah Baines wisely started with a caution about the material in their presentation, which was focused on self-harm. Karim was an engaging speaker, and started by explaining some of the terminology often used to describe self-harm, including self-injury, suicidal ideation and so on. The question of what suicidal ideation actually means was discussed, and whether suicide attempts were part of the same thing. It was also noted that in the research the material available is predominantly concerned with genetics and statistics, but that there is almost nothing written about what can be done about self-harm in people with ASD.

After a brief discussion of how self-injurious behaviour (SIB) can become stereotyped in ASD (as opposed to “impulsive” in psychiatric illness), Karim went on to say how critical it was to ask not WHAT a patient was doing to self-harm, but WHY they were doing it. He also mentioned the recently increasing incidence of suicide in the general population, but that ASD data were very difficult to find and that suicide attempts are very much underreported. Autistic people are, apparently, more likely in general to have suicidal ideation, but with co-occurring depression the likelihood increases dramatically. Many ASD adults have suicidal ideation and have made suicide attempts.

The importance of discovering, in a clinical setting, what a SIB was trying to communicate was emphasised – language skills are often reduced when anxiety is high. SIBs can also be used, consciously, as a coping mechanism, and it’s important to try to understand whether the stressor is internal or external. SIBs can also be comforting and a relief from anxiety, even though they are difficult for an outsider to watch. An outside observer might instinctively try to stop such behaviour, but that might, in fact, have the reverse effect or cause the “patient” to redirect their behaviour to something even more harmful.

Various types of SIB were discussed, some of which were familiar to me from personal experience, and possible causes of SIB in autistic people were listed – for example repetitive, sensory, self stimulatory, poor sleep, communicative, anxiety, and so on. The management and impact of SIBs was also discussed.

Attention then turned to suicidal ideation, which is, apparently, really common in people with ASD – this is also borne out by my personal experience. Suicidal ideation doesn’t, however, always translate into suicide attempts, and, obviously, not every suicide attempt will translate into a completed suicide. It would seem that suicidal ideation peaks in the 20s, and precipitating factors for actual attempts vary. For those still in the school system there seems to be a reduction in suicidal ideation during school vacations. Depression, severe anxiety, and psychosis exacerbate the risks, as can feelings of exclusion – an autistic child in a mainstream school can often be “included, but excluded” so although they are physically present, they sometimes don’t make the same friendship connections with other children, even if they’re not actively bullied.

Karim also noted that the media has a role to play in self-harm. He observed that every time there is a programme on self-harm on the television the incidence of self-harm increases. He also noted that conventional “anger management” is a waste of time in these situations, and that poverty has a really significant role in increasing self-harm. Dangerous behaviours can also increase if they produce a desired response – the example was given of a kid climbing up a high building in order to get the fire brigade called because they liked fire engines. It was noted that understanding autism and mental health issues is complex and really hard work. A further example was given of a neurotypical carer assuming that a child’s self-harm was the result of the child’s mother having recently died, when, in fact, the issue was not the death of the mother but simply that the child was being bullied at school.

The issue of whether the “patient” even WANTED to be treated for their SIB was also addressed, and whether they even thought it was a problem. Maybe someone hitting themselves is a valid coping strategy, however distressing it might seem to an outsider. The need for flexibility in dealing with patients was discussed – an example was given where Karim had interviewed a child who was happy to be interviewed while upside down. It was also noted that sometimes the best strategy was to treat, say, sleep problems first, and that suicidal ideation in kids under the age of around 10 was often a way of expressing distress rather than really showing an understanding of death.


For the second session in Stream A, on psychosis, Tony Attwood was back at the microphone. He started by exploring the connection between ASD, schizophrenia, and psychosis, and went on to observe that schizophrenia was a common misdiagnosis in teenagers and adults with an ASD as the psychiatrists were often uncertain of the interpretation of phrases such as “hearing voices” and that imaginary friends and catatonia were often confused with signs of schizophrenia. Attwood also asserted that people with ASD were great at logic but less good at emotions.

Attwood discussed the connection between imaginary friends, people with ASD talking out loud while thinking in order to clarify thoughts (this reminded me of my own “scripting” behaviour), and the late development of internal dialogue in people with ASD. He also returned to the concept (mentioned earlier in the day) of AS people assuming what he termed “god mode”, in other words, compensating for lack of sporting and social abilities by developing an intellectual arrogance, especially if they were smart. He called this “Sherlock syndrome”.

Misdiagnosis of schizophrenia was further discussed. Many patients on chronic mental health wards were given a diagnosis of schizophrenia and then locked up for decades, when, in fact, they had ASD and had then suffered a breakdown.

The psychological reactions that many people with ASD experience as a result of being different were also listed, and it was noted that depression often starts young in people with ASD, who can seriously question the value of life (this latter tallies absolutely with my own experience). There was also an assertion that effusively social places such as Italy might be worse places for people with ASD than places such as Japan. The mimicry, acting, and chameleon-like behaviour of women and girls with ASD was mentioned as was the fact that such behaviour can lead to dissociative personality disorders and, in adulthood, substance abuse. Furthermore, those who hide in their houses in adulthood and become reclusive can apparently suffer from psychotic issues owing to sensory deprivation. It was also noted that people with ASD have high levels of paranoia and jump to conclusions, leading to diagnosis of prodromal signs of schizophrenia.

Catatonia was then discussed at length, as was isolation, and the withdrawal of many ASD people from the world because life was simply too difficult. The slowness of movement and difficulty initiating actions in catatonia was noted, as was the dopamine hypothesis and possible link with Parkinsonism. Attwood also asserted that catatonia was regressive.


The final plenary was also given by Tony Attwood, who was talking about catastrophising, particularly in regard to meltdowns in people with ASD. He started by outlining the rapid acceleration in intensity of emotions in people with ASD, describing the autistic brain as having an “on/off” switch rather than a neurotypical “dimmer” switch. He gave a brief introduction to the neurology of an ASD brain, positing that ASD amygdalae are larger and more overactive than those of neurotypicals. He suggested that this might be an adaption to aversive sensory experiences. The role of the frontal lobe in controlling “fight or flight” behaviour was also discussed as was the fact that in people with ASD the frontal lobe doesn’t receive information before a meltdown, so conscious control of emotions is not possible at that point. A meltdown might have been building for a while before it actually happens.

Attwood went on to discuss the potential use of fitbits (and presumably any other device that measures heart rate) as a good external indicator of a person’s anxiety levels. He also noted that saying “just relax” to a person in a heightened state of anxiety does not work, but that focusing on breathing or similar might.

He went on to discuss the mind of a filing cabinet, full of cognitive and social skills and proposed that one of the problems with intense emotions was that they effectively “locked” the filing cabinet, cutting off those skills and strategies and that even with instruction, many coping tools would not be available and that the best strategy was to remove triggers and to aim for calmness. He suggested that those dealing with meltdowns should behave “like a satnav” calmly redirecting and avoiding all analysis of what happened. He also suggested that getting rid of all need for sociability would be a good idea, and, if possible to engage the mind in some sort of special interest related activity – he gave the example of a child who was keen on numbers being encouraged to focus on some sort of counting activity. As a person who has huge meltdowns myself I did find much of this advice sensible and I might draw on it when I’m putting together the “how to” guide I’m eventually hoping to produce for those who might encounter me at such times.

As had been the case during the first session of the day, “depression attacks” were discussed. The advice for dealing with these “depression attacks”, which I thought sounded rather like what I’d call some sort of shutdown, was basically good.

Other tools and strategies were also discussed, particularly physical activity and the notion of using physical activity specifically for emotional release, although stimming, one of the most powerful tools for regulating emotions, was not mentioned. I’m very familiar with such strategies, although I’d not previously thought of “smashing up the recycling after school” as a tool for controlling emotions. Special interests and the value of animals were also discussed, with examples being given of parents being advised to get pet snakes and horses for their children! The role of medication and examples of maladaptive and adaptive strategies were also discussed as the session concluded.


The four sessions I didn’t attend because they were in different streams were on jealousy, speech and language therapy, self-esteem, and mindfulness. I’ve glanced briefly through the slides for the first three of these and read the article on mindfulness that was given in the conference pack. I have used mindfulness to deal with my own mental health issues over the last few years, with considerable success and I was pleased to note that the author of the article emphasised the circumstances under which it was not advisable to begin a mindfulness training programme – namely when there is upheaval in life or suffering from acute psychiatric conditions. I’d have been interested to attend any of these sessions, particularly the ones on self-esteem and mindfulness.

Losing The Words

I have known two things all my life (or, at least, as long as I’ve been old enough to know anything at all, which is probably somewhere around 40 years or so). The first is that when I get really really angry (as opposed to just very angry), I stop the shouting and the noise, and I show my anger by being completely silent. The second is that when I’m really really really tired (as opposed to just rather worn out and wanting to go to bed), I am also totally silent and I need to get away from everyone and just curl up in a corner and go to sleep.

These two extremes, the furious anger leading to silence, and the utter exhaustion leading to silence have always been part of my life. The first situation, the extreme anger, has always been put down to stubbornness, stroppiness, and a general wilfulness and unwillingness to compromise or to say sorry. I remember numerous occasions where I was utterly steaming mad and my reaction was to scream and scream and then to just run away and go and be completely silent by myself. I recall an argument with my father, sometime in my teens – at the time I kept a diary, and I remember writing up the experience afterwards and being frustrated that “this was my Dad, who usually understood me and was so like me and I opened my mouth to try to talk to him and no words would come out”. I can picture the scene now, me lying on my bed in my parents’ house, following some furious argument, the subject of which I cannot remember. I just remember feeling really really bad and that I couldn’t make any words come at all, about anything, not to apologise, nor to continue the argument, nor anything.

Equally, there have been times throughout my life when I have collapsed with total utter exhaustion. My mother and I were discussing these times recently, which have been known since my early childhood as “zonking”. She cannot remember exactly when “zonking” started, but she thinks that it was sometime after we moved house when I was 5 years old. I remember “zonking” as a child. I remember the absolute feeling of exhaustion, of being unable to move, of, sometimes, literally, lying down wherever I happened to be at the time. If I tried to keep going I would be sick, and would feel like I was terribly ill and had something terribly bad happening to me. A couple of months ago when I was discussing these episodes with my mother, she said that she remembers how my eyes would glaze over and I would go completely silent and unresponsive and I absolutely refused anything at all to eat. She said that the first few times it happened they were rather worried about it because it seemed so strange, but that they observed that if they simply put me to bed and left me with a glass of water in case I got thirsty then I seemed absolutely fine again the next morning. So nothing was done (and, to be honest, nothing really could have been done – if they’d taken me to a doctor in the 1970s and described these episodes then the doctor would almost certainly have been as mystified as they were).

And “zonking” was just part of my life and it always has been. I had these phases where I needed to go to bed and be silent and alone and I couldn’t interact with the world and I couldn’t do anything about it. It often occurred at times when I’d been out a lot and very busy, or when I’d been to parties or was away from home. It happened throughout my early adulthood and I simply went home from wherever I was and put myself to bed. It happened after I was married and I simply told my husband that there was this thing I did called zonking and that there was nothing to be done but to leave me to sleep it off and I didn’t know why it happened or why I was always silent, but I just accepted that it was a thing I did.

And for over 40 years I was a silent angry person who zonked from time to time!

Until I started to investigate autism. Until I ran away to hide in a shed in the summer of 2016 and didn’t let anyone know where I was for a while because I knew I couldn’t interact with them. Until I told someone by facebook message not to send any food over to my tent yet because I knew I wouldn’t be able to thank them for bringing the food. Until I realised that the times when I had this severe exhaustion were times not when I WOULDN’T talk, but when I actually COULDN’T talk. Because I started to try, even though I didn’t feel like it, and I found that the words were gone. I hadn’t previously attempted to talk at these times (a few “arguments” aside, when I just assumed that being cross rendered people “speechless” and that was what was happening to me) because I’d just run away or gone to sleep or cried or whatever. But as I started to experiment and to see what was possible, I realised that there was a reason I’d been running away or taking myself to bed or whatever all my life.

My. Words. Were. Gone.

Since I discovered this I have been doing experiments, such as described in Can I Sing? I have tried to talk to see what happens – I can make sounds perfectly well, but I cannot make words. The revelation, after over 40 years that I have been having nonverbal (or, probably more accurately, nonspeech, though I believe nonverbal is the usual term) episodes all my life, is quite startling.

And, although being unable to speak might, at first, seem odd from the outside, and, in some ways, can be frustrating because the world is so geared up towards speech, it DOESN’T FEEL BAD. In fact, what makes me feel ill, and sick, and distressed, is the effort of trying to keep talking when my words have gone. When I try to continue to be social and to act “appropriately” I start to get ill, as I described in Sudden Illness. When I let go of the speech, and just abandon spoken words, the nausea, the bad feelings, and all the illness feelings go away, and I can feel my system start to recover, either from the meltdown (in the case of the “angry silence”) or the shutdown (in the case of the “extreme exhaustion”).

I can also often feel the slide down into wordlessness. My sentences start to jumble and my speech starts to become unorthodox and to fragment (I’ll do another post about speech, and my different levels of speech sometime). After a while I become monosyllabic, and then, gently, the words just go, sometimes for several hours at a time, and even overnight. Although my written words can often be quite a big effort during this time and don’t always flow fluently, I am often able to communicate by typing written words when I am completely unable to produce speech, as I have described in Silence.

I can also feel the return. Initially the speech that returns isn’t totally fluent, and is a bit disjointed, with one syllable at a time. Then it gradually builds up until it is fluent again.

I am still exploring this. I am still discovering. I am still analysing my speech patterns and still experimenting. I know the feeling of being unable to speak rather well – I have been experiencing that particular feeling all my life – but I am only just starting to understand it.