Also Being Autistic

Bizarrely, the point made in the last post, that I find it hard to imagine how life could be good again when it’s bad and hard to imagine how it could be bad again when it’s good, was proven when I finally clicked publish on that post and immediately felt a weird sense of dishonesty.

I wrote the post a few nights ago, in one of the good phases, put it onto the blog site in draft, and numbered it to be posted next. But by the time publishing time came, I was struggling again, and it felt a little weird to post something so unrepresentative of my current state.

I also suddenly worried that I’d equated lack of social imagination with lack of empathy. If I did, then I didn’t mean to – I’m still trying to figure all this out and this blog is a learning and analysing experience for me as well as something for others to read if they wish to. I still need to find proper words to describe all these things better. I still need to organise and structure my thoughts better, and I’d like very much to be able to explain all these terms properly.

This constant back and forth, constant switching between feeling wonderfully neurodivergent and fabulous and relieved to have discovered who I really am, and feeling frustrated at how limited my life is and how difficult I find things, is still characterising my life quite strongly at the moment. I described some of the effects this has on me in Oscillating, and it continues to be true. I suspect it might continue to be true for some time to come.

The warm fuzzy feelings in Being Autistic are real. I AM happy to have discovered my neurology and to have solved so many mysteries from my life. I have no issues with people thinking I’m strange, or with stimming in public, or with stigma from anyone immediately around me (I realise this makes me massively privileged – when my friends see me flapping my hands or rocking back and forth they don’t tell me to stop, they just check with me that it isn’t an indication that I’m in any sort of distress). In many ways it’s all good. Lovely stuff – stick on the dark glasses and ear defenders, take my phone everywhere in case my speech fails, carry on with life. Proud autistic stuff, rainbow infinity symbols, stim toys, clothes without labels, and not a worry about what society thinks. Even before I was a nonbinary autistic I was an AFAB who hadn’t worn make-up or a bra for over 20 years and was happy existing in socks and sandals without caring what others thought. I’ve been miles away from many societal “norms” for decades, and I have enough confidence not to worry about that most of the time. If people like me and want to be friends with me on my terms, great, if they don’t, then no big deal. Now I have a reason to explain just why I fail to comprehend society’s codes I feel even more justified in being myself and not worrying about it. I am fully “out” as autistic to anyone who cares to know (and probably people who don’t too) and absolutely happy with that (to be honest, anyone who knows anything about autism can figure it out in about a minute anyway if they meet me – I do present as stereotypically autistic in many ways and even if I try really hard to mask, at the moment I’ll last only about an hour before I start to collapse or get sick). Additionally, I can take the pressure off myself to be “strong” so in many ways it’s even better than before – I can ditch the self-blame, I can relax, I can just enjoy being me.

However, there is a flip side. I am still coming to terms with the fact that I am not the Strong Woman of my mask. My day to day existence is, for the most part, relatively low quality. Most days I spend between 14 and 24 hours on my own in a grubby, overcrowded, dark flat, trying to recover from the days and times when I CAN get out and do things. I look at my former colleagues from college days, many of whom have houses, children, and jobs, and I have none of those things. Certainly my inability to sustain employment is down to me being autistic (and, maybe even more so to remaining undiagnosed for 45 years – I never asked for adaptions at work because I didn’t know I needed them and I lost every career and job I ever had), and my consequent large debts and relatively poor living conditions are a result of that. I read memes that tell me if I want something I have to work for it. I have done nothing less than work as hard as I possibly can all my life and the things I wanted didn’t come – those memes sound like cruel lies to me. I spent a pleasant evening socialising and drinking with friends a couple of weeks ago – the resulting overload caused an entire night of meltdowns and panic attacks and suicidal thoughts. Everyone else went to bed and woke up with a slight hangover. Every so often I ask “Why me?” and then I feel guilty because I am betraying the neurodivergence movement and I become frightened of those autistics who tell me that autism is not a disability, just a difference, but I am so very disabled by it so very often – no work, no money, some days I am a 46-year-old who cannot even get myself a hot drink or work out how to get enough food to sustain me or even manage to get dressed properly. And not all of this is “society’s fault”, it is just the way that life is and is often a result of simple practicalities. I am actually surrounded by non-autistic people who are doing their absolute damndest to understand me and to help me and to compensate at every turn for my disabilities – they are brilliant and loving and patient and I am very very lucky with them, but I am still struggling. And at those times I wish I was “normal” (yes, yes, yes, I know the old cliché that there “is no normal” etc etc, which, to be honest, to those of us who are so far up one end of the bell curve that we cannot even see the middle of it, sounds a bit trite), at those times I wish I could go to work for a week (even part-time) and go down the pub for a few hours on Friday night and enjoy a weekend with the family, which I can’t. I wish my gender was one that was recognised and understood by everyone (that is society’s fault), but it isn’t. That is the sort of “normal” I wish for…

I could go on. There is still much to explore. There are two sides to this, the dark side, where I just want all this to go away and to live a regular life (and, yes, I use the word “regular” advisedly, as I do the word “normal”), and the wonderful quirky side where I can finally be me and enjoy it and live a life that is right for me. Practicalities constantly intrude on me “being myself” because I have to eat and drink to stay well, I have to find enough money to survive, and unless I never go anywhere or do anything ever again I have to interact with other human beings in a way that often makes me very uncomfortable. To an extent, there is a part of me that needs some interaction too – less than most people I suspect, but not none at all.

I suspect these thoughts will continue for some time. I am still new to all this, only just over a year since I discovered I was autistic. As far as being knowingly autistic is concerned I’m only just learning to walk, at age 46, after over 4 decades of trying to be something else and failing at it. I’m also still very burnt out and still trying to find help, still waiting for referrals to services, still trying to discover if there is any medication of any description that might help (I can’t take many of the things that might help because of co-occurring conditions). Perhaps things will improve as time goes on – it’s still really really early days for all this stuff.

It’s also a big switch, a total change in life parameters, and I suspect I’m still fucking things up quite a lot. Still not explaining myself right – remember, I’m also very alexithymic, which doesn’t help. I’m still working it all out. It’s all still evolving, much like this entire post evolved out of a simple feeling that I should add a short explanation about the previous blog post.

Strange times.

NOTE: Since I wrote the words above, I feel different again. At the time I intended to post Being Autistic, I was in such poor shape that I couldn’t even turn the computer on to press publish and I had to do it the next day. I’m actually in better shape again now, happier, more relaxed. That’s how quickly things keep shifting, how fast the oscillations sometimes are. But I won’t write yet another post about that at the moment because this cycle could go on for a very long time!

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A Silly Tale

My Executive is not functioning
Their suit is creased,
They cannot find their papers
And their briefcase
Is full of ash.

The ash is from my burnout
And it spills all over the office
In great clouds,
Covering everything
In a fine dust
That will take some time
To clean up.

In the meantime
My constant hand flapping
Is spreading the ash still further
And it reflects the light
Coming in from the windows
And makes stimmy patterns
In the air.

When the ash settles on the desk
I like to run my fingers through it
And make circles in it
And then wash my hands
Because it feels a bit weird
On my skin.
Sand is nicer to play with.

My Words keep going AWOL
But they never leave a forwarding address
They just disappear.
I think they go off for a holiday
Sometimes.
Or perhaps they’re just down the pub
Enjoying a few pints
And a pie and chips.

Maybe that’s why my Diagnosis
Was so late.
It was sitting in the pub
For 45 years
Eating pies and drinking beer
And because it has such
Severe
Time agnosia
It didn’t realise that it had missed
The last train.

Although it finds trains
Rather stressful anyway.
And leaving the pub
Would have meant change,
Doing something different.
So maybe
It just gave in to
The inertia.

And, of course
Because everybody has such poor
Communication skills
Nobody was able to tell anybody
Where it was.

And night after night
My Executive got home
And ate the same takeaway for dinner
Every night.
Because even before the burnout
They couldn’t function very well
And needed their friend Routine
Who liked to have the same thing
Every night for dinner anyway.
And keeping Routine happy
Was always good.

Mask bullied my Executive
And tried to make them function properly
And told Routine to stop being so stupid.

Mask was an annoying tit.
Irritating and itchy,
No matter how many labels I cut out of it.
It looked good though
Everybody told me so.

But it got too warm.
Overheated.
It kept trying to keep the Words
At home
But they kept slipping out
The back door
And vanishing.

Then things started to melt
At the edges
Senses went a bit haywire
And there were explosions
And people started to notice.

My Executive stopped coming home some nights
And stayed at the office
To keep cool
And avoid the bullying.
Routine gave up eating
And sat in the corner
Rocking hard and hitting themself and tearing their skin.

And then when the Words got home
After a night on the town
They told me that my Diagnosis
Had been seen in the pub
And that closing time
Was fast approaching.
Last orders had been declared.

When my Executive
Returned from the office the next evening
They found Routine crying in the garden,
Clutching a fidget cube and a furry tangle.
My Words explained what had happened
By typing into an iThing.

Mask had got too hot.
Way too hot.
Melting down had increased
No time to cool.
Mask had cracked in the heat and would no longer stay on.

Sparks, flames, and total burnout.
Explosions so loud that ear defenders were needed.
Piles of smouldering ash everywhere,
Which my Executive tried to put into their briefcase,
Though they didn’t help with functioning
And eventually made a mess in the office.

But just as all seemed lost,
My Diagnosis finally got back from the pub
With an official Report
(And a kebab).

Mask should never have been worn for that long
Masks when worn for long periods
Can overheat
And are a burnout risk.
Safety procedures had not been followed.

Report said that
Routine needed care and love,
My Words should be allowed to come and go as they liked.
My Executive needed an assistant to function
(And would also have to sweep up the burnout ash,
Which could take a while).

Diagnosis explained that communication was hard
For everybody
And that Report had said so.

And everybody finally understood
What had been going on
And jumped up and down to celebrate.

Diagnosis was a bit drunk by now
So they went on the Internet
And ordered loads of spinners and toys and pretty lights
And everybody settled down
Under their weighted blankets
To recover from the events.

And they ate kebabs every night for months.
Because they always ate kebabs.
Because Routine liked them.

Compression

As I mentioned in Too Feely, my taste in clothes is driven largely by comfort and not by style. Those who know me will probably, if they try to imagine me standing in front of them in my normal attire, picture someone who nearly always wears loose elasticated jogging style trousers (shorts in summer), t-shirts (vest tops in summer), and a fleece and maybe a scarf when it’s cold. All of these clothes are usually selected for their loose comfort, their lack of restriction, and, often, their softness. I do occasionally dress up for dinners, concerts and parties, but only usually for short spells of time, and not on a daily basis.

So why am I sitting at my computer, typing this, wearing tight compression sportswear that’s several sizes too small, with an elasticated waist support fastened tightly around me on top of the already compressive clothing? And, more to the point, why am I not feeling sick or in pain or desperate to rip all my clothes off? Why did I CHOOSE to put these things on this morning?

The short answer is “I don’t know”. I haven’t a clue why, sometimes, I am desperate for the feeling of pressure against my body and I crave it and it calms me. Sometimes, when bashing myself against the sofa for half an hour doesn’t work, and drinking several glasses of wine doesn’t work, and thinking mindfully doesn’t work, and everything else I can think of doesn’t work, being compressed DOES work, and it works beautifully well. As I’m sitting here, wearing clothes that I usually wouldn’t go near on an ordinary day, I feel grounded and reassured by them. I feel the anxiety receding. I feel that the deep even pressure from my chest to my ankles is something beautiful, and, truth be told, if I could make it even firmer, even stronger, then I would (I’m limited as to just HOW tight the clothes can be by the need to be able to take them on and off)!

I’ve written before, in poem form, about the weighted blanket I bought in January and how much the pressure from that helps me and calms me. My use of compressive clothing as a calming mechanism since discovering I’m autistic predates my use of weighted items by several months. I wrote the following back in October 2016, in what essentially became a journal that was the predecessor to this blog:

29 October 2016

Weird probably autistic thing number whateverwe’reuptonow.

Mainly noting here for collating evidence / stuff to write about on future blog / in future book etc. And just because this is becoming a chronicle of experiences.

I always wear loose clothes. I know I do. I hate my clothes being tight. So I wear loose soft ones with all the labels cut out.

This afternoon I’ve been pretty weird. On my own in the flat (he is working) and also had a fairly tense week (water getting repaired), out yesterday, loads of stuff on the form (which is getting there – I hope to have it in the post on Monday), and a moderately stressful time.

So this afternoon was letting go time. I knew I felt very very anxious. Very not calm. Rocking and bashing myself on the sofa and stuff in the dark helped quite a lot. But not quite enough. It didn’t quite do what I needed.

I suddenly realised that what I really really wanted was pressure. To be wearing something tight. That was the signal every bit of my brain was getting from my body. I want pressure. Really really want pressure. The message was clear.

So it is Saturday evening and I am home alone wearing my tightest most compressive running trousers and a pair of compression calf sleeves. I don’t own any normal tight clothes, but I do have kit. So I am wearing the tightest kit I own.

And it feels beautiful and wonderful and I feel calm. And right. Sitting here in compression kit.

This is all really really odd.

But it is what is happening. And my promise to myself when this whole thing started was to do it properly. To listen to the signals I was getting from my body and my head. To work out what is needed. What helps. What is all this about.

If the strategies sometimes include wearing compression kit, then so be it. The calming effect is magical.

Back then I just used the smallest running kit I had lying around (and because I’d put on a bit of weight over the preceding year it was slightly too small and therefore helpful). Very soon afterwards, after a few more occasions where I’d hunted around in drawers and things to find other clothes that were fitted and even and a bit too small and decided that wearing compressive clothing from time to time really was going to help me, I deliberately went to my local sports store (as a runner I’m massively familiar with the place as I’m always obsessing about new kit and so on) and selected several items of clothing and various weightlifting things and so on and they’ve become part of my life now.

I did a bit of hunting around on the internet and found that liking compression from time to time is, indeed, not unknown among autistic people. I found tales of people going out with compressive sportswear under their clothes, mentions of corsetry being worn by autistic people, accounts of autistic kids wedging themselves under mattresses, and, of course, information about Temple Grandin’s squeeze machine which it seems she invented to get the sensory feeling of being hugged but without the need for human contact which some autistics are uncomfortable with.

I’m not uncomfortable being hugged by other humans – far from it, although I do have occasional times when I prefer not to be hugged (they’re quite rare), and I’m absolutely not a great fan of being tickled or very lightly touched or being breathed on or similar. But other humans are not always available, and sometimes I do need to be both alone and have that reassuring feeling of EVEN pressure against me (the evenness is very important – I absolutely don’t like straps or inconsistent pressure or anything that feels like it’s digging into my skin).

The research I’ve managed to do so far suggests that, just like bashing myself against things or hitting parts of my body with my fists or lying under a weighted blanket, that this need for firm consistent pressure is to do with balancing the proprioceptive system – the sense that feeds back to the brain precisely where the body is in space, that tells you where your legs are under a desk even when you can’t actually see them. It seems that, like all the other sensory systems (see Too Bright and Too Loud) autistic people’s proprioceptive systems can be a bit skewed and that seeking pressure (or indeed, being unable to tolerate it) is not uncommon.

And so, wearing compressive clothing when I feel the need has become part of my normal life over the last six months. And, as I hunted around last October for those few items of “too small” clothing I found there were a few. And all my life I’ve had occasional times when I’ve worn them, for, it seems no reason at all. I’ve just got up from time to time and thought I’d wear the tight things today.

Then, a couple of days later, sitting wearing the newly acquired sportswear and a waist support belt, I was suddenly hit with a really strong memory – a memory triggered not by conscious remembering, but by feeling, in the same way that starting to flap my hands had triggered this sort of “feeling memory”. I wrote it up in the journal:

31 October 2016

As I calmed down and felt the pressure from the belt I remembered having a big wide belt when I was a teenager. It was the 1980s so belts were big and wide.

And I remembered sitting at my desk in my bedroom as a teenager wearing some too small shorts and the big wide belt done up very very tight and pushing my chair right up to my desk.

A memory completely forgotten until today.

That was one of the ways I coped back then. 30 years ago. And I wouldn’t have had the first clue why.

This continues to be an extraordinary and revealing time.

I know this memory must have come from some time in my early teens because I can remember the position of my desk and the décor in my bedroom. I also know that I’d had no instruction to wear a wide belt done up tightly for any reason (probably, had anyone known I was doing it they’d have tried to discourage rather than encourage it anyway, so I expect I concealed it, probably afraid I’d get into trouble), and I had no access to anything like the internet or any other influence. But the memory that was triggered last October has reminded me of similar times that go right through my life, through student days, through most of my adult life, right up to the present moment.

And so I shall continue to wear what I am wearing right now until either I need to go out or until I receive the signal from my body (which can often be sudden and dramatic) that says NO MORE! Interestingly, the feeling of needing pressure of this intensity can vanish almost instantly, and when it does, I listen. I’m working out ways of making the system as flexible as possible and of doing what is most needed when it’s most needed, and I’m starting to observe how it all works and still trying to understand what it’s all about!

Storm Clouds

It feels as though storm clouds are gathering in my head these last few days. I’m not sure why, and I can’t work out if there’s anything I can do about it, but I have that feeling that I’m building the sort of tension that will eventually lead to meltdown or shutdown. But not yet. Somehow the energy is yet to be released. Things are too controlled. Maybe, knowing I have a weekend of things to do out in the world means that I’m keeping control somehow. I have that feeling of wanting to cry, but not being able to.

It’s an unsettling feeling, though not totally bad. I don’t even think the overload in my head and the build up of emotions (many of which I’m struggling to identify for alexythmic reasons) is entirely negative. It’s just that I can feel a gradual build up. Of something. I’m trying to analyse what that something is. I’m trying to judge whether some sort of big stimming session would help. I don’t know. It’s a very edgy feeling.

This is the fifth attempt I’ve had at writing about it. What has emerged as a common theme in the first four attempts is that this state is a mixture of two lots of emotion. One lot could probably be called negative, and the other, positive. They are existing inside my head simultaneously, and both pouring these strong, but not totally identifiable, feelings into my system. I get emotions like this. I always have, except when too depressed, or taking large quantities of medication, which seems to blank many of my feelings out anyway. One reason I hesitate to take medication is that much of it takes away things that I value – my appreciation of music, my excitement in the world, and so on.

And so, these huge waves of emotion keep washing over me, and I’m trying to untangle them in order to deal with them. Maybe a therapist would help with this, but I don’t have one, so I’m trying to do it on my own. Although it’s becoming obvious from trying to write it down as best I can that the same things are recurring over and over and my mind is still trying to deal with them. I’ve almost certainly written about them here before, and I apologise for what is probably terrible repetition (my husband says that he is used to me saying everything 98 times) but it seems that this need for repetition, for reassurance, for rehearsing the same argument over and over is probably one of my autistic traits too – something I need to do to get things clear in my mind.

And so the negative thoughts:

The constant nagging knowledge that my life will be limited because I simply don’t have the productive energy that most people do because I’m using so much of my energy to cope with my environment and to process language. I don’t like being limited, but decades of experience have shown me that the consequences of not consciously limiting my life and of trying to “be like everybody else” are poor mental health and catastrophic burnout. I am furious about this. I do not want to have to limit my life, but I must, and I know I must. I have to learn to be gentler, and allow recovery time.

I’m still not fully able to explain to people what being autistic really means. I’m still encountering “yes, but we all get tired…” types of comments, and I’m not yet able to articulate in words that what I mean is something different and that I’m not on about it being the end of a long week and I just fancy a bit of a lie-in. I need to write a blog post about this, I know I do. It is nibbling at my insides (yes, it feels like that) and I need to deal with it. Ditto the current controversies about stim-toys and spinners. I have so many and various thoughts about the whole thing, but I can’t make them into words currently, and that is frustrating me.

And talk of schools and classrooms and so on keeps pulling me back to my own childhood, the door onto which I had closed, I thought for good, until last year, when it had to be forced open. And once it was open, it was really useful for getting my diagnosis, but it hasn’t brought back floods of joyful memories, but of a time when my main objectives were to stave off bullying, to learn to behave, and to achieve good results academically. I had no chew toys or spinners – so I chewed my tie and my jumper and I played with bits from my pencil case and got into trouble for doodling during lessons (among other things).

The late diagnosis thing still irks me. The fact that I had to get THIS broken before anybody noticed that I was autistic. The fact that I was born at a time in history when the world didn’t know about people like me. I’m still sad and angry and regretful at so much of the first 45 years of my life. I’m still furious with the mental health specialists who didn’t know. Today we talk about acceptance being preferable to awareness – even the most basic awareness 20 years ago of autism in those of us who were AFAB might have saved me so much heartbreak.

And here I am, a 45-year-old burnt out non-binary autistic, going through the menopause, learning who I am, trying to rebuild my life, and doing it, currently, without help from anyone except a husband and friends. And I often feel like I am breaking, like I just want to vanish off the face of the Earth, because my youth has gone, and I want to cry for all these things, because they’re still bothering me.

But the positive thoughts are also strong:

The relief at no longer feeling the pressure to be a high flyer. The knowledge that I have a disability (and yes, for me, it is disabling – there is much to be investigated regarding models of disability, but that is not for now) and therefore I can stop beating myself up when I don’t achieve what I thought I should be able to is reassuring. The knowledge that the levels of self-care that I need are now “permitted” is such a huge relief, so liberating, and even joyful. I don’t have to be some kind of superhero any more – I can built this new life and stop pretending to be someone I’m not.

Most people I know are being massively supportive. I’m hugely lucky to have most of them in my life. Far from being deserted by old friends, I’m still, even, making new ones, people who care enough to be interested, people who read this blog and who are helped, people who understand the difficulties, and some who do not but are investing their time and energy and are willing to learn and be caring and understanding. This makes what I could call “big feels” – I don’t have a better expression than that currently. Like so often these days, I just hope people know what I mean.

And though I cannot change the past or do anything about my childhood or its difficulties, I’m now massively enjoying allowing myself to explore the world that has now opened up of toys and things to fiddle with and things that I can buy for myself without anybody to tell me not to. I can sit and stare at my glow in the dark spinner until it runs out of glow, I can roll the ball around on my fidget cube for hours at a time, I can have all the toys now that I never had as a child, and because I am old and spend the majority of my time at home alone nobody will tell me off for doing these things. I am making up for lost time in a big way, finally releasing all the bits of me that have been hidden all these years.

And the fact that the diagnosis has come at all, even this late, is still enough on its own to make me cry with happiness. The relief, the liberation, the knowledge of who I am and why I am and how I am. The permission to be something other, the explanation of why I’ve felt as I have all my life, and the solving of hundreds and thousands of mysteries from the last 45 years. The letting go of the old expectations, the shift to a neurological identity and a gender identity that feels properly comfortable to me, rather than one I was taught was the case. The hope that I will eventually recover from this burnout and will eventually get through this phase and that life will be better than it ever has been, and that I’ll eventually build a life that will be right for me.

And part of what is causing these emotions feels like some sort of huge “sigh of relief” from my entire being. I read about labels and words and why do I need the descriptor “autistic” if I know who I am. For me, I needed that descriptor to SHOW me who I am. Learning about what it means to be autistic is teaching me how to be who I am – because after 4 decades of acting roles, my real self has become somewhat obscured and needs a little help to emerge. I’ve had a lot of training to be someone else. I have a lot to discover. The minute I knew, and I allowed myself, and I learnt for the first time in my life to follow my instincts, things felt very very different.

And each time I’ve tried to write about this, these simultaneous bunches of feelings keep emerging, over and over again. Not even oscillating, like the states described in my earlier post, but together. Sadness and anger and regret alongside relief and liberation and happiness.

And the word at the end of every piece is still “autistic”, as if I’m still trying to make my head accept it fully, embrace it fully, and be able to go out into the world and live it fully. I want to do that, so very much. I know that it will not always be easy – but I do not shy away from difficulty and I never have.

Even writing it all down like this has actually changed how I feel, released some of the energy that I had when I started typing around half an hour ago. I’m calmer. The storm clouds have rolled on past for now. They will be back. The next meltdown and next shutdown will happen at some point, but typing everything up like this has had a healing effect for now, sorted things out a little. If anyone’s still reading, then thank you for indulging me. It has helped.

Also Remember

Sometimes I am too tired
And cannot always
Summon up
The energy
To release
The tension
By moving
Rocking
Bashing.

Sometimes it doesn’t quite work
And the safe strategies
Will tip over
Into less safe ones
And I want to hit my legs
And tear my skin
Because I need more
Than movement alone
And safe bashing
Can provide.

But I must also remember
I have a heavy weighted blanket.
Over eight kilogrammes
Of reassuring pressure
That I can place over me

And when I return
From the third day out in a week
Exhausted,
Unsettled,
Desperate to feel better
Somehow.

I can crawl under my blanket
And feel calmer
And better
Anxiety subsiding
Nausea retreating
The urge to hit myself
Disappearing

And I am still
And calm

Grounded
Reassured.

Weighted Blanket

46-2017-01-13-17-51-00I got a weighted blanket.
It was very expensive.
I used my Christmas money.

It came about a week ago.
It is quite big.
And fairly heavy.

It has to be quite heavy.
Because I am quite heavy.
Percentage of body weight.

I got home one day from being out.
Exhausted and queasy.
Stressy and stimmy.

And I covered much of me.
With my heavy blanket.
Weighing down on me.

And I started to feel calmer.
And better, less dizzy, less ill.
Reassuring pressure.

Proprioceptive input.
Sensory rebalancing.
It works. Is good.