Sheet Problems

Many of our sheets are
Still missing after the move
Many are old
And wearing out…

So I bought a new one.

I washed it
As I do with all new things
Because new things
Never feel right
Or smell right
Unless they have been
Washed in the usual stuff

(My mother once washed
My bedding
In a different sort
Of powder
When I was a child
And I couldn’t sleep
Because it smelled
So wrong).

I put the new sheet
Onto our bed
Yesterday.
I knew it was wrong
The instant I got into bed…

Scratch scratch scratch.

Scratch scratch scratch.

Scratch scratch scratch.

I feel now
As though I have spent the night
Sleeping on sandpaper.
I feel as though my skin
Must be red raw
From the experience.

I know it isn’t,
Logically.
And, as always,
Any outside observer
Would simply tell me
They couldn’t see anything
And not understand
The problem.

(My spouse has had
Years of me complaining
About wrinkles
In the sheets
And things not feeling
“Right”
While he is unable
To feel what is wrong).

So I am about to get up
Much earlier than usual
Because I cannot lie
On this sandpaper bed
Any longer.

And I will be changing the sheet
Again.
More energy used.
More washing.
Another failed thing
To add to the detritus
In our flat
Another waste of money
I don’t have.
Something else
I will struggle to throw away
Because I will feel sorry for it
And guilty that I didn’t love it.

Maybe the animals will enjoy it as bedding?

But, as my spouse said to me
At least we now know
There’s a reason that I
Complain about the sheets.

So that’s something.

But I still need a new sheet.

Which means shopping
In shops
Which is hard.
And the sheets are all in packets
So I can’t feel them first.

Or buying online
Where I also have to guess
Whether the sheet
Will be a good one.

(And, of course,
The good ones are more likely
To be the expensive ones
Which I can’t afford).

You’d think
That buying a new sheet
Would be something
Quite simple to do.

Not in my world it isn’t!

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Not That Autistic?

I needed to go out this morning to do a few jobs. Go to the bank, bit of shopping for the next couple of days and for the weekend when I’m doing stuff (“stuff” needs a bit of preparation), petrol in the car, and so on.

So I left the flat feeling pretty much as normal as I ever feel. I got in the car, drove to the first car park, found a spot, parked, got out, and walked, briskly as always, through town to the bank.

And as I went, I thought “I’m out now, and, really, actually, seem pretty much like a normal person. Maybe I’m not that autistic after all?”

Then I got to the bank. There was a queue. And the lights were bright even through my darkest glasses. I stood in the queue moving from foot to foot, chewing my fingers, scratching my head, and occasionally twirling my hands.

Then I went to look at coffee shop number one. It was full. There was a queue. I decided to give it a miss.

Then I went to supermarket number one. Where I bought the same food that I’ve been buying for several weeks now, even though I’m really rather bored of it. But somehow buying and eating anything else during the normal daily routine seems so desperately desperately WRONG. So I bought the same stuff as I usually do.

Then I went to look at coffee shop number two. It was also deemed too full with a queue. I decided that it wasn’t for me.

Then I went to supermarket number two. Where I bought yet more of the same things I buy every time. Where I once again went to the auto checkouts. Where I flapped my hands at the nuts because I couldn’t see some the same as I’d had last time and had to get the closest but they were different (of course they were, it was a different supermarket, but I had to convince my brain, actively, that these nuts would be OK, even though they weren’t those nuts).

Then I went to get petrol. There was a woman in the petrol station proclaiming she’d lost her pen in a very loud screechy voice. I wanted to put my ear plugs in because the screeching was so painful.

Then I got home. And a workman had parked in our private, numbered, parking spot. The notion of not being able to put the car back in the right place sent my anxiety spiralling. I asked him politely to move and instead of simply doing so, he argued back with me and I was forced to debate with him to get my own parking spot. I finally did manage to park my car in my own spot, but by that time the spoons had run out.

Then I had a complete meltdown in the car – screaming, bashing, tears, and so on.

Eventually I calmed down sufficiently to get the shopping from the car to the flat and to rant somewhat on facebook where I got support from an ever-patient bunch of friends.

Then I realised I’d lost my ability to speak. It’ll probably be back later – it usually is.

I set off this morning thinking I was “not that autistic”!

Hmmm!

The Background

02-2016-12-08-13-47-41At the beginning of August 2016 I was living a normal life. Maybe not “normal” in the sense that many would call normal, but normal for me. I’d just turned 45, my husband and I were about to celebrate our 14th wedding anniversary, and we’d still failed to unpack or sort the chaos in our small flat following a rushed move a couple of years earlier. I spent my days studying when I could, playing music, running, being with our animals, and forgetting to eat lunch. All as usual.

I had, however, started to feel unwell again during the previous year. I’ve struggled with my mental health for decades, and was diagnosed first with anxiety and depression, then later with bipolar disorder. But I’d been reasonably stable since around 2013, had started to play the viola in orchestras again, and had generally spent much more time out in the world, reconnecting with friends, trying to rebuild my life, in the hope that I might one day be able to work again and be back to some sort of genuine “normal”.

But my health had started to decline. I’d had to drop a concert and several chamber music sessions, withdraw from my Open University study yet again, pull out of some races I’d planned to run, and by July I’d been back to my GP and picked up a prescription for the medication I’d successfully come off in 2013. It seemed obvious that I was headed for another breakdown, another episode of depression.

However, looking back now, there were things that didn’t tally with the descent into breakdown. For many years, I assiduously kept a mood diary. Just a simple cross in a box each day, to indicate an elated or depressed mood. My mood was still reasonably stable. A little under, but nothing that would indicate a severe mood shift. On the same chart I had a box into which I’d write a “score” for anxiety each day. The anxiety measurement was consistently high, and rising. That anxiety perhaps explained why I spent so much time feeling sick, why I would suddenly panic and shake for no apparent reason. I needed to calm myself somehow.

I was also perpetually exhausted. Going out to rehearsals sapped my energy and left me worn out and needing to sleep for days. I couldn’t drag myself out of bed much before ten or eleven, even on the best mornings. I’d go shopping to the supermarket and buy a small trolley load of groceries then come home and need to sleep for a couple of hours before I could put them away. That would then be me finished for the day. Going out for lunch or dinner would entail a two day recovery period. I’d had times like this before, but things were getting noticeably worse – no matter how well I ate, or how much mindfulness I practised, or what CBT tools I used, I was bone-numbingly exhausted whenever I went out.

A few people suggested chronic fatigue syndrome, but I knew that wasn’t right. I was still running, and once I’d recovered from the exhaustion I could easily do a 50K training run. Although I was really struggling at races – at the Brighton Marathon expo I’d had to take my husband with me to collect my bib as I’d been hardly able to speak to tell them my name. When other runners chatted to me during marathons I felt my legs get weaker. I got to an aid station only 30K into an ultra (no distance for me) and was unable to get a cup of tea because I had a huge panic. I sat by the side of the trail, shaking and in tears, before eventually pulling out of the race, assuming I had the flu because I felt so ill.

But the summer was approaching. I knew things would be quieter and I’d be able to catch up on sleep and get some rest. I could also pause my training schedule, chill out a bit, and I’d planned to spend much of the summer playing orchestral and chamber music and catching up with friends. I knew it would be busy and I’d be camping, but I also knew it was something I enjoyed. I’d even bought a new tent!

And so I set off with my tent, but without any idea of what was going to happen. I didn’t know then that I was only days away from something that would start to trigger a chain of events that would change my life for ever. Neither was I aware that the next few weeks and months would be an emotional rollercoaster like nothing I’d ever experienced before, and that the biggest discovery of my life was about to occur.