School Vignettes: the weird boy

‪Digital painting of a white, blond-haired boy vigorously flapping his hands while walking. A white, brown-haired girl stands in the foreground, looking over her shoulder at him.‬

Sometime around 1988 (28 years before autism identification).

There’s this boy at school. He’s really strange.

He’s not in my class. He’s a bit younger, I think.

Most of the time, I see him on his own at break times, walking round and round the primary school buildings. Always anti-clockwise.

He moves his hands vigorously. He flaps them, but one hand seems to move from side to side, the other up and down. They’re held up in front of his face.

He makes noises as he flaps his hands.

They sound like a motor engine, and so I assume that his hand movements are a crude, inaccurate attempt at mimicking the actions of a driver behind the wheel of a car. I suppose he must like cars.

He doesn’t say much. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him speak. I’ve seen him cry, though. He seems to cry at lots of things. He wails. Wordless. He thrashes his arms as he does so. I don’t know why he’s so upset all the time.

There are times when I feel sorry for him. He looks even lonelier than I am. Or at least I assume he is – I’m often on my own too.

I like to be alone sometimes, and I often get annoyed when people try to insist that I join in with games at breaktime when I want to wander past the trees at the edge of the school grounds. And I feel lonely because everyone else is enjoying the thing we’re all doing, but I’m not. Other times, I’d like to play, but they don’t want me around. Then I feel really lonely.

At least I can talk to the other children when I need to.

But I wouldn’t know how to communicate with him. Sometimes I’ve been a bit scared of him, of his strange behaviour. I might even have pushed him out of my way once or twice. That probably wasn’t very nice of me.

All the other kids say he’s weird. Aside from a few of the more considerate girls, most are clear they wouldn’t want anything to do with him.

I don’t say much about it. I’m complicit in my silence but, after all, I’m weird enough myself. I give people enough ammunition to tease me already. Better just to go along with the consensus.

I wouldn’t want to draw any more attention to myself by disagreeing with what they’re saying about the weird boy.


[Image description: Digital painting of a white, blond-haired boy vigorously flapping his hands while walking. A white, brown-haired girl stands in the foreground, looking over her shoulder at him.]

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‘Unpost’* one: solace in a spider web

Have you ever watched a spider spin its web? I mean, not just watching a speeded-up playback of a time lapse recording on the telly, but actually sat or stood in front of a real spider spinning its web in real time before your eyes?

This afternoon for the first time I did exactly this.

In recent weeks, I’ve been coming to the increasingly clear conclusion that I have, for a long time, been suffering from a certain degree of complex post-traumatic stress disorder (C-PTSD). This isn’t something I’ve randomly decided, and it’s not something I’m plucking out of the air. There have been discussions going on in the adult autistic online world, and much of this resonates with me.

I’ve struggled for some time to write any new posts for this blog. I seem to be in a constant state of exhaustion. I haven’t had the energy, time, or emotional wherewithal to write much in the way of new content – whether whimsical, creative, exploratory musings, or intelligently- and expertly-crafted essays.

I haven’t had the battery power for advocacy, politics, or any form of campaigning on behalf of myself or of any other autistics through my writing. I’m barely keeping my head above water sufficiently to do my job, or be an effective parent.

But my recent “vignettes“ posts seem to be coming out of nowhere. Painful memories have been coming to the fore as a result of chance conversations and certain word combinations I have read or heard online, or they’ve revealed themselves as the landscape and landmarks surrounding some of the stops, halts, or termini on the journey taken by my train of thought.

They’re flashbacks.

They’re vivid.

And while I can’t get rid of them entirely, by capturing them in writing, I’m taming them, before releasing them into the wider world in a controlled fashion, their custody no longer solely my responsibility.

I know there will be plenty more of them.

I’m increasingly realising that I have been traumatised. Not by a sudden, catastrophic event. My trauma is cumulative. It is the trauma of countless small painful experiences. Emotional pain. Intellectual pain. Social pain. Sensory pain. Some of that pain has been of a primarily physical nature; sometimes, the effects upon me of other forms of pain have themselves been physical.

Some of that pain has been inflicted upon me by other people – both prior to and since my autism diagnosis. Some of those who inflicted that pain were fully aware I was autistic, many weren’t. A lot of pain has been (and still is) self-inflicted – I’ve learnt to expect negative interactions with others, or problematic interpretations of my behaviour, actions, and modes of communication. I’ve learnt to assume that I’m the one in the wrong even when I know that, objectively speaking, that isn’t the case. And I beat myself up about it.

Today was a team away day. It was a far more positive experience for me than the event which formed the subject matter of a recent work vignette. The afternoon discussions were practical, and produced some tangible results that might actually help to shape the services we deliver and give us some concrete objectives.

From an accessibility point of you, everything had been handled pretty well. The venue wasn’t sensorily objectionable. I, and a fellow autistic working in our section, had received plenty of advance information about the structure of the event, and details on the format of specific activities. I didn’t feel remotely uncomfortable about ducking out of conversations during the breaks and sitting in a corner with my headphones on, or taking myself outside for a breather.

But the first exercise of the day felt problematic for me – we were each asked to pick a shape that we felt most closely represented who we were as individuals. Having looked at the material beforehand, I had already made up my mind that I was a “squiggle“. There were a fair few of us squiggles, including a not-insignificant number of neurodivergent folks in the room.

I associated the squiggly line with dynamism, energy, creativity, exploration, lateral thinking, and a busy, active mind. Boxes are too rigid; circles have some appeal to me, with their lack of endpoint, their sense of unity, continuity, inclusiveness, and something of the holistic. I don’t see myself as a pointy triangle or a rectangle.

We were asked, in individuals then groups, to note down words associated with each of the shapes – the ones we most strongly identified with, our second choices, and those with which we identified the least strongly.

Whilst it was meant to be a harmless, lighthearted, not particularly scientific activity to provoke discussion about team dynamics, and help us think about the characteristics of some of the people we work with, I couldn’t help feeling triggered by some of the more negative words and phrases that a few “non-squiggle” colleagues associated with my shape.

Flaky

Out of control.

Messy.

Doesn’t plan anything – or struggles to stick to plans.

Unpredictable.

There was hostility towards some of the other shapes as well – the “box/square” came in for a fair bit of criticism.

But whilst it was not intended that we read too much into this, I was reminded of all the times when people have levelled criticism at me without fully understanding me. I’ve been told I was out of control, that I can’t multitask, that I’m disruptive. I’ve called myself “stupid” and “lazy” because I procrastinate, have difficulty planning and organising, and difficulty seeing things through – often because too many other ideas are crowding my consciousness, vying for my attention, but also, frequently, because I simply can’t make my brain “do the thing”.

I’ve been criticised, and often criticised myself, simply for being the way I am in a world in which my way of being isn’t the majority modus operandi.

When all the time, I’m having to negotiate far more just than the explicit task at hand. I am, in fact, multitasking by default, because – as a disabled person and an autistic person – I am simultaneously performing so many extra “jobs“ on top of the one that I’m paid to do. I don’t always have the energy to perform that job well as well as I’d like, because my energy is being expended elsewhere in a way that those who do not share my neurotype couldn’t possibly imagine.

And as a perfectionist, that sucks. I like doing things well.

So recently, I’ve been going through a bit of an “I hate my brain“ period. I’ve been resentful of the fact that I’m a polymath, with a constant explosion of ideas taking place in my brain, but little ability to focus on one project, activity, or idea to execute well, and little time or energy to devote to these passions.

It’s not really the right time to chase my dreams – my children are still very young, both are neurodivergent and need a lot of input. I’m still getting to grips with new job and a new work environment. Various members of my family, and I myself, are experiencing a fair few health challenges.

Which means I find myself resenting the ideas that come to me. I can’t actually do anything with them, but I don’t have the patience to leave them be, or make a note of them to pursue at a future time when I’m more sufficiently resourced to do so.

After the away day, I was tired. So much listening. So much processing. So little rest. But as the working day finished earlier than usual, I decided not to go on a long wild walk, but instead to take my usual route home through several of the local parks but do so more slowly, more mindfully.

Rather than feeling the compulsion to experience the expansive, the large-scale, the landscape at macro-level (as is often the case when I chose to take myself outdoors to shake off my overwhelm), I was compelled to examine the outdoors in miniature.

I stood watching bees pollinating flowering bushes and shrubs. I was fascinated to note that certain types of bee preferred certain plants. I appreciated, for perhaps the first time, the what-should-be-damned-obvious fact that bumblebees (being insects) have bodies (like all other insects) that are articulated into three distinct sections rather than being a somewhat indistinct ball of fuzz with a head, legs and wings.

Closer to home I spotted a ladybird perched atop a valerian stem. I noticed its mouthparts, antennae, the articulation of its six limbs, its individual pattern of spots, and the smaller segmentation of its thorax, visible briefly on the underside of its body as it clambered over a leaf stem, beneath the modified wings that were its scarlet, polka dotted shell.

And then I saw the spider.

A garden spider, minutely patterned in greys, beiges and taupes. A particularly tiny example of the species.

It had just begun to construct a web between several valerian stems. The radial threads were already in place, and at the point I started to observe the tiny creature, it was in the process of strengthening the centre. As I watched, it finished this stage, before constructing a few non-sticky spiral threads to allow it to scamper to the outer reaches of the structure, before spiralling inwards with the final, sticky silk that would form the completed web.

The threads were so fine they were barely visible without holding my head at a tilt.

I had never before appreciated the meticulous complexity, or the beauty, of the web-spinning process itself.

In watching the story of the web’s construction unfolding before my eyes, I slowed down. I relaxed. I smiled. I took solace in nature doing its thing. Solace in the spider’s web.

And I appreciated my brain again. Appreciated my love of detail. My love of close-up examination that is just as strong as my love of patterns, connections and the bigger picture. My ability to enjoy such things without having to quantify them, or question whether or not I should be spending my time enjoying them.

I felt restored.


*I have Anna Nicholson of Transponderings to thank for the idea of ‘unposts’ – it’s useful sometimes to be able to post a set of uncategorised, stream-of-consciousness musings. I’ve recognised the need to be able to write without necessarily putting pressure on myself to come up with something polished.

Anna – I hope you don’t mind me pilfering this approach! ☺️

Work Vignettes: the verbal warning (Awkward Coffee #1)

An off-white, disposable coffee cup with a plastic lid, placed on an off-white surface, against a blank white background.

Image credit: John Beans (https://myfriendscoffee.com/)

September 2002 (14 years before autism identification).

It’s Monday morning. The start of a new term. Last week was College Enrolment Week.

***

(Just a few days ago, I had been clad in a cheap, over-sized, garishly yellow “Here to Help” staff polo shirt. Small, black insects had clung in loose but numerous clusters to the stingingly bright, sweat-soaked synthetic fabric.

For one extended workday, I’d been assaulted by noise, questions, crowds, confusion, chaos, jostling and overwhelm. Body odour, food smells, raised voices, untidy piles of papers, leaky pens, thirst. No hiding places.

Afterwards, I had trudged, head pounding, sweaty-polo-shirt sticky and migraine sick, back to my friends’ flat. I’m staying with them short-term while I find somewhere else to live, after a recent, sudden relationship breakup.

After a brief slump in their sofa, some food, and brief interactions with my friends and their two-year-old daughter, I’d lain myself down on the mattress in their spare room and cried until I was too exhausted to stay awake.)

***

My line manager has invited me to the college canteen for a coffee.

“I need to talk to you about last week.”

“Okay…”

“I know it was a very busy time, but I have to let you know that some of your behaviour was unacceptable. It’s one thing to get flustered, but I absolutely cannot abide swearing.”

“I’m really sorry. You know I’ve just recently come off the medication the doctor gave me. It takes time to get out of my system – they didn’t stop the prescription soon enough. It’s making it difficult to control myself.”

“I really think that’s no excuse. This is a college. It is not acceptable to speak like that in front of students.”

“I know that. I’m so, so sorry. I’m just having a really difficult time. The breakup was awful. You were away when it all happened. It’s so hard. It’s going to take me a long time to get over it. I’m really stressed at the moment.”

“I know you’re having a difficult time. We all have struggles. But it’s important to keep your personal life separate from work. You mustn’t let these things come out in front of people.”

Clattering from the kitchen.

Chatter from nearby tables.

Searingly bright sunshine streaming through the window behind my manager, silhouetting her face and making me squint at her through barely-open, scrunched-up eyelids.

I can still see the spidery clumps of dark blue mascara that coat her eyelashes, but perhaps it’s my mind’s eye filling in the blanks.

I can feel my face getting hotter. I imagine it getting redder. My eyes…

“Let this be a warning on this occasion. But I cannot have this sort of thing happen again.”

“Okay. I’m really, really sorry.” The tears have started. I bow my head towards the table, so that neither of us sees the other’s face.

I realise it’s going to be time to get back to the office soon. There’ll be students to see.


[Image description: An off-white, disposable coffee cup with a plastic lid, placed on an off-white surface, against a blank white background.]

What’s in the bag? A look at Mama’s stim kit.

Still life colour photograph, through warm dramatic “vintage” filter, depicting, in foreground: a sequin-coloured oversized pencil case, out of which spills folded “infinity hoops”, a black Tangle, a red-and-yellow stress ball in the shape of a Marvel ‘Iron Man’ helmet, a small three-pointed metallic fidget spinner, a fidget football, pine cone and seashell, a piece of grey foam, and other items partially in view. There is a smaller sparkly bag inside in which can be seen a small bottle of aromatherapy oil and a tin of lip balm. Behind these is a black bullet journal, and a red-zipped pencil case with in a colourful dinosaur print fabric.

As time has gone on since my formal autism identification in 2016, and as I’ve gradually learned more about myself – my autistic self – I’ve got better and better at recognising what makes me tick.

What makes me anxious, overwhelmed, panicked, angry. What makes me calm, happy, blissed out, joyful.

I’m increasingly better at looking after myself. But this ability to look after myself is continually pushed to its limits, and beyond. It seems that the more I learn to cope with and overcome, the more I get another load of difficult stuff shunted my way. By gosh, I still have a lot to learn.

But I’m far more positive in how I address this nowadays.

A couple of months ago, I put together a stim kit. I was sick of having random bits and bobs floating around in my bag, in each of my different coat and jacket pockets, or scattered around the house and on my desk at work. Sick of repeatedly misplacing favourite objects and toys. Things getting rusty, encrusted with grot, scratched or broken.

I don’t always need things to stim with, of course – dancing, pacing, singing, and many other activities don’t require ‘stuff’. But having small items to hand makes things easier in a lot of circumstances.

Different strokes for different folks

I wanted to give myself more options – a stim for every mood and every occasion. I’m always looking for things to add to it, but for now I’m quite happy with what I have at my disposal.

(Although yes, some of us do indeed like having things to stroke, and I’m still searching for a nice scrap of velvet ribbon…)

I personally let other people (both autistic and non-autistic) try out the stuff in the bag from time to time. It’s great to see someone get fresh stim ideas or discover something new that really works for them, and also fascinating to see what does and doesn’t help different people. I also like to de-mystify and normalise stimming as a ‘thing’.

You don’t have to share your stim stuff with other people, of course. It’s entirely your choice whether you do so or not. I like to, but we all have different preferences.

Very recently, I put something similar together for my daughter (six years old at the time of writing). Hers has some of the same items, but some variation – there’s more squishy and chewy stuff, which suits her.

I’d recommend that all autistics, and parents of younger autistic kids, consider assembling something like this – it’s great to have positive options for redirecting negative/self-injurious stim urges, calming oneself, promoting focus, as well as for sheer enjoyment.

So what’s in the bag?

These are just things that suit me. Everyone has different preferences, and it can take some time to work out what you might want in a kit, and what simply isn’t worth bothering with.

Here’s a rundown of what I have in mine.

Obviously, the main bag itself is a stim item. It’s an extra-large pencil case covered in gorgeous double-sided “mermaid scale” sequins. They’re fun to look at. Tactile and interactive too. As for what’s inside…

First, the things I’ve purchased with actual money:

  • Infinity hoops/kinetic flow rings: Oh. My. Gosh. These look and feel sooooo good.
  • Fidget spinners: I have two in this bag. One is yer classic plastic dooberry (a bit like this one) which I may or may not abandon, as frankly it’s not very good (it was very cheap); the other a “deluxe” metal spinner by Nomad that spins for aaaaaaages.
  • Fidget football polyhedron spinner: this particular metallic thingummy doesn’t spin for very long and is a bit flimsy (another thing that was super-cheap). But it kind of looks cool, and the individual coloured circles make a cool “pwoingy” noise when you wiggle them about.
  • ‘Iron Man’ helmet stress ball: squeezy proprioceptive anger release. Also good for maintaining strength and mobility in hands – something I struggle with because of some anatomical oddities. Plus…Marvel (I also have a Hulk fist on my desk at work).
  • Miniature slinky spring: fun to stretch, run fingers over and hold. The repeating coils are also soothing to look at. This one was from a multipack similar to this one, left over after we’d finished filling a load of party bags for my daughter’s last birthday party.
  • Tangle: one of the first “official” stim toys I bought. An old favourite, but these days gets less outing than some of the other more novel items. One thing that irritates me slightly, given my auditory sensitivity, is the clicky noises it makes when I’m fiddling with it – fine in a busy place, but not so great somewhere quiet.
  • ‘Unicorn poo’ glitter slime: comes in a pot, to keep it safe from glooping up the rest of the bag. Feels lovely and cool on the hands but leaves no mess. Squishy and squidgy. Sparkly.

Next, some free stuff (be creative. Look around your environment and see what you can find):

  • Pine cones: Fibonacci spirals! Patterns! Knobbly textured loveliness! Beautiful.
  • Larch cones: similar to above. But they’re also kind of delicate and pretty in a way that pine cones aren’t. More a visual thing than a tactile thing.
  • Seashell: more natural mathematical beauty. Knobbles, spirals, smooth bits, shiny bits, ridged bits. Lots and lots of tactile soothing loveliness. Calming colours.
  • Piece of packing foam: softer and squishier than a stress ball, this nevertheless provides a teensy bit of propriceptive stimulus, but is also fun to fold and unfold, wiggle around, or simply to run one’s fingers over.

As well as all of the above, there’s a sparkly “bag within a bag” (another visual stim in itself). This is for items that either:

  1. Smell and/or are balms/liquid, and would thus otherwise taint the rest of the stim kit;
  2. Are easily breakable (e.g. glass bottles);
  3. Are small and thus likely to be difficult to find in the midst of the main bag;
  4. Might get tangled up with other contents; or
  5. Need to be kept clean.

In here is where I keep:

  • Lip balm: nice to smell (I have a chocolate-y one), and good for keeping lips smooth and avoiding the scratchy feel of dry skin
  • Aromatherapy oils: good for a more intense (albeit only occasionally needed) fragrance hit – especially when there’s a need to block out more noxious nose-irritants. I have a couple of bottles of oil blends: ‘Less Stress’ (clary sage, lemon, lavender); and ‘Energise’ (peppermint, frankincense, lemon).
  • Handkerchief: the holdable soft fabric receptacle for the above-mentioned oils (sniffing straight from the bottle looks weird, makes my nose tingle, and means the cap is left off too long, which has the potential to cause deterioration to the active components in the oils.
  • Foam ear plugs (in a small plastic case): for when I need to dampen down noise, but noise-cancelling headphones just aren’t appropriate for whatever reason.
  • Communication necklace, from SpaceRobot Studio: to indicate to other people – usually when in autistic space – my level of willingness/ability to communicate verbally with others.

What else helps me?

In addition to these items, I always have handy:

  • noise cancelling Bluetooth headphones (plus something to play the music on, of course). Mine are Lindy BNX-60s, at just over £80 – my budget wouldn’t stretch beyond this, but they do the job well enough for my purposes.
  • sunglasses

They’re generally big-enough, frequently-worn-enough items for me not to lose them (thus far, at least…).

The other things that go everywhere with me are my bullet journal (learn more at the official bujo website), and my dinosaur pencil case, full of lovely coloured pens, pencils and fine liners. Doodling is a stim, but bullet journaling is another absolute life-saver in helping me organise my life, stay mindful, and keep as sane as possible.

When at home…

Over the summer, I also had made for me a weighted blanket and lap pad. These have been a revelation. If you want the low-down on why these are so helpful, Princess Aspien’s video on the subject is a good insight. They don’t come cheap (I couldn’t afford one for a very long time), and I recognise I owe my possession of these wonderful items to a certain degree of material privilege.

***

I hope this post is of some practical use to people.

I recognise that some items are more affordable than others, and this means that for some, it can be a struggle to meet your own sensory needs. If this is you, then I wish you all the best with finding something affordable that works, and I hope your circumstances get easier. In the meantime, look around your home. Look outdoors. Pebbles, seed cases, pieces of packaging (cleaned), bubble wrap, pine cones. Wherever you are, keep a lookout for something small and portable to stim with.

For everyone: I wish you well in finding the stims that truly work for you.


[Featured image description: Still life colour photograph, through warm dramatic “vintage” filter, depicting, in foreground: a sequin-coloured oversized pencil case, out of which spills folded “infinity hoops”, a black Tangle, a red-and-yellow stress ball in the shape of a Marvel ‘Iron Man’ helmet, a small three-pointed metallic fidget spinner, a fidget football, pine cone and seashell, a piece of grey foam, and other items partially in view. There is a smaller sparkly bag inside in which can be seen a small bottle of aromatherapy oil and a tin of lip balm. Behind these is a black bullet journal, and a red-zipped pencil case with in a colourful dinosaur print fabric.]

#TakeTheMaskOff: authentic vulnerability

Cartoon drawing of Mama Pineapple, a white female-presenting person with chin-length red hair. She is clenching her left fist in order to make her bicep bulge. Tears are streaming down her face.

One of the things I’ve always hated about myself is how easily I burst into tears, and how often I cry.

That’s not to say I’m ashamed of it. It’s my natural reaction to surprise, bad news, overwhelm, discomfort, confusion, and a whole range of other scenarios, situations and feelings. It’s just how I am.

The reason I hate it is not that it shames me, but because it draws others’ attention to me at times when I’m feeling especially vulnerable. And my very dramatic outward displays of emotion make me vulnerable. I am left exposed, demarcated, spotlighted, in a way in which others are not.

I’ve been crying a lot over recent months. I’m cagey about talking too much about the reasons for this on this blog, because while I’m often very candid and open on here, many of those who read my words know me in person, including some people I work with.

Currently I’m contending with huge amounts of change. I’ve lurched from one period of uncertainty to another. This particular dark cloud, while it has evolved and morphed in shape and outline, has been hanging over me for well over eighteen months. Its form has been given greater definition in the past couple of months, but still that form has yet to settle into a state of finality.

I’ve had bad news delivered to me, and many people around me, in very exposing, “public” settings.

I’ve had reassuring structure and routine ripped out from under my feet. I see gaping nothingness in front of me, however much others around me try to reassure me that the unknowns will come to an end at some point.

I’m experiencing a form of bereavement – not over a lost loved one, but over the loss of a particular combination of relationships, things, environments, and a way of being that I’ve loved, and that has made me feel supported, contented and happy for a good few years, even while I’ve contended with many difficulties elsewhere in my life.

Throughout it all, I’ve been told to remain professional, and to “try to use my coping mechanisms” to manage my distress.

But I’ve been unable to prevent myself from crying.

I’ve been unable to prevent myself having meltdowns. At work. At home. In public places.

It’s all too much.

My sense of vulnerability raises my already-pretty-extreme levels of anxiety.

How do others perceive me?

Can I truly be regarded as competent? Professional? Capable? Able? Trustworthy?

***

The truth is, I can be all these things, and vulnerable. Such qualities are not mutually exclusive.

Since my diagnosis, I’ve always been open about my autism.

My reasoning is that I struggle to be quiet about aspects of truth about myself; and that I simply wouldn’t want to be around anyone who looked negatively upon me as a result of knowing that I’m autistic. It’s a part of me, and by rejecting my autism, anyone who does so rejects me.

But my emotional vulnerability is as much a part of my autism as my sensory sensitivities, my pattern-spotting abilities, my attention to detail, and the deep joy I experience when working on things that interest me.

I am not ashamed of that vulnerability, but I now feel I need to go further than such a state of neutrality; of not-negativity.

I have started to embrace it as a fundamental personal truth.

Sometimes, it means – as someone I know recently put it – that I’m “taking one for the team” in more readily displaying those feelings that others around me feel internally, but are unwilling or unable to convey to the outside world. I’m raising awareness.

My vulnerability is authentic.

My vulnerability is real.

My vulnerability is human.

And – perhaps perversely – my ability to allow myself to be vulnerable makes me strong.

Crying is cathartic. The pressure is released. This can sometimes take hours, but it does go. And when my tears have all been shed, and my wailing and sobbing has quietened, I’m exhausted, spent; but the tension is gone.

I know I’m alive, I’m here, and I can carry on.

Right now, I can’t keep up appearances. I can’t pretend I’m fine. I can’t currently wear the mask of acceptable social interaction very much of the time. I’m having to cope with too much.

And while crying can be useful, and I’ve done the Very Helpful Thing of making others aware of how serious things are, no-one should be repeatedly subjected to So Much Stuff that they dissolve in a puddle of tears on an almost daily basis. It’s tiring. It’s not a modus operandi I’m keen on.

Hence time off work, and limited time online. I’m trying to keep my life as quiet as possible at the moment. I need to rest, recover, and recuperate.

But I’m still here.

I’m authentic, I’m vulnerable, and I’m human.