I’m human, just not like you.
I hear what you don’t hear.
Do you hear me?
I’m human, just not like you.
I see what you don’t see.
Do you see me?
I’m human, just not like you.
I know who you are.
Do you know me?
I’m human, just not like you.
I hear what you don’t hear.
Do you hear me?
I’m human, just not like you.
I see what you don’t see.
Do you see me?
I’m human, just not like you.
I know who you are.
Do you know me?
The Boy granted me an interview in return for some Jaffa cakes. What can I say? He’s cheap. So without further a do.. here it is. Enjoy! 🙂
Question: What do you like to do the most?
Answer: You know! Playing Pokemon Moon! Duh!
Question: What is your favourite food?
Answer:. Chocolate digestives. You know that! *tuts*
Question: Who is your favourite person in ALL the world?
Answer: Mum, you know that too. It’s you. *theatrically rolls eyeballs*
Answer: Still you.
Question: What is your favourite TV show?
Answer: Pokemon Sun & Moon series.
Question: What’s your favourite book?
Answer: Diary of a Wimpy Kid Double Down cos at the first page Greg says “Hope you creeps are enjoying yourselves”. It’s really funny. *laughs hysterically*
Question:. What do you want to be when you’re older?
Answer: *throws his hands up in the air* Pokemon Master, of course!
Question: What things don’t you like?
*deep intake of breath* Vegetables cus they make my mind go pop, spotty bread, brown chips, black sausages, nuts, lime, black lollipops and Pokemon killing me.
Question: What do you like to wear?
Answer: Pokemon trainer clothes.
Mummy: Which are?
The Boy: Er, shorts and a top with no sleeves, backpack, cap and LOTS of Pokeballs.
Question: Mummy or Pokemon?
*looks shifty* Pokemon. Sorry Mum.
Question: What’s your favourite colour?
Answer: Yellow. YOU KNOW THAT!!
Question: Favourite animal?
Answer: Chicken? Don’t really have one so I’ll say chicken.
Mummy: What about owls?
The Boy: OOH YESSSS, OWLS! *starts hooting*
Question: What’s your favourite place?
Answer: Home. Ya gotta love home. *American accent*
Question: What is your greatest talent?
Answer: Singing and making Mummy laugh.
Question: What do you wish for?
Answer: To be a professional Pokemon trainer.
Question: What makes you nervous?
The Boy: “Shall I tell you what makes me nervous?”
Me: “Please do”
The Boy: “People cutting my hair”.
Question: What makes you smile?
Answer: When Mummy smiles (and my Pokemon)
Question: What age do you want to be?
Answer: Seven. Because I am seven. Actually, I want to be twelve so I can look cool because most people start their Pokemon journey at 11 years old?
*Mummy’s face goes screen-saver*
So there you have it, folks. As you can see, there is a Pokemon obsession going on and I intend to repeat the
interrogation interview every year to see how his likes and dislikes change. Crafty, huh?
Many thanks to The Boy for being a TOTALLY AWESOME Pokemon Master and most magnificent interviewee.
Creative Commons Image Via Pixabay
I’ve never been one for playgrounds..
Too crowded. Too noisy. A sensory nightmare.
The squeak of bare legs being forced down a hot metal slide on a summer’s day still makes me shudder as if there’s a hairy-arsed tarantula about to pounce on my face..
When The Boy was younger he hated playgrounds with passion. The first time we put him on a swing he like TOTALLY screamed the place down. Sure, children having tantrums are common place in parks but I’m talking TOTALLY LOSING HIS SHIT meltdowns where people stare at you because it MUST be down to bad parenting, no?
Playgrounds are a danger area for us because of the stimulus. Even now (aged seven) ten minutes is all he can handle before he starts to go into meltdown. Although the stimulus affects him, he likes the playground now. He is a sociable child but the problem is that he is too sociable and doesn’t understand the rules as is the case with autism. It doesn’t matter how young or old the other children are because they are all equal in his eyes and this causes problems..
For instance, on one occasion The Boy ran up to five teenage boys who were hogging the roundabout. He jumped on there with them as if he’d known them all his life. I hesitated to see how they would react to this little interloper but The Boy’s idea of play involves lots of incoherent shouting so it wasn’t long before the teens started nudging each other and laughing, the twats, though to be fair, they were just acting the way that most teenage boys act, it’s just that I’d have given anything for just one of them to show my son some compassion..
The Boy laughed back but had no idea that they were laughing at him. This took place in a matter of seconds but I’d seen enough but as I made my way to him the teens got up and just left him spinning on his own, not that it bothered him. As usual, he was oblivious as to what had taken place..
The thing is that he stands out.
His autism is IN YOUR FACE, autism.
We let him go into playgrounds whenever possible as long as he’s not showing signs of overwhelm before he goes in. We know that he’ll get over-excited pretty quickly so he’s given a ten minute countdown and those minutes seem like hours, believe me. All this on top of my own sensory issues makes it a stressful experience..
The last time he went into a playground was a few months ago. It was the adventure type playground and he homed in on a big rope type roundabout that could take about ten children at a time. My heart sank because I knew what was coming. I have a fluffy sensory toy which I keep in my pocket to calm myself and I stroked it so fast, I practically rendered it bald!
The Boy scrambled on with no qualms whatsoever. Aside my anxiety, I had to marvel at his inability to be apprehensive in certain situations. So, there was a little girl stood next to him and he shouted away to her. He was totally animated but she just stared at him open-mouthed and then asked to be let off. Once again, my son had been rejected only it was me who felt the pain, not him.
OH and I exchanged ‘the look’.
When we’d entered the playground, it was noisy with children screaming and parents chatting. It literally took five minutes for the atmosphere to change. One by one the kids on the roundabout fell silent as they stared at the little boy who excitedly screamed out incoherent babble to nobody in particular..
Then the parents stared at him and started looking around to see who he belonged to.
Er, that’ll be us, folks.
We knew he wasn’t going to make ten minutes as he was seconds away from meltdown and I wasn’t far behind having one of my own, so we grabbed him and left.
I didn’t look behind me because I didn’t want to see the judgmental looks on the faces of people who haven’t got a clue about our lives or his. I’ve seen those looks too many times and each time it hurts. I physically and emotionally hurt for my son..
So, I slammed the gate shut and pulled him close, mentally effing at the lot of them for not seeing my beautiful boy as I see him.
The blessing is that he is unaware of the way people stare. I was aware from the age of five so I’m glad he’s been spared for as long as he has but the day will come when he does notice and being different and knowing you’re different is hard. You’re forever having to work at appearing ‘normal’ and I pray that my son remains oblivious of people’s intolerance and ignorance for as long as is possible.
Those five minutes in the playground are still bothering me, obviously because I’m writing about it months later. It’s in my head now, logged with all the other ‘incidents’ and it makes me sad that some people show more compassion for their cars than they do human beings, especially vulnerable ones who could really do with their support..
Here’s a thought..
How about people stop staring and start supporting these kids?
Why shouldn’t my son express himself in the way that is natural to him? He’s not hurting anybody. It’s not an aggressive reaction. What people see is happiness minus the filters. To me, it’s beautiful. He is beautiful. It isn’t him that needs to change, it’s society.
“How would your life be different if…You stopped making negative judgmental assumptions about people you encounter? Let today be the day…You look for the good in everyone you meet and respect their journey.”~ Steve Maraboli ~ Life, the Truth and Being Free
When you’re an adult, a wardrobe is just a piece of furniture. It’s somewhere to hang your clothes and store boxes of old photographs from when you were young and energetic, not to mention packing a full set of hormones. To a child, however, it’s a porthole into another world especially if they’ve read (or seen) The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe..
The plot, of course, is that four children are evacuated from London in World War Two and sent to live with a professor who lives in a large country house with big wardrobes. The youngest child, Lucy, has a root round the Prof’s house and finds a wardrobe which also happens to be a portal to a magical land called Narnia. Having pushed past all the moth-balled infused fur coats, she wanders out into a forest where there is a lamppost. Here she meets a dodgy looking bloke who invites her to his house for tea (always say no, kids) but it turns out that this bloke, Tumnus, intends to betray her to Narnia’s resident evil overlord known as ‘the White Witch’. The White Witch has ruled over Narnia for, like, ever, keeping it in a permanent state of Winter. This is to keep the Narnians in their place though it may be due to a bad case of hayfever she had once, who knows? Anyhoo, old frosty chops has an intense dislike for humans so the Narnians are under orders that, should they happen across one of the blighters, they are to turn them in or she’ll start removing fingers/claws/whatever. Tumnus is well up for a bit o’ betrayal in the beginning but changes his mind when he realises he likes Lucy. Oops! Now he feels proper shit that he wanted to hand her over to the Refrigerated One so he does the decent thing and takes her back to the lamppost which is where it all goes tits up. You know how it goes…
When I was about 8 years old, Mum and Dad bought a wardrobe for my room, well, actually it was a combi-robe which was a combined unit of a mirror, shelves, drawers and a single wardrobe. However, to me, it was more than a piece of furniture..
I liked to sit in my wardrobe.
There, I’ve said it.
Thing is, I used to feel safe in there, especially if it had been a bad day at school.
It was a confined space, even for me, who was of Borrower proportions, but I could sit in my little wardrobe, close the door, and cry it all out without anybody knowing..
I was also familiar with The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe by then, having read the book and seen it on TV so I would re-enact it because my imaginative play was always about acting out what I’d seen in life or on TV.
The concept of a magical world being accessible from inside my wardrobe fascinated me. What would I have given for it to be true? Only, in my magical world, evil witches wouldn’t be allowed because there was one of those at school masquerading as my class teacher..
A few years later we moved house and two things stopped me throwing the MOTHER of all meltdowns. One was Dad buying me the new Adam and the Ants LP and the other was the walk in wardrobe in my new bedroom. Never mind sit down, I could go horizontal in this one! WOOHOO! The wardrobe also had pretty brass knobs on which I liked to mess with.. which did not please my mother.
“Have you been messing with these ruddy knobs again, Madam?”
“Er, no” and I’d leg it downstairs as fast as my fluffy slippers could carry me.
One of my favourite wardrobes, EVER, was my Nan and Grandad’s because it was JUST like the wardrobe in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe and yes I did shut myself in it until the whiff of moth balls put me into a coma, Not sure about Narnia but I did find a nice clasp handbag filled with various corn plasters and a few furry Polo mints..
It was easier to re-enact the story in an 1800s Gloucestershire house than in my 1960s built bedroom. More authentic, y’know? Well, as authentic as it can be until your mum walks in and bollocks you for ‘rooting’ through your Nan’s things..
I’m not sure how old I was when I finally stopped sitting (not a typo) in wardrobes. No doubt marriage and motherhood left me with little time to indulge my love of wardrobe interiors. Also, they were jammed full of cricket paraphernalia, old shoes and other such crap that builds up when one has to share their abode.
Then there was that incident where one of the kids mistook their wardrobe for the toilet. *shudders*
Wouldn’t it be wonderful if Narnia existed though, eh? Without the resident bitch, of course.
How fabulous would be to have a really shit day and declare, ‘SOD IT. I AM OFF TO NARNIA!’ Though knowing my luck (and tendency for catastrophic thinking) I would most likely step out into the forest and be instantly mauled to death by a psychotic beaver..
Maybe I’m too old for sitting in wardrobes but I will never be too old to revisit Narnia via the book..
See you there?
“I wrote this story for you, but when I began it I had not realized that girls grow quicker than books. As a result you are already too old for fairy tales, and by the time it is printed and bound you will be older still. But some day you will be old enough to start reading fairy tales again. You can then take it down from some upper shelf, dust it, and tell me what you think of it. I shall probably be too deaf to hear, and too old to understand a word you say, but I shall still be your affectionate Godfather, C. S. Lewis.”
C. S Lewis ~ The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe
Creative Commons Image Via Pixabay
Have we become a selfish society?
It’s a YES from me!
*drags up a soapbox*
Wing-mirrors are more precious than lives, apparently. Drivers park on the pavement to the point of causing an obstruction in an attempt to prevent their mirrors being knocked or God forbid, broken, because we all know that people can replaced, right?
Living opposite a school we see this kind of douchebaggery every day. Parents blocking pavements and parking on the zig-zag lines despite school notices politely asking them not to and the NO STOPPING sign which forbids them BY LAW to park there. About twice a year the police will turn up and occasionally we get traffic wardens. Talk about rats leaving a sinking ship? Shifty looking parents breaking all kinds of records sprinting to their illegally parked cars!
As residents we accept disruption. It’s par for the course living by a school innit? What we don’t accept is parents parking selfishly then giving us a mouthful of abuse when we politely point out they’re illegally parked.
“Do you own the f**king street?” was one response to OH and I’ve had a straight “f**k off!” by one charming parent who almost had all four wheels on the pavement causing people to walk out into the road. Anybody would think we lived on the set of Shameless instead of a quaint old mill town. *sniffs*
There’s no need to block pavements. You’re driving a Clio dear, not a Sherman tank!
Unbelievably, a parent actually parked in my next door neighbours driveway. Not blocking it, she actually parked IN the driveway! I’d seen her park up and presumed she had permission to do so but then my neighbour turned up (who was usually at work) and judging by state of my neighbours face (and finger gestures) it was obvious that the parent had taken it upon herself to park there.
As Nan Tate would say, “WOT A FUCKIN’ LIBERTY!”
Just this morning there was a car with ALL FOUR WHEELS parked on the pavement rendering it impossible for pedestrians to get past. It’s a pavement for PEDESTRIANS yet the driver obviously considered it their personal parking space.
Then there are those who park in disabled or parent and child bays when they have no child or disability..
This is a genuine question I found on the internet..
“Hi, I parked at disable bay around 9pm at night and I was issued a ticket. Is that possible to issue parking ticket after working hours?”
The answer should be as follows..
Dear Mr/Mrs/Miss Selfish Twat,
Yes, I’m afraid you WILL be issued a parking ticket after working hours because people don’t stop being disabled after 5pm.
Car Parks R Us
People full of their own importance who shout into their phones in supermarket cafes while they tap away at their laptops. The woman in the far aisle buying cat food can hear EVERY word as can the elderly bloke with both his hearing aids turned off.
Dear Annoying Shouty Person,
I’m not interested in whose ‘brains you want to pick’ or if you’re thinking outside the box, inside the box or in someone else’s box. I just want to drink my Cappuccino decaf in relative peace. GO SIT IN YOUR CAR DAMN YOU!
They DON’T CARE about anybody but themselves.
The people who throw their McDonald’s litter out of car windows and flick their fag ends onto the pavement. They think the floor is a bin. These people care nothing for the environment (or world in general) and if there is a hell, I hope theirs is to flounder about in Satan’s maggoty- filled wheelie bin for ETERNITY!!!!
These people are littering the planet and killing wildlife and do they care? Nope.
When I die, I will hunt them down and empty the contents of their bins (especially the smelly food waste one) over them while they sleep. I’ll be the ‘Litterer Finder General’ patrolling the planet and ridding it of littering douche-bags. Consider it extended services to humanity..
These are but a few examples of how inconsiderate society has become but it wasn’t that long ago when people were law abiding, courteous and respectful. Those who died defending our country must surely be spinning in their graves at the state that society is in. They experienced horrors the likes of which the majority of us could never comprehend and for what? To give people the freedom to be selfish arseholes, that’s what!
Louts in General
One evening last year, I watched from my front window as a teenager spat on the floor TWENTY times in the space of a minute. NOT an exaggeration. He was draped against the school railings trying to impress two younger kids with his gobbing prowess. The last one was aimed at my car so I almost put the window through alerting him to my displeasure. The lad saw that I had the phone to my ear and probably thought I was calling the police so the the little shit legged it up the street as fast as his Nike’s could carry him. As it was, I was telling OH (who was round the sports and social club) to get his arse back round home, PRONTO, to deal with a yob who’d just violated my Yaris..
Somehow we’ve managed to spawn a generation who think they are owed everything for nothing. They hang around outside Co-ops being obnoxious and disrespectful. Some don’t know how to spell respect, let alone be act it. To think that lads, not much older than them, were prepared to die for their freedom?
It sickens me.
Of course there are exceptions. There are polite people. There are respectful people but they are becoming the exception rather than the rule. However, it would be wrong to lay the blame exclusively on today’s youth as a lot of older people wouldn’t know respect if it tapped them on the shoulder and announced itself. So maybe the problem is with society in general?
Do we, as a society, actually give a shit anymore?
I’ve lost count at the amount of parents who ignorantly sail past me as I stand with the door open for them at school and guess what..their children do EXACTLY the same!
Am I invisible?
It’s what it feels like sometimes..
Manners cost nothing. Respect? It’s free!
Is saying ‘Thank you’ really too much to ask?
My upbringing won’t allow me to lower myself to today’s standards or lack of. Also, the ghost of Mum would clip me one round the ear-hole if I so much as tried it. I just wish that people would consider others and stop being so selfish and rude.
Our standards. What’s happened to em? ~ Dot Cotton – Eastenders
Creative Commons Images Via Pixabay and Wikimedia Commons
I wake up with a racing heart..
‘Fer f**ks saaaaake!’, I whine, a bit pathetically.
This time it’s different though because I don’t fear the sensation. It’s unpleasant but it will pass. I’ve been here a hundred times before.
‘Don’t you DARE look at the clock!’, I warn myself, though I imagine it’s around four. I elbow OH in the ribs because he’s snoring like a bastard, then I make myself comfortable.
I close my eyes..
I breathe in for four seconds.
I hold my breath for four seconds.
I breathe out for four seconds.
I reach into the certifiable mess that is my mind and retrieve a happy memory of a sunny day on a beach in Wales. I remove the people from the memory so there is just me. No stressed-out parents, no screaming kids and no Mr Whippy van with his highly irritating mechanical chimes..
I change the weather from hot to warm, because I can.
Editing done, I start to walk along the beach, seeing myself in first person perspective, just as in life. Though it has to be said that my feet are hideous..
There are sand dunes to the left of me, cliffs behind me and the golden Welsh sands stretch out before me. I walk for a while then turn to face the ocean..
I love the sea. It has the ability to take my life within minutes, yet can soothe my frazzled mind. The only snag is I can’t swim.
I watch as the waves roll in and out, synchronizing them to my breathing. Then I become aware of my bare feet sinking into the cool sand and a catastrophic thought creeps into my mind. I see myself being dragged under by deadly quicksand. This is because Mum, bless her, nearly ended herself on a beach in Bournemouth. Thankfully, all she lost was a flip-flop and her dignity.
The seagulls fly above me but there’s no danger of them crapping on my head. Nor are there any Carling cans and fag-ends jammed into the sand ruining my view because this is my special, no shit allowed, place.
Suddenly I feel something cold on my leg and look down to see a beautiful Lurcher with his nose pressed against my leg. He has golden fur, the kind that’s comfortingly rough. His eyes are caramel brown with more love inside them than you could ever imagine..
He starts to dance around me, nudging my leg and woofing like a mad thing.
He wants to play..
A piece of driftwood appears, as if by magic, and I hurl it into the sea with all the finesse of a shot-putter, not that he cares. Off he bounds into the waves, barking excitedly. He finds the driftwood and brings it back to me. ‘Again?’ his eyes implore me..
So I indulge him, again and again until I have to tell him to sod off because my arthritis is giving me gyp.
He hurdles the waves, like Usain Bolt, only with fur. He is uninhibited and for a moment I envy him because he isn’t scared of anything..
After a while he tires himself out and makes his way towards me. I crouch down to his level and stroke his face. He makes this noise, like he’s singing, only it’s more of a howl. It’s dog-speak for ‘I’m happy’.
Miraculously, his fur has dried out. How did that happen? Because it can, that’s why.
I put my face to his and breathe him in. He smells like sunshine. His aroma comforts me and I can feel my heart rate slowing right down. This moment lasts as long as I need it to, then he gives me one last look with those beautiful eyes before he ambles off towards the dunes..
I gaze down to see two sets of prints in the sand, one of hideous size 4 feet, the other of paws.
My four-legged friend is nowhere to be seen. No doubt he is lying in the shade somewhere chasing rabbits in his dreams..
A gentle breeze stirs up so I walk some more, watching as the clouds pass along the blue sky like big balls of cotton wool. If heaven exists, I want this to be mine.
My heart rate has returned to a steady beat and my breathing to normal. I am calm.
I stare at the ocean one last time then make my way towards the dunes where there are a set of steps. In reality, those steps lead to some public bogs that reek of piss but I edit that bit out because, well, it’s a bit shit.
As I climb the steps, I congratulate myself because Fear didn’t win this time. I showed that little shit who’s boss, i.e. me.
By the time I reach the last step, I am opening my eyes and blinking in the sunlight, or dinge, whichever is applicable. Back to life, back to reality..
The brain is a powerful thing. Thoughts can destroy and heal you in equal measure. My brain frustrates me on a daily basis with it’s catastrophic thoughts yet the memory of a much loved friend, who died over ten years ago, has the power to heal me.
The memory is real and it’s a privilege to have, just as it was a privilege to share part of my life with such a loving creature.
The first time I saw him in my guided relaxation, he simply appeared without me having thought of him. Did my subconscious bring him to me? Or did he find me?
Either way, I am grateful because each time I wake up panicking, I go to my special place and there he is, waiting for me.
Three days ago I stood outside my local cafe and hesitated before I opened the door.
‘Just sodding well go in, you loon!’ I bollocked myself.
I walked in and sat down at my usual table and within minutes the cafe owner was at my side, notepad in hand.
“Nice to see you! What can I get for you?”
‘Tea and toast please’
Five minutes later I was drinking my tea and was overcome with a sense of achievement.
I sent OH a text..
In the cafe. ON MY OWN! *smiley face*
I’ll forgive you for thinking ‘what on earth is the idiot on about now?’ but what if I was to tell you that it was the first time in over 12 months that I had been in ANY cafe on my own?
Being autistic, going into any public places requires effort due to my sensory and social issues but this post isn’t about my autism, not directly anyway.
The anxiety which has shadowed me from birth morphed into Panic Disorder in 2014, then General Anxiety Disorder and after three years of my body being constantly flooded with stress hormones, I had a nervous breakdown.
Definition: A nervous or mental breakdown is a term used to describe a period of intense mental distress. During this period, you’re unable to function in your everyday life.
At the peak of my illness, I visited my GP ten times, A&E twice and the out of hours GP service twice – this was in a period of two weeks. EACH time I was convinced I would be admitted to hospital. EACH time, I was told it was anxiety.
When it came to symptoms, I had the works with my entire body from my scalp to my toes being affected. I felt sick ALL of the time and kept spontaneously retching. On one occasion I sat in the GP’s office retching violently into a cardboard bowl. She said I had a gastric bug but I’d been retching for the past three years (just not in public) so if it was a gastric bug then I was breaking some kind of record! Another time I was walking down the street and retched so hard I actually vomited over myself.
My weight dropped into the 7 stone range and my muscles were starting to waste. I was starting to look like Skeletor, only less sexy..
My bowels woke me up at 4-5am with a ‘MOVE IT OR YOU’LL SHIT THE BED’ cramping in my lower regions. I’d also wake in the early hours shaking violently, not that it woke OH. Nothing short of the house blowing up would have roused him from his coma..
I couldn’t tolerate drugs, even painkillers. Come to think of it, even vitamins gave me gyp.
Palpitations? Don’t start me.
My mouth was sore but with no visible cause because I checked via a dental mirror NUMEROUS times. Yes, REALLY! You do things like this when you are mentally ill, see. You spend hours inspecting yourself and prodding your poo. Dignified, no?
I had test after test but all came back clear.
‘All those doctors can’t be wrong, Sweetie’, OH said.
‘They just haven’t found the cancer yet dearie.’ countered Fear.
By far, the most debilitating symptom was the feeling that I was losing my mind..
My grip on reality can be iffy at the best of times but this was in a different realm completely. I struggled to go out or be on my own. My stims became more noticeable and I had no control over them at all. My rocking went from my usual subtle movement to virtually falling off the chair-rocking and my lips were sore from frantically picking the skin off them. I couldn’t see a way out and in my worst moment I actually wanted to be sectioned.
Yep, you read that right. I wanted to be thrown in the big house where they could put me to bye-byes and be there for me 24/7. I understand now just how poorly I was and If I hadn’t have turned myself around when I did, I may not have had any choice in the matter..
I threw everything at getting better. I did relaxation and yoga. I cut out sugar, caffeine, alcohol, gluten etc but none of it helped for long because I wasn’t accepting how I felt. I was fighting Fear ALL the way..
The breakthrough came when I was told I would have to have a colonoscopy. I was SO convinced I was coffing it that I accepted my fate AND all those weird and unwonderful sensations. I told myself to enjoy what time I had left because Fear could eff right off if it thought it could rob me of that too. With support from OH and a few good friends, including one who’s had a breakdown of his own, I began to see blue sky even in the shadow of my imagined death.
I stuffed food into my mouth and didn’t dwell on how crap it made me feel. I lived alongside Fear and accepted whatever it threw at me. What had I got to lose?
I started to put weight on and my tummy started to rumble again. I FELT HUNGRY!!
I told myself constantly that ‘whatever happens to me. I am here, NOW’.
Then my bum got invaded courtesy of the NHS, and everything was fine. I wasn’t dying (HURRAH) but I had to face the fact that I was mentally ill..
My weight is now back up to 8 and a half stone and my heart isn’t pounding all the time. The anxiety will always be there but I’m not in crisis anymore. I have taken steps to help myself, the biggest and most important being ACCEPTANCE.
There were many times when depression tangoed with the anxiety and I thought I would slip further into insanity but my mind is stronger than I could ever have imagined. It’s healing itself, especially now I understand that magic word, acceptance.
So, yeah, I went to the cafe alone. It was a GINORMOUS step and I’m PROUD of me. I know that recovery is a long process and there will be setbacks along the way but that’s ALL they will be because I’ve accepted fear for what it is.
We need fear. It stops us from being reckless but fear should work for us, not the other way around. That jumped up little git needs to know it’s place, innit.
If you are reading this and are struggling with mental illness, know that you CAN get better. It’s your thoughts that have put you where you are and it’s your thoughts that will set you free.
All Images Via Creative Commons
I watched BBC One’s Richard and Jaco: Life With Autism last night.
As a parent, I am able to identify with Welsh actor Richard Mylan’s fears for his son’s future.
As an autistic person, I understand Jaco’s world.
My son will be eight this year but does not have the ability to mask his autism as I have been able to do. Like Jaco, his autism is obvious. He wandered in while I was watching it and saw Jaco wearing his headphones. He said “Look mummy, that little boy looks like me!”
Richard impressed me with his desire to understand his son’s world even though it’s impossible for people to truly understand what they don’t experience themselves. However, Jaco is a lucky little boy to have Richard as a dad and the love he has for his son is a beautiful thing to see.
You get a view of what life can be like with an autistic child like Jaco. He reminds me so much of my own little boy, as in,visibly uncomfortable with environmental stimuli but happy in his world.
In order for him to learn more about Jaco’s future, Richard went to meet various people on the spectrum. First he met Alex Lowry who is a motivational speaker and trainer on autism. An animated man, he is obviously passionate about what he does.
Although Jaco started secondary school and was happy, Richard was interested in finding out about special schools. In one such school he met two teenagers who had been tasked with the job of showing him around. One boy told of the bullying he’d endured in mainstream school culminating in a broken arm and the other told of being ‘kicked out’ of school for being ‘naughty’. Both struggled in mainstream but both spoke highly of the special place where they are understood and most importantly, happy.
Then there was Edward who is severely autistic and in residential care. He is a young man who is happy in his own world and who has a great support network. He, like every other autistic person, does not know what ‘normal’ feels like. All we know is our normal. Ed has an amazing memory and can tell you what day your birthday was on when you were born in a matter of seconds. He is a fascinating person.
Ed’s mother by her own admission has taken a leap of faith in allowing him to live independently but said, “You have to let your kids go don’t you? You have to let them grow up and be independent”.
Bottom line is yes, we do.
The person who struck me the most was the young man who Richard visited in his workplace. This man was literally living his dream of doing admin. Yes, admin! The job that so many people loathe. Yet, he was happier than a pig in muck sorting through all the letters and stuff. What’s more, he is a valued member of the team and according to his boss, contributes to the happy and relaxed atmosphere of the office. What choked me up was when he said to Richard, “If I didn’t have autism, I wouldn’t be as special.”
Richard said “So you see it as a positive thing?”
With eyes that twinkled (and bloody good eye contact thank you very much) the young man replied, “Yes. autism is a very special thing and whoever has it should be proud of it”.
I am proud of who I am and I want my son to be proud of who he is too.
The Boy and I have the same problems but we react very differently. I am an autistic person raising an autistic child and I know how important these next few years will be for him. I can’t sit back and do nothing because he will be a teenager before I know it. I have to prepare my son for a life without me and I have to do it now. I can’t guarantee that his secondary school experience will be as positive as his primary one but I will be watching closely and if he’s unhappy, I will have NO problem in placing him in a special school, especially after seeing how happy those lads were.
My passion comes not only from being his mum but also my years of suffering in mainstream. I know, without a doubt, that I would have been happy in a special school tailored to my needs. With the confusion and crowds removed, I would have thrived instead of having just about survived. However, my time has long since gone. It’s my son’s time now..
I want him to have a relationship. To be able, not only to work, but to be appreciated for his contribution to society. Ultimately, I want him to be able to live independently of us. Don’t get me wrong, I dread the day coming when he no longer needs me but that’s also the day I’m aiming for. It’s what every parent aims for. Sadly, some people are too severely affected for total independence to be an option.
More than anything else in this world, I want him to be happy and to embrace his differences, not hide them as I have done.
We, as parents, do the best we can for our children. We give them the tools they need to survive and they take what they’ve learned out into the world. With autism, the work starts earlier. It has to. Richard Mylan knows that. I know that. Most autism parents will understand that. Another thing that unites us all is the fear of not being here for our special children so we do the very best we can while we are still around.
Thanks to Richard and Jaco for a glimpse into your lives and for helping to spread awareness.
Richard and Jaco: A Life With Autism is on BBC iplayer for one more week. Well worth a watch, folks.
I came across this article while I was sat on a cafe bog in rural Cumbria.
Don’t get me wrong, I like my vintage nostalgia but women as second class doormats is best left where it is in my opinion..
It occurred to me just how much times have changed so I thought I would compare housewives sixty two years apart. For this purpose I have created Shit Wife..
Have dinner ready. Plan ahead, even the night before, to have a delicious meal ready on time for his return.
Shit Wife is impressed with Mary Berry’s baking skills but hasn’t yet managed to create the perfect bake. Or even a mediocre bake. In fact, she’s crap at baking. However, Bezzer’s books look fablus on her bookshelf.
Prepare yourself. Touch up your make up.
Shit Wife looks like Alice Cooper by tea-time and is about as fresh looking as week old roadkill. Depending on the season (and availability of leggings) she may also have cactus legs.
Put a ribbon in your hair and be fresh looking.
The last time Shit Wife wore ribbons, David Beckham was a sperm.
He has just been with a lot of work-weary people!
Shit Wife has had the day from HELL. She’s been e-mailing the council about the bins AGAIN, the lurcher’s dinner has done an encore all over the kitchen floor and one of the other Mums has been giving her the evils on the school yard.
Clear away the clutter. Make one last trip through the main part of the house before your husband arrives.
Shit Wife gets busy with the hoover about 30 minutes before Hubs gets in. She has perfected the art of looking knackered when it fact she’s been binge watching Desperate Housewives all afternoon.
Prepare the children. Take a few minutes to wash the children’s hands and faces (if they are small) comb their hair and, if necessary, change their clothes. They are little treasures and he would like to see them playing the part.
Shit Wife hasn’t the time (or inclination) for such shit.
Minimise all noise. At the time of his arrival, eliminate all noise of the washer, dryer or vacuum. Try to encourage the children to be quiet.
Shit Wife has no problem getting them to be quiet as they’ve lost the ability to speak thanks to modern technology. They now communicate via text.
Can u giv meeee sum £ pleaseeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee?
Be happy to see him
Shit Wife imagines Hubs is Sean Bean
Greet him with a warm smile and show sincerity in your desire to please him.
Shit Wife imagine Hubs is Sean Bean, NAKED.
Don’t greet him with complaints and problems
Shit Wife unloads her crap unto Hubs’ before his coat’s off.
Don’t complain if he’s late home for dinner or even stays out all night. Count this as minor compared to what he may have gone through that day.
*Author of blog starts to choke*
Shit Wife flings Hubs’ tea in the bin when he staggers in late and pissed. If she’s on her period (or menopausal) she’ll launch the plate at him as well. Lucky for him her aim is always off. So far, she’s trashed three dinner sets and half a dozen mugs. However, Hubs’ is now highly competent at plastering. If he stays out all night he will come home to find she’s changed the locks, his clothes are in bin-bags on the pavement and ‘DIE BASTARD’ has been weed-killer-ed into the front lawn. He should count this as minor compared to what she’ll do when she gets her hands on him.
Arrange his pillow
Shit Wife regularly ponders the consequences of smothering Hubs to death with his ESPECIALLY when he’s snorting like a pig and drooling all over her new Argos duvet set. She bides her time for when the menopause finally robs her of her sanity and she can get away with manslaughter on the grounds of diminished responsibility.
Offer to take off his shoes.
Shit Wife knows Hubs’ feet smell like cheesy cat vomit and under NO circumstances (including life threatening) would she EVER touch them.
Speak in a low, soothing and pleasant voice.
Shit Wife’s voice can reach well over 90 decibels when sufficiently riled, like when Hubs turns Emmerdale off to watch some crap about building sheds on Channel Bore.
Remember, he is master of the house.
Only in his dreams..
You have no right to question him.
Shit Wife will give him an interrogation Roz Huntley would be proud of. He WILL be questioned, at length, until he breaks.
A good wife always knows her place.
A good husband knows when to back away slowly.
Disclaimer. Note, Shit Wife is based loosely on me (not telling you which bits) and a few women I know with some creative license thrown in.
P.S all wives are not shit.
48 hours Before Colonoscopy
Ate like a pig.
24 hours Before Colonoscopy
7am. Woke up.
7.02 am – 9am. Had 19 cups of tea and an egg on toast.
9 am onwards. No milk in drinks. No food. Can only eat clear jellies, Bovril, clear soups and boiled sweets. *weeps*
12.30pm. FOOKING STARVING!!!
12.35 pm. Lemon jelly for dinner (which didn’t touch the sides)
12.45. Heard OH opening a packet of crisps and wanted to end his life.
12.55. Saw picture of somebody’s chips on Instagram and started to cry.
1pm. Banned myself from Instagram.
1.30. Had a Bovril.
3.30. Felt faint with hunger.
4.30. Had bowl of clear soup and another Bovril.
5pm LAXATIVE OF DOOM TIME!!
Smells like cleaning fluid but doesn’t actually taste that bad..
5.22. One glass down, seven to go..
5.55. Two glasses down, six to go..
6.14. Three glasses down, five to go..
6.45 Four glasses down, four to go,
6.46 Had some stirrings in the bowel region..
6.50 THE WORLD FELL OUT OF MY ARSE!!!
7pm – 8pm FIFTEEN trips to the loo.
ROUND TWO OF LAXATIVE OF DOOM
8.23 Five glasses down, three to go..
8.55 Six glasses down, two to go..
9.23 Seven glasses down, one to go
29 trips to the loo in total!
I made myself a promise that I would write an honest, but humourous, account of my colonoscopy so here goes..
I arrived at the hospital at 8.45 am armed with my Kindle ready for a long wait but it didn’t happen because I was called in fairly quickly, so I was winning already.
First job was to put one of THOSE flattering gowns..
I’m used to the flasher gowns having had enough Gynae procedures done in my time. This time, though, I also got a pair of ‘dignity pants’ which have a kinky slit at the back. Now I always struggle with this part so I had the nurse repeat the instructions THREE times so I didn’t make an arse of myself, literally..
Next was the ‘to sedate or not to sedate’ question due to my recent adverse reactions to local anesthesia. A cannula was put in anyway so I could change my mind if needs be, though the consultant did do his best to reassure me that there is no connection between sedative and anesthetic and he’d rarely seen a reaction to one.
As it was my anxiety kicked in BIG TIME, so they took one look at my shaking lunatic self and persuaded me that sedation was the way to go.
So away with the fairies I went.
I’d already made my mind up that I wasn’t going to watch my own insides on the screen, so while the consultant was up to his tricks with his rubber glove I shut my eyes and slurred away to anybody who was listening.
I felt some discomfort when the camera was going round the bends of my colon, but they just whacked more sedative in me and ten minutes later the consultant peered over at me and said, ‘That’s it, we’re all finished and you’re fine!’.
I spent 45 minutes in recovery farting myself DELIRIOUS, while I had some tea and toast, which I was so grateful of as my mouth felt dry as a camels arse after not being able to drink for almost 12 hours..
Then it was back on with the clothes and I was on my way home.
I’ve dreaded this thing for months and had stupidly terrified myself by reading horror stories on the internet, but the thing is that thousands of Colonoscopies are performed every year without a problem, it’s just that people don’t tend to write about positive experiences.
The prep wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be and I downed the lot no problem. The sprinting back and forth to the bog was more inconvenient than anything else and the procedure itself was uncomfortable for a few seconds, but that was it. I’ve had trickier shits that have hurt me more than the colonoscopy did and I’m not scared to have another one done that’s for sure.
The best thing is that I got the ALL CLEAR and that’s a HUGE weight off my mind. There are no nasties lurking in my bowels, aside my Farmer Giles and they are more annoying than nasty.
I urge you NOT to be embarrassed to go to your GP if you have bum problems. If anything is out of the ordinary, just go. Bowel changes, blood, weight loss etc. go tell your GP, because people are literally dying of embarrassment.
Me? Over the past few months I have had more fingers up my bum, (including my own), than Sooty and I’ve even strolled into my GP’s carrying a tube of MY OWN POO! While I was waiting for the sedative to wear off in the recovery room, I let rip some of my best farts EVER and I’m just gutted OH wasn’t there to hear them, he’d have been SO proud!
Go get seen.
A list of blogs by Autistic adults
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Book news, views and amusing musings
Hiding in the autistic closet, deciding whether to come out.
the erratic journals of a happily incorrigible lady-child
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The ramblings of an ordinary Cornish maid.
ONE BEAT AT A TIME
Awareness, Education, Research & Quips
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Living well on the autism spectrum - just out of public view
What did I do next?
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working, mothering, thinking, living
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It takes sunshine and showers to make a rainbow. Our life over the spectrum. #AutismExplained
UK daddy blogger chronicling life as a stay-at-home dad
#ActuallyAutistic - An Aspie obsessed with writing. This site is intend to inspire through sharing stories & experiences. The opinions of the writers are their own. I am just an Autistic woman - NOT a medical professional.
Mum with more questions than answers. Imaginary fitness guru. Healthy eating experimenter, sometimes.
From half empty to brimming over