Knitting to Relieve Anxiety

When I was little, I asked my mum for a knitting set. I can’t remember why I deviated away from my usual Enid Blyton books. I just remember that I did. I also remember not knowing what to do with it once I had it. Nor was there anybody at home who could teach me. Needles (intentional typo) to say – the set was relegated to the back of my wardrobe and eventually to the local jumble sale..

Fast forward a couple of years to primary school *twitch* to where knitting was compulsory. Sadly, any interest I had in learning the craft was over-shadowed by my debilitating anxiety..

Our first task was to knit a hat or mittens. We got to choose which so I chose the mittens. The other children were able to get on with their knitting but my brain wouldn’t retain the information on the paper in front of me and I was too embarrassed to admit that I didn’t always understand the instructions and I was too anxious to ask for help.

I understand now that it’s virtually impossible to learn a new skill when overwhelmed with anxiety. But in those days nobody knew that I was autistic. Not even me.

Eventually the weeks passed and we moved onto needlework. More needles! Oh. Joy.

This time I ended up being made to stand on my chair as one of the more sadistic teachers ripped my work to shreads (literally) in front of the entire class. Not for the first time in my life, I was humiliated. And it wouldn’t be the last time either. It was, however, the last time that I would be obliged to knit or sew as those crafts would become optional in high school.

On the negative side, metal and wood work were compulsory and I was shit at those too. 😦

Ten years later, my mother-in-law encouraged me to try knitting again and soon we spent many a happy hour knitting and nattering. It’s thanks to her that I was able to fall in love with the craft and overwrite those horrible memories of school.

40 years on from scholae horribilis, I can whip up a scarf or even a jumper as long as it involves the words ‘easy knit’ on the pattern. However, the problem with easy knitting is that it can be done on auto-pilot which means that there is plenty of room for Captain Crazy and the Psycho Platoon to march into my mind.

Knit. Knit. Knit. What’s that pain in my chest? Knit. Knit. Knit. What if I have a heart attack? Knit. Knit. Knit. What if the door is locked and the paramedics can’t get in? Checks tension. What if I can’t reach my phone? Knit. Knit. Knit. Is that asprin is in date..

You get me?

I figured I needed to challenge my brain, but patterns freak me out as numbers and sequencing = vacant face, though the common term is Dyscalulia.

The good news is that I was blessed with a stubborn-arse streak as well as my autistic brain. So last week  I found myself sauntering (I don’t saunter, but I like the word) over to the cash desk in the local craft shop clutching two balls of wool and a pattern for a fairilse hat. Yes, fairilse. When I go for it, I really go for it!

Long story short: it took me TWO DAYS (and much effings) to complete ONE INCH of effing fairisle, and that includes unpicking the effing thing SIX EFFING TIMES!!

The only way I could do the pattern was to write it down on note paper in a way that my frazzled brain can cope with. For instance, the pattern is twelves stitches (repeated) so I broke it down into three lots of four and ticked them off as I went along. I also have a stitch counter which is veeeeery stimmy. *drools*

Doing the pattern was time consuming but I was TOTALLY engrossed in what I was doing – therefore – no room for anxious thoughts. It means that the cycle of crazy thoughts was broken and that can only be a good thing. 🙂

For me, knitting is a very sensory experience and when done in a relaxed manner, it can be very beneficial to our health as well as our wardrobe. And it’s stimmy. While I’m click-clacking with my needles, I am not picking the skin off my lips. Or scabs off my skin. I know. I’m grotty innit?

I also like the different colours of the yarns because I am a colour freak. Me and colour is like tin foil to a cat! I recently had to prompt myself to move from in front of the Sirdar multi-coloured range as I was starting to drool. That, and the owner of the shop was giving me a funny look..

I especially love those yarns that change colour. It’s almost magical I tell you! But most of all is the sense of achivement in having created something that is not shite. It makes up for never having finished those frickin’ mittens at school. *TWITCH* Or everything else that I was unable to do or complete because of my anxiety.

Cor!

Knitting won’t cure me of my anxiety because I can’t change the rest of the world to suit me – as amazing as that would be. Anxiety is hardwired into me, along with autism. But I can see how it could cure anxiety in the non-autistic brain so maybe it’s worth digging out those long forgotten needles that have been gathering dust in the back of your wardrobe?

As for the little knitting set that ended up at the jumble sale? Well, I hope it found it’s way into the home (and hands) of a child who created something beautiful with it and that it was the start of a lifetime of creating beautiful things while watching Coronation street or Eastenders. Warms yer heart doesn’t it?

Or it ended up in landfill which is just as likely, but not as heartwarming. 😀

“Properly practiced, knitting soothes the troubled spirit, and it doesn’t hurt the untroubled spirit either.”
Elizabeth Zimmerman

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Only in Dreams..

Spandau Ballet are performing in my living room, but the concert is cut short when Tony Hadley suddenly flounces off in the middle of Only When You Leave. (Apt, no?) The Kemps are shaking their heads in disbelief and the audience are on the verge of turning hostile when in strolls Nick Rhodes from Duran Duran..

Nick takes Tony’s place as lead singer, which is Strange Behaviour (see what I did there?) because his place has always been behind his impressive organ keyboard. Whatever. I’m up for it because Nick is my life-long crush – a man whose wheelie bins I would lovingly trawl for traces of his DNA. (not really, M’Lud.)

So, what’s a stalker girl to do? I have to make my existence known to Nick or I might as well DIE!

Gets weird (er)

I find myself on an old-style double-decker bus trying to out-run a typhoon. (Typhoons in Manchester?) It’s during the confusion that I corner Nicholas and confess my love for him – especially during the years 1980-1987..

At this moment he pulls me towards him and kisses me!!

I don’t want this moment to end. Ever!

No doubt I was attempting to snog my pillow thinking it was Nick’s gorgeous face, but this was one dream that I did NOT want to wake up from – typhoon or no typhoon!

When it comes to dreams, most of mine are weird and not in a pleasant way, but then I’ve always been a bit prone to weird dreams..

I dream a lot, which is interesting as studies have shown that a lot of autistic people have poor dream recall. Other studies, however, have shown that people with Aspergers dream vividly and recall their dreams very well.

I’ve had anxiety problems all my life and severe sleep issues for the last seven years so I wonder if anxiety plays a part? Or the menopause? If I remember rightly.. my dreams always turned a bit funky when I was on my period – aka – minus the calming influence of oestrogen.

I would imagine that many autists have anxiety, so high levels of stress hormones in the body at night will no doubt affect the quality of sleep and influence dreams. I also know that If I have a nightmare in the early hours, I will have subsequent nightmares because the stress hormones have flooded my body – therefore there is zero chance of me achieving dreamless sleep.

I’ve also had premonition and visitation dreams.

No, I’m not a nutter. Well, maybe just a little nutterish?

See, there is a marked difference between your ‘bog standard’ dream and a visitation one because normal dreams are fragmented and make no sense – especially if you’ve been at the cheese. For instance, you might dream about your house, but the kitchen is a swimming pool and your back garden is a supermarket and a grizzly bear is chasing you with a wonky trolley that transforms into a sports car. How many grizzly bears have you EVER seen driving a car? These kinds of dreams are your brain trying to make sense out of the information it’s taken in during the day – often without you realising it. Visitation dreams, on the other hand, are rational except the people in it (aside yourself) are often dead. Or about to be, as many people dream of loved ones at the same time that they die. They often appear younger and/or in ‘good health’. You wake from such a dream convinced that you’ve experienced something far too real to be a dream. What’s more, you never forget it.

There are theories about visitation dreams, but I won’t bother with the ‘psychotic episodes’ one that pseudosceptics insist on peddling because the thought of an afterlife gives em the willies!

One theory is that it’s to do with the grieving process and that may well be true, except that many of these dreams foretell the future. In one of mine, I saw my dad sitting in the same crematorium where his funeral service had been held, with his arm protectively around his brother. I distinctly heard Dad tell my uncle that he would “take care of him”. The dream felt very real. I didn’t understand it at the time, but it made sense a few weeks later when we got the news that my uncle had died – just six weeks after my dad’s death!

I remember that dream very clearly – as is the case with visitation dreams.

Case in point: My Nick Rhodes dream has been sitting in my drafts folder for months. I’d written the details down within half an hour of waking up because I knew I’d forget them otherwise. As a rule, I don’t make a habit of writing about my dreams, but this one was about Nick Rhodes – the love of my teenage life. The man I used to daydream about pulling up at the school gates in a big limo and carrying me out of double-maths like Richard Gere in Officer and a Gentleman. The fact that I was a zit-ridden fourteen year old didn’t come into it, but let’s not get bogged down with the legal implications as it was only ever going to be a one-sided relationship between Nick and my adolescent mind, y’know?

The point is that this dream was special and a most welcome change from my usual Tarantino-esque offerings from my insane brain.

I had completely forgotten about the dream until I came across it one morning while I was looking through my unpublished posts. I read through it and honestly don’t recall any of it. I just know that it must have happened for me to write about it. In contrast, I remember visitation dreams in vivid detail, even though they happened years ago. I’m ruling out wishful thinking because if that was the case, surely I would remember every detail of my Nick Rhodes dream – especially the kiss part? Alas, I don’t remember it at all. 😦

Do you remember your dreams? Or do you wake up blissfully unaware of where your sub-conscious mind has been?

“I think we dream so we don’t have to be apart for so long. If we’re in each other’s dreams, we can be together all the time.” ― A.A. Milne ~ Winnie The Poo

 

 

 

 

Disconnect to Reconnect

I have a problem. This digital age is making me ill and I need to cull my use of it for the sake of my health.

Don’t get me wrong, the internet and social media etc has its positives. It’s in social media (and blogging) that I have found my ‘tribe’ – fellow autists who understand me completely. And I’ve found some lovely online friends who I’d definitely make the effort to meet in real life. There is comfort in knowing that there are other people like me – regarding autism, anxiety and fibromyalgia. So, there are positives to the digital era. But there is also a dark side – a side which ramps up anxiety and deepens depression.

The internet is a place where fear and hate lives.

Cyber attacks.

Trolls.

The threat of ‘deletion’.

Addiction.

Fake News

Unwanted news and graphic pictures.

Katie Hopkins.

When it comes to social media, it seems to me that Twitter’s sweet little blue-bird icon should give way to a massive vulture with bits of flesh dangling from its beak because, DAMN! PEOPLE CAN BE SO NASTY!

Tweet this, Motherfungler!

With Twitter, people can be nasty and remain annoymous, whereas, back in the day, ‘trolling’ involved sitting at the kitchen table with a newspaper, a pair of scissors and some glue. There was a certain amount of effort involved, you get me? These days, people only have to switch on the PC (or other electronic device) to get their nasty on and, alarmingly, one of the worst social media offenders runs the United States!

But it’s not just social media that’s the problem. I’m starting to think that this digital era in general is making me ill – the screens and the amount of information in one hit. Not to mention, the addiction.

Take me back to the time of radio, books and record players the size of a small car.

Of simplicity.

I’m not against mobile phones per se. As a female driver, I feel safer with a phone to hand (not while I’m driving, obvs) The problem is that it’s no longer just a phone. It’s an intrusion.

Often, I don’t I don’t need to check my phone. It’s just habit. I mean, just how important is it that I have to see somebody’s fry-up? Or e-mails flogging me worming tablets with 10% off?

*Note to self: Order worming tabs*

Of the twenty or so e-mails I received this morning, two of them are from me!

I can’t do it anymore! I know the digital age is escalating my anxiety, so it’s in my best interests to disconnect as much as possible. Therefore, my plan is to have a month where I don’t use social media at all and to only read paper books. I may still blog because blogging is my voice. Also, I blog in the morning to scare up a bowel movement, innit. The adrenalin helps to get things moving, y’know? But that will be it. It will be an experiment to see if my anxiety levels improve.

I will remove any relevant apps on my phone because if they’re not there, I can’t be tempted, right?

I want my phone to help me, not control me and at the moment that slimline b@stard has me right under its thumb (ID)

To reconnect, I have to disconnect.

The thing is, I’m old enough to remember a time before the digital era, so I know how satisfying that feels. I feel sad that today’s generation won’t ever know that. What they will know is the anxiety and depression that comes with living their lives online, constantly comparing themselves to photo-manipulated versions of people who appear to live the perfect life.

It’s not real.

More importantly, there is the danger of developing problems with our spine. According to the British Chiropractic Association, our obsession with smartphones has led to a rise in the number of youngsters with back problems. This is due to the amount of time they spend leaning over their phones!

45 per cent of 16 to 24-year-olds suffer from back pain – a 60 per cent rise from last year.

You Get Me?

Kindles.

Kindles are great. Especially those 99p bargains! But where is the joy in an electronic purchase? Standing in a book shop, inhaling paper and ink? It’s magical! It’s like catnip to a cat! You don’t get that with a Kindle!

Part of what made growing up bearable to me was the fact that I got to buy a book every week and part of that joy was the visit to the bookstore. Granted, there is the occasional whiff of ‘eau de fart’, but book shops are exciting places and it doesn’t surprise me that people feel stirrings within their bowel regions whilst being surrounded by all that wonderful literature. Personally, I’m too posh to fart in public, but I’m no stranger to having to put a book down, mid-browse, in order to sprint to the nearest loo!

I am part of the digital age whether I like it or not, but I know I’m not the only person on the planet who craves simplicity. As with any addiction – will power is required and I’m sick (pardon the pun) of feeling ill and absorbing people’s hatred on social media, so, disconnection will commence on November the 1st.

I am, in effect, closing down all those ‘open tabs’ that are draining me of my energy, creativity and faith in humanity. Not to mention, positivity and you do need a little P to battle mental and physical illness, no?

We already have months of the year where people are encouraged to stop drinking and smoking. Doesn’t it speak volumes that the same thing is starting to happen with social media?

Almost everything will work again if you unplug it for a few minutes, including you. ~ Anne Lamott

 

 

 

 

 

 

Diagnosis/Self Awareness – How Does That Affect Masking?#TakeTheMaskOff

 

Until the age of five, I didn’t mask. There was no need to. I was free to exist in my little world without fear of ridicule. I was happy with who I was. Then one day my mother took me to a strange place. This place was loud and scary and had lots of other children in it. It was a sensory nightmare.

My mother stayed with me for a while, then she got up to leave. I remember trying to leave with her, but she told me that I had to stay there. So I did what many children do on their first day of school – I cried.

The teacher sat me on her knee, but it didn’t comfort me because I didn’t like the closeness of her. She was a stranger invading my personal space, but I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t do anything to change the situation. A bell rang (loudly) and we were told to go outside where it was hot and the noise was deafening. It hurt my ears. I mean really. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do, so I just stood in the middle of the playground trying (and failing) to process the sensory stimulus that was threatening to overwhelm me.

That was the first time I remember experiencing loss of control.

At that moment, a girl walked up to me. I thought she was going to talk to me. Maybe offer me some friendliness? But she didn’t say a word. Instead, she looked at me as if I was something particularly nasty. Like shit? Then she pinched me hard on the arm.

Whatever I was expecting it wasn’t that.

To the onlooker, it must have looked like I didn’t react at all, but inside of me all hell was breaking loose.

I stared at my shoes while my brain went into overdrive.

I remember wanting to run off home to be with the family who loved me unconditionally and the invisible friends who understood me.

I also remember that nobody came to help me.

Nobody.

How could nobody have seen this?

And why had my mother left me in this horrible place?

At the end of that first day of school, I went to collect my coat, but there was something else on my peg – a mask. I placed it over my face and I wasn’t me anymore.

I wore it for the next forty-one years.

In my forties I became ill. The mask had been slowly suffocating me and now I was struggling to breathe – to live.

During this time I saw a doctor who saw beyond my anxiety. He sent me to see a psychiatrist who sent me for an autism assessment.

Nine months later, I was formally diagnosed as autistic.

First there was relief. Then came the grief – not for being autistic, but for all the time I’d lost trying to be something I’m not and can never be. I grieved for the fearful child that I’d been, the troubled teenager I became and the adult who masked so much that she lost her own identity!

In the beginning, masking is helpful because it provides a way to fit in with everybody else, but over time the mask gets heavier because you lose energy and strength. The mask starts to suffocate you. But you’ve worn it for so long you don’t know how to take it off. Then, life has a way of forcing change upon you and it often comes in the form of mental illness.

Mental illness shrinks you. Literally, in my case. My clothes became loose. My skin lost it’s elasticity. My mask came loose. In the end, it came away with no effort at all, but it was because I was ill. I thought I would feel vulnerable without it, but mental illness takes you to the darkest place you could imagine. A place you NEVER want to be again. I would rather take on the world in it’s full judgemental glory than go back there!

I masked because the world didn’t want the real me and I needed to try and be like everyone else to survive. Being me wasn’t an option – certainly not when I was school in the 70s and early 80’s. It also meant that I flew under the autism radar.

Masking delays diagnosis. Boys are diagnosed a lot earlier because they are generally crap at masking. The example I can give is of my son and myself. My son doesn’t mask and he was diagnosed at 4 years old. I have masked for the majority of my life and I was diagnosed at 46 years old.

Since my breakdown and subsequent diagnosis, I no longer care what people think of me. I get to be me, now.

Epilogue

I walk out into the middle of the infant school playground towards the smaller version of me.

She looks lost, awkward and out-of-place.

She’s hurting, but nobody knows it.

I gently take her hand and whisper, ‘Don’t worry. I’ve got you now’.

We walk past the girl who is responsible for the bright red mark on my younger self’s arm.

We could use the law of retaliation and give the little bitch an eye for an eye, but this is about healing, not revenge.

So we place the girl’s image into an imaginary balloon and let it float up into the sky.

Then we walk off into the cloakroom where a solitary coat is hanging on its peg.

I remove the coat and replace it with a well-worn mask.

We don’t need it anymore.

We’re free.

#TakeTheMaskOff: What is Burnout? How is it Connected to Masking?

We all mask.

Masking is not just an autistic thing. It’s a human thing.

We hide the parts of us that we don’t like or don’t want people to see for fear of rejection or ridicule.

When I mask I play a role and that means not being myself.

Onlookers can’t see beyond our mask. They see something that isn’t real.

Take Robin Williams: Twinkling eyes and a great smile. He was a hilariously funny man. And he killed himself.

The man was in hell, but nobody saw it.

We saw what Robin wanted us to see – his mask.

Masking is taking yourself, your fears and your demons and suppressing them so that you can present the world with a version of you that it will accept. You do it to fit in. You do it to survive. This takes a great deal of mental energy and it comes as no surprise to me that most autistic people develop mental illnesses. With me, it’s primarily anxiety.

Anxiety has shadowed me all my life. I’ve mostly functioned with it, but there have been episodes of depression and anxiety which have been severe enough to require medication and time off work. Somehow, I made it to 41. Then my mother died unexpectedly. The problem was that I’d been trying to run my entire house on a car battery (theoretically speaking) for so long that there was quite simply no energy to deal with such a shock and when it comes to trauma – losing a parent (especially a mother) is at number 5 on the Holmes and Rahe stress scale scoring 65/100% – 100% being the death of a spouse.

That was the start of my ill-health and five years later I burned out completely.

Mental breakdown. Nervous breakdown. Burnout.

Call it what you want, it all amounts to the same thing. Not limit reached, but limit breached.

It’s the tidal wave. Or it’s a hurricane.

It’s catastrophic.

I’m convinced that a life of masking led me to burnout at the age of 46 and during that time I didn’t have the energy to function, let alone mask.

How best to describe my mental breakdown?

  • My own personal hell.
  • I lived by the minute, not the day and every one of those agonising minutes felt like an hour.
  • I couldn’t hold onto my thoughts.
  • I couldn’t complete the simplest of tasks.
  • I couldn’t sleep.
  • I was in constant pain.
  • I was having numerous panic attacks a day.
  • I couldn’t eat.
  • I lost weight and muscle mass.
  • I couldn’t watch TV, read a book or listen to music.
  • I was constantly retching and feeling sick.
  • I wanted to be put into a mental institution – just so they could make all of it stop.
  • I thought I was dying, going crazy or both.

In-between bouts of anxiety, there were lulls where depression would take over and I’d cry. The kind of crying where the tears just happen without any effort at all. I actually prayed for the anxiety to come back. I could fight the anxiety, you see, but depression doesn’t fight fair. It consumes you. It numbs you. It steals every ounce of joy you ever had until you feel that nothing is worth living for, even when there is.

With every second of every day – I lost another piece of myself.

There was no dignity in my fight. It was ugly and it was messy and I thought I would never find my way back.

Make no mistake – mental illness is a battle.

You have to remember that the chemicals in the brain are imbalanced. It’s an illness.

Nobody chooses to be mentally ill.

Masking brought me to the brink of my sanity. That’s how it affected my mental health.

Since that time, there is a fragility about me that wasn’t there before. I developed a chronic condition (Fibromyalgia) which affects my entire body. Now, as well as being in mental pain, I am always in physical pain. This is what masking can do!

I wouldn’t be in this state if I’d been able to be myself – if society had accepted me as I am. But it didn’t accept me. It bullied and ostracised me and exploited my vulnerability which forced me to constantly wear the mask that’s damaged me beyond repair.

It’s a lesson I’ve learned – albeit too late to save my health.

“The most important kind of freedom is to be what you really are. You trade in your reality for a role. You trade in your sense for an act. You give up your ability to feel, and in exchange, put on a mask. There can’t be any large-scale revolution until there’s a personal revolution, on an individual level. It’s got to happen inside first.” ~ Jim Morrison

Be part of the revolution.

#TakeOffTheMask

 

 

 

#TakeOffTheMask: How Does Masking Affect Mental Health?

According to the Australian Actors’ Wellbeing Study taken in 2015, performers are twice as likely than the general public to experience depression. Many report performance anxiety and high levels of stress due to work-related pressures.

What’s this got to do with masking?

Autistic people who mask are performers.

We play a role so that society will accept us and we can fit in.

The actor: Will I be convincing as Othello?

The autist: Will I convince people I’m the same as they are?

Either way, it’s a performance.

The problem with performing is that we’re not being ourselves. Whether it’s strutting about on stage playing Hamlet or standing on the school yard with the other parents – performing takes a great deal of mental effort.

Tonight Matthew, I’m going to be…

Some of us mask so much that we lose ourselves. The boundaries between what’s real and what isn’t become blurred. Then one day we look at ourselves in the mirror and are shocked to find that we no longer recognise what’s being reflected back at us. The person that we used to know is buried under the mound of characters that we’ve created over our lifetime.

When I mask, I rely on what I’ve learned.

I have to recall lines or appropriate responses.

I have to judge when to speak and when to stay silent and for how long.

I have to remind myself to look at the person from time to time.

I have to try to work out facial expressions, which is hard when you’re crap at non-verbal communication.

I have prompt myself constantly.

I have to try and deal with the emotional fallout when I get it wrong.

I have to do all of this while trying to cope with my sensory issues, like background noise or smells or lights.

It’s mentally exhausting.

Imagine having to do this EVERY time you socialize, even with a neighbour or someone in the street – every single day.

Imagine having to perform every time you walk out of your front door? Or, even in your own home?

They say that the world is a stage and from the perspective of a lot of autists – it’s true – except that YOU are the actor, the director, the producer, make-up artist, wardrobe stylist and, well, you get my drift?

I have always been scared of the world and most of the people in it – so I’ve worn a mask and tried to fit in. To protect myself. To survive. Except that a lifetime of pretending has left me mentally (and physically) exhausted. All these years I have performed in order to fit in, but the truth is that I no longer want to.

I no longer want the anxiety that goes with trying to fit in.

I no longer want to feel the fear of rejection.

All these years I’ve pretended to be someone I’m not and in doing that I have failed to honour the unique (and worthy) person that I am – that all autists are.

Reggie removed his mask to discover that he’d been awesome all along!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

IBS: The Big Squeeze

If you are unlucky enough to have IBS, (irritable bowel syndrome), you have my sympathy. It’s shit. Literally

What’s IBS?

IBS is a condition that affects the digestive system causing stomach cramps, diaria diahorea diarr the shits, bloating and constipation.

It’s common.

It comes and goes.

It’s usually life-long.

There’s no cure for IBS but it can be managed with medication, relaxation therapies, changes to diet and carrying spare bog roll.

With IBS some people poo for Britain. Others can’t poo. Some unfortunate sods alternate between the two.

Me? I have constipation dominant IBS, but it hasn’t always been the case. Do you want to know more? Or have you hit the X tab yet?

My IBS started when I was under a considerable amount of stress. My, (then), husband was having a nervous breakdown and his timing was especially crap because I was about to give birth to our second child. My digestive system took a direct hit and subsequently threw in the towel. I was 21.

At the start of my IBS I wasn’t constipated. On the contrary. The slightest hint of adrenalin and I was releasing the ‘sewer snake’. Bizarrely I needed a poo every time I went up into the loft, I have no idea why, it’s not as if our loft was an exciting place, it was cramped and full of stuff we couldn’t be arsed to take to the tip. Even so, within minutes of climbing up there my colon would start doing the can-can and I’d be taking the loft-ladders two steps at a time trying to get down to the bathroom.

By then, the time-scale between ‘stirrings’ and potentially soiling myself had reduced alarmingly. You get my drift?

Twenty, (plus), years on things have changed. I’m invariably constipated. Bummer, right? Alongside this is right-sided pain and bloating. These days I only have to side-glance a pea and I look 6 months pregnant!

Oh, and I fart a lot.

Ladies do not fart!

One, I’m no lady.

Two, everybody farts.

Even kittens!

So first, let’s define constipation.

  • infrequent poos
  • difficulty or straining when you poo
  • feeling of being unable to completely empty during a bowel movement, or the sensation of wanting to go but not being able to.
  • you fart for Britain.

I don’t know about anybody else, but my pain goes away a bit when I finally do manage to ‘download some brownware’.

Living With Constipation and IBS

Diet

I find it helpful to keep a food diary to see which foods give me gyp. Dairy and wheat are the usual suspects, but a lot of other foods can aggravate IBS symptoms.

Eating your food as close as it is to its natural state will benefit you and your bottom. As a general rule, if something has an ingredient list a mile long – it’s best to avoid. Also, overdoing the fruit and veg could make things worse. Remember me and peas?

Big one this: Never skip meals!

Also, stop eating when you are full.

Look, if you can’t breathe, there’s no room for pudding. You’ve had to undo your stretch-fit jeans as it is!

Laxatives

Sometimes it’s necessary to take laxatives. Occasionally I have to give myself a rid-out with prescription laxatives. This is only when the other methods have failed. Or I’ve been on the codeine. Eight sachets of this stuff and my colon surrenders itself completely. It’s what the GP calls a ‘bowel reset.’ This is a last resort and it’s under the supervision of my GP.

*It’s NOT a good idea to rely on laxatives indefinitely!*

Water

Dehydration causes constipation, so fill up on the H20!

Exercise

Moving about helps to keep everything flowing within the digestive system. There is a reason that most bed-bound people become constipated. Walk. Swim. Breakdance. Whatever. Just move.

Relaxation

If you have IBS, chances are you are stressed-to-shit, (if only ha ha), so it makes sense to address your stress-levels and do as much relaxation as possible.

Straining

Just typing this sub-title brings tears to my eyes!

One must always try and resist the urge to strain out a bowel movement!

We’ve all been there. Stranded on the lav with Mr Turtle’s head and his front legs hanging out of our lower orifice. It’s like the colon REALLY wants to go for it, then half way through says, ‘ You know what? Sod it. I’m bored now. Laters, yeah?’

What to do? We can’t sit there indefinitely with poo hanging out of our arses, can we?

Do we reach round and help Mr Turtle out? *boaks* Or do we take a deep breath in – grab onto the sides of the toilet seat – and bloomin well go for it?

Then there’s the pain..

Once I had to peer into the pan to make sure I wasn’t passing glass shards because that’s what it f**king well felt like!

It felt like labour. I was having to do the hoo-hoo-hoo breathing and everything.

I was cold and sweaty.

This was hardcore defecating and it comes to no surprise to me to learn that a lot of people die on the toilet. Granted most of those are elderly or have heart conditions. It’s a spike in blood pressure that finishes them off, apparently.

In the end, I birthed what felt like an 30lb baby through my bum-hole. In reality, it was a turd the size of a raisin. I was both awed and horrified at how something SO small could cause me SO much pain. It was a lot like giving birth, actually – only minus the drugs.

A straining session for me ensures a visit from Emma Roids (piles) where it hurts to sit down. Standing up’s isn’t much better. Plus, they itch like buggery!

Let me tell you now. There is NO dignity, whatsoever, in having to ram a three-inch suppository into one’s quivering bum-hole. Or anybody elses. Or in buying tubes of Anusol in the local supermarket. It’s hardly discreet is it? The clue’s in the name. ANUSol.

At this point, you’re either horrified (bordering on projectile vomiting) or nodding with profuse empathy. If it’s the latter, I pity you.

My last remaining tips are as follows..

Toilet Roll

Don’t buy cheap 2 ply. Your botty deserves better, no? Plus, yer fingers go through the cheap crap – which can be icky. Pay extra and pamper the poop-shute!

NOTE: Definitely, no IZAL. Using Izal is akin to wiping one’s arse with a crisp packet!

Blood in Poo

If you have piles through straining you may or may not experience blood when you wipe. Or you might see it in the pan. If this happens to you and it’s your first time, postpone the heart-failure. It’s most likely due to piles. Get it checked out, just to make sure.

Purge, When You Get The Urge

For this, I penned a lil poem.

Every time you need a poo.

Go t’ bathroom and sit on t’loo.

Look at your phone or read a book.*

Don’t delay cus it’ll hurt like fuck hell.

Changes In What’s Normal For You

If your symptoms change see your GP. 99.9% of the time it’s nothing to worry about, but it’s always better to be safe than sorry.

Finally, talking about what’s going on with your bowels is only as embarrassing as you want to make it. It’s a normal (and essential) bodily function. Embarrassment costs lives. Opening up (shameless pun) can mean the difference between life and death. Nuff said?

  • Don’t sit on the loo for hours reading books or messing with youir phone. You’ll make yer piles worse!

Dear Anxiety..

Dear Anxiety,

Thanks for keeping me alive for 47 and 3/4 years. You’ve prevented me from doing idiotic things that could bring about my premature demise: such as overtaking on blind bends or not looking before I cross the road.

Haven’t always been so helpful though, have you?

Remember when I was a child and I worried about monsters coming to kill me in my sleep? My little heart would race and I’d feel sick. Sometimes I would be sick. Obviously, this thrilled my parents no end as cleaning vomit-spattered carpet is just what you want after a bottle (or two) of Blue Nun and a homemade curry on a Saturday night. But, fair dos, you’ve saved me from harm on numerous occasions..

Like when my dad failed to pick up from primary school and I decided to walk home myself. Only, I wasn’t allowed to walk home alone because there were two major roads to cross. One by the school and one outside my house. The latter being exceptionally busy. Lorries ploughed into garden walls (ours for one) and animals frequently got run over. That kind of busy. Unfortunately, one of the teachers saw fit to usher me out of the safety of the playground so I had no choice but to start walking towards home. I managed to cross the first road because there was a zebra crossing which I’d crossed a thousand times and I knew that cars would stop for me. Then I got to the busy road and I stood on the pavement for what seemed like hours, worrying over what to do. I could see into our living room window and hoped that my mum would happen to see me, but no such luck.

‘Go on! Just run across!

What if I get hit?

‘You’ve never crossed this road on your own before. There is no safe crossing here, you must ask for help’.

I went into the local shop and blurted out that I needed help crossing the road to the woman behind the counter, who was slicing some ham at the time. It stunk, but panic overrode my sensory issues. Without you, I would have chanced it and the consequences of that would have been deadly on two counts. One, I could have been flattened under a bus. Or lorry. Two, my mother would have killed my my dad, then buried him under the front lawn for not picking me up. Harsh, but she was well into her peri-menopausal stage by then and was prone to occasional flashes of insanity. I guess you could say you saved two lives that day?

The teacher got one hell of a rollocking from my irate mother who demanded to know what the ‘sodding hell’ he was doing letting an 8 year old child walk home alone when I told him I wasn’t allowed to. At least, I think I did? I definitely thought the words, but whether they translated from brain to mouth, is up for debate.

You did your job. You kept me safe. For that, you have my gratitude and respect. However, somewhere along the line you’ve overstepped the mark. You’ve completely taken over and I’m asking, no, I’m TELLING you to stop. You are with me 24/7, whether I’m in danger or not. It’s been this way for over six years now and with the greatest of respect, you really need to fark off now.

There is no danger in watching Mary Berry bake a cake, so why act as if there is? What’s she going to do? Come at me from inside the TV screen with a rolling pin and beat me to death? Or when a car door is shut three streets down, is it really necessary to respond with a full-on panic attack?

Why are your turning minor health issues, like headaches, into life-threatening diseases?

Your job is to keep me safe, but now I am scared of you. I am scared of how you make me feel, because you make me feel like I am going to die – especially in my dreams – which make The Texas Chainsaw Massacre look like The Muppets Take Manhattan.

I’m sick of feeling my heart race, for no apparent reason.

I’m sick of feeling sick!

Palpitations. Skipped heart beats. Clammy. Shivering. Shaking. Nausea. Tummy ache. Cold head. Tingles (and not nice ones). Tight chest. And a hundred and one other unpleasant symptoms that rage through my body at any given time.

Last, but definitely not least, that horrible feeling of foreboding just before all the shit kicks off. LIKE THE WORLD IS GOING TO END. Or my heart is going to stop and I cease to exist.

I’m a bit pissed off with it all now. Actually, I’m MEGA pissed off. So, I am taking back control of you because I want my life back. I still want you around, not that I really have any choice seeing as you are a primeval part of me (I’d quite like to stay alive), but you will work for me, not against me. Capiche?

I am getting all Godfathery on ‘yo big ol’ ass’ because you need to be put back in your place. Pegs, taking down and all that. My theory is that you took advantage of a hormone imbalance. You saw my oestrogen walking off into the sunset and thought to yourself. ‘I’m in here. This emotional idiot has no ‘balmy’ army to keep me in my place anymore. Lets cause some shit!’

Am I right?

Those rare moments when I feel relatively ‘normal’* are enough to trigger panic attacks because feeling ‘well’ is such an alien feeling to me now. Bizarre plot twist: It’s actually better for me to feel shit because it’s constant and familiar. *throws hands up in the air*

You’re like the boggart in Harry Potter – a shapeshifter feeding on my fears. So how about I use the Riddikulus spell on you? Because if I imagine you wearing a fluorescent green mankini and Compo wellies, you will look pretty damn ridiculous. I will laugh and you will shrink faster than a cheap burger on a barbie and ,eventually, you will return to your rightful place. Which, for your info, is in my BRAIN, not my entire being.

So, you are no longer anxiety. You are boggart or ‘bog’ for short because that word makes me laugh. Like when Mrs Trunchbull calls Bruce Bogtrotter ‘Bog’ in Matilda. Always makes me laugh. Just typing it makes me smile. See?

When you can behave yourself, you can have your title back again.

Regards, your human.

*Normal for me is when I don’t have something crappy going on in my body. Last noted phase of normality was 2008.

It all begins and ends in your mind. What you give power to has power over you, if you allow it.

Creative Commons Image Via Pixabay

 

 

 

Confessions of a Hypochondriac

Charles Darwin, Andy Warhol, Florence Nightingale all have something in common..

Ooh. What’s that? Intelligence? Creativity? Empathy? Fabulousness?

Well, all of those, but what I’m talking about is hypochondria.

A hypochondriac is someone who lives in fear of having a serious illness. This could even be despite medical tests never finding anything wrong. They may also have somatic symptom disorder known as illness anxiety disorder, health anxiety, or hypochondriasis.

I’ve written about my struggle with health anxiety before and I’m not ashamed to do so. The way I see it is this: The more we get mental illness out in the open, the more people can be helped, yes?

So if you’ve ever listed your aches and pains down in a diary or journal – you could be a hypochondriac.

Darwin, for instance, kept records of his own flatulence.

I like to think it read something like this..

Monday: Long. Rasping. Smells like something crawled into my colon and died.

Wednesday: Guffed. Put myself into a coma.

Saturday:  Woke up from coma & farted a 9.8 on the rectum scale.

Sunday: Attempted ‘danger fart’. Followed through. Mrs Darwin – NOT happy!

Darwin’s fart diary? That’s nowt. I kept records of my bowel movements. Yup, I lined the toilet with bog roll in order to inspect the contents of my own poo!

Then I wrote about my findings in my journal. *blush*

Note: A courtesy glance into the pan as you wipe your botty is NOT hypochondria. It’s normal. Advisable even. If there’s blood in your poo it could be an early sign of bowel cancer and early detection could save your life. We’ve all seen the Be Clear On Cancer ads, right?

Avoidance is probably worse than obsession because people ignore symptoms altogether, which was Andy Warhol’s story..

Warhol was a genius in his field, but he pathologically feared growing old and getting ill. He refused to go anywhere near hospitals and so he ignored a recurring gallbladder problem until the pain was bad enough to hospitalise him. Problem was, he’d left it too late.

Avoidance is a killer.

There is a midway between avoidance and obsession.

AWARENESS.

It’s normal to be aware of new symptoms and to seek help if problems persist, but I was doing went waaaaay beyond the realms of normality.

I compared my poo to the Bristol Shit Scale and one thing I learned from playing Miss Marple with my own crap is that EVERYTHING you ingest affects what comes out of your bottom. Even supplements!

P.S Calcium supplements can make your poo pale.

P.P.S They can also constipate you.

Pale bowel movements and hypochondria? What could possibly go wrong?!

DID YOU KNOW? Sweetcorn comes out appearing to have been undigested. Apparently it’s something to do with humans not being able to break down the cellulose husk? However, it is a good way of finding out how long the journey takes from food going in your mouth to it coming out the other end. In my case, sometimes the sweetcorn was outta there in a matter of hours. Sometimes it was festering for days..

Stress affects your digestion system. Fact. I varied from feeling nauseous and not being able to manage anything more than a dry cracker – to feeling ravenously hungry, even after a full meal.

When it comes to your bowels, stress can play havoc with them. Believe me! Some days I was crapping it up for Britain at 3am, whereas other days my poo got stuck in transit and I was stranded on the loo for what seemed like decades. One such day being when I, er, strained a bit and convinced myself I’d prolapsed my bowel.

I was on my own in the house – stranded in the bathroom with what felt like a grapefruit hanging out of my orifice.

I tentatively prodded the ‘mass’ with my finger.

As you do..

The only plausible explanation was that I’d forced my bowels out, right?

I texted OH: MY FUCKING BOWELS HAVE FALLEN OUT!

I rang the doctors and demanded to speak to my GP. Now, normally I avoid phone calls like Justin Bieber songs, but my fear of dying with my innards hanging out of my arse-hole overrode my phone phobia.

The jobsworth receptionist gave me the ‘You’ll have to make an appointment madam’ spiel, so I screamed at her that my bowels were hanging out of my bottom.

‘Ooh! Right. In that case, the doctor will phone you back as soon as possible.’

So my GP phoned back and listened as I hyperventilated in-between the words. My. Bowels. Have. Fallen. Out. Of. My. Bottom. He asked a few questions then said, ‘You’re constipated. I’m writing out a prescription for some Lactulose. Pick up in an hour’.

Lactulose? Why the fuck wasn’t I being taken to hospital to get my bowels shoved back up into their rightful place?

‘Wait, don’t you want to have a look up my bum?’

‘Well I can if you want me too, but from what you’ve described I’m 100% certain it’s constipation. You just need some stool softener.’

My GP obviously didn’t have a clue.

So I consulted another one.

Dr Google.

I can hear the sound of palms being slapped on faeces faces from here.

IDIOT! You type in constipation and two clicks later, you’re dead!!

Yes, I know, but fear overrides common sense. Also, you don’t need to make an appointment cos Doc Google is available 24/7.

Aside the usual cancer scaremongering, I was treated to some wonderful anecdotes of bowel prolapse. Not to mention graphic photographs of something resembling afterbirth protruding from people’s bottoms. Apparently prolapsed bowels are not uncommon with weight lifters? ‘Bob from Barnsley’ volunteered the info that the last time it happened to him (after an intense barbell lifting session) he simply poked his innards back up with his finger. ‘No fuckin problem’.

Quite.

Turns out my ‘prolapse’ was hard poo.

I’ll spare you the details of how I found that out.

Er, why are you talking about poo, you manky cow?

Because IBS affects a lot of anxious people and until they know it’s IBS, they think it’s something terminal.

And I thought it was bowel cancer.

It’s easy to understand how IBS can scare the living daylights out of people and a how health anxiety can develop, but if you ever find yourself poking around in your poo – it’s probably time to get some therapy!

There’s NO shame in being a hypochondriac.

Some of the world’s best have been hypochondriacs!

It’s hard to imagine Florence Nightingale (the most famous nurse in the universe) was in fact a hypochondriac, but she spent the last 57 years of her life bedridden convinced she was dying. Flo eventually flitted off her mortal coil at the grand old age of 90. Who says that doing sod all is no good for you?!

My health anxiety co-exists with a panic disorder, as it often does. The thing with panic disorder is that you get panic attacks, which are terrifying enough when they happen in the daytime, but the majority of mine happen at night. These are known as Nocturnal Panic Attacks and leading up to my crisis point I was having at least one attack every night, cue Insomnia! A tired mind is an irrational mind and all those normal symptoms of stress became life threatening to me.

There was a period where I was either pestering my doctors, the out of hours doctors or A & E. My health was my existence – my obsession.

I was having a mental breakdown.

Writing this post (specifically the literally shit bits) I can see the funny side, but at the time it was anything but funny.

IT WAS TERRIFYING.

I guess I was destined to breakdown at some point in my life because I am one of the many autistic people who’ve had to stumble through life undiagnosed. Once diagnosed we are labelled as ‘highly functioning’ though I can assure you that it’s a misleading term as most of us struggle to exist, let alone live.

I am also hyper-aware of changes in my body. Most people are unaware of such changes, but I’m special, innit?

Being naturally anxious (and obsessive) this makes me a prime candidate for health anxiety. Also, I’ve been exposed to death earlier than most as my family started dying off before I could say “Mummy, I’m going to be sick”. By the time I was 26 I’d lost all my grandparents, a school friend, my father-in-law, an aunt, an uncle and my father – The Reaper was on overtime with my lot!

When it’s written in black and white, it’s easy to see how I came to lose the plot. However, I knew I needed help, so I got some therapy. Got cured (ish) and I no longer stare at my poo longer than is necessary, or healthy.

Will I ever be free of health anxiety? Probably not, because worrying is stamped into my DNA. If they ever autopsy my body, they will find WORRIER written through me like a stick of Blackpool Rock!

There is a massive difference between controlling health anxiety and and it controlling you..

In between Andy Warhol and shit-prodders like me is awareness. It’s acting on persistent or unusual symptoms instead of ignoring them.

My advice is to learn about the effects of stress on the body. Start with this blog if you want. I’ve written about it enough times. Just search for health anxiety. Or read some books. Whatever. Just educate yourself because knowledge will help to remove the fear.

I write about my experiences to help people. No filters. I share my crap (literally in this post) so that people will see that there is no shame, whatsoever, in being mentally ill.

The End.

 

 

 

 

 

Anxiety: All Aboard The Crazy Train

 

It’s normal to have aches and pains in middle-age. The problem with minor aches and pains when you have a fearful and sleep deprived mind is that you start to overthink them until they turn into something terminal, like cancer.

This is health anxiety.

Since my late 30s there has always been a part of my body playing me up. This week it’s neck pain and I’m having another IBS flare up. I’m constipated and there is a niggling pain in my lower bowel region. A few months back I would have Googled my symptoms, come up with bowel cancer and scared the metaphorical crap out of myself.

This is what I now call ‘climbing aboard the crazy train’.

The crazy train is the runaway thoughts train. It’s a scary ride. Scarier than ANYTHING you have ever ridden on in any theme park.

Or ever will.

It’s fulled by your catastrophic thoughts. There is no driver. There are no passengers. There is only YOU.

These are just some of my anxiety symptoms over the past six years.

  • Allergies
  • Back pain, stiffness
  • Breathing problems
  • Blanching (pale face)
  • Body Aches
  • Body Jolts
  • Body Zaps
  • Body shakes
  • Body Tremors
  • Blurred vision/sensitivity to light
  • Body Temperature (going from very hot to very cold)
  • Bloating
  • Brain zaps
  • Brain fog
  • Burning sensation on skin
  • Buzzing in hands, arms and feet.
  • Chest pain
  • Chest tightness
  • Chills
  • Constipation
  • Craving sugar
  • Crazy thoughts
  • Difficulty speaking (slow speech)
  • Diarrhoea
  • Depersonalisation
  • Difficulty thinking/concentrating
  • Dizziness
  • Difficulty swallowing
  • Dry mouth
  • Flu-like symptoms
  • Fear of dying, of losing control and going crazy
  • Feelings of unreality
  • Feeling that the tongue is swollen
  • Frequent urination
  • Hair loss
  • Headaches/migraine
  • Heart palpitations
  • Hot flashes
  • Hyperactivity
  • Insomnia
  • Loss of appetite
  • Mouth (burning tongue and clicking jaw)
  • Memory loss
  • Muscles (vibrating, tremors, weakness and wastage)
  • Nausea (retching and vomiting)
  • Neck (shoulder and neck tension and stiffness)
  • Nervous stomach
  • Night sweats
  • Numbness in fingers, feet and arms
  • Rapid/irregular heartbeat
  • Pulsing sensation
  • Sensitivity to foods and medication
  • Shortness of breath
  • Sexual Dysfunction
  • Shooting and stabbing pains
  • Skipped heart beats
  • Soreness on scalp (like bruising)
  • Twitching
  • Tinny taste in mouth
  • Tinnitus
  • Lightheaded
  • Weak limbs
  • Weight loss

To list ALL my symptoms would obliterate my word count but you will see that my anxiety symptoms have affected me literally from my head to my feet and I have multiple symptoms at any one time. In my case, being menopausal and autistic means that there are overlaps but the anxiety makes things profoundly worse. For instance, my Tinnitus isn’t an anxiety symptom per se but it is worsened by the anxiety.

The most comprehensive list of anxiety symptoms I know of is here.

The next time you say, ‘THERE’S ABSOLUTELY NO WAY THIS SYMPTOM CAN BE DUE TO ANXIETY!’

Have another read through the list!

All these symptoms and the ones listed in the above link are symptoms of stress.

Heart symptoms are classic anxiety symptoms but you should ALWAYS get them checked out if they are new for you. I underwent tests on my heart and the doctors concluded that my ticker was doing everything that it should, it was just beating faster than it should because my body constantly thinks it’s in danger.

I have generalized anxiety with health anxiety that is now in ‘remission’ cos I got myself some therapy, innit? I’m also autistic which is where the roots of my life-long anxiety problems lie. A lot of autistic people have mental health issues. Most, I’d say. This is because it’s stressful living in a world that you don’t understand and which doesn’t understand you. I also have OCD with sporadic bouts of depression. Not forgetting the good old menopause which means I am lacking in the hormones which kept me sane (ish) for 30 years – discounting one week out of every month where I went psycho and would have willingly stabbed somebody for their Mars Bar..

Over these past six years, I have been UTTERLY convinced that I have having a heart attack or that one is imminent. Or that I am riddled with cancer or some other insidious disease. Yet, ALL the tests keep coming back clear. The horrors that I have tortured myself exist only in my imagination. Whoever said that autistic people don’t have imagination? I have a fabulous imagination. Ask my GP!

Everybody is different when it comes to anxiety. My symptoms may not be your symptoms but the one thing I have learned about anxiety is that it affects your WHOLE body. Symptoms are transient. They stick around for a few days or a few months but then they go to be replaced by something else. To the exhausted mind – new symptoms equals fear.

‘THIS time, I’m really ill.’

Yes you are, but the illness is mental not physical. Dear.

A few months ago I would have been hyperventilating in my GP’s surgery at the onset of a new symptom but I have been there, done that and the t shirt is a mangled mess. Now, I calmly remind myself to acknowledge the symptom but not to Google it. If it lasts longer than two weeks, I see my GP.

It is important that I don’t CATASTROPHISE.

Yesterday it was neck-pain to the point where I needed painkillers but instead of allowing my mind to start shitting me. CANCER? OMG AM GONNA DIE kind of thing, I thought it through logically..

Last week, I’d been decorating, as in, climbing up ladders and looking up. I was working muscles that I hadn’t used in a while. Plus, I have arthritis. When you look at it rationally it’s easy to see why my neck would be giving me gyp. Simple isn’t it? IBS symptoms? I’ve been back on the beans and onions. To the exhausted mind – ANY pain – fires up the stress response. It has to be an illness, right?

Nope.

Don’t believe everything you think.

I didn’t allow my thoughts to run away with me. I took painkillers and each time the ‘what if?’ Gremlin wandered into my mind, I acknowledged it for what it was – A THOUGHT – and carried on binge watching Benidorm. Today, there is no pain and I had a decent night’s sleep because I didn’t climb aboard the crazy train.

Way to go, me.

The point of this post is to help you to understand that anxiety affects the entire body. Often there will be no explanation other than stress hormones affecting your body. I wouldn’t have thought that my scalp feeling bruised was an anxiety symptom but it is. Or a clicking jaw. The good news is that your symptoms will start to fade away as your stress levels recede. If you need the reassurance of your GP, by all means go and get your ten minutes worth.

Then ACCEPT it when they tell you it’s anxiety, especially when tests come back clear.

The crazy train will come for you.

YOU DON’T HAVE TO CLIMB ABOARD.