Big Mouth Strikes Again..

It isn’t often I climb aboard my soapbox but occasionally somebody pushes ALL my buttons and this week that person is Camilla Long.

Camilla writes for the Sunday Times. She’s also an expert on autism, or so she thinks..

On September 23rd, she tweeted this:

Firstly, Camilla is implying that you can tell if a person is autistic or not by how they look.

Secondly, she seems to be confusing autism with a disease.

Thirdly, she thinks she has the necessary qualifications to diagnose autism.

I am autistic and I do NOT ‘suffer’ with autism. However, I DO suffer with the uneducated opinions of Camilla and her ilk.

At the time of writing this post there are 470 comments in response to that tweet – mostly from an irate autistic community who have rightly taken offence to the statement, “An insult to real sufferers”.

@plannergeddon tweeted: I think it’s called spectrum for a reason.

‘Dr’ Long replied: “I think it’s bollocks”

No. What’s bollocks, Camilla, is people like you coming out with uneducated SHIT like that. You have 62’000 followers – some of whom will be stupid enough to take the drivel you write as fact.

When it comes to ‘suffering with autism’, I don’t ever recall saying to my OH,’ My autism isn’t half giving me gyp today. I’m really fucking suffering’.

I suffer with how people treat me because I’m different.

I suffer with anxiety caused by the stress of living in a neurotypical world.

I suffer because people can be utter arseholes at times.

I do not suffer with autism.

Autistic people are working hard to spread awareness of what’s it’s like to be autistic and ONLY autistic people can do that. If want to have a better understanding about autism, listen to autistic people. Don’t listen to idiots like Camilla who think that you can’t possibly be autistic unless you are Raymond Babbitt aka Rain Man.

To be clear, Camilla Long does NOT speak for me.

‘Dr’ Long is dismissive of Gary Numan being autistic. Why? Because he doesn’t have an official diagnosis.

Oh, well that’s that then! The voice of authority (not) has spoken.

Speaking to Autism Connect, Gary said: “I had some problems during my school years and, after many trips to a Child Psychologist, it was suggested that I had Asperger’s. I’ve never known for sure but I’ve always accepted that to be the case.”

“Some people seem concerned about it but I have always seen it as a positive thing. Yes, I’m somewhat awkward socially, but that seems a small price to pay for the advantages that come with Asperger’s.”

“I’m obsessive, but that’s a vital and useful trait for people in the music business. I’m driven and highly focused on things that I’m interested in, like my musical career.”

“A child psychiatrist at St Thomas’ Hospital in London suggested it might be Asperger’s. At 15, I was put on Valium and Nardil for about a year but as my mum hadn’t heard of the condition she thought the diagnosis was an insult to her parenting so we stopped seeing the psychiatrist and it was brushed under the carpet.”

An interview in The Guardian:

“I’m fine doing interviews and meeting fans because all I do then is talk about me but at functions where I have to talk to people about normal things, I’m rubbish.”

“The only downside is that I’m pretty awkward when interacting with strangers. I find being around a lot of people uncomfortable and I’m easily intimidated by the unpredictable nature of people.

“I often talk too much and I have a problem with eye contact. When I talk to people face-to-face I count how long I’ve been looking at their eyes so I know when to look away. It’s mechanical, not natural. There are a number of little things like that which I employ.”

If Gazza doesn’t have Aspergers, I’ll eat my diagnosis papers. WITH CHIPS!

Incidentally, Are Friends Electric was the first record I ever bought and it’s apt because most of my friends are online. I loved our Gary Numan and his face paint. I got that he was different (like me) and that it wasn’t all for show.

Gary is content to self-diagnose and self-diagnosis is valid. Often, just knowing that you are autistic is enough. I self-diagnosed for four years before I was referred for assessment. A DX is a professional validating what you already know. A diagnosis is important for children to be able to access support but when older people are diagnosed, they usually have a lifetime of coping skills behind them so there is little to be gained from official diagnosis. I know people who are self-diagnosed and they are happy to remain so. As far as I am concerned their experience is no less valid because they don’t have a piece of paper that says ASD or Aspergers Syndrome on it.

Gary knows he is autistic and that’s all that matters, NOT the opinion of some trumped-up columnist.

Camilla could have used her 62K following to educate people about autism but instead she chose to spread ignorance. The woman doesn’t even have a basic understanding of autism so who the chuff is she to decide who is or isn’t autistic?

I’ll close this post with one of my Twitter favorite responses to her tweet…

We are autistic. Not fucking “sufferers” Get back in your own lane and STFU until you’ve learnt something about autism – @andreadonstar

Hear hear!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I Dream of Sleep

I don’t remember when I last had a good night’s sleep. You know, the kind of sleep where you close your eyes and the next thing you know it’s morning?

I go off to sleep well enough, providing I don’t do anything too stimulating in the evening. For instance, I have found that if I write a blog post after 6pm, I am unable to switch off. I can lie in bed for three hours or more before I finally fall into an anxiety-filled sleep. Then I wake up at 4am, then 5, then six…

Sleep is vital to our well-being. We know that much and if our sleep is crap, we feel like crap. It’s that simple.

Anxiety sufferers know that a good night’s sleep is hard to come by. Medication may help in the short-term but it isn’t the long-term answer because it doesn’t address what is causing the insomnia in the first place.

When we have an anxiety disorder, we are in fight or flight mode 24/7. Adrenalin floods the body, mostly when we don’t want it to, like when we are trying to sleep or relax. The saber-toothed tiger is always there – ready to rip our throat out.

IT GONNA EAT YOU AND YOU GONNA DIE!!!!

Under these circumstances, maybe you can understand why a good night’s sleep is so elusive?

I dream but my dreams are funked up. It’s as if Quentin Tarantino lives in my head with creative input from Tim Burton and Alfred Hitchcock. However, there are a few things that we can do to improve our sleep.

Routine

Keep to a routine and try to be in bed the same time every night. Do like the old people do and be in bed by 10pm with a Horlicks and a copy of People’s Friend. OK, maybe not People’s Friend but some gentle reading. Remember, what you think about before you go to sleepyland, will affect your dreams…

Temperature

Try not to have your bedroom too warm or too cold.

For the menopausal insomniacs, you’ll just have to do your best, m’dears. Dangle a leg out of the bedclothes if you’re too hot and shove it back in when you get too cold. If your other half is emitting too much body heat in summer – roll the motherfungler off the bed and throw a pillow over his face to muffle his snores.

Exercise

Go for a run or walk the dog. Any exercise is better than nothing at all. However, it’s not a good idea to exercise in the evening because it’s too STIMULATING. Maybe a bit of gentle stretching?

Light

Try and have your boudoir as dark as is possible. Use blackout blinds if needs be. If all else fails, use a sleep mask.

Noise

If sounds annoy you, shove some earplugs in. If the silence annoys you, listen to some relaxation apps, like a nice calming waterfall. Just make sure to have a big wee before you go to bed, or you’ll be up and down to the toilet, which kind of defeats the object of getting a good night’s sleep.

Gadgets

Don’t take your phones. iPad’s, laptops and other electronic paraphernalia to bed with you. They all emit a blue light which tricks your brain into thinking it’s awake. Read a book or have a shag. If you live alone, shag yourself.

Sex is good because it releases relaxing hormones called endorphins, which is why blokes are snoring like warthogs within five minutes of eliminating their ‘man-milk’. You get me?

Diet

Drink six cans of Cola a day if you must but don’t complain when you’re buzzing like a frenzied bee at 3 o clock in the morning. Ditch the caffeine or make sure you only have one or two cups, max, and AVOID AVOID AVOID after about 3pm. There are some decent decaf options around. Fair dos, some taste like camel barf but if you shop around you are bound to find something that you can live with. I recommend a nice decaf Earl Grey.

Relaxation

Breathing exercises, meditation, progressive muscle relaxation, yoga, listening to classical music. It’s good practice to set aside some ‘you time’ each day.

Worrying

Don’t lie in bed worrying about paying bills or shit stuff like that. You’ll just drive yourself nuts. Tell yourself you will worry about them in the morning instead. Fill your frazzled mind with thoughts of stars, unicorns and moonbeams or just take yourself off for a walk along an imaginary beach. Imagine the waves gently rolling in and out. Then a sun-lounger magically appears in front of you. You throw yourself on it and doze off. THOSE are the kind of thoughts you want before bed. Not. ‘OMG, I DIDN’T PUT THE BINS OUT!!!’

If any of these tips work for you, let me know. Or maybe you have one or two of your own you’d like to share?

For a couple of months, I actually got my anxiety under control enough to be sleeping through. My dreams were still, er, weird, but I wasn’t waking up at silly-o-clock. But I’m a person who stops doing stuff as soon as I am feeling better. Mrs Knobhead, right?

Some people dream of holidays in the sun or winning the lottery. Me? I dream of having a good night’s sleep.

“I’ve always envied people who sleep easily. Their brains must be cleaner, the floorboards of the skull well swept, all the little monsters closed up in a steamer trunk at the foot of the bed.” ~ David Benioff, City of Thieves

Creative Commons Image Via Pixabay

 

 

 

 

 

 

Alone in the Universe

I like to be alone.

I am completely comfortable in my own company, probably because it’s only when I’m alone that I can be myself. There’s no need to pretend to be normal. I can just be me.

When it comes to loneliness, people usually identify it with physically being on their own. Not me. I can be in a room jam-packed full of people and still feel incredibly lonely because I know I don’t belong. That’s my lonely.

I didn’t ask to be born. None of us do. We are here by choice or mistake and nine months later, out we pop, with no instructions on how to do life. We are at the mercy of those around us and all too often those people let us down.

Those people who had a duty of care to me at school let me down.

As a child I played alone until the age of five and then I had to attend school, or ‘shithole’ as I call it.

School was where I was expected to socialise and interact using skills which I didn’t possess or understand.

School was where I was bullied by children AND teachers.

School was where my sense of not belonging started.

It was clear that other children didn’t like me but I didn’t know why. I tried my best to be invisible but all that did was make me even MORE conspicuous. All I know is that I came to dislike myself too because of it. I couldn’t bunk off because I knew it was wrong. Nor was I able to express my struggles to my teachers or parents so I had no choice but to endure every hellish second of it until I got home.

Home was where I felt safe.

Home was where I was loved unconditionally.

Home was where I could lose myself in my obsessions.

Yet even with my closest family, I was unable to be me. I belonged, yes. My parents would have loved me regardless of anything but I didn’t know how to be myself in front of them. Most of the photographs from my formative years are of me looking away from the camera. That was me before life pressured me into being someone I wasn’t in order to try and fit in. Personas and masks became necessary in order for me to survive.

Something that is common to ALL humans is the need to belong and be accepted by others. I have a need to belong in some meaningful way just as much as anybody else and I want to leave this world having made a difference in some small way. Yet for most of my life, I have felt alien, like I don’t belong here. I breathe the same air. I am a human being in every respect of the word except that my brain is wired differently and people know you are different. They can sense it even if they can’t see it, like Will Smith in Men in Black, who can spot the aliens a mile off despite them wearing their ‘human suits’. That’s how it feels to be me sometimes – an alien wearing a human suit.

These past few months have been an eye-opener for me. The most important change is that for the first time in my life I no longer feel alone in this world. Why? Because there are 700,000 autistic people in the UK alone so add to the rest of the planets autistic population and that’s bloody shit-loads!

There is an autistic community where I don’t have to think, ‘Will this freak people out?’ before I ‘speak’ because people get it. Imagine. After ALL these years. I get to be my freaky self and other human beings say, ‘Yeah, I do that’.

AWESOME!!

I’m hoping that the therapy I am currently receiving will help to address the many years where I was treated badly simply for being me..

The girl who walked up to me one day and slapped me across my face for no reason at all? She was a coward. She was a big girl hitting a small girl – a bully who needed to be flanked by her cronies at all times. I blamed myself for so many years but I know now that I wasn’t responsible for what she did. Nor have I ever been responsible for the actions of others. The problem is with them, not me.

At some point I need to let the past go and move on in order to make the most of the time I have left. Four years ago I felt that nobody would ever understand how I feel. Then my son was diagnosed ASD and I knew that I was autistic too. On hearing my own official diagnosis, I got control back of my life. I know who I am now and why I am different and these next years of my life are going to be lived MY way. I may be in a minority but my life counts just as much as everybody else’s on this planet.

It always has.

I still like to be alone because that’s when I function at my best but liking to be alone and feeling alone in the world are very different things. That’s changed now. There are people in this world who get me. There are also people who don’t get me but are willing to understand and support me. So you see, I am not alone in the universe.

CC Image Via Pixabay

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Summertime Blues

On the day I was born THIS was number one in the Top 40.

“Have a drink, have a drive”

Have a crash?

Side-burns and demijohn as a percussion instrument aside, it is a catchy tune, but I’d rather have hung on in there for a few more weeks and slithered out to Elvis Presley’s The Wonder of You. Then again, it could have been Tom Jones’ Daughter of Darkness, which some light say, would have been more apt.

It was summer. The days were long. The jeans were flared and summers seemed to go on FOREVER, as happens when you’re on child-time because child-time is different to real time. Everyone knows that, right?

The skies were bluer. The clouds puffier and the sun cracked the pavements EVERY SINGLE DAY!

Then there were family holidays..

I’m fairly sure we went away most years but I only remember a few holidays and judging by sulky chops on most of the photographs, i.e. me, I can only imagine that I was my usual shit self during each and every one of them. I can only apologise to my parents who no doubt sacrificed all year in order to give us a nice holiday. If they were alive today, my autism diagnosis would maybe go some way to explain my behaviour…

I tried hard to enjoy holidays but being in unfamiliar places (and sleeping in strange beds) sent my anxiety orbital. The beds often smelled funny and had, er, unidentifiable stains, and at that time my olfactory sensitivities were monumental. Also, I couldn’t verbalise my problems so this reflected in my behaviour. I was either ‘showing off’, ‘naughty’ or ‘moody’. Moody, I’ll hold my hand up to but I wasn’t ever intentionally naughty and I was too introverted to ‘show off’. What I was, was overwhelmed…

It also pissed me off how flies used to do that circles round the light fittings. Why do they do that? Daddy Long Legs were much bigger when I was a child. They. Were. HUGE. Spiders were the size of COWS and the world was against me in general. Despite all this, I was supposed to enjoy myself?

Sometimes we stayed in B & B’s. I HATED that. It was bad enough being in a strange place with my own family without having to cope with being around strange people too? Strange sociable people who really annoyed me with their constant, “Are you going to give me a smile?’

No. Eff off.

I didn’t say the F word, obvs, as Mum would have ended my life, but I certainly thought it. Why couldn’t they understand that I looked miserable because I FELT miserable?

Then there were the days out..

If I was lucky there would be a plan and I’d know where I was going (sort of) but more often than not Mum and Dad did the ‘spontaneous thing’ which cremated my brain. The result?

This.

Beach days were the worst.

What child doesn’t like the beach?

Me.

I like it now (when it’s empty) but not then. Never then..

I considered it a breach of my human rights to be made to take my clothes off on a beach in front of strangers.

“Who do you think’s looking at you?!”

Well, I don’t know, Mother, perverts perhaps?

To be fair, most children stripped off without a care in the world but I wasn’t like them was I? I was a self-aware misfit. I refused to remove so much as a sock without Mum standing in front of me with the biggest bath towel we had and even then I tried to keep my knickers on under my bikini bottoms. Yes, I was that girl.

One bikini in particular stands out in my memory. I was about 4 or 5 but it was way too big for me. In those days, you had to grow into stuff so nothing fitted. The top was more like a scarf and the bottoms were saggy-arsed which was dead amusing, apparently. The relief when I was upgraded to a swimsuit was IMMENSE!

The whole beach experience was an onslaught to the senses. The smells. The noise. The stimuli..

We had a little Calour Gas stove and I liked the smell of the gas. Possibly inhaled more than what was healthy for me, though. Then there was Ambre Solaire which Mum and Dad slavered over themselves. They’d sit and sizzle in their deck-chairs, havin’ a smoke and drinking countless cups of tea and be in some kind of heaven while me and my brother whinged like buggery – him because he was stuck with his moody little sister and me because I wanted to be sand free and back HOME with my Enid Blyton’s.

I feel guilty about it now because Mum and Dad worked hard to keep us fed, clothed and living in a nice clean home. They deserved a nice holiday but I always managed to spoil it for them, not that it was EVER deliberate.

When it comes to weather – THAT summer of 76 overrules all other summers in my entire memory.

In the Summer of 76, the average house cost £12,704. Wages were about £72 p/w (in those days they came home via a brown envelope) and a loaf of bread cost 19 pence. 19p!!! You could get a huge bag of sweets for like 5p. Imagine that, Kids?!

It was, like, SOOOOOOOO hot, the tarmac on the roads melted. Google it!

Chopper bikes, Space Hoppers, Quosh (warm), water shortages, IRA bombings, unemployment, flares, platform shoes, white dog poo, really great music, really shite music, melty roads and deviant DJs. The 70’s had the lot. I don’t remember the serious stuff because I was just a kid. What I do remember is how uncomfortable I felt in general. Summer is supposed to be fun but it’s not that simple for sensitive souls is it? Plus, I have to remove my cardi, which is like asking an NT to remove a kidney.

Dare I say, roll on Autumn?

“Summer will end soon enough, and childhood as well.”~ George R.R Martin ~ Game of Thrones

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dedicated Non-Follower of Fashion

I don’t do fashion, me.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had my moments over the years where I’ve tried to be fashionable in order to fit in, but it was hard work because all I ever really wanted to wear were my jeans and tee shirts. In my most creative phase I wore black lace skirts, gloves, vest tops, studded belts/cuffs and high-heeled boots, which I couldn’t walk in. What can I say? I was into Siousxie Sioux and her glorious gothness. I wanted to look like her, only with Madonna’s hairdo.

Over the years I must have spent hundreds of pounds on clothes (albeit via charity shops) only for them to sit unloved in the nether regions of my wardrobe. I’ve bought so many clothes on a whim during my monthly hormonal malfunctions. I CRINGE thinking back to some of the disasters I’ve bought, such as floor length green and pink striped WOOLEN skirts, which is fine if you want to look like a. sodding. caterpillar.

I think that women should stay the HELL away from clothes shops when they are on their periods (or going through the menopause) because they buy shit clothes that languish in their wardrobes with the tags on until they get a charity bag through the door.

“Women are more likely to have accidents in the few days leading up to their period and during their period.”

This includes accidental purchases of shit clothes that don’t fit and which look HIDEOUS. I vote they install sensors in shops that pick up on hormone imbalances, so as soon as the hormonally bewildered wander in, alarms go off and said women are escorted off the premises and propelled in the direction of the nearest Thorntons. Me? I don’t have that problem anymore because I’m post-menopausal which means that my hormones no longer fluctuate. I am psychotic 24/7. However, I can wear white jeans now WHENEVER I PLEASE. HA!

The thing is that I was, and still am, a tomboy.

In 1982 I lived in skin-tight jeans and AC/DC t-shirts, so maybe you can imagine my distress when my mother informed me that I was going to be a bridesmaid at my brother’s wedding…

To most 11-year-old girls, being a bridesmaid is a dream come true. Me? I sat down on my bed and wept because the thought of being center of attention terrified me, not to mention the indignity of having to wear a dress. In hindsight, I wish I had spoken up because at least then they wouldn’t have my sulky chops ruining their wedding album and video. In my defence, I was on the verge of starting my periods, therefore, MEGA CRANKY, and the photographer kept insisting on telling me to ‘smile ducky’ which just made me want to beat him to death with his Nikon, or whatever it was..

To make matters worse, my ‘evening do’ outfit was a pair of CANARY YELLOW pedal pushers with an equally hideous blouse. I had/have legs like chicken drumsticks, so my mother saw fit to buy me a pair of PEDAL PUSHERS. Also, she wanted her money’s worth out of the wedding sandals, so I had to wear those again, only with my SCHOOL socks.

Way to go, Ma. Could the outfit have been any bolder shade of yellow? I think not. There is a good reason why people don’t nick yellow cars. IT’S BECAUSE THEY ARE ABOUT AS INCONSPICUOUS AS LORD VOLDEMORT STROLLING AROUND TESCO DOING HIS WEEKLY SHOP!

Actually, I might bring this one up in my next therapy session?

Bro, if you are reading this, I’m sorry I spoiled your day with my sulky face. I was SO out of my comfort zone with all those people (inc scary old vicars and photographers) and then having to wear a girlie dress when I was about as girlie as a dog turd. I just wasn’t bridesmaid material. Bridesmaids should LOVE every second of being a bridesmaid but I was one big sweaty, miserable mess. I am honored that you asked me, truly, and I love you for it. However, I also know that Mum would have killed you if you didn’t. Love, Sis.

It’s taken me forty odd years but I finally understand that I am a woman of simple tastes. My wardrobe consists of jeans, tunic tops and umpteen tee shirts. Everything is 100% cotton. I own one pair of boots, four pairs of Converse (bit of an obsession) and a pair of sandals. No skirts. No dresses.

I’ve finally sussed that wearing certain materials only aggravates my sensory issues which makes me more of a miserable cow than I already am. Life is hard enough without handing myself more ammo, no?

I would quite like to die wearing a pair of Converse, but knowing my luck, I’ll shuffle off my mortal coil wearing my tea-stained dressing gown and pyjama bottoms with the holey crotch. Such is life, eh?

What I do know is that my days of wearing uncomfortable shoes and clothes are over. I wasn’t designed to totter in heels and I will never again inflict my bony ankles on the general public. Whoever designed boot cut and flared jeans has my eternal gratitude. From the bottom of my bell-bottomed heart, thank you.

“Anyway, there is one thing I have learned and that is not to dress uncomfortably, in styles which hurt: winklepicker shoes that cripple your feet and tight pants that squash your balls. Indian clothes are better.” ~ George Harrison

Creative Commons via Pixabay

 

 

 

 

I Go to Extremes (OCD and Me)

I sat in the therapist’s office. Coat on. Hands in pockets.

‘So, what can I help you with?’

I’ve already clocked the box of tissues to the left of me and wonder how many boxes she goes through every week. Does she bulk-buy? Anyway, we go through the usual questions like, ‘On a level of one to ten, how has your anxiety affected you in the last two weeks and are you about to top yourself?’

No, I don’t want to top myself. I just need some help in lowering my anxiety levels from 10 to a 5, ta.

My eyes struggle to connect with hers. I’m way too anxious so I stare at the carpet, which is clean and has no pattern. Good. Because I’m in no mood to be coping with patterns and stains..

‘I don’t think we will have enough hours to address all my stuff.’

‘Well, just start with what’s easiest, OK?’

I blurt out, ‘I HAVE INTRUSIVE THOUGHTS’.

Pen poised, the therapist replied, ‘Really? In what way?’

I gave her the example of the hour before when I was partaking of a cup of coffee with OH in Costa. The sun was shining outside and there were only a few people in so I wasn’t overwhelmed. I felt relatively happy. Yep, I can do happy. Just as I acknowledged the happy feeling, a thought clouded my mind..

What if masked men burst in now and started to shoot?

My body reacted as if it was real, not that I’ve been in many hostage situations, thankfully.

Next thought was my son who was at school. Then my grown up boys. Adrenalin flooded my body and my undigested sausage bap was in danger of being barfed back up.

Then I remembered that it wasn’t real..

‘Calm down, nutcase, it’s just your mind being a bastard again. You KNOW this. Drink your coffee, there’s a good fruitcake.’

It was just a thought that had barged it’s way into my mind when I was feeling calm. One of millions of irrational thoughts over my 47 years. Even though I knew it wasn’t real, it threw me. Maybe I need to lay off on the police dramas?

I comforted myself with the thought, ‘What’s the likelihood of Costa being raided? What are they going to say, ‘Everybody on the floor and give me all your muffins?’ Then I researched it and there has actually been such an incident, only they were after money, not muffins. It was prior to opening and thankfully, nobody was hurt. I guess wherever there is money, there is motive..

See, I have this problem with safety. I can’t remember when it started but I’ve definitely done it for the majority of my life. It’s to do with fire, mostly. I have a thing about the house burning down so I have to check plugs and sockets.

Then I have to check them again.

I’ve noticed it’s worse when I’m stressed. The other day I literally couldn’t satisfy myself that I’d turned my straighteners off, despite me holding the disconnected plug in my hand. Then, I have to touch candle wicks to make sure they are cold and sometimes I stick them under the tap to be EXTRA sure. Once upon a time, I taped up all the knobs on my gas cooker in-case they turned themselves on while I was out because everybody knows, cookers can do that, right? I blame that one on surge in pregnancy hormones but I have been known to turn the electric cooker off too. You can gauge my anxiety on how many things I turn off but even on my best day – sockets, plugs, windows and doors are a given.

I refuse to go out and leave things charging up, like phones and Kindles. There’s, like, NO WAY I can do that. OH struggles to understand it. He says it knackers the batteries. I tell him, ‘Battery or insanity, mate, your choice’.

To get out of the house, I have a routine of going round and checking all doors, windows and sockets. If the chain of thought is broken with ONE of these things, I have to go and check them ALL again. Thankfully, I’m not incapacitated by it. I’ve often thought it would be easier to say sod it and stay in but that’s a road I know I don’t want to go down. I have my ritual. As long as I do this, I cope.

I don’t know why I do it. There isn’t a logical explanation for it. There has never been anything to justify it as far as I am aware of. No fires. No burglaries. I’m just a loon, innit?

With this is mind, I often wonder how I managed to be a school caretaker and NOT go totally gaga? I still have dreams about doing my ‘checks’. The alarm was the worst thing because I would convince myself I hadn’t set it so I would go back again and again. I’ve gone back to the school late at night because I’ve convinced myself I haven’t set it. Of course, I always had. It’s a wonder I wasn’t arrested for acting suspiciously, eh? On the positive side, having a security obsessed lunatic as a caretaker isn’t such a bad thing as in ten years of service, I was never called out to the alarm going off. No window or door was EVER left unlocked on my watch.

There seems to be some confusion regarding repetitive behaviours of autism and OCD..

Basically repetitive autistic behaviour, like stimming, is comforting. I stroke my little furry (NOT a euphemism) because it comforts me and picking scabs is on par to a decent orgasm in my book.

New word.

Scabasm.

OCD, however, is anxiety driven. The fear that something will go catastrophically wrong if I don’t touch my plugs ‘n’ shit. I am autistic but I obviously have OCD too, it’s just never been diagnosed because I’ve never sought help for it. Nor has anybody ever suggested I get help. Mostly, they are amused or frustrated by it. Maybe now is the time to address it? In for a penny, in for a pound, I say.

What’s the betting that my therapist will go off on the sick after she’s finished with me?

A slice of fruitcake says she does.

Image via Pixabay