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

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Teenager That Santa Forgot..

One year, Santa forgot me.

It’s true.

To be fair, I wasn’t a small child. I was a teenager.

So how did I come to be left off Santa’s list?

It was 1985. The year of the first successful heart transplant, Windows 1.0, The Golden Girls, The Breakfast Club, Live Aid, Take on Me and wearing your jacket sleeves rolled up Miami Vice style..

I was:

Fifteen. Teenager. Vegetarian. Knew Everything. Annoying.

I don’t remember how I came to be vegetarian, I just know that from 14 I declared myself a meat free zone. I lived on cheese, as 80s vegetarian options looked (and tasted) like Trill. Thank God for Linda McCartney, eh? Problem was, Mum never did understand the concept of vegetarianism. She gave me cheese in place of meat but then poured gravy over it which kind of defeated the object..

Maybe it was hormones combined with my undiagnosed autism (and copious amounts of cheese) but my teenage years were funked up and not in a good way..

I’d argue that black was white and I’d do it with a PASSION. Not content with being meat-free, I terrorised everybody else for being ‘murderers’. Dad took it all in his stride. He thought it was hilarious, but Mum was suffering from the menopause (or rather we were suffering from her menopause) and that particular year she and I clashed more times than a pair of cymbals.

By Christmas, I was struggling. Doing the social thing exhausted me mentally and physically. Going out took hours of stimulating myself with rock music and days of recovery time afterwards. Every time I convinced myself it would get easier but it never did because exposure only works with shyness and I wasn’t shy. I was autistic.

That year I’d asked ‘Santa’ for loads of records including The Cult’s ‘Love‘. I’d been borrowing my mate’s LP but she was pissed off with it spending more time on my record player than hers, so I was looking forward to getting my own copy. Gimme a whoop!

Christmas Eve

We were allowed to lie on the sofa watching films all day and the jar of Quality Street was ceremoniously opened. It was a good day and in the evening Mum challenged her inner Hyacinth Bucket (It’s Bouquet) and did a candlelight supper, which was V posh.

I felt very grown up.

I was even allowed wine. SHHHHHHHH!

Dad was on the Jack Daniels.

Brother was semi-pissed on Southern Comfort.

Mum was on the Stella (I’ll fight you and everyone else) Artois.

Everyone was happy.

Until it went tits up..

I don’t remember what I said, exactly. Maybe it was something about meat and murder again? I just know that I opened my big mouth and said something that had my mother slamming the louvered doors off their hinges as she flounced off into the kitchen.

In my confused mind, ONE thing registered.

SHIT!

Dad was rolling his eyeballs.

Brother was smirking at me.

Elvis was crooning Blue Christmas in the background.

My mother was turning the air blue in the kitchen in-between nose blowing sessions.

Tentatively, I inched my way into the war zone but took one look at her face and knew that grovelling was futile. She looked like Alice Cooper, only with red eyes. Even in my limited understanding of body language, I knew my best (and only) option was bugger off upstairs and leave Dad to smooth things over.

So I went to bed and endured one of the most miserable nights of my 15 year old life.

What, in the name of Ian Astbury, had I said to incur SUCH a reaction?

I still don’t know.

All I know is that I was forever being reprimanded for ‘showing off’.

Showing off?

Er, I’M AN INTROVERT?!

In hindsight, I know that the Christmas Eve fiasco wasn’t ALL down to me. I blame Stella Artois and lack of oestrogen. Stella because it always made my mother do the crying thing and lack of estrogen put her on a permanent hair-trigger. It could have just as easily been my dad or my brother who said something to upset her, eh?

But it wasn’t them.

It was me.

Mostly what got me into trouble were my meltdowns. I’d become overwhelmed, therefore out of control, and it was interpreted as me being a little shit – as so often is the case with autism.

Nobody knew I was autistic.

Not even me.

Christmas Day

I unenthusiastically wished Jesus a happy birthday and prayed that he’d put in a good word with my mother overnight and she’d forgiven me for “ruining Christmas”. I lay in my miserable pit until I heard sounds of life downstairs, then slowly made my way down into the kitchen where Mum was perched on her stool puffing away on a Silk Cut. She narrowed her eyes at me. This look meant, ‘Approach me NOT. I’m still pissed off with you!’.

I slunk into the living room..

There, lit up in all it’s magnificence was our faux Christmas tree and underneath it were three piles of presents.

One for my brother.

One for my dad.

The third pile was my mother’s.

FUCK!

Didn’t say fuck – obvs -my life was hanging in the balance as it was.

For the first time in my existence, Santa had forgotten me.

I’D MADE THE NAUGHTY LIST.

THE SHAME!

Mum looked weird. Sort of angry and sad at the same time and that’s quite a hard one to pull off!

Brother was still smirking. That litle shit positively basked in my misery!

Tears slid down my face.

I don’t think I’ve ever felt so sorry for myself in all my life.

Dad couldn’t take it anymore. He looked at Mum and said, “You’ve made your point Flo. Come on now. It’s Christmas”

Mum snorted and flip- flopped upstairs in her new mule slippers.

A few minutes later she appeared with my presents.

She went from angry to misty eyed in a matter of seconds and hugged me so hard I thought she’d busted my lung.

“And let that be a lesson to you, Madam!”

Despite having no literally NO idea what this lesson was supposed to be, I chose to keep my trap shut.

Maybe that was the lesson?

Ordeal over, I started ripping into my pressies with the finesse of a three year old on E numbers.

My first gift?

It was Love.

When I tore off the wrapping paper that Christmas morning in 1985, I had no idea that 32 years later, the lyrics to the title song would have such significance to my very existence on this planet.

I guess you could say that I’ve spent most of my life in the ‘wrong hole’?

Now don’t go and ruin this moment by thinking rude thoughts about holes? *serious face*

I mean ‘wrong hole’ as in trying to be neurotypical.

Spent a long time in this hole
Spent a long time in the wrong hole