Autism & Addiction

Last weekend my husband deleted over 2,300 episodes of Peppa Pig from Sky.  Two days later, Finian locked the sitting room door and un-deleted every fucking one of them.  His fine motor skills aren't great, so he didn't manage to give us the finger.  But I know he wanted to.

We laughed and said "gawd that kid is so addicted".  As I was eating chocolate and opening a bottle of wine.  Irony is a thundering fury-bitch, but she's usually worth listening to.  Hate that.

We tend to use the term 'addicted' loosely..... and I really ought to know better.  As I've talked about before, addiction tore my childhood apart.  It's taken a lot of therapy to help loosen it's grip on me. 

Of course Finian's Peppa Pig love-in is more aligned with the perseveration we see with autism, than with addiction.  So Finian gets a pass.

I can't speak with the same confidence about our weekend rioja and dairy milk, however.

What IS addiction though?  When does a pleasant pass-time become dysfunctional?

When we continue to repeat a behaviour for the rewarding hit, despite it being damaging (physically, socially or mentally), then we have a problem.  The dopamine surge is so overwhelmingly compelling that we are unaware of (or unconsciously deny) the harm we are doing to our bodies, minds, pockets, relationships and careers. We crave it in it's absence.  We surround ourselves with people who collude with our behaviour, and become increasingly disconnected from our own soul. We can be addicts and not even know it.

We can get addicted to anything.

Alcohol.  Prescription drugs.  Sex.  Porn.  Religion.  Instagram Likes.  Shopping.  Street drugs.  Gambling.  Sugar.  Dieting.  Martyrdom.  Peppa fucking Pig.  Cleaning.  Toxic relationships.  Exercise.  Candy Crush (true story).  Self-harming.  Shoes.  Keanu Reeves.

What we're addicted to doesn't really matter.  What's important is what it's shielding us from.

Addiction is seductive because it protects us from pain.

Addiction is soul-destroying because it protects us from pain.

Short-term respite at the expense of long-term wholeness.  

As the cheery Buddhists point out, life is suffering.  Sitting with, and owning, our awfulness is how we re-connect with ourselves.  Finding peace at the other side of  the (admittedly shitty) process is how we rediscover, and love, our true selves.

It's simple, but not easy.

Special needs parents need to be particularly vigilant.  We have plenty of reasons to crave escape.

Beneath the addiction, beneath the grief/shame/anger/whatever you're having yourself, is peace and self-love.  It's totally worth digging for.

Autism & Mad Mothers

This has been one of the most difficult years of my life.  

There was Autism, usual family stuff, college and covid.  But in the Spring, the shell protecting my mental health cracked open and I fell to pieces.  One day, all the defenses I used to avoid my issues (maintaining facades, perfectionism, anxiety, depression, overwork, wine, rationalizing emotions, denying my own needs, unhealthy boundaries, whatever you're having yourself) just stopped working.

It was about fucking time.

My breakdown immersed me in a world of pain that I'd been avoiding for a very long time.

Many months of therapy have helped me to integrate most of my big psychological injuries.  There's still one or two sticky issues  I need to befriend, but I know I'll get there.  Tbh, I'd rather french kiss Boris Johnson after he's eaten a packet of Monster Munch, but you do what you gotta do.  Am wearing Big Girl pants now, and all that.

The big surprise is that processing the awfulness isn't as terrible as pouring all my energy into avoiding it.  I mean, therapy is horrendous.  It's like being atomized in a high-speed blender and then re-shaped in a really unfamiliar new mould.  It takes a while to get used to.  And making friends with the dark creatures in my mental basement has been...... unexpected.  

But avoiding it has been worse.  The relief of allowing the mask to slip is wonderful.  Breaking down gave me the freedom to recognize and discard what was bad for my soul.  It's a work in progress, but yanno.

Autism was the catalyst that forced me to engage with my mental health in a meaningful way.  It's very possible I would have continued to spin in my resistant groove for the rest of my days, had Autism not driven me mad.

It's kinda comical to be grateful for something that caused me pain, but here we are.  Alice in Wonderland knew her shit when she said "curiouser and curiouser".  

Autism & Learning From Depression

 In my last post I said that Autism and Depression are locked in an ungainly, dysfunctional dance.  

If any of you ever witnessed me at a wedding, I'm a terrible dancer.... even after loosening my limbs with a few shots of industrial strength Dutch courage.  But, what I lack in talent, I make up for with enthusiasm.  

The point is, I'll still dance and love every minute of it, despite moving with all the grace of an electrocuted rhino on acid.  The secret is surrendering to the moment without judgement.  There's a strange joy to be found in the most challenging of circumstances, whether on the dance floor or from the pits of Depression.

Recovery from Depression is shaky.  The tempo changes, I miss beats, I fall over my own feet.  I am clumsy and misaligned and slow to learn.  But I will keep trying.

Humility has become my guide.

This episode of Depression shook up my internal psyche with ferocity.  It mercilessly exposed the toxicity of patterns I am locked into.  It is becoming clear that old coping mechanisms are no longer protecting me, but in fact are damaging my ability to relate to others in a healthy manner.  It is humbling that those I care about have witnessed me at my most difficult, unlovable worst.  It is painful that my flaws have been exposed to others, making me vulnerable to judgement. 

But.                                                                                                                                                      

There is something  freeing about being open to all my weaknesses and flaws.

Openly acknowledging them, without concealing them with humour or smothering them with intellect, is authentic and human.  There's a certain relief in it.  This Depression storm released many shadows from deep within my psyche.  It is an opportunity to engage with them, befriend them, instead of forcing them underground again.  This episode of Depression is giving me the chance to grow.

Another aspect of humility is gracefully accepting help when it is given, whether through actions, challenges or presence.  I have a long road ahead of re-learning how to navigate relationships in a healthy way.  Like any novice,  I will rely on professionals, family and friends to point out when I am being inauthentic, defensive or misguided.  Surrendering to help from others is both freeing and terrifying, but curiosity about who I will become will drive me through the difficult terrain. 

While Autism was a predisposing factor to my Depression, it was not the cause.  It's time to roll up my sleeves and do some heavy emotional lifting, without resorting to my usual excuses.

The only thing vulnerable to judgement is my ego.  

While honouring how it has protected me, it is time to respectfully dismantle it to live as my authentic self.

Autism & Depression

Autism and Depression are locked in a miserable marriage, but they grimly cling onto each other in an ungainly, dysfunctional dance.

I always go to pains to point out that Finian's Autism didn't cause my Depression, but it's a perpetuating factor that isn't going anywhere soon.

I've been managing my Depression pretty well over the last number of years, until I decided last year that I was "just FINE" and weaned off my medication.  I continued to do well (or so I told myself) and coped with covid restrictions and the isolation that comes with it.  Then the schools closed.  Then support services were withdrawn,  Then my son was locked in a 5 km bubble with me 24/7.  Then he stopped sleeping as he was out of routine.  

All day he roamed the house, switching electronic devices on, switching lights off, stimming loudly, needing sensory input, throwing tantrums, screaming, slamming doors shut, flinging doors open, devouring non-edibles, refusing proper food, leaning into my face demanding dvds I didn't have, occasional self-harming, reciting endless scripts of favourite cartoons, cranking speaker volumes up to the max,  moving, moving, moving.

At night he would sleep for 3 hours and then pace endlessly on the landing, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth until morning.  

Then it started all over again. 

And again.  And again.

I stopped sleeping.  I stopped eating.  I woke every morning with a bellyful of dread. My weight dropped.  My concentration fractured. My heart raced.  My mind became an incoherent snarl of thoughts and images.  I forgot how to breathe.

But still I was FINE.

Until I wasn't.

My resilience ground down to expose nothing but raw nerve endings. Inevitably something was going to break me.  It didn't really matter what.  The point is, that this tsunami was coming at breakneck speed and I could no longer avoid it.

When I broke, I became embodied psychological pain.   

I drew the blinds and crawled into bed in a tight foetal position.  I could barely speak. My heart thudded like wet clay in my chest.  My lungs contracted. I was frozen with terror.  I wished to die. 

I'm blessed to have a husband who cared for me when I was a crazed, needy wreck.  He got me medication. He fed me.  He brought me water.  I could barely crawl from  bed to bathroom.  He held me and told me he loved me even when I was an incoherent mess.  I was truly insane with Depression.

I'm slowly getting better.  I had a few false dawns where I believed I was on an even keel, but recovery is not linear.  Patience is key (sadly something I haven't been blessed with).

I go out for walks.  I'm starting to eat.  I have spells of good spirits.  I no longer wish to die.

Depression is a violent beast but, strangely, some good has come out of it. The inner turmoil unearthed deeper psychological issues that I know I need to address.  This will be difficult and humbling, but will result in personal growth.  It also served as a reminder that I have people in my life who unconditionally love me, even at my very worst. 

The point is, Depression is very real and very near when you have a special needs kid.  It's always sniffing the air around you, waiting for a moment of vulnerability.  It quietly thunders toward you and you don't even see it coming.

Awareness, support and self-care are key to surviving and managing it.  Learn about Depression here and go to your GP, a friend, a psychologist.... talk to the postman if you have to.  But don't try to manage it on your own.  Depression distorts your thoughts and contracts your spirit.  

Depression lies to you. 

It is survivable and manageable.... it can even expose some deeper layers you now have the opportunity to deal with.  But it's very hard to navigate on your own.  Special needs parents need to be able to reach out to each other (and to professionals)  to help weather the storms. 

Autism & Covid Prison

A few days ago I was talking with my oldest son about jail; we were sickened that a teacher found guilty of sexually assaulting 23 schoolboys was sentenced to only eight years in prison. It felt to us that eight years being detained at the tax payers pleasure was an insult to the pain he visited on those boys.  Neither of us have any experience of jails, but we remarked that a spell of free accommodation, no bills and no living expenses seemed almost like a sick reward.  On later reflection, I would change my view of this somewhat.

This could have led into a discussion on the ethics of crime, punishment and rehabilitation but I'm pretty sure our conversation somehow segued into comparing the merits of various carbon monoxide monitors (he's a mechanic in the Navy).  Don't even ask.  I filed the subject under 'Disturbing Content I'd Rather Not Think About' in my subconscious and considered it dealt with.

Except it wasn't.

Look what just popped out

I don't need to remind anyone that we've been under lockdown, in it's various guises, for an entire year.  What started out as an almost thrilling social experiment has devolved into a planet convulsed with anxiety and depression.  This third total lockdown seems to have broken even the most resilient of spirits.  We are trapped within a 5 km radius, denied the pleasure of friends and numbed with tedium.  We are caged with family we love but need a break from.  We are constantly accompanied by the dread of  inadvertently infecting someone vulnerable.   We are trying to home-school reluctant children while  wrestling with the  growing belief that there's less and less reason to get up, get dressed and get active.  None of us are going anywhere.  The vaccine roll-out is painfully slow and we are clueless as to when all of this will end.  This is coloured with the pervasive backdrop of dealing with a threat we can't see, hear or smell.  Adrenaline has frayed our nerves to discordant tangles; our nervous system is a broken house alarm screaming in the night that everyone ignores.

Dealing with special needs kids in these circumstances is crippling. There are long days of managing volatile outbursts.   There are even longer nights of  my son's endless pacing along the corridor outside our bedrooms.  He can't sleep, he has no routine and he is madly anxious about the phased return to school.  His sensory seeking behaviour is off the scale.  We are seeking private child psychiatry and occupational therapy services.  In many ways, special needs parents were match-fit for lockdowns.  We are used to isolation and restrictions.  But the withdrawal, and inconsistent resumption, of school, respite services and home support was a series of cruel blows that just about floored us.

I am aware that everyone has their stuff to deal with.  This is not a comparative study in Hard Shit.  The point is, that I could deal with this if I wasn't imprisoned in my own 5 km cell.  I had no idea how much I need to see the people I love, or how much I depend on them to help through the difficult stuff.

A year of lockdowns has given me a respect I never had for imprisonment.  I still believe that an eight year sentence for a sexual predator is hopelessly inadequate, but I no longer view the removal of freedom as inconsequential.   Prison is a form of hell and we have a way to go yet.