Interview

Interviews rarely scare me. I’ve applied for hundreds of jobs over my working lifetime and gone on dozens of interviews. This is not hyperbole. One could argue this has largely been a waste of time, and sometimes it has been, but it has also helped me amass a ton of experience answering and asking important questions and diffusing the nervousness inherent in such meetings. Most of the time, I feel so practiced and familiar with the questions because they are often predictable ones I’ve previously tackled. I seem to be diabolically self-aware: uncannily so in certain aspects of my life and beyond blind (if such a condition exists) in others. Luckily, the former tends to apply to employment-related screening questions. Akin to how I study, catalog, and memorize social behaviors and expectations, I readily store and retrieve informative and eloquent responses to questions I’ve previously encountered. Even under pressure, I can grab from memory and regurgitate an appropriate response. For this reason, interviews don’t rattle me. Usually.

Yesterday, was an exception. I was confidently navigating a video conference interview for an interesting part-time job I happened upon in my current job search. (Even though I have a job that I love, I usually keep my eyes out for appealing and potentially viable opportunities because I’m an independent contractor so one of the few downsides of my position is its lack of security.) The questions were clear and I answered them comfortably. Admittedly, I did have more anxiety surrounding this interview than normal because the employer is a professional I’ve looked up to for a long-time, unbeknownst to him. His work is iconic in his field and he’s as much of a celebrity to me as Brad Pitt or Jennifer Aniston is to most (or whomever is hot these days!). I’ve followed his work religiously over the years and so to actually connect one-on-one, even in interview style, felt like an amazing and exciting opportunity. Of course, he knows nothing of me because I have no measurable public persona or impact, and certainly not one that would have spread to him. After the initial fangirl nerves reflective of being in the (virtual) presence of my guru were swallowed, I felt giddy and lucky to have the time to connect. This excitement lent a palpable energy to the conversation and somewhat of a natural rapport was quickly established. I figured this would bode well for my candidacy for the position because I seemed engaged, attentive, and genuinely eager, which I absolutely am. Then, things rapidly veered South: an unprecedented question.

“Tell me one thing about you that I can’t get from your resume or cover letter?”

It seemed like a fair, and interesting question, but it caught me off-guard. While I had been all too quick to answer the other predictable questions rather expressively and confidently, I took my first long pause and inserted the time filler, “hmmm…good question…” then repeated it as if asking myself the same thing.

I knew what I wanted to say (perhaps the elephant in the room of being autistic or my crippling PTSD and anxiety?), but I felt that would instantly quell my chances at the position and was too complicated to divulge without ostensibly trying to defend myself as still a capable worker (it’s amazing how the prevailing opinion is that these “issues” would make me a subpar employee).

It may have been the pause, the flash of panic that graced my face, or some tell sign I obliviously revealed earlier in the interview, but in my pause, he added, “you know, anything personal like a challenge or condition you face or something you’ve learned about yourself.” Does he already know? Is he goading me to self-identify? I wondered.  My face instantly glowed a hot red, like when your using the Paint app and select the “fill” or “dump paint can” icon and the entire figure is flooded with color. Don’t blow it, I pleaded. My entire operating vocabulary was suddenly locked up and the only words floating within reachable grasp were those that most hopeful job candidates would keep far from any resume: autism, anxiety, weirdo, PTSD, raped-and-ruined, depression. With each half-second that passed, I could feel my mutism mounting an aggressive offensive, so I picked the least “incriminating” of the limited options still available to me, “depression!” I blurted out as if it were the solution to the final puzzle on Wheel of Fortune. Say something else, I begged of my brain. “Uh, I have chronic depression.” That doesn’t sound good I thought. I was afraid to watch his reaction on the screen but forced myself to make momentary eye contact with his video. He shifted, perhaps uncomfortably, and waited to see if I was going to say more. Nothing. “Oh,” he added, as if hearing awkward news on a first date when you’re trying to be polite but secretly disappointed or disgusted.

The energy from the entire conversation plummeted and was swallowed by each of our computer screens, leaving a vacuous and stale hum of the remote connection. Whereas before, we were volleying eloquent ideas and relaying enthusiasm with each pass, the silence now was stifling. I seemed entirely unable to even formulate a coherent sentence to thank him for his time and end the call. I considered simply x-ing out of the window and blaming technical difficulties, but God threw me a bone. I took a few deep breaths, aware that my back was now sweating under my sweater, and found my voice: “yeah, I have chronic clinical depression and it’s something I battle on basically a daily basis, but I’ve learned to cope and keep it at manageable levels.” Good start, I thought. “It’s like any problem. It’s simply a challenge that I’ve been dealt but it makes me stronger and as I’ve matured, I’ve discovered productive ways to handle it.” Give an example, I encouraged myself. “Like my dog,” I offered. “I’ve found so much joy in spending time with her and I feel like I connect with her in a meaningful way. There’s something very grounding about pets and caring for her brings me happiness.” Call in the generators. It was as if I summoned the energy back and resuscitated the conversation enough to at least give it a moonshot of a surviving chance. “I love my dog too,” he offered. “What kind do you have?” “A golden retriever!” He said. “Awesome!” I said, which, although not the most prolific response, was better than nothing.

Shortly after, we wrapped up the meeting in a slightly less awkward fashion. What I figured was just going to be a rote interview, turned into more of a stressful stimulus that I envisioned. My uncharacteristic nervousness left me surprisingly sweaty and I had to rinse off and completely change outfits before moving on to the next thing!

The whole experience made me wonder why it’s so hard to share personal information about the struggles we face. Everyone has some challenge, so I’d think it would feel more natural, or at least less mortifying and self-sabotaging, to admit them. I partially blame my self-esteem and imagine it’s never as opportunity-killing as I imagine it to be, but I think the stigma surrounding mental illnesses and autism is still a reality and such information can hurt one’s chances for a job or a second date or whatever the objective might be (save for therapy?). I have vowed to be more upfront and try to increase awareness, so I’m hoping that if this job doesn’t pan out, or even if it does, down the road, I can be more open with any self-identifying questions and not fret so frantically about the implications. Especially if I wait until I’ve demonstrated my value and command of the position, it shouldn’t hurt my reputation and instead, hopefully would dispel some of the incorrect perceived weaknesses or conflicts with my viability and merit as an employee and person.

 

Stunned into Silence

My selective mutism completely overtook me yesterday. I went several hours without the ability to speak. The little voice I was eventually able to conjure up was so feeble and small, it was like a hushed mother trying not to wake the baby in her arms. This time, it wasn’t directly tied to a medical appointment, although I did have one later in the day that I seemed nervous about. For this reason, I’m not sure that it was entirely separate and more likely, my tension and anxiety in anticipation of the appointment played a role. Still, it typically hasn’t been the case that I lose my voice prior to an appointment. Instead, I’m usually quite chatty until I enter the waiting room, and effectively smothered like a fire extinguished by a woolen blanket. 

The precipitating event yesterday seemed to be an emotional explosion in the morning. After trying repeatedly and unsuccessfully to reach Ben via his phone, I panicked that something was wrong with him and adrenaline coursed through every last millimeter of vasculature in my body. This call was already one fueled by stress because I was having debilitating dizzy spells and so I was contacting him for support. When he didn’t answer after many, many attempts, my irrational brain immediately jumped to worst case scenario stuff (car accident, bad fall, etc.) and skipped all of the more likely and less dire potential causes for his lack of reachability. (He just inadvertently fell asleep.) In fact, these sorts of realistic possibilities were not even considered for a fleeting moment; my trauma brain took over and immediately assumed the worst and only the worst.

It wasn’t until early this morning that I was able to connect the dots and make sense of that. I remember exchanging a couple of really helpful emails with one of my sisters last year about PTSD and emotional fallout from traumatic events. I had reached out to her for advice about my problems with PTSD after the attack because she had survived a bike accident years earlier, and while quite different in nature, still certainly a traumatic event to overcome. I correctly figured that she might have some tips or at least solidarity with some of the emotional demons I was facing. She told me that she had very little PTSD and was pretty much over it now but that she still would get incredibly mad at her own husband when he was unreachable, even though she couldn’t draw any connections between not being able to communicate with him and her accident. As I lay on the rug this morning thinking about things like I do every morning, trying to meditate and relax, my sister’s words suddenly helped me understand what went on with much more clarity.

Not only do I hate not being able to reach Ben if I feel like I need him, but it instantly transports me back to the first moments after I getting up from my attack because after I attended to my immediate physical problems, I sought out my phone, which had been tried from my hands and flung behind the couch, to call Ben. I called. No answer. I called. No answer. Then he texted to remind me that he was out to lunch with friends and he would contact me when he got back to the office. Instead of asserting the urgency and severity of my needs, I just felt rejected and alone. Of course, had I told him that I just got brutally attacked and raped, he would’ve been home or at the nearest hospital to meet me, as soon as the first available cab could wiz him there. I blame the complete shock I was in, the searing pain, the greatest depths of fear and disgust I had ever experienced on my inability to voice my needs. My therapist has since told me that this is a fairly normal post-traumatic response. I simply wrote back “fine,” and by the time he did call me back, I was completely consumed by silence. I just texted back that I no longer want to talk, which was technically a lie because I did want to talk but I was entirely unable to. It’s fair to say I went into a hibernation of sorts after that. I completely disconnected in all sorts of ways from him and everyone else in my life at that time for several days. Needless to say, I have more than just anxiety at face value when I can’t reach Ben when I don’t feel well; it’s inseparable from the horrific memories surrounding that dreadful day. 

Anyway, after I was finally able to wake him with call after call, I exploded at him in a tirade of tears and shouts about how he terrified me and I thought something happened to him; although unfair and irrational, I spoke the truth and my feelings were deeply seeded and real. 

The entire outburst lasted all but a couple of minutes, but it relegated me to that of a meek nonverbal mouse for six hours. I felt like an outline of a human form, one that could be blown into scattered fragments like a summer dandelion puff. Even when I walked the dog, my thoughts were just mouthed in inaudible configurations of the words I intended to say and my muscles felt melted along my bones like the feeling that only comes after being physically spent at the end of a hard race. 

By mid afternoon, I was able coax out a small voice, which was a relief because I rarely feel unable to speak for so long. I think it’s an emotional issue more so than a physical one, my autism therapist says these sorts of “shutdowns” can happen.

Even though I’m often upset and juggling a lot of demanding issues, I rarely lose my cool. I’m one of the least confrontational people I know and almost always internalize fear, anger, hurt, or overwhelm instead of letting it surge out. This unfamiliarity adds to my discomfort and shock when it does escape in a demonstrable way. I thrive on stability and predictability, and any sort of fitful anger or hysteria uproots my feeling of control, even if it is a farce in reality and unhealthy to bottle up. 

The most difficult part of the experience was explaining myself to Ben. Although I don’t concede that my exaggerated response to not reaching him was justified, I do now acknowledge why I have this post-traumatic reaction. My sister is one of the most even-keeled and logical people I know, so if even she has had similar irrational behavior, it further provides me understanding of my own panic.

The mutism must be the way my mind recoils in an attempt to restore equanimity after an emotional torrent like the echoes of deafening silence after a massive explosion. It’s an uncomfortable place because I’m the silence, I cannot express my thoughts or needs. In the silence, my brain runs discounted showings of the memories of the attack, flooding “TV screens” in my mind with simultaneous screenings of lived trauma. The verbal silence seemingly opens a permissive and inviting gate for the memories I try to suppress to air on full blast enshrouding me in the disgusting fearful garb that cloaked my entire conscious and unconscious mind post-attack. Why can’t I burn these memories and watch them rise in lofts of ash far up into the sky? Why can’t I always operate with self-control, logic, patience, and calm? When will my resilience become foolproof and my strength no longer be an act? I can’t answer these questions and I’m guessing that the answer may not be what I hope it to be, that’s why it’s more productive to focus on what I can change and the progress I have made. Yesterday’s outburst was not progress but unpacking its roots was a substantial step forward. Before today, I had no concrete grasp on what was precipitating such unduly magnified reactions. I speak frequently of wanting all of this PTSD stuff to vanish, and I do, but I’m sure there are invaluable lessons and some purpose that I am deriving from this place of pain and this space in my life. I will do my best to trust in the process of my healing, the outward expansion and inward growth that I will glean, and hope that each experience and tribulation is like a crucial piece of the foundation or scaffold from which my “building” as a human becomes better, stronger, and more useful to those around me. 

The Power of Attitude

As a young child, I was remarkably upbeat, happy, optimistic, and hopeful about my future and that of the world. Anything seemed possible and I had wholehearted confidence in my ability to transpire my dreams into my reality. Mostly, I credit my parents for fostering this attitude of wonder and self-assurance; they provided me with ample opportunities to explore the world and my capabilities and never set boundaries or limitations on what I was capable of, even if they had their own (realistic) doubts. I certainly had my fair share of physical and emotional falls and fails, but they never seemed to set me back with much permanent or lasting impact. I had a lot of behavioral problems, particularly in my first years of school and in social situations that my older sisters never displayed, and to say that I presented more of a parenting challenge throughout my entire childhood is a gross understatement. In hindsight, it’s clear that much of my misbehavior, rambunctiousness, and hair-pulling frustrating confusion was a product of my undiagnosed autism and sensory processing disorder. At the time, my hyperactivity, finicky-ness, and even “bratty and immature” behavior was attributed to ADHD and my position as the youngest of three girls. Needless to say, the routine misdemeanors, punishment, timeouts at school, less-than-stellar report card marks for behavior (and penmanship) did little to curtail my mojo and I remained a spunky, relentlessly positive kid.

Something began to shift in the months before my tenth birthday. As if double-digits inherently ushered in the cessation of innocence, verve, and faith in oneself and the world, my mindset and affect began to dramatically shift. In the manner in which a windup toy peters out as the duration of its chatter and clatter lengthens after the initial spinning charge, my zest, vigor, and sunny outlook faded in favor of a restrained, timid demeanor.* Doubt replaced hope, worry and anxiety trumped my carefree nature, pessimism extinguished optimism, and my self-esteem plummeted. Within a few months, depression clouded out the very happiness and joy that had previously bestowed upon me the nickname “the happiest girl in the world,” used lovingly, but earnestly, by my dad. A switch had been flipped and my internal world, which colored my external one, changed.

As with most things which are rarely black or white, solely good or bad, some changes brought on by this metamorphosis were beneficial: my behavior, now so reserved, no longer landed me at the back table or time-out position at school, instead, teachers remarked that I was well-behaved. The more I restrained my body and physical hyperactivity and conformed to the expectations and qualities of a mature and “good” student, the more wildly and feverishly my brain ran. There was a constant barrage of anxieties, questions, troubles, fears, and even panic. Sure, there were also hopes and constructive thoughts, mulling over things learned in school, observations made out and about, and intellectual curiosities much like those that characterized my kid brain, but it became harder to hear these over the sheer volume and strength of the pessimistic thought reel. Little did teachers know that as I sat there studiously at my desk, the littlest one in the class with a big brain and bright responses to assignments, I was filled with internal angst, confusion, and sadness. My “proper” behavior was actually just paralysis induced by depression devouring my energy and ubiquitous pensive concerns. Shortly after, I developed an eating disorder that proved to be a formidable foe for the next eight years. The depression and anxiety fueled the anorexia, which in turn, sunk me into more severe depression and calamitous anxiety.

I wish I could say that some other momentous birthday or other occasion caused the same radical about-face in my outlook as did turning ten, but truthfully, nothing had been as exorbitantly formative in changing me. With that said, particularly in recent years, I have found a better balance and allowed some of that positivity, hope, and verve to weasel its way back into my psyche and shine through the constant cacophony of worries, bleak and dispirited thoughts, and emotional pain. My inner strength and confidence have mounted as I’ve triumphed over difficulties and become a curious and dedicated student of myself. For me, self-awareness has had an instrumental role in increasing self-compassion. I’ve even surprised myself in the authenticity of my mental fortitude and strong drive to seek and recognize the silver linings in spite of some tremendous adversities I’ve faced in recent years. I’m proud of things that I’ve overcome and the resilience of my positive attitude when it would be so understandable to completely crumble.

Some days, in accordance with the idiom “fake it ’til you make it,” the optimism and emotional fortitude is somewhat of an act, a tiring attempt to feign stability and tenacity. Although exhausting, there does seem to be some payback from this practice, but thankfully, sometimes the attitude is genuine. My foot injury is an example of the former turning into the latter. After it seems like surgery was in evitable, I experienced slight improvement in the pain and swelling after weeks of nonexistent progress. I have long heard that having a good attitude through illness and injury is scientifically proven to improve healing and perhaps my desire to avoid surgery was so primal and deep that I truly convinced myself that my foot was healing. It’s not. I have objective evidence from imaging studies that fail to demonstrate an iota of progress; it’s exactly the same as it was four months ago. At first, I couldn’t believe the results; I was so assured it was physically healing because my conviction in maiming a positive outlook became so powerful. I cancelled the postponed surgery date in favor for the conservative route.

Once the initial shock delivered by the MRI’s report on the stagnant state of my foot, I sat with my feelings. In the quiet of the predawn hours where all my clearest thoughts reside, my pride and optimism stripped away, I felt the throbbing pain, the familiar ache from the initial months of injury. The pain had not just returned, it had never really gone away. I had just become committed to silencing it in hopes of encouraging my body to actually resolve it. It looks like I will need the surgery after all.

Of course, I am very disappointed I will have to have the surgery and because I have medical anxiety, I am certainly anxious for that day. However, although I was mad at myself a couple of days ago for my inability to honestly assess the pain and progress of my foot, I choose to remain proud. It’s not easy to be hopeful and positive in the face of a bad injury, let alone the larger obstacles I have faced. As the sands of hopefulness and confidence ran out of the hourglass that ushered in age ten, I lost so much more than just the innocence of childhood. It’s taken two decades to build back some of what I’ve lost and so I will honor and admire all of the positive attitude triumphs, enthusiasm, and growth mindset moments that I can cultivate.

 

*The reason that turning ten served as an impetus for such change is complicated and I’m not sure I fully understand it, but I will attempt to evaluate it at a subsequent time.

Comet

Yesterday was our seven year anniversary of adopting our beloved dog, Comet. I remember the evening; it was a Thursday and Ben picked me up in front of Queens College where I was finishing up my graduate degree in Exercise Science and Nutrition. He was driving a rented ZipCar because our puppy was in a litter being fostered in southern Connecticut. The agency, Pet Rescue, pulls dogs from kill shelters mostly in the South and brings them up to the Westchester area, where they are fostered by volunteers until adopted.

I had been begging Ben for several months to allow us to get a puppy but the time wasn’t right at first and for a short stint, we lived in a small studio in Queens where dogs were not allowed. I was going through an emotionally difficult time and desperately wanted a pet, so my mom let us temporarily foster her cat for several months. This was helpful, although it didn’t fully scratch my dog-desiring itch. For numerous reasons, the Queens apartment didn’t work out and we ultimately moved back to Harlem. This time, we landed a dog-friendly rental and I revisited the discussion. Ben, an avid dog lover, finally agreed that it could work out. I had been researching dog rescue agencies and keeping my eye out for specific dogs for several months. We didn’t have a particular breed in mind nor clearly defined desired characteristics; I was convinced I’d know the right dog when I saw her. And then I did. As soon as I happened upon Comet’s picture and short bio on Pet Rescue’s website, I was positive that she was my dog. I showed Ben, and, beginning that night, I pretended Comet was already mine. When we would ride the elevator, I would pretend she was on an invisible leash pulling me out the door. When we would walk to the subway, I would extend my arm as if she was leading the way. At night before bed, I would kiss imaginary Comet goodnight. Invisible Comet had already warmed her way into my heart. Unfortunately, we were not yet approved as viable adoptive parents according to Pet Rescue and needed to undergo their rigorous application process. I eagerly submitted the completed application, but we still had a phone interview with Katie (her foster “mom,”) a Skype tour of the apartment to verify its safety, and two references needed to call on our behalf as suitable dog owners, all while adorable Comet was up for grabs for anyone, baiting even the most cold-hearted dog hater with her adorable face. Ben was stressed. The more and more I became convinced that she was my perfect dog, the more he figured we wouldn’t be approved in time to “win” her. He also cautioned me that even if we were approved and she was still available, we should keep our mind’s open for other potential dogs, including her littermates, because you “can’t judge a dog by her photo.” I pacified him with halfhearted yeses, but inside, I knew she was my girl.

Thankfully, we worked through the hoops of the application process in an expedient fashion and were approved. (For the record, I fully believe in the need for formalized process; adopting a pet is a big responsibility.) I set up the trip to meet the foster dogs under Katie’s care and scoured Craigslist for a home crate and a travel crate. We prepared the apartment with puppy toys, the food she was used to eating, and training books.

When class let out that night, I was like a caged bird set free on her first flight. I ran to find the ZipCar and I manically chatted with Ben the whole ride about what Comet would be like and how much I would love her. When we arrived, Katie led us to the back where two litters of puppies tussled with one another. They swarmed us upon our entrance into their pen. I had a broken shoulder at the time, so I kneeled on the ground to prevent getting tangled or knocked in their play. Like a human sand pile, puppies climbed all over me and ran up and down my back and over my head. As much as I like puppies, I hate chaos and get easily overwhelmed, so I was actually fairly miserable. But then there was Comet. That sweet little girl came up somewhat gingerly. She placed her front paws on my chest and poked her neck out to smell my face, and then licked it. While puppies yipped and yelped and jumped around us, Comet and I locked eyes and connected. “That one is Comet,” said Katie. “And this is Cider, and this is Condor…” She continued to list other C-names and point to each rowdy furball. “This is her!” I said to Ben. He’s a dog magnet, so every dog loved him even more than me and he more agreeably romps and ruffles with them so he glanced over at us, said, “Are you sure?” and then fit in more puppy play time. He called her over and then engaged in spirited play and Comet seemed sold on him too.

Before we knew it, we had Comet in our new travel crate and I was sitting with her in the back of the car. For just a moment after we had pulled away from Katie’s lot, I panicked that I wouldn’t be the mom she needed or wanted and that I’d fail her. My heart started racing and I looked at her tiny little body cowering in the corner of the crate. She had seemed more energetic and spunky at Katie’s and I was worried she was overcome with sadness that we’d just pulled her from all the siblings and friends she’d ever known. She’d already lost her real mom, and I couldn’t bear thinking I was causing her more pain. I opened up the crate’s door and extended my arm inside. Little Comet was nearly trembling, but upon encountering my hand, she licked in and came to the front of the crate, nuzzling her nose through the cracked door to try and climb onto me.

From there, our bond strengthened by every hour of every day. I wasn’t working at the time, so I spent my days before class training and playing with her. She had never used a leash before, which is mandatory in Manhattan, and she wasn’t yet housetrained, so we had a lot of ground to cover. Each day was an adventure, but she was eager to please and a dedicated student.

Seven years later, a lot has changed and yet a lot remains the same. She’s still my best buddy, my companion, my sweet and loyal girl. She’s an integral cog in the Amber-Ben triad. Ben and I have moved six or seven times, held probably eight different jobs between the two of us, had several broken bones, hundreds of cries and thousands of laughs, and probably gone on enough walks with her to cover the distance across our country and back. Comet has been there for all of it. She is flexible and easy-going. She has crazy food allergies like me. She is the first to greet me every morning and it’s never with a bad mood or lackluster energy; every morning she treats me like I’m a gift, excitedly wagging, whining, and sneezing (her preferred expression of joy) when I rise. She is relentlessly loving and interested in whatever we are doing. She saved me when I didn’t want to save myself. She has been my friend when I’ve had no one to talk to. She’s taught me to be a mom and a leader, more patient and prepared. Despite all the troubles and challenges Ben and I have faced in the last seven years, it’s impossible for us to truly believe our life is unfair. We have Comet and she’s been far more than we ever dreamed she’d be.

Web

I have chronic nightmares. Sometimes they are so realistic and frightening that my brain won’t let my tired body go back to sleep afterward for fear of being transported back into the horror. Usually, they include pieces of my trauma or at least feelings or phrases that I had or heard during the attack. It’s surprisingly hard to get someone’s evil words out of your head even when they treat you utterly inhumanely and you don’t respect their opinion. Not every nightmare necessarily includes my attacker, even if it does include reminders of the attack, and even still, not every nightmare relates to that. My therapist says that this type of gross sleep disturbance, even long-term, is normal in these situations.

The other night, my sleep brain had me in the familiar supine position with the feeling of a suffocating body cracking down on my ribs. I couldn’t see his face, but I had the knife blade and choking sensation. Thankfully this time, unlike in real life, I was being tortured over something that now seems comical: that I had never read Charlotte’s Web and didn’t know the story. I woke suddenly in my usual gasping-for-air panic, relieved that it was unrealistic enough to know it was just a bad dream and that I wasn’t going to live through another torturing just for failing to read an iconic children’s classic.

Still, I decided perhaps this was a subliminal message that I should read the book; after all, I’d give anything to make the real memory go away, and since I can’t seem to do that, I can try to resolve the petty issues in some of the less-severe nightmares.

As unpopular of a sentiment this likely is, I generally do not enjoy reading literature. I’d venture to guess that 49 times out of 50, I gravitate towards a nonfiction book over fantasy, science fiction, historical fiction, or any type of creative literature. I seem to really struggle to imagine things that are not portrayed extremely realistically; even then, if the context of the book is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced in at least some tangential fashion, it’s frustratingly challenging for me to relate to or get into. Luckily, perhaps due to my strange empathetic skill, I do seem to possess a strong innate ability to see similarities in many superficially different topics. Many struggles have the same universalities.

For the record, there certainly have been many great literary works I’ve enjoyed, but the ease, speed, and appreciation with which I enthusiastically devour nonfiction pieces far and beyond outshadows this number. I think it has something to do with the fact that I am essentially unable to picture anything I’ve never seen. I can listen to the most detailed description of something and absorb all of the words and their essence, but be completely blind to conjuring up a mental image of that description. Consequently, it’s hard to develop relationships with the characters or storyline. I imagine that my substantially challenged ability to read facial expressions and understand people also gets in the way of bonding with or at least following the thoughts, emotions, and decisions of characters. When discussing my evaluation results with the neuropsychologist, he said this can be a challenge for those on the autism spectrum; it’s not a complete lack of creativity, but more of a difficulty imagining a different reality. You’d think then that I’d be fine watching movies since the ambiguity is removed or the guesswork is taken out of imagining how things look, but I mostly only enjoy documentaries, food TV, or shows where you get to know the characters so well over time that their mannerisms, expressions, motives, and language, become more understandable. In any fantastical book or even fictional storyline, I find myself completely lost. I’m unable to follow the plot or keep track of the characters in most cases because I’m missing crucial pieces of information.

I don’t know if this is the reason that I’ve never read or seen Charlotte’s Web. Since the library had it on the shelf and it looked short enough to squeeze in between various obligatory readings, I figured it was worth a shot.

I liked it. I was astonished at how much. As I suspect most people do, I cried when Charlotte died. In retrospect, perhaps this is the reason my parents didn’t encourage me to read this book when I was younger. Although it’s presented as a children’s book, it not only deals with many adult themes, but it also is emotionally mature. Ultimately, I think that’s what makes a good piece of literature: it has a lasting impact on a person and it can be universally understood across the ages or types of people (even if it’s fictional!). I was overly sensitive and emotional as a child-which, apparently is a quality that I have not shaken-and after physically throwing my body on the floor and flailing my limbs in a fitful tear-filled meltdown after the dog dies in John Reynolds Gardiner’s Stone Fox, I’m guessing my parents steered me toward more soundly upbeat stories. I guess I wasn’t ready for the pain and sorrow of reality…

Charlotte’s Web deals so beautifully with the themes of friendship, sacrifice, the circle of life, ingenuity, love, loyalty, and growing up. Despite the significant need to suspend disbelief and buy into the conversations and relationships between the animals themselves and Fern, I found it surprisingly easy to relate to the different characters and imagine it enough that I could follow the storyline (it helped that it was basic enough because it’s intended for children!). I wonder if the fact that I seem to understand animals better than people in real life played to my advantage as well!

While I found many powerful quotes in the book, particularly pertaining to friendship (and one depressingly relatable one from Wilber about unhappiness and loneliness) my favorite of all was delivered by Fern’s pediatrician, Dr. Dorian, after her mother asks him if he had heard that the spider was spinning words in her web.

He replied: “I don’t understand it. But for that matter I don’t understand how a spider learned to spin a web in the first place. When the words appeared, everyone said they were a miracle. But nobody pointed out that the web itself is a miracle.”

How true on so many levels. For me, it was a reminder to appreciate the small things—the magic in the mundane—and to not always be chasing something bigger and better. Sometimes, the very best things are the things we easily take for granted and it isn’t until there’s a blatantly clear sign of something miraculous that we pause enough to consider that the simple act itself—the thing that’s been there all along—is something wonderfully special as well.

(Nature is amazing.)

Superhero Mom

In honor of Mother’s Day, I thought I would dedicate a brief post to my mom, who, for all intents and purposes, is really a superhero masquerading as a mom. Although I’m an adult and old enough to be a mom myself, I still need her; in fact, possibly more now than ever. And as a young adult with a chronic illnesses, autism, depression, and PTSD (to name just a few of my challenges), my mom has an overwhelmingly difficult task, yet she far exceeds any expectation or definition of a “mom” that I’ve encountered.

For someone who has such a easy time writing about quite a variety of topics, I always find it difficult to explicitly and effectively convey how much of “my everything” my mom is. I think that’s it though:  she is so much more than just a wonderful mom. She’s a dependable friend, an informed counselor, a confidant, a cheerleader, an unwavering source of support, to name a few. Maybe her importance in all of these roles and all of the many other hats she wears for me is so influential and necessary is because she is, in many cases, “the” instead of “a” for these roles: a sole warrior on the “Amber team”, working tirelessly behind the scenes to support my needs and dreams. It may sound cliché, but outside of the dyad of Ben and me, my mom is my best friend and my support system no matter what storms I have to weather. I’m not an easy person to befriend, given my physical restrictions for health reasons and my social confusion and blindness. Given my pain and my problems, I’m certainly not a pleasant or positive person many times, and against all odds and every challenge, my mom persists. I have yet to reach a day where my mom throws in the towel on any one of those crucial and tremendously generous hats she will don for me. This dependability has taught me to trust in her unconditional love and just be honest and open about my worries, problems, and even my lofty goals. I used to deeply dread being the bearer of bad news or opening up about some of my issues because I wanted her to see me as successful and well-adjusted. That facade is long gone! When I reflect on what changed, I think it was my ability to have faith (after continued reinforcement through her consistent backing of my needs) that mom was going to love me and help me no matter what. This is the most priceless and important gift anyone in life can receive. No matter what battles I need to face, I feel confident that I have a dedicated teammate who will help me face the challenge, strategize a way to work through it, and ultimately defeat it.

My mom carries a tremendous amount of wisdom, knowledge, patience, and dedication to learning about my problems and conditions so that she can both understand me and help me understand myself so that I am more comfortable and better off. Again, this is one of the most selfless and generous gifts I could possibly receive. My mom gives me her time, concern, compassion, and her strength when I don’t have enough of my own. Her unwavering support and love have stripped away some of the anxiety and guilt that I tend to innately bear for being “different” and “difficult.”

Perhaps equally important is how honored and special I feel that my mom allows me to be one of her best friends. She is open and honest with me and entrusts me with her own fears, pains, and emotions. As someone who has very few friends, this reciprocity in conversation and support makes me feel valued, respected, and purposeful.

I hope, for both of our sakes, that this year will be smoother, with fewer challenges and more clarity, comfort, success, and happiness. At the same time, I feel blessed that I can rely on my mom’s support in whatever way I need it and reciprocate this to the best of my ability, though we better not be evaluated on the same rubric because I’m more than a few paces behind her!

To my mom on this Mother’s Day (and every other day): Thank you for being everything I need on any given day and seamlessly shapeshifting to fill that need. I used to make you plaques and awards for Mother’s Day that read: World’s Greatest Mom, but as I’ve grown up I’ve found this to be a significant understatement. You are by far more than the best mom ever; you’re the best everything-I-need-you-to-be ever.

Small Victory

I had a medical appointment victory yesterday, which was especially welcome after a stumble on Wednesday, where, Ben accompanied me to my appointment, but I still left feeling overwhelmed and had a post-appointment stress meltdown in the car.

Yesterday, I not only went alone, but I saw a new doctor at a further hospital (I hate driving, so this was a triumph in and of itself), stuck out the hour-long wait for my behind-schedule appointment (all while getting a worse SPD- and anxiety-induced headache), and then talked to the new doctor. He even said I was “amazingly self-expressive and precise” in my ability to discuss my problems. What are the chances?!

After initially getting off to my typical monosyllabic I-forget-why-I’m-here/I’m-too-overwhelmed-to-talk start, I pulled out my phone and showed him what I had written down: “I am on the autism spectrum and I get a little nervous and shy but I’m really glad to be meeting with you because I have not been feeling well.” Following this line, I had written a list of my current symptoms. Thankfully, he also had my hefty medical records, which he had taken the time to review before I even entered the room; I guess this is why this guy is worth the drive and the wait! Upon reading my prompt, he immediately said he’d start with the talking and when I was ready to respond, I could jump right in.

His method worked fantastically. At first, we sort of briefly addressed the pertinent highlights in my chart: I confirmed them with a nod, and then verbal affirmations, and after a few minutes, with coherent elaboration and explanation where warranted. Before I knew it, I was discussing my current problems in language that made sense to me. He chuckled as he took notes while I spoke. At first it bothered me and then I asked him what was so funny, to which he replied, “You describe things in a unique way and very directly. You admit a lot of things people won’t and it’s refreshing how candid you are.” He apologized for laughing and said he wasn’t trying to laugh at me. I assured him now that I knew why he was laughing, I wasn’t at all offended and to “laugh away because I’m a bit of a weirdo and have no problem admitting my weaknesses.” That seemed to seal the deal in assuring my comfort with him and after that, we had a fluid conversation and I even allowed him to examine me—a process that is usually like wrestling an uncooperative toddler into a snowsuit because I don’t like to be touched.

This doctor not only had fabulous bedside manner and admirable patience, but he was also bright and action-oriented. Too many times it seems like doctors just shuttle me from specialist to specialist or test to test without actually interpreting anything or making a treatment plan besides either taking the “wait and see” approach or the “go elsewhere” one. Although this doctor is sending me for more tests and referring me to two other specialists, he gave me two diagnoses after reviewing the tests I’ve already had and will follow up with me in three weeks after the other information is received to complete the necessary picture for a treatment plan.

All in all, I’m really glad that my phone prompting approach worked and that this doctor had the tools and time to work within my needs. I’m also proud of myself for sticking out the wait because I got paid back in dividends with quality care. Prior to the appointment, as I waited in the loud and stressful waiting room minute after minute beyond my scheduled appointment time, I texted with Ben about how desperately I wanted to leave and I told him I was planning to shortly. After I was weighed and the doctor was entering my information, I texted Ben, “Ugh, just now getting in.” Of course, as the doctor was scrolling on my phone to review my notes, the text alert from Ben saying, “finally!” flashed on the phone’s screen. The doctor said, “someone named Ben just gave you an enthusiastic ‘finally’!” I said, “That’s my husband’s response after I complained sorely about how I wanted to bag this whole thing because I was tired of waiting.”

He laughed. I laughed.

As I left, I emphatically thanked him for helping me and I said, “I’m not pandering to you but something in me knew you’d be worth the wait!”

I do think I fell into the hands of a competent and compassionate provider but I also think my phone strategy and my bravery helped me in this interaction. I left feeling completely exhausted—even more so than usual after an appointment—but instead of being frustrated, more anxious, and confused, I felt informed, confident, and proud.

 

Lonely

I’m painfully lonely today. This is certainly not an unfamiliar feeling for someone as introverted, socially-avoidant, and socially-isolated as me, but it’s worse today than usual. I’m usually quite satisfied with somewhat robotically and unemotionally going through my day in solitude and that’s exactly how virtually every weekday is, except for the frequent spattering of appointments throughout my week. I work full-time from my home office and Ben and I can count the minutes, rather than hours, that we are in one another’s company each day; our schedules don’t overlap well. I don’t have kids and I don’t have any local friends I spend time with since, in the timeline of someone on the spectrum (who has trouble making friends and doing social things), we’ve basically just moved here. It’s been five months and four days, but who’s counting…

Anyway, today I’m wearing the loneliness like a full-body leaden radiation shield. It’s not the comforting and calming weighted blanket feel; it’s the heavy trapping feeling like trying to fight a strong undertow to get back on shore after a long swim. It’s days like today that the familiar welling of tears keeps filling my eyelids and I have to instantly distract myself to avoid succumbing to their flow. 

My house is cold, both literally and figuratively. It’s an unusually chilly May afternoon and the pervasive grayness has prevented any sunlight from warming the room. The thermostat reads 56, which is even colder than the uncomfortably cool 58 we permitted in the winter to save money. I can taste the figurative coldness, the loneliness, the lack of vitality. When I came back from OT this morning, it overwhelmed me as I approached the front door, the coldness in here hit me like a gust of November air with wet leaves. I could see it, smell it, taste it, and feel it. Coldness like this gnaws on my stomach and encourages me to eat, even though I’m uncomfortably full, to ease the ache and fill the void I feel from lack of human connection. 

The real reason days like today bother me is because I know they aren’t isolated incidents in that it’s not an unusually quiet day that will pass. It’s symptomatic of the life I lead and very much a chronic condition. I want two opposing things at the same time and it’s virtually impossible to rectify that in an agreeable fashion: I long for love and company yet I’m wildly uncomfortable, overwhelmed, and exhausted by it. I prefer to feel connected yet I struggle to connect. Social interaction is my constant logic puzzle or science experiment, as I must carefully observe, analyze, and try to understand and replicate the needed responses. I miss the opportunity to enjoy the moment and be present in the engagement because I’m busy “working” to make sense of it. It’s like instead of watching the production, I’m manning the spotlights and just waiting for the cues instead of comprehending the meaning of the play. It’s not until after the friend and I have departed and gone our separate ways that I can then run back through everything that happened and try to gather the meaning from the whole rather than each individual part. It is then I can assign emotional significance to what happened and not just the literal meaning of each sentence, that I so carefully followed in a calculated manner to determine my next question or response. I appear articulate and like I’m understanding (I hope) because a ton of legwork is quickly and constantly being performed in my head, but unlike a computer, it’s hard for me to simultaneously carry out all of these processes so some information gets stuck in the holding area, a backlog of sorts, that I evaluate later, even if I don’t want to anymore (like if I’m trying to sleep). Unresolved material begs to be processed before moving on to the next activity, which is one reason why social things can be so tiring: for me, they extend well beyond the end of the interaction. 

Any potential sensory overload aside (say we were out and about doing something), my brain will not cease analytic activity until it has completely finished assessing and cataloging all of the verbal, nonverbal, environmental, and contextual information from the encounter. Then, for some reason, after that lengthy and arduous process seems satisfactorily completed, it starts digging up prior social encounters (either organically experienced or observed on TV or elsewhere) and reassessing those or comparing the new material to whatever is stored in memory. There can be no obvious relation but I have to ride out the digestion because I can’t quell it. Sometimes, useful connections are made, such as relating a new discussion about a friend’s volatile freelance job situation with a prior conversation about stressful financial times. Frequently, it’s useless details or seemingly elementary concepts: the geometric pattern of someone’s earrings reminded me of the sweater of someone at the library four months ago or people’s lips purse when they are hesitant to answer a personal question (nonverbal patterns take up a disproportionately large percentage of my brain processing speed and mental attention).

Days like today are somewhat like getting a lousy performance appraisal or report card; all of my acknowledged weaknesses are directly handed to me in objective language. The insecurities I have, the deficiencies I know to be problematic, are presented in clear view and the only possible reaction is to yet again acknowledge their presence and significance. We all want to be “successful” or at least see progress, so it’s ego deflating and discouraging to get reminders of the contrary. As someone who’s naturally and habitually critical of myself, I’m fully aware of many of my challenges and must deliberately try to recognize growth and give myself credit when it’s due. This is not one of those cases. I’m lonely because I live a pretty isolated life and my good friends all live quite some distance from me.

Today, like many days, I turned to Comet for support and, as always, found her love to be boundless and her attentiveness to be unparalleled. While this is truly one of the wonderful blessings of having a loving pet, I want today’s pain to remind me to continue to make a concerted effort to reach out to people I already know and try and cultivate those friendships and also push myself to make new friends in my community. Although this is probably my biggest challenge and least comfortable position, ultimately, it is a required means to the end I desire: meaningful connections with friends who I can spend time with in an emotionally gratifying way. Loneliness carries a potent heartache; I battle enough pains as it is. Alleviating this one will not only eliminate its insult, but friendship has the transformative power to lessen other pains as well. I could use all of that medicine that I can get.

 

Am I Safe? Are You Harmless?

Yesterday, at urgent care, I had my first trauma-related mini panic attack in a long time. It used to be a disturbingly frequent problem but with therapy, time, and courage, I’ve started regaining trust in men. I’m now able to make a critical distinction: not all men are likely perpetrators of rape or attack. Most men, like most women, are good people trying their best to lead honorable and meaningful lives (or at least not criminal ones). My attacker was the exception to the rule, not the rule itself. After the attack, I feared every man, even ones I knew (except a handful of close friends or relatives). As such, any time I was in close proximity to a man, especially in secluded or isolated environments, I’d panic. My brain would flood with worries: would he touch me, hurt me, have a knife or weapon on his person, hate me for some unknown reason or have some other motive? Was he getting too close to my body? Was there an exit close by? Physical symptoms would mount just as rapidly in tandem with my spiraling thoughts, racing heart, dizziness, a feeling of facial flushing then rapid draining of color, whispers of nausea building to overwhelming sickness. Worse, as if erasing the months passed since the trauma, I’d feel physical reminders of the wounds I had suffered, as if still etched in gaping scabs and swollen bruises on my skin. Even when I’d have flashbacks while doing everyday activities like driving, sitting in class, or grocery shopping, I’d re-feel pain from the injuries I suffered during the attack sort of like when you see a graphic scene in a movie or real life when someone incurs a serious injury and for a fleeting second, you grab that same body part on your own body as if recoiling in reactive pain and verifying your body is fine.

Anyway, for the first year after the attack, any encounter with an unfamiliar man catapulted me into panic or flashbacks. The reaction was so automatic and so dramatic that I found it very limiting. I never wanted to find myself in a situation where I’d be one-in-one with a man or the only woman in a group. So, I stayed home. I avoided asking my male professors in my graduate program any questions during their office hours or while my peers were filing out of class, even if I was clueless about assignments or concepts. Email was my only vehicle of communication. I couldn’t risk it. (Surprisingly, a number of my professors turned out to be instrumental in helping me defeat this crippling anxiety by, of course, being so friendly and harmless.)

Eventually, I got over it by slowly loosening my grasp and gradually letting the fear slip away, by taking small, manageable steps at first, restoring some confidence, amassing successfully safe interactions, and continually trying to expand the “risks” I took to conquer more and more normal situations.

Yesterday, my encounter with the x-ray tech caused all the anxious feelings to flood back in and swell to a critical mass in my brain. With the door shut behind me, I felt mildly nervous, but with all my injuries in the past couple of years, it was certainly not my first time post-attack in a closed room with a male technician; I can think of at least five this year already! Perhaps it was slightly more anxiety-provoking because I had on a gown with no pants or underwear. I don’t know if this is inappropriate to admit or helpful to those with SPD but I can’t wear underwear. I’ve tried every kind imaginable and nothing is comfortable. Like socks, something seamless may first seem tolerable, but then suddenly, it becomes a screaming impossibility to handle. I’ve been known to stop dead in my tracks while out and about and frantically rip my shoes off to peel away my socks when the sensory threshold is surpassed. I rarely see it coming, but even in January, among the icy sidewalks carved into knee-high banks of snow, I’d plop right down and remove my boots to free my feet from a sock: trudging back home with cold, wet feet was still preferable to suffering the offending sock. I imagine this same solution for uncomfortable underwear is beyond socially acceptability, so it’s better to start with nothing! Luckily, the types of pants and shorts I wear and of comfortable fabrics and loosely-fitting designs (though they leave much to be desired in terms of fashion!).

All this is to say that I ended up on the x-ray table with no pants or underwear. A thin, gauzy white gown was my only shield. I lay there, staring up into the machine’s camera arm, my own arms folded over my chest as instructed waiting. Tim, the technician, tinkered on the computer to enter my demographics. With the light out, my heartbeat starting accelerating; first, it was hardly noticeable, but with my hands over my chest, I quickly realized that it was not only beating quickly, it was also pounding, visually displacing my hands up and down with each beat. Relax, I told myself. When Tim emerged from the small closet containing his desk and computer, my ears started ringing and I became dizzy. “Are you OK?” He asked. I nodded yes, unable to speak, but my spooked eyes were a tell that I was lying. “You are very crooked on the table,” he commented. “Can you straighten yourself out?” As I have terrible kinesthetic awareness and body position sense, I am never surprised to hear this and have received similar instructions almost every time I’m at an appointment. I tried my best to align my body on the table. He started gently pushing my shoulders and straightening my neck and then my feet to position me appropriately for the picture. Like a reflex or the pop of a Jack-in-the-box, my limbs recoiled into a tight tuck position over my trunk to avoid his touch. “You’re fine! I’m just getting your spine lined up here. Don’t worry I’ve done this for years!”

I pleaded with my mind to relax. I didn’t want to feel afraid of him, and logically, I knew that he was totally harmless. In fact, I felt guilty even having unintentional anxieties about the situation. We tried again to situate my body as well as possible and then he swung the overhead camera into its designated location. He reached over me to palpate my iliac crests in tandem to verify proper positioning and a level pelvis. This is it, I thought. I squeezed my eyes as if to will myself out of the situation and transport myself to safety. But, I was safe. Just as he should be and just as he should have clearly seemed, Tim was a harmless healthcare worker trying to do his job in providing necessary medical images for my care. He retreated to his computer command station, told me to hold my breath and not move, and snapped an image. As he repositioned me for the next series, I was visibly more relaxed, and a wave of relief came over me, not just because nothing had happened and I knew that I was safe, but because ultimately, I knew the whole time that I was in good hands but my anxious reaction seemed entirely out of my control. I was embarrassed by it the moment it began stewing, and struck by how unfamiliar the reaction had become to me—a testament to the vast improvements I’ve made over the past two years. What was once as natural and automatic as turning my head when someone says my name has gradually become a faint memory, an abandoned instinct like a long-forgotten nickname whose familiarity only resurfaces years later when you hear it again.

It’s easy to feel displeased with my behavior/reaction during the imaging because it feels like I must’ve taken steps back. I’m hoping it makes sense to simply blame it on the stress and frequency of my recent medical appointments. I also choose, in this situation, to recognize the progress I have made. The encounter served as a helpful reminder of how far I’ve come, how unfamiliar and removed I felt from those once-pervasive worries, and how naturally and normally I now face everyday situations without the looming fears of getting victimized by every passing man.

Sick

Something has been off in my body for the past 24, 48, 72 hours. I don’t feel well, though it’s fairly non-specific and generalized: malaise, aches, heaviness and swelling in my joints, unrelenting headache, throbbing muscles scattered throughout my body, and vague nausea. This type of mild sickness is unfortunately fairly common for me, but that doesn’t make it any less disruptive or any easier to get through. It is often accompanied by a low-grade fever and dizziness, but so far, I’ve been spared of those symptoms in this current bout (although the magnitude of the body aches and headache seem to be proportionately worse to compensate!).

Besides the discomfort of coping with the symptoms of feeling unwell (the throbbing joint and muscle pain is the most bothersome problem), I have to combat the sensory symptoms, which are always exacerbated with this sort of illness. In fact, sometimes it is unclear whether I have an actual virus or biological underpinning to feeling sick, or if it’s a product of sensory processing disorder, PTSD, autism overload, or a combination thereof. I have reason for my suspicion as I always seem to get this concoction of symptoms after being in overstimulating environments, experiencing triggering or anxiety-provoking events, or socially stressful and overwhelming situations. It’s plausible that these psychological or emotional stressors do lower my immunity, leaving me susceptible for viral or bacterial invasion of some sort, but the typical timing of events makes that unlikely, as it occurs immediately afterward. The only difference is that these bouts last for several days with no respite, whereas unadulterated sensory overload or emotional fatigue can often be resolved with a long afternoon and full night of rehab and relaxation.

Whatever the cause, when I am sick, my auditory and tactile defensiveness are the most affected: countless tiny sounds—ones even I can normally tolerate—are excruciating. For example, I usually enjoy the sound of birds sweetly singing, but I can’t handle it today. I have noise-canceling hunting headphones, but I can still hear them through those, plus wearing them seems to turn the amplifier on my own physiologic sounds, turning the volume up on my heartbeat, the fluid rushing through my ears, and the normal whisper of my relaxed breath nearly bellows in this internal cocoon. I seem to be able to discern every square millimeter of skin and each individual hair’s slight position change when I move. I can’t allow any part of my body to touch another (like the side of one foot lying adjacent to the other) without triggering a cascade of overloading signals to my brain and bothering not just the skin of the offending parts, but my headache as well. Nothing I’ve tried (ibuprofen, ice, heat, lying down like a pancake, a dark room, a pillow over my head, the headphones, Benadryl, drinking water or tea, etc.) has helped to reset my threshold or reduce the sensory discomfort because it’s not really the illness symptoms that are bothering me so greatly; it’s the sensory issues screaming out with reckless abandon. It is hard to distract myself and divert my attention to something fun or engaging because if it alleviates one symptom, it aggregates another. For example, littering bags of frozen peas on all of the swollen joints around my body lessens the inflammation and provides temporary pain relief, but it irritates my sensitive skin so much that it feels like needles are being plunged into the surrounding tissues. Moreover, I seem to be unable to push through the fatigue into any reasonable level of productivity.

I am not pleased that this is a litany of complaints and negativity, but it is my reality, and it’s not productive nor honest to pretend that everything is fine when it’s not. I strive to be more positive but to maintain the integrity of this blog, I also share my tribulations and moments of mental weakness.

I’ve been here many times before; in fact, it happens nearly weekly, though normally for a truncated duration compared to this current affliction. Time is the only agent of improvement. The sole “solution” is patience and trying to stay calm. And so I wait, testing my inner strength to stay distracted and calm, exercising my resilience and physical tolerance, and stretching my hope that it’ll subside in the coming days.