A Newfound Zest For Life

Hey, friends.

So, I know I have quite a few people who enjoy my more long-winded chats with y'all. It could be a speech about Autistic rights, a funny story about something that happened to me at the grocery store, or some other piece of prose. Today could be a long one, so pull up a chair, grab a hot chocolate and a cookie, and get comfy, cause we're gonna have a chat.

So, some of you all may have noticed that I haven't been posting as much on Facebook anymore. This is partly because I'm working full-time, partly because I'm out there living my best life in the best way I know how, making memories with people I care a lot about... but also due to some personal reasons. That's what I want to talk about.

Most of my Facebook friends, are people that I've either known for a long time, or had on my friends list a long time. And, that's the thing. When people know you for a long time, they, well, know you. What you like and dislike, what you're passionate about, the things that make you tick or make you sad or angry.

So what happens when someone changes?

See, here's the thing. In my lifetime, I've been very passionate about my beliefs. Passionate to the point that, especially when I was younger, I actually became a bit of an arse about it.

Impossible, you say? Kind, sweet, gentle, innocent Hannah would never.

Well, I was. And I fully own it. I pushed my beliefs on people who didn't want to hear it. I drove people, friends, away. I have people now that want nothing to do with me, not because of the beliefs I held, but because of the way I presented them. I created drama. I started Facebook fights. I got into blocking wars. I called people out publicly. I was a stuck-up snob. I was right, about everything, all the time. Your lived experience didn't match my personal beliefs? Too bad, you're wrong.

Typical teen years garbage, I suppose, only instead of it being high school drama, it was religious drama. I had a lot of rigid, inflexible thinking, something that I've been working on over the past few years.

But anyway, this post wasn't meant to be a confessional of all my shortcomings. I save that for therapy, LOL. My point is, people know me. Or think they do.

Which brings me back to my original point... what happens when people change?

I have so much joy in my life. I have so many things I'm passionate about. But I don't post them. Why? Not because I'm afraid. Well, maybe that's a lie... I am a bit afraid. Yeah... bold, fearless Hannah, afraid.

Not exactly afraid that people are going to come after me with torches and pitchforks... I'd like to believe that we as a society have (mostly) moved past our hatred, or fear of, or loathing of, or disdain for, people of other religions and other faiths. But change is difficult. Not just difficult for the person who's changed, but difficult for the people who've known you all your life, who expect you to stay the same, and who can't understand why in the world you'd want to change.

Some may say that it's because I wanted to be able to sin. That one makes me laugh... I'd say that at this point I probably live a more moral life than at any other point. At least, I'm much more forgiving than I used to be. More compassionate, more understanding, quicker to give second chances. Less angry. Less bitter. Less judgmental, for sure.

Some may say I backslid. I prefer to say that I just stopped holding onto things that were causing me harm and pain. Sometimes, letting go is the bravest thing you can do.

Some may call me lost. I don't quite think that's accurate... because, after years of living a lie, I'm finally starting to find myself. Starting to discover who I truly am. Starting to love myself, truly, madly, deeply.

Changing what you believe doesn't happen all at once. It happens, slowly, one unanswered question at a time. It's not easy. It's hard, it's painful, I would not wish it on anyone. But sometimes it is so very necessary; for your happiness, for your mental health, for your physical health, for so many other reasons.

So, where do I go from here?

I don't know. I really don't know. I know that I long to share the happiness I've found with my friends... carefully, because in my new faith, we don't believe in converts. We believe in loving others and allowing them to find their own way, their own path, gradually and naturally. Every person's path is different. Yours will not be mine, and mine will not be yours, and that's okay.

And that's why I don't post as often on Facebook. Because I'm bubbling over with newfound zest for life, and I'm afraid that, like a butterfly with still-damp wings, that will be crushed into oblivion by people who are only here to argue, to tell me I'm wrong, that I'm sinning, that I'm going to hell, that what I've experienced can't possibly be real, that I'm deceived, that I'm a devil-worshipper, and on and on it goes.

Because I WAS that person. And I know the hurt that well-meaning humans are capable of causing.

But at the same time, I want to talk about it.

I want to talk about how meaningful it is to re-decorate my altar with each turn of the Wheel of the Year. I want to talk about how I connect to the Earth during my hikes. I want to talk about how I sat in rapturous silence and gazed at the Moon for an hour, and what I learned while sitting beneath my favorite balsam fir. I want to talk about baking muffins full of good intentions for Lammas, and sharing them with my friends, and how much joy celebrating the harvest gives me, and how I feel so much more connected and loved since I started honoring and remembering my ancestors at Samhain, and how I don't suffer from seasonal depression anymore since I started celebrating Winter Solstice.

I want to share all those things. And maybe I will, someday. When it feels safe.

But for now, maybe it's enough to say that I'm a new person, and with meeting new people, comes an introduction.

Hi, I'm Hannah. I'm a ginger, I'm Autistic, I love nature and my friends and horses and the color purple, and I'm a Pagan.

Christianity, Buddhism, And How I Befriended My Anxiety

 

Image description: A small Buddha figurine seated among
smooth stones and green plants. Photo by simardfrancois on Pixabay.

When I was a child, I had no word to describe what anxiety was.

I knew that anxiety meant being nervous. I heard growing up that "Everyone gets anxious sometimes." and "It's normal to be a bit anxious."

But I had no words to describe the monster that lurked over my shoulder, ready to strike without warning.

I would be invited to a friend's birthday party. There would be cake, balloons, games, laughter. I couldn't wait to go.

Then suddenly, I would be sick. Horrible pains would seize my stomach, making me cry out in pain. Nauseated, I would run to the bathroom... again, and again, and again. I would feel dizzy. I would sweat. I would see black spots swarming in front of my eyes, and I would slump to the floor gasping for breath. All I wanted was to crawl into my bed, close my eyes, and rest.

My mom would pick up the phone. "I'm so sorry, Hannah won't be able to make it today. She's feeling sick."

Then she would tuck me into bed, bring me a drink, and offer some noodle soup or toast, which I always refused. When the sickness came on me, I couldn't even be in the same room as food.

Family trips became a torture. As much as I loved to travel, and have fond memories of visiting different provinces, a lot of my time was spent shivering by the roadside, sobbing as my stomach tried to rebel against whatever mouthful or two I'd managed to force down. My mom holding a raincoat over my head, holding a wad of tissues, offering comfort as best she could.

Finally, fearing something was wrong, they took me to a doctor. I was poked and prodded, sent to a neighboring hospital for an ultrasound. The ultrasound technician was overly hearty, and I inwardly squirmed, stoic on the outside as always. Even at the age of ten, I hated being talked to like I was a baby, and I could always tell when adults were being patronizing.

Test results came back clear: my parents and I heaved signs of relief.

"She probably just has anxiety," the doctor mused by way of explanation.

It didn't compute to me. Anxiety was the nervousness I felt before taking an English test. It wasn't the bone-jarring, stomach twisting sickness that would strike out of the blue whenever a routine would be changed or I was required to try something new.

But, seeing as there was nothing we could do, I learned to live with it.

Image Description: Wooden Scrabble tiles spelling out the word
"Anxiety". Photo by WOKANDAPIX on Pixabay

As a child, my family were churchgoers with one station on our rabbit-eared TV. So it was exciting when we bought a satellite dish, and found a plethora of Christian stations featuring prominent televangelists.

I was always a "good" child, very pious and eager to keep from displeasing God in any way. As an undiagnosed Autistic, I frequently developed intense interests and rituals around things that made me feel safe, and church was one of those things. Of course, these important men with three-piece suits, gold cuff links, smooth voices, educated views, and congregations numbering in the thousands, must be very close to God. With the innocent faith and trust of many Autistic people, it never occurred to me that people could lie, or be manipulative for their own gain. It certainly never crossed MY mind to do so, and I couldn't fathom anyone else doing so. So I took everything these preachers said at face value, and gobbled up every word they said.

"Jesus can heal sickness!" A preacher boomed. "You just have to ask!"

I listened attentively. So here then, was the answer! I simply had to ask, and my sickness would be gone!

Childlike, I wrote down my petition and tucked it away, thinking that if it was written down, maybe God could see it better and He would be sure not to forget.

And I waited.

And nothing happened.

"It's not enough to just ask," another preacher droned. "You must have FAITH."

"Faith," I said to myself, nodding wisely. I could do that. I would pray more. I would try, again, to start the habit of reading the Bible every day. That would show God I have faith.

And still, I clung to the toilet a few days later, stomach heaving.

"It doesn't require much faith," another white-coated speaker crooned. "Jesus said you just need faith 'as a grain of mustard seed'."

My mom had mustard seeds in her kitchen. They were extremely tiny.

Well, I reasoned, if THAT'S all the faith it takes, surely I have that much? But why am I still sick?

"The Children of Israel gave sacrifices!" a black-suited preacher yelled, waving his arms. "How can you expect God to give to you if you never give to Him?"

A-ha! Now here was something I could do! I counted out my precious coins that I been saving for years. The preacher said if I gave a "seed gift" I would be healed. Confidently, I sent my gift away, and waited. Any day now, I was sure. Any day.

"Claim your healing!" A jovial pastor exclaimed cheerfully. "Next time you have a cold, don't say, 'I'm sick', say 'I'm healed in Jesus' Name'!"

"I'm healed... I'm healed... I'm healed in Jesus' Name... I'm not sick, I'm healed..." I lay down in the middle of the bathroom floor and wondered if this would be the day the pain would finally kill me. "If I die, at least I'll be in Heaven with Jesus."

Or would I?

"Sickness is of Satan!" A preacher glared, with fiery eyes and voice. "You need to tell the devil to get behind you!"

My stomach lurched in protest. Did I have a demon? Is that why I was still sick? But if I had a demon, how did it get there? And how did I get it out?

Slowly, I became convinced that I must secretly be an awful person. I was full of sin and evil and absolutely worthless without God, just like the preachers said. If I wasn't healed, then it must be my fault. They insisted that Jesus WANTED to heal me, and if He didn't, it meant I either didn't have enough faith, or I wasn't trying hard enough.

Slowly, as I grew older, seeking healing from anxiety became an obsession... that ironically, caused me to spiral deeper into anxiety.

Every time I found myself on the bathroom floor at 2 in the morning, I would run through all the reasons I wasn't healed. I would babble Bible verses on healing until they lost all meaning. I would frantically confess every sin I could think of and even a few I don't think I'd ever committed, just to be sure. I would promise to read my Bible more. I would yell at the devil and tell him to get out. I would spend hours on my knees in prayer, hopeful that maybe THIS time, God would see the sacrifice I was making, and find it in His heart to heal me.

Because, you see, God is perfect. And compassionate. And merciful.

So if I wasn't healed, it was all my fault.

All... my... fault.

I became twisted. I became so obsessed with my own guilt and shame that I could hardly hold my head up in public. I was so evil that even God wanted nothing to do with me. If people knew that I was such a bad person that God refused to heal me, they would want nothing to do with me.

Image Description: A backlit hand reaching up towards the light.
Photo by Jackson David on Pixabay.

Looking back, I wish I had never even heard of televangelists. Their well-meaning words, their sermons on healing, their advice that varied from day to day and station to station, almost succeeded in completely destroying the little bit of self-esteem I had left.

And then one day, I just.... gave up.

I was tired of yelling at the sky, at a God who apparently wanted nothing to do with me, and I gave up. Nothing I could do would induce Him to answer me anyway, so why even bother?

People think that leaving Christianity is a "crisis of faith." For me, my whole entire life was the crisis, and I was finally seeking escape from the madness.

Because at this point, I was tired.

The day I walked out of church and swore that I'd never go back, was also the day I was sure I could feel invisible chains snapping. Fetters falling off me. For the first time in my life, I felt truly free from the control. I felt like I could breathe.

Oh, there was so much more that drove me from Christianity. It wasn't just that I was never healed from what I knew, by that point, to be debilitating anxiety. If it was only that, I would never have left. I would have found a way to hang on, even then.

There is so much more to my story than that. I could write pages and pages and pages and never even come close. But this isn't the day for that.

I want to share, what finally helped to set me on the path of healing.

Therapy helped, of course. I learned to recognize anxiety for what it was, and better, to recognize what my triggers were.

But I was still floundering.

Even as a Christian, I had often joked that if I wasn't a Christian, I'd probably be a Buddhist. Something about their peaceful serenity called to me... me, a now almost 30 year old woman with a brain that seemed full of bees at the best of times. I now knew that I was Autistic, of course, which was a full journey to self-acceptance in itself, but I still wanted something more.

I wanted peace.

The peace I had been promised in Christianity, but which proved to be so very, very conditional. Peace, but only if you do this. Peace, but only if you give more. Peace, but only if you pray more. Peace, but only if you talk to God more.

Peace, that you had to fight for.

So, having decided that Christianity was no longer in the cards for me, and now with the freedom to explore any religion I chose, I decided to look into Buddhism a little deeper. I knew I wasn't willing to become a vegetarian, and I had no desire to join a monastery (although, to be fair, days spent in the mountains far away from people, chanting and being at one with nature, sounded pretty close to my idea of Heaven) but I wanted to know exactly what it was they taught and believed, and how exactly they obtained the peace they seemed to have so freely.

As I listened to different teachings by different people, I stumbled across a man by the name of Yongey Mingyur Rinpoche, a Tibetan Buddhist meditation teacher. His warm smile, gentle humor, and soft-spoken ways appealed to me. Also, the fact that he, too, suffered severe and isolating panic attacks as a child, helped me connect with him immediately.

Mingyur Rinpoche explained that he asked his father, a great meditation teacher, to teach him to meditate in an effort to stave off his frequent panic attacks. As he was meditating, he would continue to experience panic attacks. He would mutter, "Go away, panic, I'm meditating!"

I chuckled and nodded when he told that story. It sounded like the Tibetan Buddhism version of "Get thee behind me Satan," that I learned as a child.

It was the advice that Mingyur Rinpoche gave next, however, that made my ears perk up with interest. He explained that after receiving advice from his father, he sat down to meditate the next day. And this time, when the inevitable panic attack occurred, he simply smiled and said, "Hello, panic. Welcome."

It seemed mind boggling to me that something so simple could work, but I tried it.

The next time I faced an anxiety attack at 2 in the morning, I inhaled.

And exhaled.

And inhaled.

The pain was intense, but familiar to me. It would pass. It always had. I was not a bad person.

I observed with interest what my body was doing. I noted the racing heart, the nausea, the clammy skin, the twisting stomach, with the calm and detached air of a doctor observing a patient's symptoms.

And for the first time, I didn't panic over my panic.

I was not a terrible person for experiencing sickness. I had not failed. I was not dying. God was not sending me to hell for some mistake that I was unaware I'd made, or for not being pious enough. I was no longer wracking my brains for whatever terrible thing I thought or said or did last week that could possibly be causing this, or silently cursing my ancestors for the "generational sin" that was causing me to wail in pain because my great-great-great grandfather smoked a pipe.

And I smiled.

"Hello, panic. You are here again. You are familiar to me... I know you well. But I am not afraid of you this time."

Image Description: The cupped hands of a Buddhist monk,
folded in his lap. His is wearing an orange robe. 
Photo by kalyanayahaluwo on Pixabay.

And then, I laughed. So simple... so very simple. I had been fighting my panic for years... but when I welcomed it, when I made friends with it, when I accepted it in my life and sat with it to listen to what it had to tell me... it left.

Not completely, of course. There are days that it still creeps in. But now I no longer beg and cry and blame and quote verses and make rash promises and beat myself up.

Now, I just smile and say, "Hello, panic, old friend. Here you are again, for a short time. You are here because I am human... but you will soon leave again."

And it always does.

Because it's always better to make peace with your enemy; sometimes, in fighting your enemy, you end up destroying yourself in the process.

And that is how Buddhism saved my life in a week, after more than twenty years of struggling.

Eighteen

 

I recently stumbled upon some old photos of myself when I was 18 years old. I had to stare at them for a while, trying to remember exactly who I was back then. So, let me tell you a little bit about 18-year-old Hannah.

Image description: A selfie of Hannah, a white teenager with long red hair,
wearing a pink and blue cap and glasses that came out of the 1800s.
She has her head tilted and a faint smile. The background is of pine trees
and a beach. End of image description.

18-year-old Hannah was an idealistic little thing... and I do mean little. (I got called, "Skinny Minnie" and "Broomstick" more times than I can count.) As you can see, I was a hippie/boho chick even then. (But what the HECK is up with those glasses? I look like a 90-year-old grandmother.)

18-year-old Hannah was... well, I won't say she didn't have trauma, but she was in a safe and caring environment where she felt free to let her awkward, geeky, weird little bookworm self shine through. She was, at that time, completely unscarred by bullying. Maybe that's one of the things I miss about her the most... 18-year-old Hannah knew no enemies. Only friends. She adored the world, and let it be known freely and joyfully. She loved fiercely, fearlessly, adopting all who knew her into her immediate family. She had countless brothers, sisters, aunties, uncles.. the list goes on.

18-year-old Hannah had the gift of seeing people's true selves, but more than that... finding the good in everyone. She couldn't imagine a world where people were mean on purpose, so she freely gave second chances... and third chances... and fourth, and fifth, and sixth.

18-year-old Hannah splashed bubbles of joy on everyone she met. She had this throaty little awkward giggle that endeared her to everyone, and it was SO EASY to make her smile. Just make her feel welcomed or included, that was all she ever wanted. Her deepest desire was to love people, and have them love her back. She wanted to fit in, to belong to someone.

18-year-old Hannah was wildly in tune with her emotions. She flared with anger, she sobbed when her feelings were hurt, she was brokenhearted when her friends moved away, and her high-pitched laughter would shatter glass when she was joyful... which was most of the time.

18-year-old Hannah was shy. She was so quiet, that people at times forgot she was there.. but it was when she was invisible, that she saw and heard the most. 18-year-old Hannah had already been grown up for a long, long time... but she was still to remain a child far into the future.

18-year-old Hannah loved to lie on the grass, arms outflung, breathing in the scent of the grass and the trees and the wind. She was never ashamed of going barefoot, dancing in the rain, splashing through puddles, exploring and finding wonder in every fuzzy moth and flower petal. She loved to play tag, and hide-and-seek, and never gave up trying to be coordinated enough to play sports.

Image description: Hannah, a white teenager with long red hair,
sitting on a wooden bench at the beach. She is wearing a pale pink 
sleeveless top, darker pink plaid shorts, and she is swinging her
bare feet which are covered with wet sand. She is squinting at the
camera with a wide grin because the sun is in her eyes. 
End image description. 

Did I tell you she was awkward? Oh, 18-year-old Hannah could never quite figure out where all the bumps and bruises came from, or how she managed to trip over her own shadow, bump into doorways, fall out of chairs, and bang her head multiple times a week. Sometimes her words wouldn't come out right, and she froze when she was asked a question.

18-year-old Hannah was already starting to build a shell around her sensitive little heart to protect her from the pain of being left again, and again, and again... but there was still so much tenderness, innocent wonder, and trust there too. 18-year-old Hannah always took people at face value, believed that they meant what they said, and trusted that they'd follow through on their promises.

18-year-old Hannah, knowing what she knew about people, also understood herself. She knew she was not like everyone else, but she was carefree enough not to let it bother her too much just yet. Somehow, when she peered too far into the future, she could see her own pain there... and while it scared her, she resolved to never cause pain to anyone else. For, you see, 18-year-old Hannah poured out onto a broken world all the love she had in her heart, without ever saving any for herself. She loved the world as ferociously as she despised herself for her weaknesses and flaws and shortcomings... all the reasons she sought to love others, for the unlovable-ness she saw in her own self.

18-year-old Hannah was incredibly strong. But also incredibly fragile, because she believed she was not worth protecting. She opened her heart wide, and when people threw darts through her wide-open defenses, she gritted her teeth and opened her heart wider, believing that to defend herself meant to harm others.

18-year-old Hannah was Autistic.

But she didn't have a diagnosis of Autism.

Or a diagnosis of C-PTSD.

Those came much later, when a much older, much more tired, and much more jaded Hannah decided that she was going to be selfish for the first time in her life; she was going to block out the world. She was going to pour her love on her own battered heart. She was going to face herself with wonder and curiosity. She was going to give to herself the adoration that she'd given to others for so long.

She was going to heal.

And she is still healing... slowly, with many mistakes and back-steps and slips and slides and tumbles and more bruised knees and a bruised heart. But she is healing. And she is healing in honor of 18-year-old Hannah, who still pushes me forward, and tells me, "Just keep going."

I'm not doing it for me.

I'm doing it for her.

Because she's still in there, somewhere.

And she deserves to have the life she always wanted.

Image Description: Hannah, a white teenager with waist-length red hair, stands shin-deep in a
lake with her pink plaid shorts rolled up so as not to get them wet. She is looking
at the camera with a toothy smile and behind her are floating buoys making the edge of
the safe swimming area. End image description.

Tired

 Some days, I'm just so very tired. Oh, not tired of being autistic. Not at all. But tired of being made to feel like being autistic is somehow bad or wrong.

Image Description: A black and white diagram of a brain,
shown from above. Both the left and right lobes
are splattered with brightly colored
paint blobs.

Standing in the lineup at the grocery store, I peruse the titles of gossip magazines. A cover photo catches my eye: a smiling woman with a beautiful little boy, with the cutest grin and sparkly eyes. The glaring headline: "How I Cured My Son's Autism."

A distraught mother sobs on a famous talk show. Her son has been diagnosed with autism. She will do anything, she says... anything at all to be rid of this monster that's stolen her son. Her son, sitting next to her, listening to everything she says.

A so-called "autism professional" smiles brightly at me though a computer screen. "We're going to have such a wonderful time, aren't we?" she coos. "We're going to learn all about how to get along and share, and how important it is to be at work on time! Look at Johnny! Johnny likes animals. Hannah likes animals too! Wow! Hannah and Johnny are going to be the best of friends!"

A medical professional sighs at me over the phone. "You have to remember, Hannah, not everyone is as lucky as you. It's a spectrum. Some people are severely disabled by their autism."

Another medical professional shakes her head sadly when I tell her that the Autistic community prefers the term "Autism Spectrum Condition" rather than "Autism Spectrum Disorder."

"It has to be classified as a disorder," she explains to me patiently. "We'd never receive funding to treat it, otherwise."

Treat it. Cure it. Make it go away.

This beautiful, rainbow brain of mine.

The one that makes me flap my hands with excitement.

The one that makes me able to pick up on other people's emotions and feel them as if they're my own. The one that makes me able to hear electricity.

The one that enables me to sit in silence for hours, not needing words to spoil the golden quietness.

The one that allows me to focus for hours on something, forgetting to eat, drink, or sleep.

The one that sees colors in music and in the months of the year.

The one that enables me to see in the dark like a cat.

The one that lets me smell smoke or hear dripping water long before anyone else senses it.

The one that allows me to be unfailingly, unflinchingly honest.

The one that enables me to sit down and chat with a poor person just the same as a rich one, and not see any difference between them.

The one that sees the good in everyone.

The one that allows me to come up with creative solutions that leave people scratching their heads and saying, "How did we not think of that?"

The one who can look at an animal and sense its emotions as strongly as my own.

The one that sometimes exhausts me with its constant spinning and looping through different ideas and imaginary worlds.

The one who loves challenging the status quo.

The one who can coax a smile out of almost anyone upon first meeting them.

This beautiful rainbow brain of mine, is... broken.

That's what they say.

Severe. Handicapped. Differently-abled. Special needs. Failure. Too slow. A scourge worse than cancer. Treatment. Cure. Therapy. No, ma'am, it's not your child, it's the autism. If we get rid of the autism, you can have your child back. Autism stole your child. A fate worse than death. Scrambling. Panicking. Try this diet... try this medication. Detox. Electric shock. Motivation-based. Rewards. Compliance. Hand-over-hand. Don't do it that way, do it this way. Can't you just be normal? Can't you try harder?

"But it's not you," they reassure me. "It's only the people who are suffering from autism. The ones who are severely autistic."

The severely autistic ones... who think the same way I do. Who react the same way I do. Who process the same way I do. Who respond the same way I do. Who feel things the same way I do. Who have feelings and emotions the same way I do.

Where, exactly, is the difference?

And it's exhausting, to scream into the void to a world of people with their fingers in their ears, who smile and pat you on the head and say, "That's okay, dear. Of course you don't want to get better. You just don't know any different, because you've always been this way."

And it hurts, and it aches, and it bleeds, and it keeps you awake at night wondering WHY it is that who you are is so awful and so terrible and so scary and so wrong?

And I wonder...

Why can't I just...

Be...

ME?

Image Description: The author, a woman with long red hair, is lying
on her stomach on her bed, with her chin propped up in one hand,
facing the camera and smiling. She is wearing
glasses, a black shirt, blue jeans, and bright red socks. 
She has her feet in the air with her ankles crossed.

How I Deal With Nighttime Anxiety

 

If you're a person who battles severe anxiety like I do, you may find that sometimes, night time is the worst time of all. I'm not sure if it's the combination of the dark, being alone with your racing thoughts, feeling farther away from help, or a combination of these; but what I do know, is that night-time anxiety is the worst.

Image Description: A figure walking away from the camera
through a dark and foggy forest. Ahead of him looms the outline
of an alien-like figure with glowing eyes and hands outstretched
towards the camera. Overlaid white text reads: How I deal with
nighttime anxiety.

Since it's something I've been struggling with a lot lately, especially during the holiday season, I wanted to share with you some of the techniques I use to help calm myself down.

1. Get Up!

If you're like me, you've spent hours tossing and turning in your bed; or, worse, frozen in fear and unable to move at all. A lot of times we tend to have something against getting up in the middle of the night; after all, aren't we supposed to be sleeping? But what I've found over the years, is that sometimes getting up and moving around helps you feel as though you're doing something constructive. A little change of scenery, such as going out and sitting quietly in the bathroom or living room for a few minutes, may wake you up and help you get a better grasp on reality, particularly if you've had an upsetting dream.

2. Get Some Fresh Air.

If you have a house or apartment with an outside door, you might consider stepping outside briefly to clear your head. If it's winter, you live on the tenth floor of an apartment building, or you don't feel safe going out at night, you can also open a window and just breathe the fresh air for a few minutes. I find this often helps me settle down more quickly than anything. It also cools me down if my anxiety has me feeling overheated.

3. Warm Up.

When I have anxiety, I tend to feel extremely cold and shivery. Consider draping a warm blanket or sweater over your shoulders, holding a heating pad in your lap, or sipping a warm drink. You can also run some warm (not hot!) water from the faucet and dip your hands in it. If you're using a heating pad, please make sure not to fall asleep with it, or make sure it's the type that shuts off after a certain period of time so you don't accidentally get burned.

Image Description: Illustration of a person with their hair in a bun,
wearing a turtleneck sweater and pink fuzzy slippers
with a blanket over their knees. They are sipping from a mug with
a cat curled up next to them.

4. Take Something For Nausea.

Everyone's anxiety symptoms are different; mine almost always display as nausea or upset stomach. I also have a phobia of throwing up, which tends to become a vicious cycle; anxiety makes me want to throw up, and needing to throw up makes me even more anxious. I usually take a ginger Gravol, since they're very gentle and don't make you drowsy (medication that makes me drowsy also tends to increase my symptoms of panic, so keep that in mind!). Often, knowing that I have something in my stomach that will help relax the spasms, helps calm the fears around throwing up and makes me feel less likely to do it.

5. Have Something To Eat Or Drink.

If you're already feeling nauseated from anxiety, putting something in your stomach may be the last thing you want to do. And I definitely wouldn't recommend sitting down to a slice of pizza or some salami and pickles, but if you feel up to nibbling on a few soda crackers or a slice of toast, you may find that it helps with the nausea. Plus, the act of preparing and eating food may be a calming ritual that can temporarily take your mind off your anxiety.

6. Listen To Calming Music Or Nature Sounds.

I really can't emphasize this enough... long play nature videos have saved my life. I always fall asleep to one, and waking up to the sound of a gentle rain, birds chirping, or a cozy fire crackling often avert the panic before it even starts. Many long-play nature videos have dark screens, so they won't disturb your rest.

Image Description: Close-up photo of a pink lotus flower
against a backdrop of dark green leaves.

7. Listen To A Guided Meditation.

If you've never tried a guided meditation or sleep talkdown before, I highly recommend it! One of my favorite channels is The Honest Guys. Please note that I'm not affiliated with them in any way, their channel has just been super helpful for me! They have several videos aimed at reducing anxiety and panic attacks. Here's one of my favorites, but be sure to check out the rest of their content!

8. Sleep With A Lamp Or Nightlight.

Not everyone feels comfortable sleeping in total blackness, and there's absolutely no shame in being afraid of the dark. If I've been feeling sick during the night, I have a small nightlight that I turn on. That way, I can easily find my way out to the bathroom should I need to, and I can see at a glance that all is well. If you don't have a lamp or nightlight, you could also try turning the hall light on, or a light in another room, and leaving your door open a crack.

9. Do Something Calming.

I probably don't need to tell you that scrolling Facebook is not always a great idea in the middle of the night when you're fighting off a panic attack. But that doesn't mean that there aren't other options. For me personally, I like flipping through a gardening magazine. There's something so calming and relaxing about plants and flowers, and it's kind of hard to concentrate on what's making you anxious if your mind is occupied with different types of potting soil and the best fertilizer to use on a rosebush. Many people also enjoy coloring, drawing, knitting, and other calming activities.

10. Have Someone That You Can Contact.

Whether it's a trusted friend, family member, or the number of your local mental health crisis line, it may set your mind at ease to know that there's someone you can call or text for help if it's needed. Don't ever be afraid to reach out for help; chances are, the person you are reaching out to may have gone through something similar themselves!

Image Description: Simple cartoon illustration of
two hands holding a smartphone.

11. Talk To Yourself.

When you're anxious or having a panic attack, there are negative thoughts coming at you from all angles. Don't be afraid to give yourself a pep-talk... inside your head, or out loud if that's more comfortable for you. Tell yourself, "You are strong. You are okay. This is temporary. These feelings (or sickness, or fears) will pass. You are going to be fine. You have a lot to look forward to. You will make it through this. Everything will be all right."

12. Practice Grounding Techniques.

If you're panicking and/or struggling to breath, your first priority is to get to a safe space both physically and mentally. Lie down on the floor if you are afraid of falling or fainting. Take slow, deep breaths, and exhale slowly. Look around the room and name the objects as you see them: a chair, mirror, shelf, curtains, and so on. Use your thumbs to touch each of your finger tips in turn and count them. Count your inhales and exhales. Gently rub your chest or stomach in a slow, circular motion. Press your palms together and concentrate on the pressure. Grounding techniques may take some practice, but eventually, you will find yourself doing them almost instinctively.

I hope you find some (or all) of these techniques helpful! What do you find helps you the most during an anxiety or panic attack?

And God Laughed - Poem

"broken"

they said,

as they looked at me in pity

"locked inside her own world"

strange

shimmering

like a mirage

a fairy

something not quite real

and not quite sane

"broken"

they said

and they frowned

and pathologized

the "why's" and the "how's"

that they could not explain

"lovely"

god said

and he smiled

and laughed

in the roar of thunder

i made her wild

i made her a rainbow

in a world of grey

i made her untameable

untouchable

i made her to see

in the dark

with cat's eyes

to understand the whisper of the stars

to feel strength pulsing in the earth

i gave her wings

invisible

that no one can see

and they wonder why

my hands flutter

like a moth seeking a flame

i gave her a voice

that no one can hear

only me

that the angels bend low to hear

when all the world hears

is silence

i gave her a heart

made of glass

that shatters into a million pieces

and heals itself

over and over again

i gave her a glow

that the world

tries to hide

and they run away

because it's too bright

and they squint in the light

and she was shadowed

and sheltered

and hidden away

because the light exposed

all their flaws

and they cried

and asked why

she had to be so bright

couldn't she turn it down

couldn't she turn grey

like the ashes

that hid their souls

as they wasted away

and she sparkled

and they shuddered

as the light shone through the cracks

that they'd made

while trying to make her

in their image

and god laughed

at their wonder

and their worry

as she grew brighter

the harder they tried

to suppress her

and she spoke to the sky

and god laughed

in delight

An experiment in free verse poetry. Ten minutes of free writing. 

Please Don't Call Me A "High-Functioning" Autistic

I'm a redhead.

It's kind of hard to miss actually. When you have this waterfall of copper hair that flows halfway down your back, you kinda tend to stand out like a fire engine in a crowd of black limousines.

My hair could be a signal beacon, honestly. I can't hide it. Oh, I could dye it. Chop it short and go brunette... or blond. Or green or purple for that matter. But it wouldn't change the fact that I'm a redhead. I'd still have pale skin that never tans and turns as red as a lobster in the summer. I'd still have magic invisible eyebrows and eyelashes. And sooner or later, the dye would wear off and the red roots would start peeking through again.

So, I'm a redhead for life. It's genetically a part of me, a part that I love very much, and it's not going away anytime soon... or ever. (Did you know that apparently redheads don't gray? We go blonde and then white. Fun!)

But you came here to read about autism, didn't you?

There are lots of different shades of redheads. Some are "copper-tops" or "gingers" like me. Some are "carrot-tops." Some are auburn. Some almost brown, and some are strawberry blonde. All different, unique, and beautiful.

But am I a "severe" redhead?

I see you squinting at me sideways. "A what now?" I hear you say.

You know... a severe redhead. One of the really bad ones. Someone who's severely afflicted with red hair. Someone who suffers from having red hair.

No, I'm not crazy.

I'm a redhead. But I'm also autistic. And the questions that would be weird and disturbing if they were about my hair, somehow become normal when they're about my autism.

"You're autistic? But how bad though?"

"You must be super high functioning... I can't tell at all."

"Ohhhhh so you're suffering from autism?"

"Yeah, but you can talk... my friend's nephew's 3-year-old is severely autistic and he suffers so much. You're nothing like him."

"Yeah, but you're not bad enough to actually need help."

Please just stop.

Please.

Please stop comparing me, an adult autistic woman, to an autistic child and saying that because I don't act like a three-year-old, I'm not autistic enough.

Please stop looking at the well-polished mask I wear in public and saying I don't "look" autistic.

Please stop listening to the well-rehearsed social script that I memorize before every single human interaction and saying I'm too "articulate" to be autistic.

Please don't look at my struggles and assume that it's because of autism that I'm "suffering".

Please stop assuming that because you "can't tell" that I'm autistic, that I'm not.

And please stop assuming that "high functioning" is a compliment. It's not.

What does "high-functioning" mean?

High functioning means that your struggles are ignored. High functioning means that because you "look" like you don't need help... you don't get help. "Help" being disability services, accommodations, support... understanding.

High functioning means there's a huge amount of social pressure placed on you, because, well... if you could pretend to be normal long enough to socialize at a party, why can't you continue pretending to be normal long enough to hold down a job? Surely it isn't that difficult? You just need to try a bit harder. Put some effort into it.

And so you continue to wear the mask, and you continue pretending to be normal, and you continue forcing a smile when you don't feel like it, and sitting on your hands to keep from "happy flapping", and racking your brains for the socially acceptable response to questions, and nodding even though you have no clue what's just been said, and holding eye contact even though it feels like lasers are being burned into your eyeballs, and not putting your hands over your ears even though shrill laughter feels like your fragile glass brain being shattered with a sledgehammer.

And then you come home and you rip the mask off. Or you try to. Because the mask has become so much a part of you that you're not even sure where the mask ends and you begin.

And you fall apart. And you melt down. And you explode for no reason. And it's easier to curl into a ball under the blankets than it is to answer the phone. And you're eating off of Tupperware lids because you haven't been able to muster the energy to do the dishes in weeks. And you're so overwhelmed that even the thought of phoning the cable company to ask a question about your bill causes you to burst into tears. And you stay up pacing the floor long into the night and sleep into the afternoon. And you tear at your skin until it bleeds because somehow, peeling away the scabs again and again and again is more soothing than it is painful.

And you feel guilty. And you wonder why you can't just pull yourself together and "be normal". And you wonder why God made you this way... and you can't help feeling that somehow, this time, He's made a mistake.

I have learned nothing if I haven't learned to be authentically real.

I spent three years wishing to die in my sleep. Asking God to please, please take me home. I don't want to live like this anymore. I can't do this. It's too much. It hurts. It's hard. Life is too hard for a human with frail butterfly wings who doesn't fit on this planet of flesh-and-blood humans.

Thank God, I am not like that now.

Because the moment I learned I was autistic, I changed.

The first thing I did, was rip off that silly mask, tear it into shreds, stomp on it, smash it into the dust, annihilate it.

And I let go. I let go of my feelings of self-hatred and began to love the beautiful strange person that I am. I let go of the social expectations of productivity and progress to determine worth... and I embraced the knowledge that the very fact that I exist, gives me value as a person. I let go of my shame and fear of others finding out that I'm not perfect... and began to love the imperfect person that I am, with all her flaws and failings and shortcomings.

Oh, there are days that I still reach for the mask. There are days when the mask is comforting and familiar, in the way that a prison cell may become a safe haven for an inmate. There are days when the real me blazes so brightly that I fear to look at anyone in case I blind them.

But letting go of the mask is a daily thing.

I laugh all the time now. I bounce, rock, flap, clap my hands, hug myself, pace the floor, bounce my leg, tap my feet, pull my hair. I put my hands over ears when the sounds get to be too much. I stand up and walk out of a room when I get overwhelmed. I look away when eye contact becomes too painful. I am loud and determined in my self-advocacy. I am learning to ask for the things I need. I am learning that no one expects me to be perfect, and if they do... well, they're not worthy of seeing the real me.

You know, being a redhead isn't always rosy. My hair is, as my mom used to say, "Hard as a horse's tail." I'd love to be able to go out in the sun without burning to a crisp. I'd love to have eyebrows that you can actually see, without me painting them in. I'd love to not look like Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer after spending five minutes in the cold.

But I love my red hair. It's me. There are a millions shades of red hair, and all of them are gorgeous.

There are times when being autistic isn't easy either. Executive dysfunction drives me crazy even on the best of days. Sensory Processing Disorder sometimes makes even the most pleasant sensations a nightmare. And I never will learn how to "do" small talk.

But I love my autism. It's me. There are a million different "types" of autistic people... all of them unique and beautiful, with their own personal struggles and triumphs.

So the next time you're tempted to refer to someone as a "high-functioning" autistic... please remember the effort it takes us to keep up that illusion. And please remember that you're only viewing the tip of the iceberg and there is a lot more below the surface that you may not see right away, if ever.

Get to know us as people... wonderful, vibrant, colorful, autistic people.

Whether we're flappy or non-verbal or blonde or redheaded.