The Night We Did and Didn't Have

Last night we had tickets to go to Antwerp Mansion in Rusholme for a "Regression Session" pop-up nightclub.

We did study the event's Facebook page carefully and looked at the profile pictures of people who stated they were Going. All 447 of them. We decided that they were young, sexy club bunnies and everyone appeared 10 years younger than us with better make-up and less body fat.

We did analyse the situation, score our moods, do a Pros and Cons list of going, discuss travel arrangements, if we would or wouldn't like it, how much an Uber would cost at 3am and if our Prozac doses were correct...for a fucking HOUR AND A HALF.

We did reach a decision and changed the plan.

We did not go here:

We did not partake in this:

We did go here:

The local (and only) "rock" pub where we sat on benches that are encouraged to be graffitted on (someone had persistently scrawled COCKSUCKING THUNDERCUNT onto the wood) next to teenage Goth girls drinking water who whined about "hipster metalboys" (I don't know what these are. Please help me understand).

We did stand a metre away from one of the bands amongst a crowd of six who clapped self-consciously when Indie Band #57* finished a song. 

We did not change our minds and head to Rusholme. We did continue to here:

We did drink cider of many types. Brothers. Old Mout, Thatchers and local brews that The Fiancé likened to "like Hartley's making cider." We did win money on a fruit machine by bashing random buttons.

We did see a man in a Deadpool morph suit dancing camply beside women with walking sticks in front of a band who played hard rocked versions of David Bowie. We did not see ball pits, bouncy castles or glow sticks.

We did see three of my ex-clients sat on the pavements, trying to get money for food. I will not go into their details, but I knew they were hungry and did need that money for food. They chatted openly to me and The Fiancé about their housing situation. Quick summary: dangerous. 

We did not spend £150 on a Travelodge/Holiday Inn/Premier Inn room in Manchester just so that we could crash and not worry about bed for the night.

We did spend £20 in a Bolton takeaway on three pizzas and a chicken kebab (for one of the guys' dogs). We did walk for twenty minutes trying to find the ones who had swapped pitches. One guy we did have to track for awhile until we found him. He was able to go to where he goes to sleep and not have to make any more money that night. He would be able to feed his partner. He wouldn't get attacked tonight.

We did see Bolton's Street Angels (old men in High-Vis jackets) assisting drunken girls falling outside clubs. Girls with working phones and six friends to help them and probably at least the price of a 9 inch pizza each to get a taxi home. 

We did not see anyone talk to my clients. We did see people shout at them. We did not see Street Angels talk to them or stop beside them.

We did go back to the original pub and buy more cider. The Fiancé shambled out of the toilets after a long time, sat down and stated, 'I just used my trusty pound coin to carve FUCK JILLY** on the wall.' Then a passing man rubbed his head for good luck.

We did manage to sell one of the tickets for the thing we didn't do. We did not wish we'd been there instead.

We did go home, eat takeout and watch Family Guy.

We did not feel bad for being too afraid to go to a big fuck-off club night and opting instead for local pubs. We did not feel anything when we fell asleep. Except how good a bed feels when you've been out in the night air in the busy town centre. 

We did not take it for granted.


*Indie Band #57 was not their name, but I like it for a band name. I'll use it.
**Jilly is a false name for The Fiancé's old flame.

Crossover: Colossal Fun or Rat's Nest?

In my ongoing little quest, whereby I have lost many a dinky shoe in quicksand, to write something that can hold my attention longer than 20,000 words (without resorting to fluffing from there on) I am abandoning all the ridiculous notions I've picked up over the years of what 'good writing' looks like, what 'worthwhile writing' looks like and what 'sellable writing' looks like. I'm going rogue.

Of course, it would be more than delightful to be a published novelist, to have my stories looked upon with an air of validity. But, by thinking so highly of those things I have managed to squidge out the fun of the actual thing: writing. Since studying Creative Writing, all I have done is worry about the final 'thing' when the 'thing' is not even written.

Stupid. Incorrect. Whoops. Where did I ever pick up such bollocks? Answers on postcards to my tutors and careers guidance at school.

Now I'm throwing out all earlier efforts of what I thought fiction to be, where I thought I MUST be literary, where I thought I had to have a dazzling message burning into the retinas of Dear Reader. Instead I am going to have fun. Even if this new project is never published, is never even sent out to publishers, I am going to write it and enjoy it. I will take all the things I love, the strange things I have seen, the noise of places I've been and some seriously messed-up ideas of entertainment and grab it around the throat. What could possibly be more satisfying?

Back to the basics of writing for love, for the ride, for the thrill. Not with those dirty words 'editing', 'plotting', 'motifs' or 'marketability' sending copious amounts of nose blood onto the keyboard. The only dirty things here will be a special counter for the amount of times the word 'fuck' appears in the text.

Locate all previous 'manuscripts' [emits dark chuckle]. Ctrl + A. Del. Ctrl + N.

A new thing, now. Something that takes me back to my first loves: horror and comedy. The things that had my poor parents dragged into school because of Wednesday Adams attitude and chainsaw-heavy stories. Something that indulges my childish humour, my love of the shock and allows obsessional interests research to be fully indulged.

Basically, if Stephen King angrily rammed his car into Jasper Fforde's head and then they both went out and got drunk on Absinthe, ate too much cheese and headed out to save the world with quips and knives from hoards of deluded Londoners. That sort of thing.

Will it sell? Doubtful. Will I enjoy it? Oh, God, yes. This is something I am going to LOVE writing. 

Organ pawning, Rippology, bounty hunters, tattoos, lollipop ladies, kebabs and strangely cold steel cupboards, this is going to be something that will make me laugh. 

And then consult a psychiatrist as to if I should be laughing.

Prozac Placebo

Three weeks ago I came down with a viral infection of epic proportions. I swallowed all the painkillers I could legally get my hands on and went to work with my neck swollen to the point where it felt like my head was being crushed. By the Friday, I made it to the bus stop only to do a stop and start dance about turning back from home with an...uncomfortable stomach. 

Cue a weekend of severe stomach pain and cramps. I went to work on Friday, went home sick and saw the doctor who said I may have glandular fever as my glands and spleen was swollen and blood tests had to be done ASAP. Health anxiety goes nuclear. 

Over the next two weeks the fatigue gets worse and for some reason my mood spirals. I haven't spent every day hiding in bed crying for 5 years. Or wanting to launch myself from the railway bridge. Could it be leukemia? Liver disease? Would my workplace destroy me when I went back because we're 5 staff down and I left with work unfinished on my desk? 

I have my first ASC 1-1 and rate my Wellbeing at 3 or in my words: "shit". That was, coincidentally, my first word. She put me in touch with Spectrum E, a company who specialise in workplace support for people with ASC. I feel better talking to the lady, but ashamed. Will work detest me for having to make reasonable adjustments? Running deeper, I'm furious that I don't cope the same way as other people and need adjustments to work well. Flip it, I get good feedback. My contract was extended.

I live in fear that I will never fully integrate with other people, what my ASC worker keeps calling 'neurotypicals'. Will I ever have friends I see offline? Will I ever 'do' small talk or care about their weekends, their social lives or the things they say worry them? 

Some of this comes out in verbal fits and starts to the doctor. She's put me on Prozac. This is the first day. I know it takes weeks to work, I know I am high risk for dangerous behaviour with a number of Sections in my past, but here's the odd thing. Today's the first time I haven't cried. The first time I haven't felt awful and feel so low it feels like it's physically crushing my limbs, but conversely when I walk that half of my body is missing. 

I want to go back to work. I'm told I'm good. 'Professional', 'Capable', 'Reliable', 'Hardworking'. But I know I can be better. I admit I am frightened. Even though they know my diagnosis, I fear being found out for what I am. A 31 year old child who pulls out her hair when upset or cries when the washing machine is up. But, if Prozac helps me hide, then good. I don't want them to know what it really looks like. What daily life is like.


It can only be a placebo effect, but it's a very effective one.

Crap Tattoos and Great CPNs

Can't quite believe it. Had my appointment with the Single Point Access Team and The Boyfriend came with me. The mental health nurse actually listened to us. 

She heard how I was struggling and becoming more ritualistic and frustrated, that our relationship was solid, but we needed help to keep me even and also support for The Boyfriend if he was worried. He spoke to her about how I can be mute for two days after a meltdown. She gave us space to weigh up support options and said she'd spoken to my GP surgery and agreed with our perception that the secretaries were unhelpful (they won't even look at my paper notes to help me) and said she'd do my ASD referral (6-7 weeks) and would do my C+ pass renewal form (something my GP's just won't do as it's "too complicated").

This has lifted a lot of stress for us. Someone has finally heard us and is in our/my corner and hopefully this will lead to some good support and help me dial down my anxiety and rituals and keep me out of a ward. 

A change of environment has been so hard. But GPs who are nice to people that go in with physical problems and abrasive to people with mental health issues/development disorders is way out of line. And not having repeat medications ready on time is plain poor organisation. 

In other news, we walked past The Bolton Tat Shop and saw this in the window.

Why would you put this up? The other examples were pretty good. This linework looks a bit shaky. And there's a missing letter in 'noticed'...

This is the original image, courtesy of Google.

Look at it!

Just...ouch.

The Days Are Long

I really need a job. The lack of routine is crucifing my sleep cycle and I have so little motivation that I buy desired books and then have no interest in reading them. And I'm the proverbial bookworm. 

People viewing the flat is unsettling me and reminds me of all the change that is coming. Part of the day I feel low, but I know it can't be depression as I know I'lI perk up when I hear about my referral/job applications/get the keys for new place.

Just bouncing through days of nothing interspersed with boxsets.

There is no point to this post. I just hate change and lack of routine and it's making me jumpy.

Five Months In

1 October 2014

A consultant raises the possibility that my mental health issues may in fact be undiagnosed Asperger's. Recommendation to be tested.

28 October 2014

Neurological/Cognitive testing strongly indicates autism spectrum disorder. 

15 December 2014

GP makes a request for funding for diagnostic assessment. 

22 January 2015

GP asked to do a short AQ-10 with me. Score = 9/10. 6+ needed for diagnostic consideration. 

02 March 2015

GP completes more detailed referral form sent by testing centre to secure funding. Apparently I lack social imagination i.e. all my stories are loosely wrapped things I see (characters wear or have the same possessions as me) and even though I've known this city for 11+ years I can rarely think of anything to go or do that isn't outside my routine of going to the same supermarket everyday. Unless someone says 'Cinema' or 'Bookshop'. And why I can copy a detailed comic book page almost flawlessly, but can't draw from imagination. And here I thought I was creative. 

This seems a very long road, but if it clears up the uncertainty of how I see the world, gives me ideas to avoid obsession/rituals/meltdowns, and wipes off BPD, bipolar, and schizophrenia from my file, it's worth it. 

Public Displays Of Emotion

It is reaching the point where leaving the flat on my own, even to the local shops is proving very difficult. So much so, that it takes me hours to pysch up to it. So, I thought a Tuesday afternoon in town with The Boyfriend doing fun things would be some welcome relief.

Uncharacteristically, it was me that refused to get out of bed in good time. I did not want to go out. But we got to town and saw Big Hero 6, which we'd been dying to see. That was when we realised it was half term. The shopping centre was completely packed. Got through the film fine, but quickly my brain was losing its filter. I was taking in relevant and irrelevant information until I started to feel queasy. We went round a few shops, but Sports Direct finished me off. Too many furrows of clothes, not in a good system, and I started to overheat and had the urge to cry. I told The Boyfriend I had to get out for a bit. I was hand-twisting outside with a drink and then finally we could go home. It took hours for me to come back to an even keel and I hated that on one of The Boyfriend's days off he ended up basically being my carer. 

I am now stuck with the dilemma of knowing that staying indoors all day will drive me crazy, because I can hear every single noise inside and out, but if I go outside I'm faced with hundreds of people that I can't decode.

Managed to get out today to see friends, but it was a very anxious affair. Diazepam barely works anymore, my sleep cycle is back to front and I feel like I have to solve every problem immediately.

The funny thing is, to most people they wouldn't spot a problem as I'm so good at 'passing'. It's only when the hand movements start that someone knows something's up.

The Art Of Stimming

If there is one part of being on the spectrum that is guaranteed to make you look "disabled" it is stimming.

Stimming is characterised as repetitive movements that are either triggered by anxiety/stress or a need for sensory input. It can be quite soothing. Examples include hand-twisting, hand-flapping, finger-flicking, rocking, humming, or thumping/slapping a part of the body. This is not an exhaustive list.

Something that I have noticed only recently is my tendency to hand-twist when I'm overwhelmed. And yes, it happens in public.

I was waiting by the side of a road, already stressed from navigating a large supermarket and now faced with crossing the road. I was trying to judge the traffic and my hand-twisting became so extreme that a bus driver looked at me and stopped the bus so I could cross, probably because I looked "disabled" and needed assistance getting across the road. Note: city buses do not stop just to let someone cross a road except at traffic lights.

My friends rarely see it as I'm not usually stressed around them. But The Boyfriend has and once I've started it's like I'm locked in a repetitive cycle and will need hands-on support to stop it, such as holding my hands firmly or bear-hugging me.

If I'm on a bus and feel the need for sensory input, I am always extremely tempted to start banging my palms against the window. It's an almost overpowering urge. Maybe it's too quiet. Maybe it's too loud. Maybe my brain is itchy. This action would stop the bus and an ambulance/police would probably be called. So I have to sit on my hands and press my head against the glass instead.

I have a point.

If you see someone making repetitive movements or trying not to make them, don't write them off as stupid or insane. It is serving an important need and we really don't need comments like, 'Look at that retard on the bus.'

V Day Is Coming...Shit

Sally: Hey you guys, why is everything so red on Valentine's Day? I mean the greeting cards, and the candy, even the tire ads.

Dick: Well, red represents the blood that was spilled at the massacre.

Harry: Massacre?

Dick: Yeah, the St. Valentine's Day massacre. It's a very big deal here on Earth.

- Third Rock From The Sun

There are three days to go and so far all I've got for The Boyfriend is a card. I don't like all of the saccharine teddies and boxes of chocolates for sale. It just isn't us. Should I get him something he really wants, like a Xbox One game? Or do something classed as soppy? Hard part is that he's much better at present shopping than me. 

Rather than a day celebrating romance, I would prefer Oxytocin Day, celebrating the hormone that allows you to feel love, bonding, and orgasm. That makes more sense to me than romance. It feels more real to me. 

There's a lot of pressure to 'do' something special for Valentine's Day. I love him every day. I tell him every day. What more can I do on the 14th?

So, I shall ponder on on what to buy The Boyfriend. We have both said that our anniversary means much more to us, so hopefully this day will be a quiet affair without too much gooey eye contact but with sex. A lot of sex.

Operation TINA

Adult life is not what I imagined when I was a teenager. I have been Sectioned 13 times, been addicted to alcohol, and seen way too many deaths. But I also have two degrees, a wonderful boyfriend, and have spoken out on BBC Breakfast about mental health. 

My life is currently pending. I am unemployed, but have a job interview soon. I am working on a novel, but have been rejected from every competition and magazine I have submitted to since I graduated (one magazine, Black Static, has, to date, rejected me 5 times). The Boyfriend and I are looking for our first place together and I'm waiting to see if I get funding for a diagnostic assessment for Asperger Syndrome. He is a great artist and I want to be a great writer. 

Things I Like:

Writing

Reading

Tattoos

Rubber duckies

Deep pressure

Unusual facts

Medical information

Pepsi Max / Diet Coke

Japanese culture

Comic books

Things I Don't Like:

Fish

Green food

Bronze coins

Eye contact

Light touch

Insomnia

Headaches

Change

I spend a lot of time on Facebook. I don't call my friends or family enough. I have collected every personal letter I have ever received since I was a child. I have 15 tattoos. I fractured my skull at 11 weeks old. I'm barred from entering the USA. 

Until I met The Boyfriend I succumbed easily to peer pressure. This is part of the Asperger's way. You do things you think might be wrong, but do them because social convention is all about fitting in. I've been trying to fit in all my life, with limited success. This is called 'passing'.

I struggle with personal care, managing money, bright lights / colours, noises, eye contact, and not being obsessive. For example, I struggle every day to overcome an entrenched ritual that I cannot leave my home more than once a day unless with somone. I do constant checks when I'm leaving the flat and when out and about. I get upset if I'm away from the flat for more than 3 days. I do a lot of things in 3s. I can spot small details, but miss the big picture. And when agitated I bang my head or thump my chest. My emotions are not well integrated and I struggle to understand my own and other people's, particularly when they are meant to link up. I don't know if I feel true empathy, except perhaps with The Boyfriend. If my friends or family cry I don't really feel the reflecting emotion. I act like I do, but I don't feel it. I can understand people's thoughts on a cerebral level. Is that a type of empathy?