Mascara and Alcohol: when getting away with it got too heavy. 

mascaraeyeIt was the early two thousands, maybe 2003. I was still booking things, still agreeing to things, but in recent years had gradually begun to back out of more and more plans, and increasingly clocked up more no shows; strangely grateful for a child’s sniffle or a phone call to say things had been cancelled, and yet still in denial, still making excuses, still convinced I could do everything that I wanted to do. And still convinced going out and socialising was fun, was what I wanted. The tiredness or hormones of motherhood were making me enjoy home more perhaps? Being so busy in daily life meant I’d run out of time to get ready or the energy to stay out at night, right? There were well-argued reasons for every time I chose to stay at home. I would often truly feel ill when an event was upon us and I had genuine headaches, genuine stomachs problems. It all felt like real reasons and not excuses, and so the times staying at home built up and up and up like a brick wall. And it happened so slowly and I was so good at convincing myself that it was just this once we’d cancel, just this time we’d stay home because… because… Because, after all, going out is fun. Everyone likes it. Everyone. If you don’t there’s something wrong with you. Humans are social creatures. Fun, fun, fun times…

My grandmother had suggested I was depressed when she noted my increasing insistence for staying in, staying home but I looked at what I had and I was happy with my lot. And I could always always reason my actions. Until that day, one Christmas holidays, I was sure I was making my own choices and was in complete control.

It was the Christmas period. I’d booked pantomime tickets for what was then the four of us plus my parents. Getting ready for Christmas as a whole was difficult for me, it left me in a constant state of list-making, obsessing over minutiae, sleepless nights and panic, and the extra socialising completely drained me. I had to drink a lot to cope with anything social. I thought it was the same for everyone but I was chaotic for weeks, and every moment was taken with pinning down my panic and attempting to appear organised. I did appear organised but appearing organised was actually all I managed. It was a performance so convincing I managed to carry it off for years. I once admitted to being shy to a friend and she laughed and said “You’re not shy!” I really had pulled it off! So I just kept turning up for things and drinking and talking crap. I remember telling one of my Open University tutors that I got through Christmas on mascara and alcohol, and she told me I should write a book called Mascara and Alcohol. Maybe I will.

As our children were still young, I’d booked matinee tickets for the panto. Already in a flappy state (I didn’t know I had anxiety. I wasn’t even kind enough to give myself the gift of a label those days. All I knew was that things made me flap, made me worry, made me stressful. I got stressed. I stressed out), I found myself getting hotter, trembling, focussing on negatives about my appearance, obsessing about a pimple, unable to draw that line that said “finished getting ready” and walk out of the bedroom, downstairs, to the front door. I’d got the children ready, given my parents a picking up time, my husband was downstairs ready and waiting to start the car. I’d organised every thing and every one but I was Not Ready. I would never be ready. I couldn’t complete getting ready because that would mean leaving the house and I was trapped inside a forcefield that was insisting I stay home.

I’d met that forcefield before. Once as a teenager when cycling to a holiday job I cycled into the forcefield and it span me around and I found myself heading home again. At the age of five I refused to leave the house and go to ballet lessons because I knew I simply couldn’t go. I loved ballet but I never went again. I danced alone at home instead. Forcefields existed around doors and I couldn’t walk into certain rooms or areas at school.

But all these years later I still wasn’t joining the dots and putting together the picture of someone who physically and mentally couldn’t socialise regularly.

Upset, my family went to the Panto without me. Upset, I stayed home alone. I was relieved and comforted by the escape but incredibly upset.

What had gone wrong?

I’d done what I always do when going anywhere: I’d been in control of planning everything, I’d chosen in advance what I would wear, I’d pictured us there, I’d placed myself in amongst many people, imagined the claustrophobic crush in the entrance, pictured sitting under pre-performance lights, pictured people sitting all around us, imagined being spotted by people we knew, people we half-knew, people I couldn’t remember because (as I now know) I have a degree of face-blindness, imagined what I would say to people, realised I didn’t know what I would say, and knew deep down that I wasn’t going to cope – some other time, yes but not this time. But it was deep, deep down and I wasn’t really sure what was controlling my actions. My subliminal knowledge that I’m not coping or that I won’t cope often simmers away in the background until I meet that damned forcefield, and WHAM! – can’t do this. This one event in itself was not a big thing but everything else had circled around and around until I felt that just doing this one thing was like entering a black hole.

That day was a biggie for me. I’d let a lot of people down. And I haven’t been able to trust myself since. Other people in my life no longer want to take the risk with me either and I’m rarely invited to anything. I’m not entirely sure what I want to risk committing myself to anyway. My husband will never plan surprises for me because he too doesn’t trust me. This is not necessarily a bad thing because he’s not a fan of too much socialising anyway, and I think his habit of being a grumpy, unsociable git at times is what attracted me to him!

So these days what I want to do and what I’m able to do sometimes overlap beautifully like a Venn diagram, and sometimes they stay firmly separated in their big old lonely circles. Often I will put myself through what is uncomfortable because it’s probably what’s best, other times I will actively seek out peace. Lying awake at night after an event (sometimes for weeks or years afterwards) and remembering how you cocked everything up is no reward for pushing yourself through something. It’s hell and it’s not worth the pain of clocking up yet another bad experience, yet another disaster. So instead it’s a lifelong project of daily self-assessments now. This self-awareness has given me a more joined-up picture of someone who has to carefully measure and weigh up what’s going on, what’s necessary and what’s doable on a daily – sometimes hourly basis. I have to give myself permission to make plans for fun things but I also have to be able to admit that not doing something is also okay and sometimes crucial. And I have found comfort and beauty in just being and not always seeking outside experiences. I do like time at home. I like it a lot. It’s not just something that I have had to force upon myself. It’s often something I have to fight for.

At a wedding a few years ago, I was struggling to cope and someone next to me was involving me in conversation. After a while of getting limited response from me she turned to her companion and muttered something about “…so rude…”. I’m not rude. I spend my whole life adjusting myself to people and situations in order to not be rude. It’s exhausting. Why push yourself through things if you’re so overwhelmed you’re just going to appear rude? Humans are complex beings (no shit) and we can respond very differently to different situations, and there’s nothing quite like feeling trapped in situations that other people clearly find fun and enjoyable.
There’s something about socialising less that makes you look like you’re coping less. But I’m not coping less these days; I’m just coping differently.

Regular but Fizzier with Extra Lemons

Always the juxtaposition of being human and feeling regular human feelings along with atypical reactions to some aspects of life is uncomfortable to accommodate when I need to talk about feelings and about coping. 

Autism is still discussed as a fault; certain things are lacking – apparently… But I’m not lacking. I’ve got everything I need to be a fully-functioning human being. 

I’m not broken. I’m not wrong. I’m not so very different but I do have different needs. I am always truly heartbroken if I pick up any hint whatsoever that I may not be perceived as completely capable, trustworthy or approachable. 

True, some things trigger problematic feelings, some things take extra energy. Some things cause ill health or anxiety. Some spaces, time-scales or expectations are too tight. The choices for how to behave and when and where are too limited for me. That doesn’t make me lacking; that makes society lacking.

I am safe, I am competent, I know how to put my children first. I know what’s important, what’s fair and how to accommodate my needs around those things. I trust my instincts and I inform myself to back those up. I doubt myself hugely on a minute-by-minute basis and make sure I am getting things better as I go along. The combination of autism and others’ perceptions of what autism might cause me to fail at means I am super-vigilant. I don’t want anyone using this against me. 

I feel perhaps in the same way that our nerve endings are right at the end of our finger tips and everything we touch gives us information, that all my experiences and my emotions are on the surface too; out there, on my skin. My joy, my pain, all my senses, the heat, the cold, the tightness of a space, the pace of life, the expectations of that’s-just-how-it-is, it’s all fizzing with messages going to and from my brain with immediacy and honesty. I’m not packing away mini reactions and mini experiences throughout the day, I’m indulging in great big panoramic gasps of life all the time. Everything is fingertips on a pinhead or sandpaper or silk or kitten’s fur or ice or a burning stove. It’s a series of wonderful and not so wonderful sensations asking for my reaction. 

And yet I must often swallow those great gulps of daily life experience, I mute the “Ouch!”s and the “Slow down!”s, the “OOOH!”s and the “Aah”s and I internalise them. I sit politely pretending to listen to someone talk, all the while wondering what the hell is going off in my peripheral vision, and then I am left with huge great big full stops. I haven’t reacted enough. I haven’t dealt with all this. I lie awake at night, overstimulated, processing everything. 

I am very fizzy. I’m bubbling all the time. The way society runs itself is really rather like someone adding a spoon to an already effervescent world and stirring fast. So I regularly and sensibly give myself a break from that great big stiry thing.

I don’t see it as a bad way to be, I certainly do not see myself as abnormal. I’m human just like everyone else. I’m just extremely  human. 

And because I’m extremely human I am extremely honest. Ironically, despite the superhero clamping down on myself I do, I actually have a greater need to react with immediacy to everything going on. I want to vocalise each emotion as each experience plays out. I want to dance, to sing, to shout, I want to echo sounds that move me, I want to enthuse like an emotive wine-taster: “I’m getting lemon zest beside an ocean!” It’s all so zingy. 

The written word makes me feel safe. My counsellor is a querty keyboard; patiently waiting for me to form the words, to tell her how I feel. So I write it. I write moments of joy, flashes of anger, hours of pain, I spill, I edit, I too hear what I say and feel purged. This honesty, this purging, this sharing shows a side of me hidden from daily life in the physical world. I know how it looks to write pain on a page. I know how it can diminish you in the eyes of some. But it’s just honesty. And it feels better for saying it, making sense of it, it feels good to be honest, to pssshhhhh out a little of the carbon dioxide that makes me fizz. Life is all about feeling and sharing. 

I’m not entirely sure where I was going with this but I feel better for saying it! 😀

Could Neurodiversity Be Making Me Ill?

I’ve suffered all my life with intermittent and tricky to explain (so I don’t bother explaining) not-quite-right-ness:

Strange pains and feeling like my blood is pooling in my legs when standing.

Sharp stomach pains and exhaustion.

Sporadic aching somewhere, somehow and not knowing why.

Dizziness.

Reactions to foods, and then no reaction to the same food another time.

Feeling ill when sitting too long.

Restless legs and trouble getting comfortable or sitting still.

Wide awake when I should be tired.

Floored by exhaustion when I should be energetic.

A strange feeling – with inner ear sound effects – that at the back of my head the top of my spine is made of popping candy and if I look up I will pass out.

Fuzzy, whooshy ears.

An inability to hold my arms in the air for too long when hanging out washing.

Bashing into things.

Tripping over my own feet

Trouble with balance and co-ordination.

Vertigo without heights.

 

But all this fluctuates and there is also:

Great physical strength.

Muscles which on certain days can power up the steepest of hills.

A tremendous sense of balance, and an ability to hold substantially awkward yoga positions.

A stretchy and flexible body.

The posture of a dancer or a horse rider.

When I am well I am very, very well. I can fit a lot into one day.

I can garden like a machine

I can cycle after months of not cycling and have power in my muscles.

I can walk for miles with ease.

I can run up and down stairs several times in one day and wash and dry many loads of washing, change beds, clean the kitchen, vacuum, carry heavy shopping.

I don’t feel weak or tired or over-exerted. I just feel well, and plan energetically for several days ahead based on this current exuberance.
And then a bad day follows the good days and my head feels 2 pounds heavier, like it’s putting strain on my neck. My eyeballs ache. Everything I’m supposed to do feels like a monumental climb with heavy legs and brain fog. My memory is poor, and I’m not even clear what my intentions are. My thoughts don’t flow. My energy is gone. And I’m floored again, ditching my plans, needing to lie down and yet not wanting to lie down. Weak, shaking, losing hours. Hands trembling. Frightened of food. Wondering who the idiot was who made so many plans for me that I can’t possibly carry out… Aching. Uncomfortable. Not quite right. Totally frustrated by an unpredictable body.

 

I’ve always been like this. Completely unable to plan anything long term and unable to know what I will be capable of. Nothing specific, nothing serious, nothing long-term enough to see a doctor (apart from the exhaustion but that lead nowhere). And I’ve mostly been fairly quiet about it. Until now. I’m starting to read more and more about how autism and Asperger’s can co-occur with hypermobility problems, connective tissue disorders and Ehlers Danlos Syndrome. It’s early days for me only a little over 2 years into my diagnosis, and I still struggle to find enough information about the physical effects of my condition.

But I can believe myself now – about my not-quite-right-ness. It’s still a bit of a mystery but it’s a very real one.

Backward Forward Thinking

shutterstock_135498428Somewhere out there, in a parallel universe, there are humans who knew that dragging coal and oil out of the earth was stupid, dangerous, dirty and unsustainable so they left it there and instead they developed products and technologies from safe, clean, sustainable sources, fought the NYMBYs and the luddites centuries ago, harnessed, wind, wave and solar power and will continue to thrive and renew for eons – long after we have fried.

It’s not too late to join them as a sort of sickly, recuperating, penitent relative with previous self-destructive addictions, trying to clean up our act,  but it looks like we’re not even going to bother because we still haven’t admitted we’re addicted and we’re in the wrong.

Well done to the wise inhabitants of that other earth in that parallel universe. I wish I and my descendants could join you.

Tea and pills

IMG_2599I’m a real advocate of allowing people to be honest about the negative stuff in their lives. I’m a believer in recognising the balance between wonderful and crappy.
Unfortunately I often pick up a strong hint from people that, unless one’s life is truly truly monumentally crappy, we’re supposed to think positively even when we don’t feel like it and bound around joyfully saying only nice things and never complaining.
‘But look at those people worse off than ourselves who never complain!’

Bugger off.

Even when I’m feeling low, I can list the good stuff! I know what it is! I don’t need annoyingly cheerful people prodding me with their happy finger, or miserable bastards telling me I don’t have the right to complain.

I’m massively, massively exhausted today. And I have had to take a combination of painkillers so I can get through some bad period pains. And I fully intend to not be joyful or to waste any energy pretending otherwise like some irritating fluffball of false cheerfulness. I will still be naturally delighted by a butterfly or a new flower or my children’s senses of humour.

I have pulled out all the stops for my family recently. I’m not complaining about that. I have no regrets. But, despite a certainty that could I do it all again I would, I can’t hide the exhaustion. I can’t pretend it’s not there. I suppose you might say I’ve refused to “think Aspie” in the last couple of days or think about the needs that involves. And now Aspie and hormones are both here to remind me I can’t ignore either for long. All I want to do is curl up somewhere dark and quiet for a day and sleep and think and empty my brain of all the recent interactions and images that are playing over and over. (And maybe have someone bring me tea and Voltarol and chocolate occasionally…) But I can’t because I have to be Alpha Dog, Alpha Bitch and chief doer of the everythings for 2 weeks now to get us through the rest of the holiday. As much as I can organise timetables for our shop and organise time for the family and organise times a journey will take us and organise and organise and organise… I can’t organise exhaustion and I can’t organise energy. These days just happen to me.

I know that many people see time at home with the kids as time off but I see it as my job – particularly when I’m the only parent here because the only time I get time off is when my husband is contributing and easing the constant to-do list, and “what does everyone need from me?” tune that plays forever in my head – and it has to be him rather than anyone else because our responsibilities are joint so it’s not help – it’s our lives, and he’s the only one I don’t have to explain to. (To be honest, I’ve always failed to see how my life of washing, washing up, preparing meals, tidying, cleaning, vacuuming, wiping poo off toilets, restocking the fridge, picking up dog hair, tripping over miscellaneous gubbins, repeatedly tidying the kitchen, stopping regulalry to say ‘Oi! Pick that up’, ‘Stop that!’, ‘Clean that up!’ ‘Wash your hands’, desperately trying to find time to pay bills, answer emails, do the wages, get outside and grow and pick vegetables, walk the dog, drink cold tea, never getting an authorised break, working through period pains, feeling guilty if I sit down, and never getting paid for any of it for twenty years, is like a holiday to some people. I’m clearly doing it wrong. Or maybe it’s the not getting paid bit…? )

Brains that never switch off need calming by reducing the stimuli sometimes – otherwise there’s no such thing as time off. I’ve pushed other people’s needs to the front of my brain for 20 years – 25, if you count the years I forced myself to socialise as much as I thought I should, and I think the not emptying often enough has finally worn me out. Some days the only thing that anyone can do for me is leave me alone ( – it’s taken 44 years and an Asperger’s assessment to learn to say that and it still feels totally evil).

I don’t need advice or solutions, I just need to grump. I actually don’t think there is a solution.
I know the best thing I can do today is write things down instead of letting them whirl in my brain, find something nice for our youngest to do, so I can ease the constant guilt, and aim for a rest sometime this afternoon by suggesting a DVD later. It won’t solve anything but it might keep things from getting any worse.

I don’t want to not have what I have, I don’t want to not have my children. I don’t even want someone else offering me anything. Dealing with communicating or organising with another person when I feel like this makes my head spin and exhausts me further. I just need to complain before I get up off my arse and carry on!

I am wading through treacle today but the treacle-wading boots fit only me. If you want to wave and offer a supportive glance as you run past me wading at 2 metres per hour then please do but don’t offer to discuss how I might do this any better/faster/more efficiently, and don’t ask me to explain why I should dare to suppose that my apparently charmed life is so difficult sometimes.
It just is, Dear Reader. It just is.

Today’s thought…

shutterstock_170125076I’ve been thinking about this obsession with looking younger. I just had a spam email advertising looking 10 years younger in 10 minutes. I don’t actually want to look any younger. I like being a grown up. I don’t want to walk around with my husband looking like he’s my father. I am proud to have kids in their late teens and to look like I’m old enough to be their mother.
I have no desire to look like an expressionless, startled, immature, unexperienced child or object. I like looking experienced, less threatening, and I like how other women chat to me when I’m shopping. That never used to happen when I was younger. I like how my sexuality has developed, settled and become a part of who I am instead of a feature.

Yes, it’s nice to look and feel healthy whenever possible but I certainly don’t want to go back in time. There’s a reason why I look like I’m over forty – and that’s because I am. It fits.



Impressed? Not much

shutterstock_117492781
I’d love to live in a world where humble, modest and generous-hearted were held in the highest regard, respected the most, and seen as the best properties to strive to attain and achieve.

Yet I believe we live in a world where quite the opposite is true – and people who want, take and show off are given unhealthy and ugly undue respect for being selfish, power-hungry and greedy; where somehow it is okay to steal as much as one wants regardless of the unfairness, decide to throw back a little where one chooses to celebrity-studded charities that shouldn’t even exist – and this is weirdly better and more applauded than never stealing at all.

Every day I feel guilty for the imbalance and inequality in my life compared with others. I see admiration for cars and houses and businesses that are bigger and more damaging than necessary or fair, and I wonder why we should be so impressed, and how on earth we could believe that anyone, anywhere deserves more – especially when it is based on want not need?




Find your ideals, not your idols

nofaceWe don’t tend to watch TV talent shows or a lot of sport in our house. I see how easily children (and adults) can become overly impressed with celebrity, with superficial adoration from a crowd, with narrow, one-sided ideas of success and achievement that, rather peculiarly, seem to exclude almost everything that is truly good in the world. And yet somehow modern media and its ideas of good role models has got to our youngest child: through kids’ TV, through school friends, through films and radio. She has been fed this notion of being noticed, of being the centre of attention as some kind of ambition. Like so many young people these days her list of “Things to Be When I Grow Up” includes a singular rather than a group mentality.

For me, the best people are not celebrities, not sportsmen and sportswomen, not winners, not rich, not on TV talent shows, not actors, not royalty, not in government; not Richard Branson, David Beckham, Barrack Obama, Cheryl Cole, not even J.K. Rowling or the lovely Stephen Fry. No, for me, the best people are the ones we will never know: the ones not striving for recognition, power, money, top jobs, top positions, top earnings, or top speeds. Our best role models are the people we may probably never meet or just never notice. We may pass them in the street without being awestruck, they may stand quietly behind us in the queue, they might deliver our online shopping or serve lunches at our children’s schools.

Once in a while you might catch a glimpse of them in a newspaper photo holding a placard in a crowd, or their head bobbing amongst many on a TV screen as they join in striving for a better world. Just one in a number fighting for a cause, content to be one of many, part of a struggle, part of a solution.

The photo next to a description of a true hero, a true role model, is an empty box. They don’t want our attention or strive for our adoration. We must find our role models in ourselves and accept that the true heroes are lost in the crowd -because by singling ourselves out for some higher place, we put ourselves before others and therefore we can no longer be the best we can be.

I don’t know exactly who all the true role models are for me and my children, but I know they are out there and I know what they do. They think well of others, they help others, they think about their actions and how they impact on others. They teach, they nurse, they fix, they heal; they inspire quietly, slowly and indirectly through consistent goodness and thoughtfulness and not by some crazy drive for individual achievement.


Bashing a Square Peg into a Round Hole

shutterstock_46095241I think it’s safe to say that if the human race were mainly made up of autistic people it would be quite a different place from the world we recognise today. If countries were run by highly-functioning autistics/people with Asperger’s, the rules would be a bit different. There would be a greater emphasis on fairness and many world problems would be solved by people who prefer to do rather than talk and give speeches all the time. There would be a gobsmackingly big increase in new inventions and new medicines. And all itchy uniforms would be ditched for soft, comfy cotton or nudity. There would be Escape and Chillout Pods in every shop, school and workplace. And it would be illegal to say ‘Face your Fears’ ever again. But there might be an unusually high resistance to change and there would probably be some pretty polarised views on what is and what isn’t important or interesting and what we want for our children. Despite a strong sense of justice and a fear of conflict and pain, it’s just possible that too many people with strong views one way or the other might cause stand-offs between communities and nations. Maybe the risk of war would be greater. Maybe it would be equal. Or maybe we would do away with war all together because there would be no soldiers, and no one thought to create weapons. Why the heck would you want to waste time and money killing people, after all? Maybe however much we disagreed with our fellow earth dwellers we just wouldn’t see the point in fighting. In an autistic community you can just ignore the people you disagree with.

But where would the sense of community extend to? Would it end where the house wall ends? Where the street ends?

In my thinking my community goes on and on. Its reaches right around the world and back again. I am not restricted by manmade barriers. I think you’ll find a lot of autistic people show concern for those beyond an observable community in the sense of a street, a village, a country or a set of beliefs. We are not constricted by the same structures. We are often so alone in our world and in our thinking that we are not confined by the same social constructs and actually think bigger.

I’m thinking a lot this week about how society behaves. How people expect a lot from each other without having a clue about how demanding they are being. There are sets of unwritten rules about manners and appropriate behaviour that are so set in stone, so conventional, they are not even discussed.

And then someone like me comes along who doesn’t play by the rules all the time and then they are discussed. Like apparently not looking at someone and holding their gaze while they are talking to you is rude! I didn’t know that. How is that even rude anyway? In the autistic world we see staring at someone in a conversation as a threat, as a challenge, as a distraction. It’s much more pleasant, sensible, polite and friendly to move your eyes around a bit and not threaten other people. If someone loves you, they’ll stare at you safely when you’re not looking. Give them space to think. They know you’re interested in what you’re saying. Otherwise you wouldn’t even be in the same room together! Obviously.
In this world, run by autistic people, you 1 in 88 of the population non-autistic people (1 in 88-ish. That number keeps changing – I don’t know what you’re up to…) need to learn the rules and do as we do. LOOK AWAY WHEN I’M TALKING TO YOU! Just turn you body toward me and nod now and then.

And then there’s that thing when if someone’s having a birthday you’re supposed to ask a load of people to do something with you of an evening. Maybe go out, maybe have a dinner party. Yeah, right. Why would you want to do that?! In the autistic world, you get your favourite thing for tea, you have it by yourself or with your 1/2/3/4/5 favourite person/people (okay 5 is stretching it a bit) and watch your favourite programme or film on telly or even just hang out with some other hermits on the Internet. Now THAT is how you have a good evening. DO IT! You can have alcohol too if you need it and even have a little dance when no one’s looking. Groovy is still happening in Autistic World. Don’t waste a load of money and a load of time making idle chit chat and gossiping with people you don’t know EXCEEDINGLY well. You know it’s better if you’re around people who don’t mind you picking your nose or suddenly swearing. Don’t forget we are the normal now – you are in the minority. You must make yourself fit however unnatural it is for you.
Try harder.

You don’t like it?

Shame. I’ll get my hammer and make you fit.

Bash. Bash. Bash. Okay so it hurts. You’ll thank me for it later.



Only I wouldn’t do that, would I? I have an enormous sense of justice.
You just do what feels right, love.




Must dash I need to cut the itchy label out of my jeans.


Mute

shutterstock_169863227I’m thinking about my response to something you said. I have many responses to choose from and I’m not sure which I should use. First I want to be sure I’ve made sense of what you’ve said. There’s a word you used that might mean something else and I want to be sure I’ve understood you the way you want to be understood. If I don’t know you very well that might take me a few extra seconds. The conversation has made me think of a hundred different things that may or may not be relevant. I need to filter those. What I say needs to be appropriate to the moment.

Which response should I use and how will I convey my answer? If you were someone else I would use a different language – different sets of words.

I finally decide what the best response should be. But it’s too late. I’m too slow. Someone else has spoken. The conversation is over. You’ve gone. It’s the middle of the night, the next day, the next week, months later, years later.

And this is what you saw:
She stares at me strangely for a second. She looks down. She looks at the room around me. She says nothing. Did I offend her? Did she not understand me? Is she stupid? She fidgets rudely as someone else talks.

Or maybe this was one of those times where I had to give an immediate response: ready or not. Maybe I blurted out the first unconsidered words and tried to catch them as they escaped: ridiculous, thoughtless and fancy-free, inappropriate and nonsensical.
Because that wasn’t how I felt at all.

I’ll write down what I mean. How I feel.
I’ll think. I’ll edit. I’ll read through and rewrite the bits that aren’t true.

And you may never know.

But someone will.

Eventually.

At least, I hope so.