I Melt Down- written by my actual autistic friend
I meltdown.
I shutdown.
I breakdown.
Any variation of “downing” that encompasses some sort of visual emotional eruption, I partake in.
It isn’t often.
But it’s often.
Depends on how you look at it.
Thing is, I don’t let you look at it.
You don’t get to see that part of me.
Wild. Uncontrolled. Helpless. Frightened.
Not if I can help it.
Most times I know when it’s coming. I understand my triggers. Mostly.
And I remove myself. From wherever I am.
It isn’t uncommon for a stranger to find me on a bathroom stall floor, knees to chest, cradling myself.
I’m overwhelmed.
My boys see this. They don’t know what to make of it.
Here mommy is, this grown adult person, now a puddle in the corner of a Target bathroom stall. Slapping herself in the head to rid herself of that incessant ringing.
The lights in here, HURT. I hear the lights.
My oldest starts to meltdown. He feels everything. Deeply.
my youngest is so wise. But he’s so confused right now. And every other time.
And he doesn’t ever talk about it.
He tells everything else that will happen during our day.
But he keeps my secret.
Why?
Is it because I taught him so?
Because I don’t allow others to witness this part of me?
I hide it.
If I can.
Sometimes I can’t.
Too many people find me intelligent enough, coherent enough, “normal” enough to not have any challenges associated with being on the spectrum.
They just think I’m weird. Or quirky.
I wish I were just weird and quirky.
Every single day. I struggle.
So much. I can’t figure out how to teach my boys how to cope or manage or survive in this world the way I have because they are impacted so differently than me.
I can’t teach this because I’m still figuring it out.
They can’t learn from me because I can’t explain it.
Yet.
Don’t think because I make you laugh sometimes, or pull you from a dark place with my words that I don’t struggle.
I wrote this….in the bathroom of a Target, with one hand, because I used the other to slap the ringing from my head.
I meltdown.