Sometimes the meltdown comes as a relief.
Everything builds up.
Fear. Anxiety. Confusion. Hurt.
Crying on and off most of the day. Not able to communicate why; not properly. Don’t have the words for the maelstrom in my head.
I wish the rumour that autistic people don’t feel was true. I feel too deeply. Just don’t have the words. Emotions like threads of silk all jumbled and tangled up together. Sometimes I need help to disentangle. Sometimes I just have to cut through.
More words. Describing myself this time.
Useless. Hopeless. Worthless. Burden.
Tears come faster. Berating myself. Don’t know what I’ve done wrong; why I am wrong. But there must be something. Otherwise why impose this pain.
Already feeling on edge at the start of the day. Last night was not comfortable for me. I seem to be different, wrong, even in a room of other autistic women. I am one of the few who struggle to cope. I’m still far more comfortable in the neurotypical world, even though I’ve never belonged there and now never will. I don’t have a script for how to be autistic. And I can’t do it; not yet, maybe not ever.
Yet more words.
Insecurity. Panic. Struggle. Pain.
And I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to put things right. I don’t know whether things can ever be right again.
So sometimes the meltdown comes as a relief.
Held it together – sort of – until I could get to my safe place.
Screaming into pillows. Hitting and punching cushions until I am exhausted; spent. More tears. Surprised I still have any left.
Over now. Curled up on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket. Closest thing I can get to a hug these days, which is actually what I need.
Empty. Cleansed. Alone.