I'm heading for my fianl assessment for autism in November. I have learned so much since an initial consultation and a battery of questionnaires I took in the late summer. Apparently, right now I'm suffering from "autistic burnout," though I'm taking steps to avoid exhausting myself, many more than I ever have.
My perceptions have changed. The whole world seems to be vibrating. My body hurts in strange places, like my abdomen or my neck. (Many years ago, I went to a physician to complain of abdominal pain, but she found no physical cause, attributed it to anxiety.) I'm seeing connections between everything, as if a flutter of a leaf here scatters activity across a space, like millions of trails of dominoes. I am horribly fatigued.
I now wear earphones and sunglasses much more often, and I bought a pair of Flare Calmer Pro earplugs, which do help. Even so, these steps seem to have limited effect.
I had a full-blown meltdown days ago. It was a collapse, a session of unstoppable tears, and I lost the ability to speak, though I could write in a notebook in massive, block-like letters, and I could find letters on a keyboard, though my spelling was atrocious. I was shaking, and I felt like I might lose the ability to use my hands, and I forgot how a door handle works.
I have always been independent, as much as possible. I have a (mostly) stable career, a masters degree from a well-known university, and I've published books, given public talks, have performed on stage as an actor, and I love going to loud, raucous hockey or football (soccer) matches. But now, suddenly, my relationship to the environment is different, to the point that most of my experience seems impossible to describe. While it seems new, it also seems like an old friend has come to visit, as if to say, "Well, here's the true nature of our friendship."
Obviously, I'm anxious about the assessment. However, I don't know if I have the tools or the wherewithal to cope with this in a rational, systemic way. I used to go to the bakery, pay for my bread, and come home. Now, the door is vibrating; the fans are screaming; the birds leave tracers as they fly. The entire sky seems a dome that traps sound and light in waves and sheets. Yet, when people talk to me, I operate as I used to: I just nod and say, "Oh, interesting." "Yes, that's great." "I haven't seen the weather report, but it's sunny today."
Should I expect the rest of my life to remain exactly this intense?
