Published on 12, July, 2020
More and more, I'm feeling physically, psychologically and emotionally exhausted with everything. It's a combination of stuff - work stresses, mum's failing health, the lack of support out there (as recommended for me by the psychiatrist who diagnosed my ASC).
Drastic cost-cutting measures at work have led to both an amalgamation and a contraction of services. This means that we're all having to cope with new client groups and a change of working routines. We used to work on a 1-1 basis with clients. But now we've been told we can no longer have additional 'bank' staff, so we have to spread ourselves more thinly and take on extra responsibilities. The pressure to work extra hours is growing. I feel a little cheated, too. They know my caring responsibilities with mum, and that I often need to take time off (as with yesterday) to attend hospital appointments with her. They were very understanding, telling me I could take as many 'emergency domestic' days as I needed. Now, they're telling me that I need to book such days as annual leave instead. With an average of 2 days needed per month, that means I won't have enough annual leave entitlement to cover it and will, at some stage, have to take those days unpaid. A remedy they've suggested - work evenings and weekends to make up the time. Yet they know I can't do those because of my caring responsibilities.
With the extra work pressures now, I often come home exhausted and go to bed early. Or I drink, to relieve the stress and anxiety.
Sometimes, it feels like my life is finally catching up with me - like a tsunami coming in to swamp me and carry me off. I've let go of so much. I used to enjoy healthy eating, exercise, reading. Now, I no longer have the motivation for any of them. I've started to get aches and pains, which I'm sure are psychosomatic.
I'm seeing my GP on Tuesday, though frankly I've no idea what to say to her. She'll most probably suggest anti-depressants, but they've never worked in the past - except to make me feel doped. Driving is a central part of my job, too, and I wouldn't want to risk doing that if I'm on medication. She might also suggest signing me off. To be honest, I'd probably jump at the chance. I feel like I need a break. The problem is, though, that I'd probably not want to go back. Like I said, I enjoy the work. But I feel like my machine's breaking down, and I don't know how much longer I can keep it going.
Maybe this is what happens to so many of us who've been late-diagnosed, and who find ourselves unable to get support for that reason: we've come this far, and somehow survived. But it leaves its mark on us. It's kind of like PTSD - with the trauma being a good part of the lives we've led and the struggles we've had.
I'm also having a carer's assessment at the end of the month. Maybe that'll help. They'll see I'm not coping that well with everything. I'm not sure what they'll suggest, though. If I cut my hours at work to bring me down to an earnings level where I qualify for carer's allowance, that only amounts to £65 a week. It'll make my monthly income less than £800. I can manage on £1,000, but only just. I suppose I'd qualify for Housing Benefit, though. I'll have to investigate.
Sorry... just off-loading. Not looking for sympathy or anything. Days like yesterday, though - and the changes going on at work - make me realise just how tightly-stretched the threads of my life currently are. Something has to give, sooner or later.
Thank you, everyone, for your kind and generous comments.
I'm not good at accepting compliments, Aspergerix, but thank you for yours. Right back since I was a kid, writing has been my only way of making sense of the world, and only later did I learn that it's also my way of communicating with the world, too. To be honest, without it life would be an empty shell. But it isn't always easy to do. I go through periods when there are no words there, and that's when it becomes particularly bad. I'm so pleased to know that it can be used to help other people, though, and that gives me both encouragement and confidence. Thank you.
Yes, change is always an issue. In many ways, when I was 'sick' from work for a couple of years following my breakdown, my writing flourished. It was during that time that I wrote my novel, plus most of my short stories. For the first time in my life, despite the precarious nature of my income and condition, I felt settled and safe. A monastery, or something like, would suit me well. Then, like the scribes of old - illuminating their manuscripts - I could write in freedom and peace. Alas, that won't happen unless I have some success - or when I retire.
I've not read that book, but I know of it. I've always liked Alvin Toffler's programmes, so I'll get a copy of that book on your recommendation.
Incidentally, I'm thinking about an Aspie blog. And, when I get time, I'm working on a memoir about growing up with my then unknown condition (working title: The Life of Me). Here's the opening, if you're interested...
*
I was born on 12th May 1959. Mum had me at home, in the back bedroom of the house she and dad were sharing with my maternal grandmother in Putney. Dad was there at the birth, as was nan. My brother Russell was there, too. He'd just finished breakfast and was off to get the bus to school when mum's waters burst, so they'd kept him home.
Apparently, it was a sweltering day - just as it had been in those last few weeks of mum's pregnancy - which hadn't made it a comfortable time for her. I weighed into the world at nine-pounds two-ounces. It must have been a relief for her to get me out.
Around about the time she went into labour, Capital Airlines Flight 983 from Buffalo to Atlanta skidded off the runway and crashed whilst landing in Charleston, West Virginia, killing two of the forty-four people on board. Then, less than an hour later - about the time dad and nan between them were bringing me into the world, with mum's cries echoing out of the open window and across the back yards of the neighbours - Capital Airlines Flight 75, en route from New York to Atlanta, disintegrated at five-thousand feet and crashed near Chase, Maryland, killing all thirty-one people on board. It was the first time that two planes from the same airline had ever crashed on the same day. It makes me wonder... if there is a God (which I've grown to doubt), he must have been too preoccupied with me and the hundreds of thousands of others born all over the world that day to pay much attention to Capital Airlines flights. As on many other occasions, before and since, He had His eye off the ball. A few momentary lapses of attention. That's all it takes. But I suppose it's all about checks and balances. Give some, take some.
The only other newsworthy thing that happened that day - and, as far as I can reckon it, around the time that mum was first cradling me to her *** and dad was thinking about heading to The Coat and Badge to wet the baby's head - was that Eddie Fisher got married to Elizabeth Taylor, just hours after getting his divorce from Debbie Reynolds.
The Queen was in Buckingham Palace. Harold MacMillan was in Number 10. Eisenhower was in the White House and Khrushchev was in the Kremlin. Chairman Mao was already over a year into his Five-Year Plan. The Kray twins were well into building their East End empire. Nobody had yet heard of Charles Manson, Harry Roberts, the Great Train robbers, John, Paul, George and Ringo (though they soon would). George Clooney hadn't been born, and nor had Brad Pitt or Johnny Depp. Morrissey came along ten days later. Meanwhile, Harrison Ford was into his final year at High School. There was still a year to go before Mick Jagger would be reaquainted with his old childhood mate, Keith Richards, on Dartford Railway Station in Kent. NASA was a fortnight away from sending two monkeys, Miss Able and Miss Baker, into space. Two years after that, the Soviets stole a bigger march on them and sent the first man up there. It took the US another eight years to get their own back. When they did, though, they did it in typical style. Neil Armstrong not only walked on the moon, he played golf on it.
So much happening, and so much still to happen on that ordinary day. A day when, elsewhere in the world, millions of ordinary people were going about millions of ordinary jobs. It was hot in some places, cold in others. People were laughing or eating or dying or drinking or kissing or talking or sleeping or making love. Tigers were hunting. Trees were sprouting buds or shedding leaves. Dead bodies were mouldering in their graves. Fires were burning. Dung beetles were pushing lumps of dung around. Birds were flying. Paint was drying. Grass was growing. The stars were moving overhead - their ancient lights scattered across the firmament like fairy glitter. The moon was moving into its first quarter that day. The universe was expanding. Clocks were ticking...
...and I knew none of this. If I knew anything at all it was that the nice warm bubble I'd been living in, with the gentle bass drumming of my mother's heart to comfort me, was suddenly gone. Everything was light and sound.
And I was hungry.