The ‘trendiest’ restaurants have no class whatsoever these days. They blast music in an obnoxiously loud fashion, causing diners to shout, or at least talk very loudly, to hear each other over the music.
The sounds of people competing with music, mixed with the uncomfortable melody of clattering plates and glasses from guests and kitchen, can make restaurants overwhelming to the point of overload. If you’ve watched the recent Heart Break High series, you’ll have watched a depiction of this as autistic Quinni tries hopelessly to ignore the noise around her.
I was waiting outside a burrito bar - blasting music into the street - and physically signed with relief when, after some groping around my various pockets, I found past-me had the foresight to stuff earplugs into my coat before leaving the apartment.
I gratefully stuck them in, feeling a little less tight around the shoulders. When my partner and his friend turned up, said friend almost immediately noticed I was wearing them and, in a baby-ish voice, mocked my use. ‘Owww is it too lowd.’
Instantly, my guard went up. As a 30+ neurodivergent, working-class woman, I’ve swallowed my fair share of shit, and I’ve simply had enough of taking it, especially from people who have no financial bearing on my life. I let the annoyance wash over my face; I purposely let my tone be whatever my mind made it. I was not going to mask my way through this.
But, behind the face of annoyance and indifference, I WAS masking. Deep down, I was hurt. My mask smothered that hurt with anger until I could cry about it later. I felt like the mocking confirmed everything I was scared of and felt… I was stupid, I was making a fuss over nothing, I was attention-seeking. I was too much.
Days after turning this situation over in my mind, I can firmly say having the foresight to use sensory aids simply means I am astutely aware of my mind and body’s needs in ways others could only hope for. It is the ultimate self-care, to know what I need and indulge it. Even so, despite knowing deep down, there is nothing childish, attention-seeking, or mockable about using earplugs - I felt disrespected and less than for using them, like I was somehow less deserving of empathy and respect.
When I first started using earplugs, they were joyous. They gave me relief, a breath as I sank into the muffled hum. But now, sometimes, sensory aids just aren’t enough. Before introducing sensory aids into my life, my intolerance for loud environments would build up over time, making the week harder as I progressed through it. Now, I am instantly in a state of overwhelm, wishing the world into silence, wanting to turn the volume down, or wishing myself away, locked into the safety of my house.
Was I always trapped in this prison? Was I always so sensitive? Was this always so overwhelming? Is this life now?
I feel so isolated.
I just can’t shake the feeling recently that the more I use sensory aids, the more unaccustomed I become to the noise, sounds, people, and motion around me. It feels like the more I unmask, the less tolerance I have for masking, which in turn makes my world smaller - the places I can go and the things I can do. They have all shrunk as I lean into unmasking. I see how much larger the world is of those around me; at times, I feel trapped and suffocated by it.
I have never felt so disabled.
Maybe everything feels tough right now because we are far from home and won’t be back for another few weeks. My partner, usually working less than a few metres away, is working elsewhere; I’m alone for half of my waking hours, routines are next to non-existent, and all problems and projects are on hold until we return home. Time is a sea wall holding back the ocean of tasks that will cascade down on us on our return.
Maybe my sensory needs are more because the people living above where we're staying ae banging around, clunk, clunk, clunk, across their hard floors near constantly. They have a child that throws things and screams just as often as they clunk. The noise that transfers down to us makes me want to scream, slam doors, throw things across the room. The irritations pulse through my brain, and my limbs tense with rage.
Maybe it’s because I’m caught between
Rage
Isolation
Overwhelm
Instead of being absorbed in joy.
I’m feeling a little delicate. Can you tell? The tides of unmasking and getting to know my true neurodivergent self come in waves of joy and sorrow. Right now, I’m living in the sorrow.
Even so, this space is for embracing joy, as well as learning how all the ism and intersections deprive us of it. To counteract the sorrow and reinforce the existence of joy, I’m adding a new section, this section, to the bottom of every newsletter, a space to share a few joyful moments from the week. I’d love to revel in your joy too, so feel free to share any joy you've recently experienced in the comments. For now, here’s mine.
I’m in Vancouver until early February, a bloody joyful thing! I lived here for over 4 years, and something uniquely special happens that had completely elapsed my mind. At dusk, hundreds and hundreds of crows flock and migrate out of the city to roost. They stretch across the sky, a black stream. I saw them on one of the few dry days we’ve had so far, and I soaked in the memories of all the times I watched the crows at dusk.
I hung out with friends I hadn’t seen for a few years. We walked in a local park, which is more of a small forest made of giant pines and cedars, with the precious new dog Gracie, who they’ve just adopted.
Cuddles in front of the TV. There was a particular night my partner wrapped his arms around me, and I rested my face on his arm, taking in the metallic scent he picked up from god-knows-where. I sat in that moment with the hope that I would forever remember this feeling. Mushy, I know, but it gave me joy.
Over to you.
Chelsea🐌
I have yet to learn to highlight moments of joy. I'm sure they've been there for a week, but I can't make them out