Another Vignette About Something Bad

A bad thing happened to me.

I won't be doing a grand reveal, like some sort of whimsical, bearded magician. I don't want to publicly talk about it in explicit terms. But I do want to reflect on how we all process trauma, autistic or not. We, as a culture and a society, especially in Britain, especially in England, are particularly bad at giving ourselves, or rather being given, time to cope, reflect and act on what we've exeperienced. Talking about abuse, or grief, or anxieties is almost haram. Being open about not just feelings, but also the way in which past trauma has shaped you as a person, as a father, mother, sister, etc., acts as a foam battering ram against the sturdy, wooden gates that protect the perfect, stoic, beer-swilling utopia that some people feel England is. No matter the assurances we get from rich or affected public figures that its okay to talk about your feelings, it is still taboo. Ellen DeGeneres posts about profound senses of isolation from her multi-million dollar mansion and incurs the wrath of other rabid, foaming influencers; a race to the bottom over who feels the most knocked-out. Trauma and grief become competitive. Overlords grant us 'compassionate leave,' kindly gifting us nanoscientifically-measured time slots to grieve before we return to work, feeding the corporate machine and being treated as disposable bodies by strangers, countrymen and clients.

Talking, in a vacuum (not talking into a vacuum, I don't recommend that as a coping mechanism. Though, of course, I've never tried. Maybe it is a panacea. Maybe that would help, though I doubt it), just doesn't help. Talking to people about your problems when a heavy, oppressive system hangs above us like storm clouds can totally negate the feel-good, cathartic impact of talking. Not to mention the Crusaders of Arbitrary Negative Feelings. So of course we need systemic change to aid people in processing trauma. Shorter working days, reversing the decimation of mental health services, a more efficiently-ran socialised health service, a society that is centred on wellbeing and empathy rather than exploitation, profit and appeal to our unconscious sexual desires; all of that might help. But largely, we rely on ourselves to understand and confront trauma. Some institutions that market themselves as the right place and the right environment for personal development are often the cause of such trauma. Consider the military, or the police, for example. I am an outspoken critic of the police, their tactics and their recruitment strategies but they often find themselves in situations that induce the most crippling of anxieties, feelings and worries. A locker-room-banter culture does nothing to aid them in developing the confidence to be honest about how they not only speak about, but internally deal and reconcile with, such emotions. 

I am autistic. The usual flow chart of processing trauma looks something like this: trauma happens -> I emotionally (over)react, becoming irrationally angry or upset -> I seek emotional reassurance from my mother, or my girlfriend -> I cry again -> the trauma is processed. But now, after the bad thing happened, I feel totally numb. Nothing is coming. Nothing is swelling inside me. I am not pregnant with any rotting fetuses or putrid emotions. There's nothing. It is extremely worrying. I don't know whether or not I'm in pure acceptance or pure denial. I'm in a purgatorial state where I can read a novel, immerse myself in the deepest and most profound feelings that it can offer, yet feel absolutely no correspondence with the bad thing. I've lost all interest in walking around the most bucolic parks Manchester has to offer (that might sound funny, but we have some beautiful green spaces) and being around people. I'm aware that I carry this demon, this djinn, this jumbee, inside of me and I don't know if its under my control or not.

But worse than the numbness is the total absence of tears. Any readers of the blog will know that I cry to ameliorate autistic anxiety. I cry at near-anything, from emotional TV shows to overstimulatory environments. What's more, I cry all the time. I cry multiple times a week. I'm a naturally anxious hypochondriac and I worry about the future all the time. I have to assuage that with tears. The world only makes sense through crying. Shedding tears, for most people, acts like releasing air from a balloon. The tension that stretches the balloon to its bursting point is suddenly eased and the floppy, crinkled yet reusable skin is, once again, ready for more airy sustenance. My tears act as shrapnel shooting out from inside the balloon, bursting it with all the sensory unease and discomfort that brings to others as well as I. The balloon is never the same again and we/I need to patchwork it together, ready for the next time it happens. 

I have told my parents and my closest friends about the bad thing, but they can't do anything. They're utterly powerless in confronting the maelstrom of worry that is now tormenting me. They offer me nothing but love and support, kindness and understanding yet I often eschew that to sit in my bedroom alone. It feels like a betrayal, and I feel guilt and shame, adding to the spectrum of emotions that the bad thing has made me feel. They can't act on my behalf, nor can they sit and do nothing. They're as much in limbo as I am. Its probably worse to be them, in this case.

I don't want for you, the reader, to think I'm whoring myself out for attention, what with not telling you about the bad thing. To some extent, that's irrelevant. According to clinical observation, I'm in shock. I've been passed aroud four different organisations and institutions with almost callous indifference, or irresponsibility. For those who have experienced trauma much worse than I have, it must be like trying to scale K2. Beauracratic hurdles that must be leaped faster than Usain Bolt. Or someone else who did hurdles. I don't know any hurdlers and I'm not doing a Google search right now to find any. I'm owning my own ignorance. To 'speak out' isn't brave in the eyes of institutional Britain; it is a red-tape, strangulating mess.

I'm scared, because I only became aware of the trauma after it had happened. I feel helpless, as discussed, I feel guilty, and ashamed, and embarrassed, I'm sleeping more and more with a greater frequency of nightmarish dreams that anchor me to a hellish domain of slumber, I can't concentrate, I have problems with my short-term memory, yet I'm still in a profound state of shock. I am hyperalert; I'm scared the bad thing will reoccur. But I don't know what I'd do if it did. I can't do, or act, I can only feel, and barely feel at that. I am Autistic Hamlet, clad in black, awaiting the ghost of my father to appear before me with no more questions, only answers. For people that have undergone something much, much worse than I have, the idea of receiving such an insensitive rebuke from the same institutions is sickening. 

I had originally planned to end this on a sour note. Since the bad thing happened, I see the worst in everyone. Humanity is doomed, and like a plague we fester on the green earth that we will eventually turn to grey, mulchy shit, with rancid corruption and destruction left in our wake. But fifth time lucky, I received the most stunning and compassionate support I could have wished for. It takes just one wild flower to poke out above a dark vale. Its a shame it takes trauma for someone like me to be exposed to the best of humanity. Be nice to one another. We're all we have, sometimes. 

"What will survive of us is love." Philip Larkin, the notorious nihilistic poet, ended his Whitsun Weddings collection on that sentence for a reason.