A Blog Article Written by a Client of the Practice: “The Cost of Being Social”

I recently attended a conference at which one of the closing speakers concluded with something similar to:

 “a society grows great when we plant trees in whose shade we will never sit”

It was inspiring and I think a nice way to close the event.  I wish I could tell you how the rest of the closing speeches went, but I can’t.  Because I was in the atrium having left in a rush during the group discussions and made it back only for that final speech.

It’s not the first time I’ve had to leave an event due to rapidly becoming overwhelmed, nor will it be the last, but it is worthy of note for 2 reasons:

• It was the first time I’ve had this happen with an awareness of my particular blend of Autism and ADHD and the beginnings of an understanding as to how it affects me.
• It happened at a neurodiversity focussed event which (as is the nature I have found with such things) was predominantly attended by other neurodivergent people.

One of the things I have come to understand about myself is that a big social event in a public setting (no matter who it is with, how passionately I want to be there, or how much I enjoy it) will come at a cost.  It will impact my mood, my energy levels, my ability to process, my ability to interpret what is happening or has happened (for a time) and a plethora of other little things that all happen ‘under the hood’ so to speak, where nobody can see.

The impact of such things can be as small as needing to take time alone to recharge and engage in self-care in the immediate aftermath of the event.  But sometimes I push too far through and ignore the warning signs, and on those occasions, the result is physically, mentally, and let’s not forget socially punishing.  I suspect it is a hard thing to understand if you have not experienced it, but (tangent coming bear with me) I like words, I rely on words and their correct and creative usage to navigate a world which seems to be built around tone, and body language and hidden meaning.  Because of the importance of words in my life I have a good many of them and I have learned how to use them well, and (back on topic in 3, 2, 1…) I think that gives me a reasonably good chance of giving an insight into what all out, ‘impact to social standing be damned I’m out of here’, social burnout feels like.

At the conference, it started on day 2 with a rumble at lunch time: a feeling of irritability and unease that came out of nowhere (did I say irritability and unease?  Oh, my brain has caught up with what ‘uncomfortable’ meant at that time: alexithymia, a topic for another day perhaps).  Armed with my newfound superpowers of self-understanding and self-compassion, I did all the right things: I took myself out of the room and sourced lunch elsewhere, giving me some precious moments of quiet and space, and then when I returned, I engaged in interesting conversation with just one person, instead of trying to join one of the larger groups that tend to form at such events.

“Ah ha! Saved it!” I thought.  Spoiler alert: I had not.

After lunch we had a group discussion.  On day one I had managed this and engaged in it: of course I did, it was about me! Well, not quite, but as day one was based around the experiences of neurodivergent colleagues and lessons that we can learn, my experiences at a table of (as far as I know) largely neurotypical people, held some weight, and there was, either because of a slightly different table makeup that day, or because of that politeness that tends to occur when people realise they are discussing things that may impact someone within earshot, less loud critical opinion and, crucially, less talking over one another.

On day two it felt different.  It fundamentally was in that there were 4 new people at the table, and they had replaced 4 people from the day before.  But it wasn’t just that, I felt different (rumble).

As the group conversation grew louder, and the conversation round about us flew around the room (a conference on neurodivergence with several tables engaging in separate discussions in one relatively small echoey and bright white room, a match made in heaven!  Oh.  Actually no.  Not that.  The opposite of that.)  I started to find myself flinching whenever there was a particularly loud burst of laughter, or a particularly loud exclamation from someone at my table.  I started to feel tense.

Prepared for this, I put in my earplugs, but I think in my stubborn desire to push through I left it too late.  They dulled things slightly, but still I was drowning in a sea of noise (rumble), my head was hurting (rumble), I was getting confused (rumble) and starting to feel a bit threatened by (and I cannot emphasise this enough) people who were just talking enthusiastically.

On the outside I was looking up and around in, what felt like, a bit of a dazed fashion (RUMBLE).  I was putting my hands over my ears every time my immediate neighbour engaged in one of his loud interjections (RUMBLE) and now there were 2 or three conversations going on solely amongst the occupants of my table (BOOM).

Okay there was no boom.  There’s no big dramatic slamming back of the chair or shouting to the ceiling: “I can’t take this anymore!”

But grant me a little dramatic licence – I am describing one of the most humiliating things I go through.  And saying that I stood up and abruptly (but I have since been told outwardly quite calmly) walked out in silence doesn’t sound very cool.

And so I found myself sitting outside of the room, trying to practice breathing as I watch my hands shake, and wondering what on earth went wrong.  And I knew it was going to be an evening where I would sit and ruminate on it for longer than I should while feeling a bit sad and embarrassed.  So I went to an event that was very important to me, and that I took a lot from, and it came with a cost.

It’s easy to get hung up on days like this, to beat myself up about just not being able to do the things that come so easily to others.  But when I look back on it, I realise that I have only been diagnosed for a very short space of time, and aware of what might be driving some of the things I have always found so hard for a relatively short time before that.  I am 36 years old, and I am only just now learning how to be me as I am meant to be, not as others want me to be.  And if there is one thing I’m good at it’s learning.

I started this piece on a poignant quote from a speech I caught the end of.  What I took away from that (and those 2 days in general) is that if we are willing and able to speak about our experiences, if we are able to contribute to building understanding and tolerance, we might contribute to a world in which it is not a shameful or distasteful thing for us to just be who we are.  I think that is important.

I would like to finish it with a phrase that I like just as well (and while I can’t be 100% sure I haven’t absorbed it elsewhere unknowingly, I think it’s one of mine, so I’ll claim it – worked for Shakespeare!)  It is something I have asked of others recently, and that I wish more people would apply to anybody who is prone to having ‘off days’, even when you can’t understand them.  So my final words are this:

Please allow me some grace on the days where I cannot be graceful.

(ok I lied, I need to be polite) Thank you.

By C.W.