After the dim spiral I had been on in the previous months, which I now recognise as a mixture of depression, and anxiety, and the last sputterings of autistic burnout, this show was exactly what I needed to see.
The next week (or so) has been bequeathed from hell to challenge me.
As women, we are taught that we must shoulder the emotional burden of being okay. As autistic women, the burden of okayness becomes even heavier. We are always okay. Except when we aren't.
The horrible cough-and-cold mixture is the ultimate magnification of all the things that push those sensory overload buttons in my brain.
I have a major personal conundrum: I enjoy spending time with people I like, but I have a severely limited supply of social energy to do so.
When neurotypical people talk about anxiety, they're not willing to talk about the other, less sympathetic, manifestations.
It seems appropriate, on this World Mental Health Day, to admit that I'm struggling.
It was a crushing, overpopulated corner of hell, and I promised myself I would never go into the situation again unarmed.
I accept that this isn’t the kind of grandiose statement the great poets of our time will write songs about. But it is a huge, empowering revelation for me.
I have lost count of the times a headline has flashed with a tagline that sets my heart racing and none of the details I need to actually understand the situation.