The generally accepted definition of stimming is repetitive “self-stimulatory behaviours”. It can affect people with differing diagnoses and conditions, and
I think in verse. Not always. Not every day. But – I think in verse. when I’m distressed when I’m heading to shutdown, but more especially meltdown when my head is just so full of STUFF that I can’t get my thoughts into coherent speech when my fear, anger, self-loathing take hold of my being when I need to order my thoughts before they lead to self-destruction That’s when I think in verse. And I have to write it down. I have diaries and journals and notebooks spread over many years recording my anguish. Sometimes with an image. Sometimes scrawled page after page. Sometimes just a few lines. Usually it works, helping to dispel the negatives inside my head. Distilling into a page or two feelings that would take minutes and hours to express verbally. When I’m feeling OK I don’t write like this because there’s no need. I’ll still write, and I rarely re-draft, it’s still cathartic, but it’s
Decades under the radar of female autism Last November, two months after I turned 68, I was diagnosed with Autism
Today is Monday. Last Friday we had visitors, a family friend of my husband from way back who I’d met
What pulls the trigger, flicks the switch?
Turns me into devil or witch?
All that’s positive, all that’s good
banished to hell and bathed in blood.
Search for balance, search for worth,
ways to banish the inner curse,
seek the good of self before birth.
Before rejection – before the pain
before abuse and negative gain.
When evil rears its ugly head
all positive thoughts remain unsaid:
no happy heart, no peaceful soul
no reasoned mind to deflect its goal;
darkest thoughts in darkest cell
no glimmer of light within the hell;
no breath of air just stifled heart
no wings of hope for new-born start.
All efforts now to begin anew
wearying, crushing, exhausting to do.
Tears come far easier than resolve ever does
cutting or overdose a much better option;
so lonely inside myself, hating what I find,
inadequacies of body, inadequacies of mind
can’t look forward, don’t want to look back
don’t want to face all the things that I lack.
Where is the me that sees what is good?
Will it come back before blood is spilled?
Why just the me that knows all the ills?
When can I banish the me that kills?
Born on a council estate, couldn’t relate, Not special, not wild – just council house child; Feeling awry, not knowing