Fighting The Library Balrog On A Bad Day – Or Why Psychological Warning Signs Should Always Be Noted Carefully

How was your day?  Mine was okay.  Until it wasn’t.  But now I am home, safe, and thankful that I reached this place after a time of difficulty.

There were warning signs this morning.  A terrible headache in a particular place that I know means there are likely to be many more hallucinations than usual.  But I went out anyway, choosing not to cancel my social engagement.  Choosing to meet with a friend because in the past few weeks every friend who has chosen to meet with me has not been able to keep their commitment.  They’ve all had good reasons.  They’re not to blame in any way and often they have reasons that make me just want to reach out and hug them or hold them close in a place of as much safety and acceptance as I can give them.  Because many of my friends go through some pretty dreadful versions of Hell themselves.

That’s just the way life has consistently been recently unless I’ve visited family or managed to get to some event or other – which every time has taken almost superhuman strength.  It’s frustrating.  It takes a lot for me to arrange to meet someone, even someone I completely want to meet with and whose company I greatly enjoy.  Note this:  If I arrange to be social with you specifically then know that I value you a great deal.

Each fallen plan saps my strength no matter how excellent the reason for the fall is.  Sometimes I cope with it well and go on some semi-crazy adventure to a random bus destination.  Sometimes I crash to the ground and can hardly adventure as far as the kitchen to make a cup of tea.  I wish it wasn’t that way but autism mixes in with a raft of comorbidities so at least for now it’s just something that I accept as a part of my life.

The meeting went okay.  I think I talked more rubbish than usual and was far more grumpy than usual and could feel myself drifting away in directions both unfortunate and dissociative too at different times but didn’t want to drift too far out of the realms of acceptable normality.  Not today.  Not when it’s the first time in three weeks I’ve actually managed to just go out and meet with a friend.

And then.  Afterwards.  The walk through town to the bus.  My head collapsed.  It was awful.  I managed to get to the library but that was too loud too yet I sat there until they threw me out at closing time.

While there I lost track of time, space, memory.  Someone else within wrote now deleted Facebook updates and someone else more childlike wrote a text to someone that can’t be deleted.  It’s not mean in content but it’s not exactly my usual standard of language.  I think she filled in a research questionnaire about anxiety and autism for me last night.  At least, question three became question forty-five and I have no clue what came between.  Hopefully the answers weren’t too bizarre.

Is this the kind of thing that recent psychological treatment has opened up?  I haven’t written about all that here yet.  I hardly know how.  Suffice it to say, my knowledge of what goes on in my head has become substantially more complicated recently.

On arriving home I wrote.  What follows is hardly edited or changed from that.  It should be known that the bus back passed a burning pawn shop and that the news this morning mentioned there would be a crumpet shortage.  Pubs are worried about beer supplies but I find the linked crumpet shortage more of a personal worry.  Right now I want to drink.  My head says it doesn’t care.  I haven’t drunk in over a year apart from one sip of a very disgusting champagne.  But John Tavener music plays and tonight would not be a good time to open up the cupboard containing a strange amount of booze for a non-drinker to own.

Tonight there may be too much booze if I opened a bottle.  Even a bottle of something innocent like Lindisfarne Mead – the bottle I bought 36 hours after my mother died.  And if there was too much booze then tablets may follow.  Instability is not a good thing.  I will sit and solve Sudoku instead until my only option is sleep.  Tomorrow will be a new day.  And I will experience that new day and many more new days.  Perhaps Poseidon will rebaptise me soon.  That’s the kind of hallucination that’s enjoyable!

 

Stumbled through the narrows
of the thousand half-mast ships.
Swept, pressed, parted on black diamond rocks
of ten million phenomenon storm wave tears
as veiled widows sieve swept the sea.
And she crashed, washed,
through the cracks of an existence
ripped to the four corners of the earth
as smoke drenched the pawnbroker’s side
rewriting the dreams of merchants.
It was there she lost herself.
Found herselves as half prepared
holes in mouldering packet pairs of crumpets
made rare by a lack of greenhouse gas.
She fled through stock footage streets as
Each frowned face bore the holy image
Of the Turin Ripper Shroud.
Between the faces others jeered,
Called out her weakness and spat
alien acid, stalest chewed cigars, custard bile,
Seeping into her terrored hiding places.
She buried herself deeper.
Sought redemption in book depositories
Saw only the wall of fears
And the face of a dying comedian.
She fought banshee, balrog, believing
Each claimed head foot would lead her home.
Then she too died without a joke.
The child rose, wrote, connected
With a world that did not hear.
Innocence clutched the body of death,
Rocked with her under guardians’ glances.
She refused to cry, hardly knowing
Where she sat on the half-lettered throne
Or how to find her place of home.
Blank faced men and women, songless,
Cast her out into a land
Where all creatures were Leviathan.
So she screamed, silently to the sky winds
In necromantic desperation
Until the stumbler was permitted to live once more.
Resounding in unknown wordless strength,
She postponed her world’s end
For just one more face fracture day.

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