Exhale

A slow emergence

Photo © Julie Farrell

I woke up this morning just before six-am, after a troubled and fitful sleep. Sometimes I wonder if our bodies are hardwired to understand and perceive things well beyond our conscious awareness. It's been a rush of social engagements and autistic meltdowns these last couple of weeks. After another tiring day yesterday, which culminated in a deeply probing therapy session, I crawled into bed at eleven-pm to read a few pages before lights out. But it’s not really possible to only read a few pages of Amy Liptrot’s The Outrun. It’s my first time reading it, after years of saying I will, as seems to be the way these days with most of the books I read. I’m always catching up.

The way that Amy writes about the blurred, hazy, yet visceral days that she spent in London in her youth, whilst she surviving an ongoing mental health crisis, only serve to rattle my already fraught nervous system, as it mirrors the tangled, messy, scramble of feelings I’ve been processing lately. It sets my teeth jangling and I drifted into a restless sleep.

I tugged out of sleep, my lower back aching badly, my mind racing and my heart beating too fast. The pain had eased off almost entirely over the last few months, with me not being at my desk much. But for the last six weeks I’ve been submitting to various things, with the biggest deadline tomorrow. I’ve been trying my utmost to bully an active project into the shape of a pitch, but people with ADHD are notoriously bad at this. My mind has been so smashed to bits of late, which doesn’t help matters.  

I've been diligent. I've been working away at my desk or my kitchen table as often as time and headspace allows. It takes all my focus, and exercise and relaxation have mostly gone out the window which is taking its toll. I'm looking forward to getting a handle on things again. I was only diagnosed officially with ADHD a week ago, after a long wait again, and a private assessment. I'd like to try medication, knowing that it's helped a lot of people, including friends of mine. There's a few reasons just now why I can't, though, which is incredibly difficult given how much I’m impacted by it. My mind is frazzled. My body is tired and janky and I've been having more fitful sleep, struggling to get over and it's been a mix of five or six-hour sleeps, exhausted days, and then total crashes and ten-hour sleeps, with a two-hour nap on top.  

Last night was different. Possibly because my body and mind are aware that this deadline is coming up. But I think maybe that there's more to it than that. I realised only this morning as I headed out of the door that it’s exactly five months ago today since my dad died.

I didn't plan to post on here specifically on this day, but I have been meaning to post again. Life happens and death happens and grief doesn't follow rules. I haven't had the capacity. But yesterday in a serendipitous connection, I was introduced to an author I admire and look up to, who quickly told me that they subscribe to this Substack, and how much my writing struck a chord with them. It meant the world to hear this. We bare our souls and we’re not sure who it’s resonating with. This was as sure a sign as any to keep going.

A silver lining to this morning’s troubled wakening, is that it’s given me an extra couple of hours in my day to get out for a walk, first-thing, which has given me space to write this as I stroll under the vibrant green patchwork of leaves that criss-cross above the path. This is my first early-morning walk in a few weeks, due to sleeping later, and needing slower mornings. I’ve also had a new compulsion to get up and throw on my gym kit in these last few weeks, sticking on an upbeat playlist and dancing like my life depends on it in my living-room. Getting my heart rate up, sweating, jumping, leaping and singing along lifts my mood considerably, and importantly, raises my heart rate to its peak levels. My resting heart rate has been living somewhere between 70 and above 100bpm on quite a consistent basis for the last couple of years. And when I exercise, it brings my average resting heart rate down to around 64 bpm. This helps all manner of things going on in my body and it was resulting in better sleep, improved appetite and satiety, and reduced anxiety.  

It's another thing that's gone out the window in these last few weeks of submissions. My heart rate has been slowly creeping up, and just yesterday reached a disturbing high of 130bpm whilst sitting at a table socialising with good people. This does not signal that the socialising itself was a bad thing, rather, that my wrung-out nervous system is rather fragile at this point in time. It’s my body saying, ‘hey, we’re overwhelmed here, can you slow down?’

It isn’t surprising, given I had a dreadful meltdown last week (that’s what us neurodivergent people call too much stimulation resulting in nervous system overwhelm and often shutdown). I’ve been cautious not to do too much, or interact too often since. This is challenging, because as a writer I spend a lot of time with myself, and I thrive on social connection. Meeting friends charges the batteries as much as it depletes them in other ways. We have to constantly be vigilant in striking the balance.

I’ve been working on rounding-up the memoir these last few weeks, and it feels like the last big push, as I approach the timeline connection point, having started in in September last year. It’s been hugely enlightening to be existing in a space where I'm writing a memoir that in part documents my daily, lived experience. It’s surprised me: starting as one thing, in a particular form, that changed utterly after my dad died. Writing it has taught me so much about myself.

This space is about sharing what I've learned, as I slowly come out of the ether after putting all my energy and focus into that work. I hope to spend more time connecting with you on here.

Photo © Julie Farrell

As always, nature has been keeping me grounded throughout this tumultuous period, an ever constant reminder of the trickle of time. Just a few days ago, the field I’m standing in was tall and bronzed with dried out Oil Rapeseed, pods rattling in the breeze. I’m surprised to find it now already threshed, the dark brown soil freshly turned, awaiting new seed.

I’m looking forward to connecting – this is what I'm here for. If this resonates please leave a comment below, it would be great to hear from you x