A different sensory overload

Here’s an interesting one.

One day last week, I wrote a couple of articles for this blog. They were quite long and intense, and I ended up with nearly 2000 words bashed out in a little over an hour. I felt great. I usually do after writing a blog post. The physical act of typing words out de-clutters my brain and forms logical sentences of the thought fragments that swirl around in my head.

My euphoria didn’t last long though. By the time I got home from work I felt very overloaded, and the evening passed in something of a haze. The next morning, I felt hungover.

I’ve talked about each of these states recently, and have put the cause down to sensory overload – specifically too muich sensory input. But that day, I didn’t have too much sensory input.

Now, it’s probably wise to remember that I ‘see’ much of what I write. Both my long-term and working memories are very visual. So, in writing about how I feel about the diagnosis of Asperger’s, and how I frequently say one thing to people, and then don’t follow through with the actions, I spent a good deal of time playing and replaying scenarios in my head. Visually. I can kind of ‘hear’ the other people talking in these scenarios too.

Could it be that the intensity of generating and seeing all this information in my head and the act of getting it all down in writing caused much the same effect as too much visual, auditory or tactile input does? I can’t be sure, of course, but that is the best conclusion that I can reach. It’s not too much sensory output, as such, yet it is about experiencing a lot of sensory information, albeit internally generated.

A different form of sensory overload.

What do you think?

Close of play

When someone who feels like they have authority for something makes stupidly arbitrary rules with little thought to how ridiculous the rules are, my spidey-senses tingle.

Oh all right, they don’t. What really happens is that I get irate and whine and moan to people about how stupid the rules are. It is your turn, dear blog readers.

A case in point is the timesheet system at work. Until recently, I could submit my timesheet for the week on the following Monday morning. No problems there.

Recently, it was decided that you had to have your timesheet in by close of play (undefined) Friday instead. Ok. Not a big problem. It would be nice if a time was given, but still. I can have the timesheet in by the time I finish work, and I can do it as my last task of the day, so that it accurately reflects the time I’ll be leaving.

Last Friday, I got a snotty email at 14:29 from someone whom I have never heard of saying that my timesheet was late. It is now apparently policy (no communication has been sent in this regard to anyone) for the business unit that I work in to have your timesheet for the week submitted by noon on Friday. This, the email continued, was to allow the sender to run a report on timesheets, to see who hadn’t submitted one.

Ummm…..

You can see why I’m mad at this, can’t you?

Firstly, I only need to submit it before noon so that someone can run a report to see if I have submitted it. Not because they need to have the report to someone by 2pm Friday. They can’t apparently run the report at the wonderful close of play Friday like other business units, because, I suspect, the person that runs the report wants have a feeling of huge power, and frankly can’t be arsed to stay late on Friday to run the report then.

Secondly, by noon on Friday, I can’t tell you what time I’ll be leaving at close of play. Therefore, any timesheet I submit is at best a guess. It may not be wildly inaccurate, but it isn’t factually correct either, especially as we have to account for our time in 15 minute intervals. My Aspie logic doesn’t like circumstances like this – it feels like I’m fibbing and thus I feel uncomfortable doing it. Is it even legal to submit a timesheet for time I haven’t worked yet?

The whole system is patently crackers.

I have to assume that it works something like this:

The company I work for is large. It has well over 100,000 employees. Times are tough, and money is tight. The folks at the top who run the business want to know how well they are utilising people resources. Fair enough. I imagine that they have asked their underlings to have a report on their table every Monday lunch time with the resourcing stats for the previous week.

These people, who invariably feel big and important too, have asked the people that work for them to gather the stats. They’ve probably told them they need them first thing Monday morning, just so they can be sure that they’ve got them in time to show to the big bosses.

These people in turn tell their lines of business managers to get the reports to them by close of play (there’s that wonderful phrase again) Friday. Most of the l-o-b managers can do this without a problem (or more likely on Sunday afternoon via their VPN connection to work), but a few decide that they need a bit of extra time and tell their staff they need to have it in by noon. Oh, and it isn’t half a power trip to tell your staff that they must have their timesheets in by noon on Friday or else they have a black mark against their name for it being late. A fantastic power trip, and one that makes you feel like you are doing your bit to keep your manager and their manager and the bosses at the top happy. Look! Look! I used my own initiative to ensure you got your numbers in time! What a good chap I am!

Like The Emperor and his New Clothes, however, I can see that he is naked, and actually looks like an idiot. I’m not the only one in this case. The rest of the business can manage to set a close of play Friday deadline and make it work. What’s more, their figures are likely to be accurate – and surely that’s what the business is really looking for?

I mean really – you may as well tell me that my timesheet has to be in by close of play Thursday for the week. It’s unlikely to be any less of a guess, is it?

The mighty earworm

I first heard the term earworm a few years ago, when it was used by one of my online acquaintances. I immediately knew what it referred to, and I suspect that many of you will to.

An earworm is a section of music of song that gets trapped in your head, and goes round and round repeatedly, seemingly beyond your control. I suffer from earworms a lot of the time – they provide a background music for my everyday life.

The degree to which having an earworm is normal for me shows in that I didn’t consciously think much about earworms again from that first introduction to the term a few years ago, until this weekend, when I realised that my usual experience of a single earworm had morphed into a double earworm extravaganza. I had not one tune repeating on an endless loop in my head, I had two. What’s more, the songs were completely different from each other in both style and sentiment, and were chopping and changing between each other at random intervals.

Suddenly my internally-created musical accompaniment to life was a horrid and inescapable jumble of musical phrases that wasn’t sitting well with me at all. The background became foreground, and for a while I found it difficult to concentrate on anything other than the music itself.

It’s now Tuesday afternoon, and one of the two tunes that was annoying me on Sunday is still going around and around now. It has been for most of my waking hours since then. Annoying? Maybe a bit, but like I said, this is normal for me.

Wikipedia says that the degree to which people are affected by earworms varies considerably, but that almost everyone experiences them at some point. They note that people with OCD often report a higher occurrence than the general populace, which I find interesting. As an adult with Asperger’s, I feel most comfortable when gently surrounded by well defined and often practised events and rituals. Not unlike someone who has OCD, in fact. I wonder if there is any correlation there?

Do you suffer from earworms?

Blurry-eyed boy

These days, if you catch me after I’ve been busy for a while, you may find me to be initially unresponsive. Many people over the years have commented that I seem to be away in a little day dream world.

From my perspective it’s no day dream, its more of a shut down.

Let me explain what it feels like:

My eyes lose focus. This is perhaps the single biggest clue that I can read these days to let me know that this sort of shut down is happening. I can cause my eyes to lose focus at will, which feels very calming, but typically when the sort of experience I’m describing happens, it happens automatically.

Despite my lack of visual focus, my eyes will still be looking at something. Something – anything – will be the centre of my vision. This un-focussed focus will move over time from object to object within my sphere of vision.

I will typically be still, and I’m often seated. If not, then my reactions will be distinctly dulled and slow.

My usually very sensitive ears will stop hearing the noises around me.

My brain will be still. Instead of the usual stream of thoughts that race through my head, I’ll find that I’m not really thinking at all. Indeed, I’m not really interacting with my environment at all.

All of this happens automatically, and without me realising it is happening. It feels comfortable, calm and safe. A strange blank contentment fills me.

So, when it looks like I’m day dreaming and you come and ask me a question, its perhaps no surprise that you don’t get a coherent or quick answer. Before I can fully comprehend you, all of my sensory and thought processing has to restart itself, and that takes a few seconds. Indeed, my ability to think sometimes seem to take a few minutes to re-engage properly, almost like I have been asleep.

It isn’t like being asleep though. I’m still aware, to a degree, of the unfocussed world around me. My body has just chosen to shut itself down.

The cause, of course is too much sensory input, and perhaps too much stress on occasion. Rather than face a continued onslaught that my body has started to find uncomfortable, it quietly shuts down, without consulting me.

Whilst my introspection on this trait is new, my experience of it isn’t. I’ve always experienced the blurred eyes, and people have always told me that I appear to be off in my own little world.

In my current world of intense self-discovery, this feels like a wonderful relief. It can be easy to worry that by turning inwards, I’m making my symptoms worse – a self fulfilling prophecy of autistic cut-off from reality.

The blurry-eyed boy has become a blurry-eyed man.

My autism is just the same as it ever was, I can just see it for what it is so much better these days.

Does sensory overload cause you a similar feeling of shutting down? Have people always told you that you appear to be off in a day dream?

Not reading between the lines

One of my tasks at work right now is to pick up new cases that have been logged on behalf of our clients, and raise cases on our internal ticket system to deal with them.

Once such case was waiting for me when I got back from lunch today. The basics of the case were obvious, and I created a ticket for it. However, one of the specifics wasn’t at all clear to me, although it looked to me like what the client was intending was implied, but not actually stated

Not wanting to misinterpret what the client was asking for, I pushed the case back to the call handlers, and asked for clarification on the item I was unsure of. I got an immediate reply. It was almost rude.

The reply stated in no uncertain terms that the original information in the case clearly stated what was being asked for, and of course the client was wanting the item that I was clarifying. The email essentially said, “What? Are you stupid or something? Did you not read what was written?”.

And in retrospect I could see that perhaps it was obvious what was being asked for. The problem is that unless someone says, “This is what I want,” I find it difficult know just what it is that people are asking for. I’ll have an idea of what they want much of the time, but because I’m not sure, I’ll end up asking for clarification. This produces reactions of surprise and astonishment from people. How could I possibly have not understood what they were asking?

There is a degree of reading between the lines of what people are saying that is just lost on me.

Can you read between the lines?

Saying one thing and doing another

“Hi James,” said a voice behind me in the baker’s shop this morning.

I turned, and there was the new manager from work. She’s based at the other end of the country, and visits us for a couple of days every other week or so. “Oh, hi Lynne,” I said. As I paid for my breakfast and she bought a Latte, we exchanged very basic small talk. I asked if she was here for a leaving do that’s happening after work tomorrow – Lynne is replacing one of those who is leaving.

Perhaps you may have taken from my last sentence that I was asking if that was the primary reason she was here. I wasn’t meaning that, but I think that’s how Lynne took it, judging by the slightly confused look on her face. She was going to attend, yes, but she was here for other things as well. Of course I hadn’t meant the question the way it had sounded, but – oh well.

By now I’d finished paying and was wondering if I should politely wait for Lynne, as she would be heading back to the same office as me. In the blink of an eye, she clearly sensed this too, and said,”Oh, don’t bother waiting – you get off.”

“That’s fine, I’ll catch up with you later,” I said, and then headed back to the office, feeling confident that I’d made a good impression.

A good impression, eh? Hmmmm. The passage of time, and the application of some rumination means I now feel rather differently.

The problem here, is that my facsimile of chatting is just that – it’s guess work rather than having anything solid behind it. I’ll catch up with Lynne later will I? Erm, no. I won’t. My comment appeared to demonstrate that we had things to talk about, but we don’t. It’s just what I imagine people say, and in a moment where I had to find something appropriate to end the conversation, my brain chose that phrase.

There is a bigger problem here too. By interacting with people in a way that mimics what I think they would be expecting to hear rather than a way that is actually acheivable by me, I often send the wrong signals or leave a sense of inconsistency with people. I must be frequently confusing to deal with.

“Can you do this for me James?”

“Sure”

Except that having confidently said yes to a piece of work without even finding out what it involves, I’ll often find that the work is outside of my sphere of knowledge or it simply doesn’t grab me and I struggle to complete it. Confident and happy to undertake work, yet not good at completing it. That’s a bit of a conflict, isn’t it?

Life is a constant battle to obtain the right script for James the actor, and unfortunately the script writer fails to see twists and turns in the plot of life.

A metaphor, yes, but not all that far from the truth either. My tool box of stock phrases, gleaned from years of observing others are something of a script that I act out. And as I am the script writer, and I don’t often see things coming in life, I’m frequently stuck with a script that doesn’t fit the situation very well.

If half the battle is finding suitable words when communicating with others, then the other half of the battle is realising that the things I say need to be doable. Maybe saying no once in a while would help, no matter how big and scary that sounds.

Because if I said no to something I couldn’t deliver, at least I would be being consistent.

Diagnosis

Books make a big thing about getting diagnosed. If you believe what you read, then getting a diagnosis for an Autism Spectrum Disorder is a very important and positive step.

Is this true? The books are almost invariably written by people without autism, so why would they be such a great expert on this?

I’m a little troubled, and I’m going through a round of self-questioning on the topic.

Should I get a formal diagnosis? Should I go and see my GP and try to obtain a diagnosis that way, or should I see someone privately? What would a diagnosis mean for my work? Would it change my relationship with my employer? Would it change the relationship with my wife? How about with other people I know? If any of my relationships were changed by a diagnosis would that be a force for good or not?

There are a lot of questions that the books don’t answer. Indeed, the AS books I’ve read don’t really tackle questions like the above much at all, which is a shame because ultimately those of us wondering about diagnosis need to know the answers to questions like these in order to make a rational decision.

What do I think?

My thoughts all boil down to one statement, which makes it difficult for me to choose a path forward:

Autism is poorly understood in the UK.

Various articles I’ve read on the Internet over the course of the last year (sorry, no specific references for you) suggest that getting a diagnosis here in the UK via the NHS (National Health Service) and your GP (family doctor) isn’t easy. I’ve read of people being told not to be so ridiculous or being asked why on earth they would want to get diagnosed in the first place. This really does highlight just how far behind some other countries the general level of understanding surrounding the Autism Spectrum is here in the UK. If some GPs believe that you can’t possibly have Asperger’s simply because you managed to turn up at their surgery and ask for a diagnosis, then we have a very long way to go on the education front.

If I choose the NHS route, then I have to go to my GP’s surgery extremely well armed, and prepared for a fight. I also need to consider whether a formal NHS diagnosis would serve me best. If I choose the NHS route, then my permanent health record will forever more state that I have Asperger’s. I will be formally classed as disabled in the eyes of the state, and I will have to mention the condition when I go for new jobs, or apply for insurance. I’d even have to notify the DVLA (driver’s registration agency) about it.

Ah yes – jobs. If some doctors seem to have a lack of understanding of Asperger’s, how can I expect employers to view a diagnosis?

For reasons that I can’t really go into, telling my current employer could potentially lose me my job. It probably wouldn’t, mind you, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it led to me being told not to report for work, followed by a battery of tests before a decision was made as to whether I could return to work or not. This may sound draconian, but my current job requires a considerable amount of vetting (with good reason) for everyone that does it. I’ve already had to have my depression in recent years considered, with a statement collected from my family doctor to support my case.

Here in the UK we have laws that intend to prevent job discrimination against people with disabilities. This is a good thing, and I’m sure it has led to a great many people with disabilities getting more fulfilling jobs. But there are, of course ways around laws like this. Consider this:

After a series of interviews, a company narrows down potential job applicants to two. Both interviewed well, and both could do the job well. The employer knows that one of them has Asperger’s, and having read up on the condition, understands that it affects the applicant in a number of ways, including their ability to interact with colleagues and sometimes their ability to produce work under stress. Would you blame the employer for not choosing the candidate with Asperger’s? I wouldn’t. The employer would be well within their rights to take the candidate without Asperger’s, despite employment laws. If the Asperger’s candidate was clearly the best for the role, well that’s a different and tricky matter…

I could, of course decide not to tell any potential new employer that I have a disability. My Asperger’s brain can see the attraction of this, but doesn’t like it one bit. Not telling would be fibbing, and that ultimately gets you into trouble, doesn’t it? In my view, any employer of mine has a legitimate right to know about any illness or other condition that might adversely impact my work. That’s fair. Not telling them really does feel like starting off the working relationship on completely the wrong foot.

Interestingly, my current state of knowing but not having a formal diagnosis sits a lot easier on my shoulders. I don’t feel like I have to tell anyone – like in some way not having a formal diagnosis means that I don’t have the condition. Except of course that I know beyond all reasonable doubt that I do have AS – I’m just missing the piece of paper from someone qualified to make a judgement to confirm it. The hypocrite in me makes an appearance once more.

If an NHS-funded diagnosis would lead to a formal record of disability and a responsibility to tell employers, what would happen if I went for a private diagnosis?

I’d get a piece of paper telling me what I already knew. What I then did with this piece of paper would be completely up to me. I wouldn’t have to tell my GP about it, and hence it wouldn’t have to go on my health record. Would I need to tell my employer? A difficult question, and one that I’m not sure I have a good answer for right now.

My wife’s view regarding my AS and diagnosis is one of worry. Over the last year we have talked about AS and what it means for me (and us) a fair bit. As my understanding of how it affects me has improved, so in time has hers. Being the partner of someone with AS must be difficult. It must be hard to conceive how the person can appear on the surface to be so normal, yet inside they are quite different.

My wife worries that my pursuit – with or without formal diagnosis – of AS will lead me to ‘giving up’. What she means by this is that she worries that I’ll stop acting ‘normal’ – that in some way learning about AS will change my ability to interact with the world. This feels very alien and illogical to me, yet I’ve read very similar accounts of these worries elsewhere, so I take it to be a quite normal neurotypical point of view.

I think, perhaps, that my wife is starting to see just how much of my presentation to the world is an act. Will I stop acting just because I now understand that it is an act? No. Will there be times that I choose not to act to the degree that I have done in the past? Perhaps – and I don’t see that as a negative thing. Learning about and embracing AS is teaching me that it is OK to be who I really am. I don’t have to act like someone that I’m not if I don’t want to – and yes, that is most likely the sort of phrase that scares my wife. But you know what? I do still want to interact with the world, and so I still act. If I didn’t put on my act, I’d have trouble interacting with anyone other than those that know me very well. I’d also have to spend an inordinate amount of time explaining to everyone I met that I was unusual because I had AS, and that no, it was nothing for them to be worried about. I don’t want to live my life like that, so whilst I may choose on occasion to drop my act and just be me, that will be the exception, rather than the norm.

If I’m not going to drop my act around people I know, would I need to tell them I was formally diagnosed with Asperger’s? Perhaps not. Would I feel uncomfortable if they didn’t know? Maybe yes. As I wrote above, though, telling people may be a lot of work for very little gain, and I’m not sure I want to entertain that.

Would I like people to know? Yes. And no.

I would dearly love people to understand that I was autistic and to make little allowances here and there for me to make my life easier. I’d love to be in a position where I could act a little less around people other than those closest to me. I fear the reality of that situation is a long way off. People in the UK simply don’t understand autism right now, and are often naturally suspicious of a condition that they can’t immediately see. I suspect that opening up to people would cause me considerable pain due to unexpected and sometimes negative reactions.

So where does this leave me? Without a definitive answer as to whether a diagnosis is a good idea or not.

A formal NHS diagnosis would buy me some peace with the world, but it wouldn’t make the world treat me any better. Indeed, it could potentially cost me my job, and make it more difficult for me to get a new one. It could cause alienation with people that don’t understand autism or who can’t buy into a condition that they can’t immediately see. Would the less-formal private diagnosis buy me as much peace but without the other side effects? I doubt it.

Yet there is something about obtaining a formal diagnosis that is about negotiating peace with the world. I’ve not fitted in thus far in life, but now I know why. Getting a piece of paper with that diagnosis on may be me formally saying that I accept that I know why I have never fitted in. Obtaining that peace holds a huge amount of attraction to me.

It feels like there is no middle ground here – either you go the whole distance, getting formally diagnosed, being open with everyone about it and accepting the consequences of that, or you don’t pursue diagnosis at all.

It feels like I’m being urged to jump off a cliff on the understanding that I’ll be able to fly. I want so very much to be able to fly that I almost believe what I’m being told.

I want so much to go to my GP and ask him for a formal diagnosis.

But I haven’t made an appointment.

Maybe that says it all.

I would love to hear your thoughts on this tricky subject.

A hangover without alcohol

Yes really.

I woke up on Monday morning, and felt terrible. My head pounded, my view of the world felt hazy and I had pain in my kidneys. I felt decidedly hungover. I cursed myself for drinking on what had been a rare night of being on my own.

And then it dawned on me. I hadn’t been drinking. No alcohol whatsoever. I was confused…

I’ve spent some time thinking about this over the course of the week, and I wonder if I’ve figured out what was going on.

I had an odd weekend. It was a mixture of very high stress, too much sensory input and very quiet evenings of solitude. My sister in law gave birth to her first child – a healthy boy – on Friday, and my wife played the part of dutiful auntie and went to see them on Saturday morning. This left me with our two kids from then until Monday evening.

Saturday went well. I’d managed to plan it a bit, and everything slotted together nicely, albeit with high stress on my part. On Saturday evening, I drank a couple of glasses of rather nice red wine, and stayed up later than I should. This was me making the most of my alone time, and also trying to unwind a little from the stresses of the day.

On Sunday, I had some help, in the shape of my father in law. I, of course had to do all the arranging, driving, and cooking, but he helped entertain the kids, and for that I’m very grateful. I was tired, having not got enough sleep, and was feeling hungover too. The hangover was very much like it would prove to be on Monday morning, but I didn’t pay much attention – after all, I had been drinking on Saturday night.

As previously mentioned, I took it easy on Sunday night, mindful of how I had felt that morning. I knew I had the kids on my own on Monday, so alcohol was completely out of the question, and I felt really quite exhausted, and a little displeased at how I had managed to tackle the day. So I relaxed in the evening once more, but didn’t go to bed late.

Monday morning’s hangover was worse than Sunday’s had been.

I dragged the kids out to a local attraction for the day feeling lousy, stressed, and acting decidedly grumpy. I didn’t enjoy it, although the kids seemed to, which was the important thing.

I can’t tell you how relieved I was to go and pick up my wife from the railway station on Monday evening. Nearly three days of having the kids to myself had been a huge drain on my resources. So much so, infact that when I awoke on Tuesday morning feeling not at all refreshed and hungover once more, I booked the day off work to recover. My wife kindly took the kids out for the day so I got most of the day to myself to recover slowly.

So – why was I feeling hungover each morning, despite not drinking?

Well, whilst I don’t recall often having felt this way without alcohol, I can think of many occasions in my life where I’ve spent an evening out drinking in loud and crowded bars, and have come home feeling completely overstimulated. The hangover on the day after a night like this is always quite spectacularly bad.

What if this sort of hangover wasn’t completely alcohol induced?

Remember that too much sensory input leaves me with my senses shutting down – my eyes glaze and I lose focus and my brain starts to block out much of what I’m hearing. To protect me from what have become hostile inputs, my body starts to shut off the senses through which I receive the hostile inputs.

What if much of what I’ve always perceived as a hangover is actually a more extreme shutdown response? Certainly the fuzzy head I experience along with a lack of focus is rather like the visual shutdown that I get at times of over-stimulation. The grumpiness I meter out when hungover is almost always directed towards attempts to make me accept more sensory input once more. For example, I was grumpy with the kids at the weekend when I felt hungover because they were pestering me to pay attention to them. When I feel hungover, I’d rather just sit and do nothing, processing as little sensory information as possible.

Do you see the similarity there?

Maybe when I have a day or even just an evening where I get far too much sensory input, I then get a sensory-induced hangover the next morning, regardless of whether I was drinking alcohol or not.

It’s easy to see how I might not have spotted it before – after all in my day to day life, it’s only really going to be nights out drinking in loud bars where I’m going to get really badly over-stimulated. And the hangover from those nights can easily be put down to alcohol.

I think I need a few more examples of this happening without alcohol to be sure, but right now it feels like there is some sort of correlation there, and that I’m not just imagining it.

Have any of you noticed a similar effect?

Is this what we’re all living for today?

Just look at all those hungry mouths we have to feed
Take a look at all the suffering we breed
So many lonely faces scattered all around
Searching for what they need

Is this the world we created?
what did we do it for?
Is this the world we invaded?
Against the law?
So it seems in the end
Is this what we’re all living for today?
The world that we created.

You know that every day a helpless child is born
Who needs some loving care inside a happy home
Somewhere a wealthy man is sitting on his throne
Waiting for life to go by.

Is this the world we created
we made it on our own
Is this the world we devastated
Right to the bone?
If there’s a God in the sky looking down
What can he think of what we’ve done
To the world that he created?

Lovely words – I hope you agree – and absolutely laden with sentiment that I find irresistible these days.

They are the words to a song by Queen with perhaps an obvious title, Is this the world we created…?, which was written by Freddie Mercury some twenty five years or so ago. For perhaps the quintessential performance of the song, click here to see Freddie and Brian perform it at Wembley Stadium in 1986.

Mentioning music in my blog is a first, but it isn’t for the lack of trying. I’ve started a number of articles about the relationship between me and music since I began writing here, and yet somehow none of them have captured the emotion well enough. This isn’t going to be the article I’ve been struggling to write either – that will have to wait – but hopefully this piece will start to give you a sense of just how much music – the right sort of music – works on me.

Is this the world we created…? only popped back into my life a couple of days ago, after a hiatus of perhaps fifteen years. I’d forgotten about it’s very existence, and only rediscovered it again by accident, on one of my follow-the-link sessions whilst using the Internet.

Having clicked on the video link, the opening chords sent a chill down my spine, and made the hairs on my arms prick up. I knew this song. I knew it was good, but I had forgotten just how good it was.

I was in something of a sad and reflective mood – I’d been reading with some disbelief how it was nearly eighteen years since Freddie had died. I found that incredible.

I remember hearing about his death almost like it was yesterday. For me it was one of those moments that stays with you forever. I was at sixth-form college, and I’d heard the news on breakfast television, and then again on the radio on my walkman on the bus to college. I remember feeling sad, and disappointed that someone so wonderfully charismatic and influential had been taken away at such a shockingly young age – Freddie was only 45 when he died.

When I watched the above video clip for the first time a couple of days ago, the sense of loss I felt was immediate. In two and a half minutes I had been reduced to big choking tears. I watched it a couple more times, and really cried hard for a few minutes.

What was I crying about? A very good question. I felt the loss of something. Was it the loss of a teen idol all those years ago making itself finally felt? Perhaps there was an element of that there, but that wasn’t really it.

Was I mourning my loss of youth? Well, youth clearly has a bearing on this. The music brought back very hazy memories of feeling young and energetic, but also of feeling fundamentally lost, alone and unhappy in a world that made little sense to me.

I think the music had brought back how I was really feeling at that time in my life – a feeling that I kept very well hidden, for fear of, well, I’m not sure what. My peers all seemed to be happy and relaxed with life. They were all starting to look for independence, and were achieving it by going to colleges on the other side of town by bus and by applying for university or planning to go travelling around the world. I too was doing this, but primarily because that’s what everyone else was doing, and I was filled with with a feeling of barely controllable terror much of the time.

I’ve been quite teary on a number of occasions over the last few days. Perhaps this is because I’ve had a bit of alone time in the evenings for a change that have allowed me the luxury of thinking about things in detail. This is a natural conclusion to the anxious and down feelings that I’ve experienced over the last week or two, and I feel lucky to have had the opportunity to try and express and deal with it, finally.

Going back to Freddie’s lyrics, I can’t help but notice just how well they sit with my own view of the world these days. I’m sure they didn’t back when I was a teenager.

It seems to me that there is hard-core logic in the words. Their truth is self evident, yet so wonderfully understated, allowing you to fill out the detail yourself using your own thoughts and experiences of the world. This too may go some way to explaining why the song makes me cry.

The world didn’t make much sense to me at seventeen, and it still doesn’t today at thirty-six.

This song, however is as relevant now as it was twenty-five years ago. Brilliantly simple, yet powerfully touching and perfectly executed.

What more could you want from music?