I spot things.

I have an unusual attention to detail that means that means I see things most people miss. Whilst this often means humdrum things like trying to decipher personalised number plates on cars, or even what trim level the car is based on the pattern of the wheels, I occasionally see rather more unusual things. Sometimes strangely synchronous things have happened too. Things that are so unusual that they stick in my mind for years, in the way that normal events typically fail to do.

But are these unusual things of any consequence whatsoever, and are they the product of an over fertile imagination?  I’ll leave that to you to decide.

I grew up Yorkshire, about 20 miles away from Manchester airport, which for those of you outside the UK is one of the major regional hubs here. More than this, we were on one of the common approach ways, so as a child who was interested in paying attention to the detail around me, I knew the sights and sounds associated with aircraft overhead. I saw them every day, and I knew the directions they flew and the heights that they would be overhead depending on the wind direction. I had muy head in the clouds. When I was fifteen, and unusual ariel sight lead to The Mother Of All Special Interests in my mid teens, which I’ve written about before. I won’t cover that again here – I don’t need to, as there have been other unusual things I’ve seen in the sky too.

Firstly, there was the very odd bolt of lightening I saw one morning. I must have been around thirteen or fourteen at the time, and I was off school ill – perhaps with a bad cold. I was home alone, and bored. As I often did, I was sat on the back of the sofa looking out of the lounge window at the rolling Yorkshire hills around the house. I’d seen foxes out in the fields in the recent past, and wondered if I might see one again. Bam! My eyes darted in an instant towards a bright light that was towards the left of my vision. Somewhere behind the hill in the middle distance on the left, a bright white light shot upwards. It was bright like lightening, and lived for perhaps roughly the same amount of time, or maybe ever so slightly longer. In all other ways it was quite unlike lightening however. Firstly, as I said it clearly went upwards, disappearing into the cloud cover, which incidentally was not thunder cloud like in the least. Secondly, its appearance was that of an entirely straight line, and it didn’t touch the ground and clouds at the same time; it was like a bright white glowing rod appeared from behind the hill and shot up into the clouds. What was it? I have no idea.

In my final year of high school, having had the unusual sighting that lead to the mother of all special interests, I’d bravely told my closest school friend one morning on the bus on our way to school. ‘Friend’ just about fits here, incidentally, but this was more out luck than good judgement on my part, but that is another story. The bus dropped us at the bottom of a long steep hill which we had to climb to get to the school gates. We were still chatting about my sighting as we climbed the hill. I looked up at the sky, as I often do, and spotted something moving that didn’t look right. “Oh!” I said and pointed to the sky so my friend could see what I was looking at. He gasped in amazement – “What’s that?” he asked. I thought sceptically about how I’d read recently about many UFO sightings being attributed to planes being seen at odd angles. “It’s probably a plane at an odd angle”, I said. We both kept on looking. “That really is quite odd” I chipped in, and my friend agreed. It didn’t look like a plane, and he agreed about that too. It was’t flying on one of the usual flight paths either. We both tried to twist what we could see into a plane flying at an odd angle, or with the sun gleaming off it in a strange way. We couldn’t. To be honest, whatever it was was pretty high up – the sort of height that planes cruise at, and the looked like an odd mash of roughly three and four sided polygons, none of which looked remotely like wings . What was it? I have no idea.

My friend remembered this several years later, when the subject came up by chance. He was still genuinely enthralled that he’d seen something that neither of us could readily identify in the sky. What freaks me out more is the odd synchronicity that it happened on the very morning that we discussed my previous sighting. Coincidence? Probably. Plane at an odd angle and glinting strangly in the sun? Probably? But not definitely.

Another strange episode of synchronicity happened to my some years later, when I was living in London. It was summer, and I was on my fifteen minute walk to the tube, on my way to work. Suddenly, I wondered what had become of my first major girlfriend. This was the fantastically kind and gentle (but ultimately unfaithful) woman who I’d spent a solid two years of my life with from the age of around fifteen. I was in my mid twenties now, and I hadn’t been in touch with her since we slit up nearly ten years previously. I hadn’t thought about her for years. But there I was wondering where she was and what she was doing as I wandered down the road to the tube.

I trotted down the stairs to the platform, and walked along to the place I invariably stood to get on the train. Bam! There she was. about three or four people away, standing on the platform. I physically reeled and felt faint. This was just freakishly odd. Could it really be her, or was it just someone that looked a little like her? I spent the couple of minutes waiting for the train stealing surreptitious looks, whilst she was oblivious. The train came, and we all got on. She got on at the next door, and the train was packed, so that was it. It was her, I’m convinced of it. Once again, it is the synchronicity of things here that freaks me out.

You don’t need to have a keen attention to detail to have seen the next thing. But was it a cruel trick from within the family, perpetrated for some still unknown reason? Probably. But definitely?

These incidents happen back when I was in my mid teens again, perhaps a year or two after the unusual sightings. Both had one thing in common – they happened on Saturday mornings, whilst I was out of the family home working behind the counter in our local newsagents. I got up early on Saturdays to open up the shop and get the newspapers sorted into the various rounds for the boys and girls to take and deliver. The job was my first real job, and was offered after I’d been a conscientious paper boy for several years.

The other thing going on in my life at this time was fairly severe depression. I’d recently split from the long term girlfriend mentioned above, and I was a mess, who wasn’t coping with life very well at all. The bpttom had fallen out of my world.

I’d work at the newsagents until lunchtime when the local daily paper arrived, and then, having seen these out on their deliveries, I’d lock up the shop and head home. On this day, I got home, headed up to my room, and Bam! (hope you are not getting too tired of my use of Bam! yet, but it does seem to sum up my feelings each time).

My room was, umm, well different. Nothing big, you understand, but different none the less. The first time this happened, the mattress on my bed had been pushed askew from the bottom of the bed, so that it was hanging off the bed. The mattress was big and heavy, so it wasn’t the sort of thing you could do by accident, say whilst hoovering. Under the mattress was also where I kept my stash of porn (these of course being the pre-internet days when porn was actually printed on paper, and working in a newsagents made it easy to get hold of). I immediately suspected my younger brother, who would have been fifteen or sixteen at the time, so I went and asked him. “Have you been in my room this morning? I’m not going to be angry if you have, I’d just like to know.”, I asked in an annoyed voice. “No”, he said, looking genuinely taken aback and confused. I asked my parents the same question, and drew the same response. How odd. A few months later I returned from my morning selling sweets and crisps  and the odd magazine to find my wardrobe doors open. Once more, all very subtle, but not only had I not left them open that morning, but I never left them open. Again, plausible denials from everyone who had been in the house over the course of the morning. Odd, odd, odd.

The final thing I’d like to write about is something subtle that I’ve noticed for a great many years. Even I suspect there is some mundane explanation – most likely coincidence – at play, but it does seem to happen an awful lot.

Street lights. They are, of course just about everywhere. And being a bright source of light, my eyes tend to get drawn to them, even if only out of the corner of my eye. And what happens to street lights when the bulb starts to reach the end of it’s life? Well the bulb goes out, and then comes back on. Sometimes this is a flicker, but very often, it is an extended random period of the light being off and then it being on for a while, before it goes off again. How do I know? well I’ve observed it, of course. A lot. None of this is odd, however.

What is odd, is how frequently I approach a street light, either on foot or in my car, and the light changes state as I approach. I’m not talking randomness here. My eyes pick out changes in lights from a great distance – I suspect that the more I’ve noticed this effect, the more I’ve become atuned to look for it. But in all seriousness, I will frequently drive down a road where you can maybe see the lights for a good several hundred yards. No flickering or state changing. Suddenly, as I approach a light, it will change state. If it was on, it’ll go off. If it was off, it’ll come on. But for as long as I’ve been able to see it – sometimes several minutes if I’m walking, it won’t have changed state. Sometimes this will happen to me on my commute, and I’ll pay special attention as to where the light was. I’m interested to see if it does the same thing again in following days. What’s surprising is perhaps how frequently it does repeat. Over the course of a week, say, some lights have repeated their apparent behaviour two or three times.

One autumn, when I worked in London, and had to walk over London Bridge each evening towards the tube, I had a light that scored perhaps even a little better than this. It’s state changed more often than not as I approached it, for several weeks.

There’s a strangely similar effect that sometimes happen to me on spring mornings as I drive to work. Time it just right, and the street lamps are starting to switch off in the dawn light. It’s amazing though, how for a few weeks I find myself driving along with lights switching off as I approach them. Not just one set in quick succession, but often several sets over some distance.

Coincidence and an over active imagination? Probably. Yet these oddities really do happen a lot. It feels more than coincidence.

All of the odd things I’ve described above mess with my head, because I prefer to deal in logic and in certainties. Yet here are things that I have experienced that seem to defy the logic that I hold so dear.

The world feels like an odd place. But that oddness is ever so slightly magical too.

Post from: That Explains Everything

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Street lights, synchronicity and lights in the sky

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In the grand scheme of things, I’m not very big on politics. However, whenever a general election happens, I end up getting very drawn into it all, with very set views all of a sudden.

I’m a liberal. Not out of choice or even out of spending great deals of time pouring over policies. I just am. I guess I was born that way – my ideals align with them rather better than any of their rivals.

The voting system in the UK does not favour the Liberal Democrat party which is where my voting intentions lie. We use a ‘first past the post’ system that skews and twists the will of the electorate wildly. In recent elections, the Lib Dems have typically polled approximately 20% of the votes, but taken only 10% of the parliamentary seats. The two larger parties – Labour (currently in power) and the Conservatives take the lion’s share of the remainder of the votes and the seats. It is, however entirely possible for one of the two big parties to win a majority of seats with fewer than a third of the popular vote.

It’s no surprise then, that voting reform has always been one of the big pledges of the Lib Dems, and one of the political causes that I support with a passion when there is an election in full swing. It’s the lack of logic in the current system that I despise.

Something unusual has happend in the last week of the current campaign. For the first time, there has been a televised debate between the the Labour, Conservative and Lib Dem leaders. The Lib Dem leader, Nick Clegg did something unexpected and refreshing. He talked about his parties policies and how they differed from the ‘old’ policies of his rivals. His rivals squabbled amongst themselves. Nick Clegg ‘won’ the debate – snap polls immediately after the event had around 50% of people thinking he won the arguments.

Wow! The Lib Dems have now risen from around 20% to around 30% in the opinion polls, very similar ratings to the two big parties. But here is where it all goes wrong again.  Let’s look at one single, but reasonably representitive poll carried out this week:

Liberal Democrat: 33%, Conservative: 32%, Labour 26%

Based on an average distribution of ‘swing’ from one party to another across the country, this would give the following predicted break down of seats in parliament, if the above figures held on election day:

Liberal Democrat: 134, Conservative: 244, Labour: 243

Ugh! Not only do the Lib Dems end up with approximately 45% fewer seats than either of the other two parties, but Labour, who have less of the popular vote than either of the other two actually end up with the most seats, although not enough to rule on their own – it would be a hung parliament.

That TV debate has been something of a catalyst for me, and I’m now heavily absorbed in what is going on. My search for information – typically via the Internet – is now quite time consuming each day, and my quest for further knowledge seems to have no bounds – my brain is like a big sponge trying to take in everything I can find. I smell a new Special Interest in the making.

The Lib Dems cannot win this election. They do however seem to have captured the public mood right now, where people are fed up of the old style politics and politicians. They can’t win, but the Lib Dems can force a change. If there is a hung parliament – and it looks very likely right now – then they would hold a lot of power, by forming an alliance with either Labour or the Conservatives to allow a government to be formed. It’s likely that part of that power would allow them to ask the populace if they’d like to see a change in the way voting works.

Who knows – maybe by the time the next general election comes round, a fairer and rather more proportional voting system might be in place. I for one have my fingers crossed.

Post from: That Explains Everything

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A new Special Interest

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My self confidence level moves around hugely, but on average has never been very high. Trying to keep my glass half full rather than half empty is a problem that I face frequently, and even after all these years, I still don’t have any hard and fast remedies to turn things towards the positive.

Learning about my Asperger’s appears to have just added to the volatility of my mood and in turn my self confidence. Whilst I spend much of my time these days feeling that I now know and understand myself far better than I did a couple of years ago – which is a very positive thing – I also frequently see differences in the way I am versus ‘normal’ humanity that I simply wouldn’t have spotted before. I find seeing these differences an almost invariably negative thing, and their discovery typically pushes down any positivity that I was feeling. My differences hit me like a punch in the face – they are unexpected and often unpleasant.

And then there is the self doubt to contend with too. Having grown up in a world that frequently moves and works in ways that I fail to predict and fully comprehend, I’ve grown accustomed to being ‘wrong’ about things. That nagging self doubt creeps into all areas of my life, especially when I’m not feeling positive. On darker days I still question whether I actually am on the autism spectrum. Despite all my reading up and thinking on the subject, the countless hours of research and self evaluation, I still can’t convince myself sometimes that this label applies to me. Why? Well, I’ve been wrong in the past when I was sure about things. Why not now too?

With my diagnosis rapidly approaching, I’ll soon have the opinion of someone who knows. I hope that will settle the internal arguments I have about it. My natural reaction right now though is to say that I dont know what the outcome will be.

Am I nervous about the diagnosis? Of course. I’m also haunted by the words of my mother, as spoken to my wife. To paraphrase: “If he does come back with an Asperger’s diagnosis, it’ll be because he’s read up on the subject so thoroughly that he knows all the right things to say”. I can see through this, of course, but I can’t pretend that it doesn’t hurt, and on less positive days, my lack of self confidence says that maybe she could be right.

Writing seems to help, to a degree, as it means I can externalise some of the thoughts that are running through my head. So as we near ‘D’ day, expect me to write here more frequently again, because seeing my glass as half full rather than half empty  is important.

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Glass half full

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Firstly a warning. It’s not usual for there to be coarse language in my posts, but this post is an exception. Consider yourselves warned.

On Saturday night, my wife and I went to the theatre. But it was no ordinary play we were going to see, it was The Rocky Horror Show. You may or may not have come across this masterpiece of 70s kitsch rock opera, but if you haven’t, I’d best give a little background, as you’ll need it to help put my experience of the evening into context.

Rocky Horror is, well, a British institution. Gothic horror, sexual liberation and blurring of gender roles are the big themes, and it has a huge and very loyal following of mainly thirty-something Brits, who – man and woman alike – dress up lavishly, often in basques and fish-net stockings with suspenders to sing along and shout things at the players that over the last thirty years or so have become completely woven into the story.

So this isn’t your usual sort of theatre production. It owes more to a rock concert mixed with another British staple of theatre, the pantomime. The stage show is outrageous, the audience’s costumes are outrageous, and the audience participation is outrageous too, but all deliberately so, with a large amount of tongue in cheek thrown in.

If you are on the autism spectrum, you are probably now wondering why on earth I went to a show like this. Well, you have a good point, really.

My wife is a veteran of the stage show, so it is difficult to keep her away when the tour is in our neighbourhood, and I went with her for the first time a couple for years ago. We have the film too, and I enjoy the rock opera and find the themes fun. Despite this clearly being something of a minefield for an Aspie, there is also the potential there to have a good time.

On my first visit I didn’t dress up. This is perfectly acceptable – whilst dressing outrageously is the norm, the atmosphere is very relaxed, and frankly no one bats an eyelid if you haven’t dressed up. I felt out of place though, primarily, I felt at the time, due to the lack of costume, so for this visit, I was determined to go dressed up. Not in fishnets and a basque, mind you – that would make me feel more uncomfortable than not dressing up at all. Instead, I settled on a glitzy black evening suite with a red bow tie, red conical cardboard party hat and large sunglasses – a theme based on some of the background characters in the film version. My wife dressed in her usual Rocky outfit of fishnets, black mini dress, red feather boa, maids apron, crimped hair and white face paint. We both looked the part.

But that was where things started going wrong, really. If I was going to pull this off, I was going to need to arrive relaxed and happy, and with time to get a drink from the bar to relax me a little. Our plan built in time for this, but it wasn’t to be. We should have left at 19:00 for the thirty-five drive to the theatre, leaving plenty time for that drink and to soak up the happy atmosphere before the show started at 20:30. I was ready at 18:45, but my wife was running late, and we didn’t leave until 19:20. Un oh. Not to worry, I thought to myself, we’ll still have half an hour once we arrive before the show starts. Rewinding a little, during the afternoon, I checked our route to the theatre, and where we were going to park. I’d even updated the sat-nav software on my phone – Nokia have recently made the navigation free to use, so I wanted to make sure that if I needed it, it’d be there without me having to panic.

Half way there, and signs start showing on the motorway matrix signs – ‘Slow traffic ahead’, and ‘J28-J26 Delays’. Oh. No. We need to get off at J26. And then we met the tail of the queue midway between J29 and J28. We stopped. And then we didn’t move for the next five minutes. Oh dear. It’s about a quarter to eight.

Never mind, I tell my wife – we can come off at J28 and take the A road to the venue rather than the motorway. I know the road goes in the right direction, but I don’t know it well enough to drive unaided. I pull my phone out of my pocket, and start the sat nav software. I pull the theatre tickets out my pocket and get the street address of the theatre. It calculates the route for me, leaving the motorway at J26. So – and here is my first mistake – I go into the menus, and choose the alternative route option. This, I think calculates a different route for you – the non-obvious route. It now says I need to leave at J28, which is a mile and a half away. Great! Well, as you’ll see in a minute, it wasn’t, but I’m getting ahead of myself here.

First, I had to contend with a surprise. No sooner had we started crawling along the motorway once more, than the sat nav software pops up a message, tellling me that my navigation subscription ran out three months ago. I f I wish to use the navigation feature, I’ll have to resubscribe. What? But is’s free now! I really need the navigation, so I choose the path of least resistance, and dig out my credit card, and pay, whilst crawling along at 5MPH. There. Done. Phew.

We reach J28 at about 20:00. To compound matters, we are still crawling down the slip road too, but that turns out to be because the traffic lights at the end of them are not phased to cope with large numbers of folks leaving the motorway at eight on a Saturday evening. Once we get past the end of the slip road everything is free flowing, except there is a new problem. The sat nav now wants to take me back onto the motorway. No! This is wrong! Panicing a little I tell me wife I’m going to ignore it, because I know the road I need to take, and once we’re on that road, it’ll recalculate and then go the best way. I make it onto the road we need to be on, and true to word, the sat nav recalculates. It says we are 21 minutes away from our destination. No! It’s now five past eight… This really isn’t good. What’s more, I know that I’ve given the theatre address to the sat nav, and we don’t want to go to that road, we want to go to one that is nearby, where there is a large car park. The two roads are not immediately connected to each other. If I follow the sat nav, I will most likely miss the car park and end up at the wrong place, with no time to spare. I am by now hugely anxious. I know the road I need if I am approaching from the motorway, but not the road I need if I am approaching from the road I am on. I don’t even know the name of the road with the car park on.

I tell myself that I just need to push on, and get to the city centre – I can sort it out when we get to the right area. But I am thwarted again…

After a mile or so, I can see that sat nav is going to send me sharp right at a junction half a mile ahead. That isn’t right! The city centre is dead ahead down this road! So I hit the alternative route button again. It tells me to do a u-turn. What! This is crazy! And then the logic in my head kicks in. Alternative route doesn’t mean take the next most direct route, it means take a scenic route – I’m in no hurry. And whats more, the more you select it, the more scenic is seems to get. There doesn’t seem to be an easy way to reset it back to the most direct route, so I tell it to stop navigating, and then I start from scratch and put the address in once more, all whilst driving. Did I mention it was foggy? Well, yes, it was. I was driving along in fog, fiddling with the sat nav, whitst very anxious, and running very late. Not good. But hey – starting from scratch sorted the sat nav – it now took me on the direct route. And what’s more, the arrival time dropped by five minutes. Phew.

It was nearly eight twenty, when we made it to the city centre. By now, we were following signs for the theatre as well as using the sat nav. Then, in the fog, I missed a turn. Damn. The sat nav suggested we turn right ahead to compensate. I did. More theatre signs. Phew. We carried on a bit further, and then, all of a sudden, I saw the car park we were aiming to park in. Completely by chance we had ended up approaching it from the other side. We parked, and, with five minutes until curtain up, we dashed towards the theatre, which happened to also be five minutes away. When we got there I relaxed a little – there were still plenty of folks pouring in through the door to the foyer. Phew! We both needed to pee. My wife looked dismayed at the queue for the ladies – isn’t it always the way – and I made my way to the gents. Imagine my shock to find it full of women! Not just men dressed as women either – actual women trying to evade the queues for their own toilets. I threw caution to the wind and used the urinal despite the giggling women just a few feet behind me (I thank my kids for this – once you’ve had a three year old girl stare at what you are doing a few times, you can probably pee anywhere).

The bell rang, and folks started to disappear. My wife was still in the queue to get in the toilet door. Anxiety still building. Bah. I hunted out my tickets so I knew where they would be. I checked our seat numbers, and then went to find out which door we’d need to go through. I went and bought a program. The foyer was just about empty now, and the stewards were shouting that the performance was starting. Damn!

After what seemed like an eternity, my wife appeared. I dragged her up the stairs, and we found our seats. We’d missed the opening number, but we were there. I sat there glazed, tense and panicy. We’d not had a chance for a drink, but we had at least made it to our seats.

After a minute or two it became clear that the theatre was very noisey. You expect noise in a Rocky Horror showing – that’s all part of it, but it was especially noisey with chit-chat, far noisier that I remembered it being on my first visit. That was distracting – I found it hard to concentrate on the dialog on the stage. People were whooping and cheering and clapping in all the right places, but I wasn’t. It was just all too much, and the anxiety and tension were not helping. Before I knew it, we were all stood up – another Rocky main-stay – and dancing along. I attempted to move myself in time with the music, but failed. Never mind – I knew if I could just relax a bit, I’d be fine.

As the next few minutes passed, I did start to relax a bit, but the woman in the seat in front was annoying me. She was clearly very dunk, and determined to enjoy herself. That’s not a problem, of course, but she was doing things like throwing her head back in her seat, which was banging into my legs. In my already over-stimulated world, this was a huge distraction.

I did calm down a little and start to feel the show flow through me rather than around me. By the time the Timewarp came around for the first time, I was able to make a little bit of an attempt to join in. Not much - partly because even at the best and most relaxed of time I can’t dance well and look uncoordinated, but also because I’d forgotten the actions. However, I was feeling relaxed enough to try it now.

And then the real problem started. Whilst standing and dancing is all an accepted part of the show, we Brits are also unfailingly polite, and show etiquette dictates that once the dancing is finished, you sit down once more so that everyone can see. Everyone just does it. In lots of ways, it is a joy to see – it just happens in a coordinated manner, from the front towards the back, a row at a time.

But the drunken woman in front of me, and her friend in the seat to her left didn’t sit down. How awkward. I could just about see the action on stage in the gap between the two of them, as long as I kept moving about. How annoying. I didn’t feel annoyed though – it just made me feel more tense once more. After a couple of minutes, some of the women in the row behind me started shouting “Sit down!“. The standing women paid no attention. My anxiety was almost coming out of my ears now – I felt like a conduit for the brewing tension – but still I just sat and tried to see through the gap. By now I couldn’t hear the show any more, it had been drowned out by my internal dialogue, which was asking what I should do. I didn’t know what to do, but thankfully, I had the decision made for me. One of the women in the row behind me tapped me on the shoulder and shouted “can you get her attention so we can get her to sit down!”. As is often the case, once told what to do, I had no problem with the execution. I immediately tapped the standing woman on the shoulder , and as she turned, I shouted “Sit down!” at her. So did half a dozen women in at least one row and possibly two or more behind me.

Her reaction? “No! Fuck off!”. Oh, nice. This acted as some sort of catalyst for me. Instead of feeling anxious now, I suddenly felt very angry. So were the women behind me. The whole area behind me in the theatre were now shouting for the woman to sit down. She ignored them. Her friend didn’t though – she sat down. I stood up and right behind her shouted, with very obvious rage, words to the effect of, “Look – sit down! No one else is standing up! No one behind you can see! We’ve all paid to see the show! Let us see it! SIT DOWN!”. “No! Why the fuck should I?”, she said. The barrage from behind continued, and by now this had been going on for quite a while. Her friends were now asking her to sit down, and she was saying no to them too. Eventually, though, with repeated suggestions from her friends, she did sit down. She then spent the next five minutes talking loudly with her friends, in such a way that I was meant to hear, how pathetic and dumb I was being for asking her to sit down. This typical bullying behaviour has a devastating affect on me at the best of times, but in my current state is was crippling.

Literally crippling. I realised I was grasping both arm rests on the chair. I was stuck fast and tense in my seat. I could barely hear the performance, and I was hugely anxious once more. I was experiencing my strange anxious guilt that happens in situations like this. I know I’m not to blame for this situation, but my body tells me otherwise. The only thing being taken in by my senses were the actions of that woman. Fuelled by alcohol she was bullish, arrogant and aggressive, oh and completely irrational.

When the next stand-up section of the show happened, I didn’t stand immediately. Neither did many around me. Neither did the woman in front of me. She turned to her friends and said clearly, loudly, and with considerable sarcasm that she couldn’t possibly stand up, as it would block the view of those behind. Enraged, I tapped her on the shoulder and said “Look! You can stand up now – no one will mind, BECAUSE LOTS OF OTHER PEOPLE ARE STANDING UP TOO! Just PLEASE sit down when everyone else does, then everyone can see the show they have paid to see!”. She didn’t – she stayed sat down, as if to make a point.

After a couple of minutes she turned round to me and asked what my problem was. She asked why I needed to shout at her, with the confidence of someone who knows she is in the right. Why was I spoiling her show? You know what? I was doing it all because I was selfish. That’s what she said. From her point of view, I was the only person who had a problem with her actions, and it was me being selfish. Shying away from a further confrontation, I shook my head, sighed, and took the fortunate opportunity to stand up and dance that had just presented itself in the show. I didn’t dance of course, I just stood there glazed and anxious, but it did get her out of my face.

She appeared to calm down a bit after this, but spent most of the rest of the first half of the show chatting with her friends, or sulking in her seat when other stood – the sort of behaviour I would expect from my three year old daughter after a telling off. Remarkably, for someone so keen to stand up, she was spending very little time actually watching the show. She did, however leave me alone. The first half of the show went on for another twenty minutes or so, but when I left for the interval I was still very tense, and not really enjoying myself. I chatted a little about it with my wife, over a drink. The drink helped – it took the edge off things. My wife hadn’t heard what had been said between the woman and me, and she said she was glad she hadn’t – she’d said she’d probably have ended up hitting her if she had, and my wife is not a violent woman.

We took advantage of an empty seat to the right of us for the second half of the performance, which meant that I didn’t have to sit behind the drunken woman. Instead, she had an empty seat behind her. She rolled in five minutes late for the second half, and when her friends arrived back five minutes after that, she refused to stand up, which meant her friends took some time getting past her to their seats, leading to extended blocked views for use and others behind. All of this, I am sure was done deliberately and for effect.

But finally, I was able to relax and get into the show. By the end, at the final reprise of Timewarp, I was able to join in and do all the actions without feeling tense or that I was doing it wrong.

It wasn’t the end of the story for the drunken woman though – she decided that she would stand once more, and at various times during the second half of the performance, she once more decided not to sit down when others did, to more angry choruses of “SIT DOWN!” from behind and drunken “NO! FUCK OFF!” responses from her. I was very glad to be out of the firing line.

All in all, it was a very stenuous night for me. The late arrival, the missing of the start of the show, the altercation with an aggressive drunk, and the general loudness of all of it had all taken a large toll on me.

Sunday was filled with a mix of emotions. Flash-backs to the aggression, and to the delayed journey. You’ve seen from my writing here that I remember it all in huge detail. Well, perhaps I’ve needed to write about it here to get it out of my system a bit – to stop that huge detail from playing and replaying in my head time after time.

Did I enjoy it? Well in some ways, yes I did. I like the Rocky Horror Show. I like the music, and I like the themes. It’s fun – even if you are an Aspie. But what was always going to be a difficult night for me was ruined by a stressful journey and the effects of alcohol on someone else. I’m still paying the price today, and that’s no fun.

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The Timewarp

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It all started when we rushed out the door on Sunday morning. I took the kids to the rugby ground – my son for his weekly training session, and my daughter to stand and watch with me, whilst my wife went to the supermarket just down the road from the rugby club to get the weekly food shop done. I say supermarket, but it’s actually two right next to each other – Aldi, the lovely and decidedly quirky German import, and Asda, the local giant which is now owned by America’s Walmart. Asda’s name, incidentally, comes from a contraction of Associated Dairies.  I mention this because it is one of those odd little bits of information that frequently pops into my head when Asda is mentioned – there is clearly an association there in my brain, and my AS helps to push me into mentioning it. Only after I’ve told this to people will I start to feel embarrassed for having done so.

Anyway – Asda isn’t the star here, it’s Aldi. Aldi is great – it doesn’t stock the huge range of Asda, and it isn’t big on well known brands, but the things it stocks are usually of excellent quality, and many – such as cold continental meats – are better and also much cheaper than at their giant next door neighbour. Aldi also have a clever trick of having some non-food specials in twice a week at unbeatable prices. Everything from power tools to computers, light bulbs to bathroom furniture. At the start of the summer we bought a giant four berth tent and lots of camping equipment from them when they opened one Tuesday morning (just in case they would sell out before we got there), at prices far better than any of our local outdoors shops could manage. We like Aldi. Anyway…

Whilst I supervised the kids at the rugby, my wife went to Aldi first, and then across to Asda for the few items she couldn’t get at Aldi. We met up at the end of the training, and she told me that she’d seen some winter coats at Aldi – both for my son and me. We wandered down the road to take a look. My son liked his jacket, and I thought the one my wife had found for me was great. They were silly money too, so we bought them. For £18.99 I got a waterproof coat with an unzippable fleece lining. It’s nicely finished, is deliciously warm, and has plenty of pockets. My son’s is like a slightly brighter scaled down version of mine. The fleece lining doesn’t unzip on his, but hey – for £7.99 you really can’t complain – and it is still waterproof.

At home, after lunch, I found myself doing something that I remember doing when I was a child.

I took my new coat, and spent a good ten minutes pouring over it in great detail. I unzipped each of the pockets in turn, and explored them with my hands, seeing what size they were, and wondering where to put each of the things that I carry around with me. I marvelled at the stitching, and carefully cut off the couple of stray thread ends. I examined how the fleece was zipped in, amazed at the trickery used to hide the metal zip ends behind folds in the softer material where it might make contact with my neck.  I tried it on and then took it off again, and then put it back on and did up the zip right to the top. I unfolded the hood from it’s hidden compartment, and then carefully folded it back up. I felt the fabric of the fleece lining and of the outside too. I listened to the sound that my hand made on the outer fabric.

This is something I can always remember doing with clothes, but especially with coats. Coats tend to be quite complicated garments with lots of pockets, so there is much to explore. I can still remember a summer coat (this is the UK after all) that I got when I was about ten. It was green and blue and yellow – very garish in today’s terms, but quite fashionable back in the mid eighties. It had a pouch on the front for your hands, much like a hoody sweat top, but you had to peel the pouch off (it fastened on at the top and one side with velcro) to zip and unzip the jacket – really very unusual. I loved it for it’s unusualness, and for the lovely way it had been stitched together. To me, it was a coat to be proud of. I guess I feel much the same way about my new coat. It is a no-name brand, and in all likelihood the material probably isn’t wonderful quality, and maybe it’ll lose it’s waterproofness quickly. But it is well engineered in a very German way, and well finished, and it was an astonishing bargain to boot.

I keep wanting to put it on – in fact each time I’ve popped out of the office this morning, I’ve put it on. This is unusual – I usually brave the trip to the coffee shop or the post office in just my shirt sleeves, even at this time of the year.

So, I feel like Peter Pan, the boy that never grew up. I feel ten years old again, pouring pride and affection into my new coat. I can’t help it – it’s just me.

Yet whilst my actions may be very much like they were when I was child, I’m concious of the fact that they are not the actions of many, probably most kids. My son is only five, so I can’t compare directly with myself at ten, but his reaction to his new coat was, I think, fairly typical of boys in particular. He liked the colours, pronounced it as  cool and said he’d wear it. When we got home, it got discarded on the kitchen floor and forgotten about until this morning when it was time to leave for school.

Will he react that way at ten? I can’t say, but I suspect he’s more likely to continue to react that way than to have my fascination with the mechanics and design of it.

In lots of ways I’m like Peter Pan – many of the things I do now are the same as when I was a child. However, the child in me is still really rather different from your typical child, so the comparison feels strained to me. I’ve read many times over the last year about immaturity and naiveness in adults with Asperger’s, and associated behaviour being described as child-like. But it occurs to me that I’ve not seen it pointed out that the behaviour is child-like in a peculiarly ASD way – but it most certainly is. And remember how kids with ASDs get described? That’s right – as little professors.

So maybe I’m not like Peter Pan at all. Maybe I’m actually like a little professor, in an adults body, with a strange fascination for winter coats.

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Peter Pan’s new coat

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First, the good news: I was approached by someone I used to work with a couple of months ago, about joining them in a new work venture. At the time, I completely failed to grasp the subtle undertones used by them in their email approach. They asked if I knew of anyone with my job skills who might be available, and incidentally, was I available? I couldn’t think of anyone else, and then told them I wasn’t available right now. They pursued me more, and suggested that the job they had available would be pretty exciting, and that maybe I’d like to pop round and have a chat with them about it in more detail. Having thought things over, I decided against pursuing it further, and politely declined.

End of story.

Well, no. I got another email a couple of weeks ago, asking if I might want to reconsider. It was only really when I read this that I realised just how much they were specifically interested in me, and not in whether I knew of anyone with my sort of skills.  You see, this time they said that they were disappointed that I’d turned them down before, and that they were interested in me because I’d worked with them before, and thought I’d be a great fit in their company. I don’t do subtlety very well – it tends to pass me by. Spell things out though, and well, I can see what is really being said.

So, once I’d picked my jaw up off the floor, I went and had a chat with them, which essentially involved me interviewing them, and them trying to sell the opportunity to me. They succeeded. I join them in a month or so! My skills suit the new job far better than the one I’m doing now. I’m really looking forward to getting stuck into it.

My investigation of my potential new employer shifted my focus somewhat. I found that I was spending a lot of my time thinking about the opportunity, and I also made a concious decision not to do any writing here whilst I was preparing to meet them – to help me focus. Without realising it, my job prospect suddenly took on all the familiar aspects of a special interest, and everything else got pushed to the back burner. I was getting the same intense feelings about the job opportunity as I have been getting most of this year from thinking about Asperger’s. I went from checking my blog visitor stats every hour or two, and ruminating over what to write about several times a day, to not thinking about the blog at all, and checking the stats every few days. Just like that.

The sudden change in focus has surprised me. Introspection regarding Asperger’s, and writing this blog has felt so deeply ingrained in me these last few months, that the possibility of not thinking about it has been, well, unthinkable. And yet, without expecting it, that was exactly what had happened. Initially, I was intrigued.

With Asperger’s shifted from being the core of my thinking, would life be any different?

Well, at times it has felt like a great weight has been lifted from my shoulders. By not ruminating deeply about Asperger’s and not looking in microscopic detail at how it affects my life, I’ve not been seeing as many aspects of my life where I feel that I don’t do well. My mood has lifted – but then again, I’ve got a new and exciting job to look forward to, so my mood is going to have been lifted by that too. I’m sure the lack of Asperger’s special interest has played it’s part, but I can’t solely put down my better outlook on life down to lack of it.

Here’s the really interesting thing for me: I wondered if my lack of focus on AS would make my life better – whether I would somehow revert to being more normal if AS wasn’t the middle – and indeed edges – of my world. I think that deep down, that little grain of self doubt in me that isn’t sure that I have AS wondered if my lack of AS focus would have an impact on my behaviour. Is any of my behaviour simply down to conditioning over the course of this year? Have I talked myself into being an Aspie? Have I played out a stereotypical Aspie interaction with the world simply because I’ve learned to do so?

No. I’ve already admitted that I simply replaced one special interest with another – AS got replaced with new job. I thought about it and poured over the pros and cons of joining a small business in every bit as much detail as I have recently thought about AS. I spent a day pretty much solely tracking down hardware and then making a recommendation about what I’d like to use on my desktop when I join. This was fully costed out, with alternate options, all spelled out in an email that took me hours to write in a way that I felt was just right. I’ve spent another day pouring over Google maps, trying to work out the best commute for the new job, including costing out the various options. In short, I’ve been every bit as focussed and all consumed by my new special interest as I have been by Asperger’s all these months.

And in the mean time, my daily interaction with the world has gone on, pretty much unchanged. On days where my mood has been especially buoyant, I’ve maybe taken a little more time to try and make small talk with folks – but that too is normal. My interaction with the world has always been governed by mood – I have good days and bad days, just like everyone else. It’s my wife’s 40th in less than a month, and I keep finding myself thinking that I must sort out her present. I have been saying this every day for a couple of weeks now, and have only managed to spend a little time on one day actually doing something about it. As usual, on all the other days where I should have been sorting it out, my focus on something else (the new job in this case) means it simple doesn’t cross my mind at a time where I can do something about it – even if I’ve written it down in my book of things to do.

So there you go – despite not thinking about AS, my life has carried on in the same familiar AS-like way that it has always done. If you can sense a little surprise in my writing you’d be right, because that little grain of self doubt can be very powerful. But that little grain of self doubt is wrong. I don’t act Aspie, it is simply, and always has been a part of who I am.

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A different focus

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–

Imagine if you will, a hypothetical mother. She has an autistic son. She believes that her son was developing normally, but that sometime around the time of his early childhood injections, he started to regress with the signs of autism. She associates the two things, and now absolutely believes that the injections caused her son’s autism. This mother cares deeply for her son, and would do just about anything to reverse that regression, turning him into a normal child once more.

Her son is now seven, and has been receiving an array of treatments, including chelation and the use of a hyperbaric chamber over the last five years. The mother sees some signs of treatments working every now and then, but her son is clearly still autistic. She has learned not to trust mainstream Doctors, after all, they believe in the shots that gave her son this condition. Instead, she is more inclined to believe unconventional specialist Doctors who have brought their own treatments and potions onto the market, with very encouraging results promised by them. To hell with the cost – if it helps her son, it is worth every penny.

Now, this really isn’t meant to represent anyone in particular. It is just meant to give something of a picture of a mother who is prepared to go to any length to reverse a condition that she perceives her son has developed rather than inherited. If you are reading this, and think I’m talking about you, then I’m not, I assure you. I’ve just created a stereotype based on what I’ve read. It may well be an inaccurate stereotype, but I’m sure there are some parents out there who the above fits very well.

–

I don’t identify at all with what the above mother holds to be true.

I see autism as an inherited condition. I’m sure that the environment in which you grow up has a bearing too, but fundamentally, I believe that neurological differences are the causes of most of the differences in being that I experience compared to a typical person. I don’t believe that autism can be cured. The brain scans showing atypical brain activity that I’ve read about are one good reason why I believe this. The other, of course is that once again, I believe this is inherited, not acquired – and if it isn’t acquired, it can’t be reversed.

But do you know what?

I really think that our hypothetical mother and me actually have a lot in common.

Firstly, there is a small matter of relentlessness. Our mother will do anything to reverse what happened to her son. To this end, she has spend a huge amount of time researching anything she can find in book form or on the Internet that may offer a hope – no matter how small – of her son improving. Whilst the scenario is different, I know this trait well. It’s the one I indulge in my Special Interests. Let’s take Asperger’s as an example. In the last year, I’ve read and read and read about Asperger’s, until information is spilling out of my ears. I want so much to know and understand how I work, that I’ll spend long hours reading obscure texts to decide whether they apply to me. Along the way I have become very knowledgeable about the information I’ve read, and can talk at length about it. So can our mother. But there’s somethign that we’ve both missed here. Context.

I usually refer to this as seeing intricate detail, but missing the bigger picture. I do this a lot. I can talk at length about how Asperger’s impacts people, but I fail to see how it impacts my wife, and what more I might do to help her, or indeed what I might do to help myself for that matter. None of this often gets a look in. Instead, I continue to fill myself with information about my Special Interest. Our hypothetical mother clearly has a similar problem. She’ll spend hours reading about an obscure new procedure that is largely untested but might just help revert the damage to her son, but she’ll fail to see the well respected reports like this, that show that autism isn’t an epidemic, and that in fact there are just as many autistic adults (albeit many of them undiagnosed) as there are children.

In short, we both see very specific things about autism, but fail to see the bigger picture at times.

We both see intricacy of detail in things too. She sees how a new treatment has lead to a little more eye contact or more words from her son over the last week. I see how I’m a little more anxious this week, after writing about certain topics.

But maybe here we are both missing the bigger picture again. Hypothetical mother is failing to take in how even autistic children develop over time – it is just often delayed or a slower progression than with a typical child. I’m probably reading too much into my anxiety levels too.

We are quite similar, in many ways. But why?

Well, it occurs to me that when children get diagnosed on the autism spectrum these days, it is not uncommon for one or more of their parents or for other family members to start their own journey of autistic self-discovery. Unless of course you are hypothetical mum, because she knows her son was damaged by injections, he didn’t inherit the condition.

But what if he did inherit it? What if he inherited it from his mum?

Maybe we are not so different…

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Maybe we are not so different…

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As a child, my spelling was never very good, and whilst I tried hard to learn the rules surrounding grammar, apostrophes, and how to write speech using quotes, my execution was never very good. I could write a good story, but I couldn’t quite master the execution properly.

As an adult, this perhaps shows a little less. I still have problems with the spelling of some words, especially regarding which spelling to use where words have different spellings depending on context and meaning – like bear and bare for instance. Bear with me and I’ll bare all. Or is that bare with me and I’ll bear all. No. That’s very wrong. Spell checkers, of course have taken away many of the common mistakes I make in spelling, and for that I’m very grateful (or is that greatful, or even greatfull).

And that brings another slight issue. In looking right now at my choices above for how, um, happy I am for the existence of spell checkers, I suddenly can’t see a word that looks right at all. Usually, I can see from the way a word looks whether it is spelled (or is that spelt?) right or not. But sometimes, if I look too much, the word suddenly looks very alien and wrong – the pattern I’m used to disappears, and I’m no longer sure that the word is right.

Apostrophes are a bug bear of mine. Where they are used to contract two words into one, I don’t (ha! there you go) have a problem at all. It’s (or should that be its? No – but I had to think hard about it – in that case it’s a contraction of it is, so it’s fine) the other uses where I get confused.

What about encoding spoken words into text using quotes? I’ve tried a number of times recently to to use this in blog posts, but my memory of where the commas are supposed to go is vague, and nothing quite seems to make sense. Sure – I could go and look it up, but I just want to get on and write and publish what’s in my head – I don’t want to break (brake? no) my train of thought  and re-learn how it works properly. Once I’ve written and published, of course, I never remember to go away and do the research…

Don’t even speak to me about getting the tense right when I write. I jump about all over the place, and simply don’t spot it most of the time. I hope you’ll forgive me.

Everyone learns these rules at school. Those who are smart remember them forever more and don’t have a problem with them. But I do – and I thought I was smart.

To me, it’s like I’ve forgotten the rules – unlearned them, if you will. Are they still there, tucked away in my brain somewhere, but not easily accessible?

I wouldn’t be surprised.

I’ve plenty of evidence that my brain contains huge amounts of information that I feel like I’ve forgotten. By way of example, a friend mentioned a band from the early nineties via twitter last week. Suddenly, I remembered them too. I remembered the title of one of their big songs, and some of the words. Off to YouTube I went, and quickly found the song. I found that as it played, I was able to fully sing along, remembering all the words, and indeed all the riffs and rhythms too, just as I was about to hear them. I couldn’t have done that  before the video started playing, but clearly a huge amount of data about all the intricate bits of the song was all safely filed away somewhere. A song, incidentally, that I most likely haven’t heard in well over ten years.

Long before Asperger’s came onto the horizon, I have often wondered about my memory versus those of my peers. They all seem to know so much more than I do. But appearances are deceptive, aren’t they? I suspect that they just have better access to their memories than I do. The music example above just goes to show that I really do remember things, often in great detail – I just then lose the link to access them unless the memory is regularly used.

I dare say that somewhere in my head , probably in the sub-basement, third door on the left, in the filing cabinet behind the sink are all the rules for where to use apostrophes, and where to put the commas when quoting speech.

I’ll be damned if I can find them right now though.

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Apostrophes and other problems

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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?

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Blurry-eyed boy

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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?

Post from: That Explains Everything

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A hangover without alcohol

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