Eating (dis)Order

I came across this post by bunnyhopscotch and it made me think about my own eating habits and preferences. While I don't consider myself extreme in these regards I am aware, because of frequent comments from my wife in particular but also from my mother when I was growing up, that some of my behavior is unusual.

Order and predictability are very important to me - I like to know what to expect in advance and I hold a mental image of these expectations. If the reality is significantly different then that causes me to react - this can range from a mild disappointment to a full-blown meltdown. This is very difficult for non-autistic people to understand: many of them enjoy surprises and find repetitive experiences to be exceedingly dull. I'm not that way; I enjoy the comfort of regularity, of familiarity. If I get exactly what I was expecting then I could not be happier.

One of my favorite meals is spaghetti bolognese; whenever my wife asks me what I would like to eat that is the answer (I don't know why she bothers to ask unless it is in the hope that one day I will say something different). She gets bored preparing the same meal so often, with no variation in the method or ingredients. I would happily eat this every day - the longest I have managed was to have it for every meal for two weeks before she refused to serve it again on the grounds that she was sick of the sight of it! (I had chilli instead the week after.)

The paradoxical thing is that I am not a fussy eater: there are very few things I will not eat and I do not have any food allergies or other digestive trouble that would restrict my diet. What I do have is a fairly rigid set of routines around eating. I'll start with the arrangement of the food on the plate - all the individual elements must be separate and any sauce or gravy can only be poured over certain items. Gravy on sliced meat, roast or mashed potatoes is good; on sausages, chops and steaks, greens or most other vegetables is bad. I don't like different elements to be mixed on the plate - it's not good if, say, the peas get mixed up with the carrots.

I will also generally eat the parts of the meal in some order. Non-potato vegetables are always first, starting with the small, numerous items such as peas or corn. Then would come larger items: cauliflower cheese or mushrooms, before getting on to the potatoes and finally the meat. With meals such as chilli and rice (uniformly mixed together) I have a different approach: I will start at the edges, squaring the shape, and work inwards towards the middle maintaining that shape with its straight sides; mashed potato is the same.

There are other things: bread and butter must be in whole slices and if stacked the buttered sides must be together. Any cutlery accompanying the meal must not be in contact with the food prior to me starting to eat. Except for bread/salad and condiments there must be no combination of both hot and cold items on a plate.

I'm also a little unconventional in my use of cutlery. As much as possible I will use only a fork or spoon, held in my right hand. I transfer the fork to my left hand if I need to use a knife - I can't use a knife with my left hand - but will put down the knife and pass the fork back to the right when I'm done. I need to keep the cutlery clean as I'm eating which means I have to put the fork or knife into my mouth or lick it to remove any visible food - very delicately in the case of a sharp steak knife!

This last habit - putting the knife in my mouth - raises my wife's hackles every time she sees me do it. It turns out she was taught that this is ill-mannered. Trouble is, not doing it puts me on edge because then the knife is dirty, so I can't win. In general my wife is pretty good about accommodating my "peculiarities" where food is concerned, but she will keep on about the knife in mouth thing.

There are other little things but I've covered the main points here. From the outside I have been informed that my eating habits appear restrictive, repetitive or downright strange but from my side it is simply the way I am - I've always been like this so I don't know any different.

Lost in Transit

Footprints clear in the crisp snow;
I follow, hoping to find my way
Back to the place I came in.
The path winds on and on;
No end in sight. Until at last
Familiar sights greet me.
I have been here before:
This is where I started out
Chasing the ghost of my own past,
Round and round, perpetual motion
Leading nowhere. No memory
Of my destination remains.
Lost in transit, marking time,
Walking in my own footsteps
Hoping to find myself
At journey's end.

Handle With Care

Brittle tranquility, a fragile egg-shell existence from moment to moment. Trying not to think about the instant when it will shatter under the weight of my suppressed feelings.

At times I can go for hours, even days, with a happy, carefree cast of mind before the darkness encroaches again and I fall into the depths. It is so sudden, as if a switch were flicked to extinguish the light, that the onset is shocking in its abruptness. One minute I'm my "normal" self, the next I'm falling with an aching void where my heart used to be - such intense, painful loneliness.

At these times I feel the urge to curl up in a warm, dark sanctuary. To hold myself tightly, comfort myself in the most basic way. Tears prick at my eyes but will not flow even though I feel a need for that release - my inhibitions remain too strong. This frustrates me immensely.

All my worrying, anxiety, insecurity: it is little wonder that I have had trouble sleeping on and off recently. I feel mentally exhausted from the effort of keeping going. Reprising my role for endless curtain calls; no respite. I feel trapped by my responsibilities and face a strong temptation to run away but I know that any escape would be temporary. Not sure I could face crawling back to my old life after a hedonistic spree. Can't face severing the ties that bind me to my current station. Trapped.

It is a leaden dullness that holds me to the ground when I yearn to fly, to shine. I sit in the midst of winter-gray concrete uniformity and dream of running through the woods and meadows of childhood's infinite summer. Soap-bubble dreams that burst and disappear so easily: from weightless, iridescent beauty to oblivion in the blink of an eye. As fragile as my veneer of happiness.

New vs Old

That's progress for you, march of time,
The local that we knew so well:
A dozen years of dirt and grime
Replaced by light and new-paint smell.

Old habits live on, so they say,
The people still behave the same,
Old memories surface day by day:
Same old faces, the same old game.

And though the steersman's hand is new,
The ship new-found, fresh from the yard,
'Most every hand's from former crew
Who know the ropes, old ways die hard.

The captain is no fool: she knows
Every trick from a foremast jack.
I will sit back, see how it goes
With those who wish the old times back.

With a Little Help

If happiness in life dependsOn finding comfort where you may,
Then most of all you need good friends
To brighten up your darkest day.

If loneliness should reappear
And threaten to extinguish hope,
Don't ever give in to your fear:
Your friends can give you strength to cope.

The Third Degree

Believe me, being in a non-verbal state is as frustrating for me as it must be for anybody trying to communicate with me. It is usually a symptom of stress, of emotional overload, so the worst way to react is in any fashion that increases my stress - becoming emotional, speaking louder or more insistently, coming too close and encroaching on my personal space. If you must try to interact with me at least speak quietly, unemotionally and without approaching too closely or making sudden movements.

Any hint of threat, whether it is a raised voice or unexpected proximity, only makes me feel more anxious and ensures that the episode will last longer. If I do manage to force some words out then don't assume I've come out of it - this can be a delicate moment as I start to regain some control and pushing me - giving me the third degree - will only send me deep back down into my uncommunicative state.

Above all, don't take my lack of responsiveness as a sign of indifference, ignorance or antipathy towards you: it is not. It is simply that my faculties are fully occupied dealing with my own mental turmoil and there is no spare capacity to handle interacting with people. I don't enjoy being non-verbal: because of the continual commotion inside my head it is mentally exhausting, and the muscular tension that results also causes physical tiredness. It is absolutely draining and leaves me in need of peace and quiet to relax. The fact that I might have been sat there, hardly moving or uttering a word, for hours does mean that I am ready to jump back into "normal" activities from the get go. Without some down time to recuperate it is very likely that even a small trigger will push me back over the edge.

Recognition of the causes and effects involved coupled with a little understanding makes it quicker and easier for me to work through the effects of the stress overload, and that has to be a good thing all round, doesn't it?

Duty and Responsibility

Sometimes I think about leaving this life with its burdens and responsibilities. No goodbyes; just go ahead and do it. There is no respite, no rest from labors. To even suggest it meets with accusations of selfishness and failure to care. Or worse. Threats, emotional blackmail or even violence.

I sometimes feel as if I am in thrall to a tyrannical master, whose every demand I must satisfy. I drive myself hard to meet the standards to which I hold myself. This infernal sense of duty - it compels me to carry on and on, grinding myself down, exhausting myself in the process.

I feel so tired. My defences are weak. The darkness inside finds its way to the surface, coloring my thoughts. Did you know it can take as little as 15 minutes to lose consciousness after slitting your wrists? If you hit the artery that is. Otherwise it could be hours. I looked it up - I wanted to know. Don't ask why.

Change. Don't like it at all. For somebody who has such difficulty relating to people I don't half have a hard time when I am apart from them. I'm a walking contradiction. I like my own company and I cannot bear to be apart from people. I abhor loneliness. And I am feeling lonely of late.

I try to keep my feelings hidden, even from myself I suspect sometimes. Must be strong, never show any weakness. So I must be alone, so nobody can see my vulnerabilities. I must be alone to cry in the night. I must be alone to open my heart and reveal my feelings. So much pent-up emotion that is held in, bottled up, because I do not dare let it show.

Anger, the rage inside, flares occasionally but never lasts. Unlike the hurt that never really leaves me. Oh, I can push it into the background but it still lies there waiting for its opportunity to raise its head and reenter my consciousness. There is no release, no respite. No rest.

I am a caged bird, looking out through the bars and imagining how it might feel to fly free. The bars are of my own making, stronger than steel. Forged of duty and responsibility. I have no option other than to remain here - suffer the constraints on my existence. The constraints I accepted so long ago now. The burden weighs heavy on me but I said I would bear it, so bear it I must. Choice was abrogated all those years ago. However I might wish otherwise that remains true.

But the caged bird can still dream of open skies. The slave can dream of the day the fetters are broken. And I can dream of release.