Silence and literally coming out of the closet

My time of silence and lurking is over. I am setting a goal to be here and interact daily during the week. This is exciting for me. I said in my last post that I haven't been writing. I want to write, but I want to write words worth reading. I am going to challenge myself (partially by taking advantage of community challenges here) to do so. If there are any writing challenges you want to point me to, please link in comments!

Today, I want to keep sharing a bit about myself. Specifically, I want to tell you why I go silent. I suspect many here may have similar experience.

I have severe anxiety. I am most likely high functioning autistic, although I have not be diagnosed as such. I was observed for the first five years of my life by a doctor who said I exhibited all the signs of autism, but ruled it out because I am a girl. This seems ridiculous and idiotic now, but her decision saved me from a lifetime of special education classrooms and bullying in an area where I was already bullied for being different. It would have been nice to know growing up that I actually am on the spectrum. It explains so much about the way I experience life.

image found on pixabay.com

I figured out the autism thing when my eldest child was diagnosed on the spectrum. I did all the reading and research on autism and autistic experience, symptoms and thinking. I saw myself everywhere. But I didn't fully accept it until, when working with my therapist through a major anxiety episode, he asked me if I could manage my stress outside my safe space.

My safe space was (and still is) my closet. It's a sensory deprivation chamber. No lights. All quiet. The only addition I've made is pillows on the floor.

Here's what I thought was happening when I went in my closet: I would sit on the floor with my legs crossed and focus on breathing.

Here's what was actually happening--what I could only see when I, literally, came out of the closet: I sit and rock and hum. Or lay and rock and hum. Atonal humming, rhythmic rocking, hands contorted and flapping.

When I stopped hiding in my closet, I stopped hiding from myself. (By the way, this is not meant to intrude on the LGBTQIA+ metaphor and narrative at all. This is my literal experience.) I had to leave my safe space to discover who I am. Now I rock, hum, flap, etc in public. It's like I unlocked a full set of habits and now I can't lock them back down. As an adult and mother, this is awkward at times. A major plus is that it makes my son more comfortable with himself. In fact, he is able to support me when I melt down in public which is great practice in self-control for him, because if I'm overstimulated, he is too.

image found on pixabay.com

I also discovered that I wear "masks," meaning there are situations daily where I have to consciously adjust my facial expression or tone of my voice. I always think I look or sound weird, and sometimes I do. Most often, I hit the mark. In fact, I work in a therapeutic capacity with many people (as a writing coach), and my job consists of one-on-one conversation. This struggle has nothing to do with what I'm feeling, and everything to do with making sure I am properly showing what I am feeling.

I have periods where I feel like a fraud, though, because I have several "personas" I step into to get certain jobs done around my anxiety. An example is driving. I have to step into my driving self in order to feel capable of handling a car. Or attending group settings. I need plenty of time to prep myself emotionally to be in a group setting even for a few minutes. I have to have on blinders or I am instantly overstimulated and experience panic attacks. This is not impostor syndrome. While I feel like a fraud, it's not the same as thinking I'm fooling people or don't belong. I have plenty of self-confidence. I feel like I'm fooling myself. But I'm not. I'm just employing different aspects of my personality for specific purposes. I suspect many do this.

Back to the silence. In order to write, I have to be able to sit in my anxiety. Writing is my best tool for self-discovery and self-care. It's how I use it. It's how I most often teach it (although I teach craft and practice as well). Sometimes my anxiety is too big to sit with. So I skirt the edges. I quiet down and I look at it without looking at it. It's like No Face in Spirited Away. It's trying to do a good thing for me, but the more attention it receives, the bigger it gets until it's a huge mess. I have to be ready to clean that mess up.

Still image from Miyazaki's Spirited Away

That's where I am now. My anxiety has been burning me up for about two months, just growing and growing despite the silence. It has found ways to feed itself. While that was happening, I kept my gaze on it peripherally, biding my time until I had a space and the strength to write it out.

I've done this before, many times. Most recently, I published work about parenting with mental illness for Stigma Fighters. I wrote the piece a year before I shared it. I have also written for Huffington Post on anxiety, and (to my shock) my piece was translated into multiple languages. I still get surges of readers from that piece. It's weird but good.

I think that's now and here. This doesn't mean I'm going to write sob stories or heavy pieces. I'm just going to write. See what comes up. Every day. You'll see what feels good to share. And, hopefully, my anxiety will abate.

Okay, don't leave me alone here. Who else has anxiety? Oh! Please don't forget to link any writing challenges or let me know if there's something you'd like me to write about.