Posted on December 9, 2017
Christmas and Autism aren’t hugely compatible. Lots of bright lights, noise, high emotions, family, socialising… It can all get too much. It can be a really stressful time. So I’ve been thinking about the past few Christmases and the one coming up and how I can make it restful and comfortable but also enjoyable.
Make sure you have the medication you need – To run out and go into withdrawal (depending on the kind of medication you have) is awful anyway but it’s adding insult to injury to have to go through it during a time that is characterised by its joyfulness. So make sure you know the dates your doctors/pharmacy will be closed and make sure you have the medication to get through that time. Please. If you need any extra motivation, do it for me. You do not need to go through that.
Plan presents with friends and family – I get really anxious about receiving gifts. I always worry that I’m not reacting positively enough, that I’m letting the giver down. I worry that they’ll see a microsecond of anything other than joy and that will upset them. Another anxiety about presents comes from the times when I feel really far away and disconnected from myself, something I often feel at times of high emotion. When I feel like that, something like being given a present doesn’t impact me the way it would if I didn’t feel like that and that brings it’s own myriad of emotions: guilt, frustration, loneliness, etc. I feel like I’m being ungrateful and the lack of personal connection to whatever I’ve been given makes me feel very alone, like people don’t know me. I know that it’s my head messing with me but that doesn’t make the emotions any less real. To counteract those feelings, I’ve started discussing present buying with my family and friends. Asking for things can feel really, really, REALLY awkward but if I’ve learned anything, it’s that talking things through does help. So we talk about that and we talk about what I want and what they want, the more specific the better. It does take out the surprise element but I don’t really like surprises anyway and if you have anxiety, chances are you don’t like them either. For example, for my birthday, the biggest surprise was which poetry book I got from a particular writer. It made the whole day so much easier on my emotions.
Get as much information as possible – I make a point to know what’s going on as much as possible. For me, the biggest anxiety is food so when it comes to the important meals (such as Christmas Eve and Christmas Day – the ones where my family all get together), I make sure there will be at least a couple of things I can eat. I’m lucky because my family are very used to my struggle with food so they do take that into account when planning a meal and that means a lot to me. It makes a massive difference to my Christmas experience.
Space out social events – Obviously there are some things you can’t avoid but where possible, I try and space out the socialising to give myself time to recover and recharge. And knowing in advance allows me to prepare myself, physically, mentally, and emotionally. This makes it a bit easier to regulate my mood. Some things can’t be helped but my aim is to try and keep my emotions relatively even, rather than the tumultuous up and down that they can be, which is exhausting and upsetting.
Try not to beat yourself up about negative emotions – Something I also struggle with at Christmas is this feeling that I’m not enjoying myself enough, like if I’m not ecstatic I’ve somehow failed Christmas. I’ll look around at everyone and they’re all laughing hysterically at some ridiculous Christmas dinner activity (anyone else have those differently tuned whistles that you had to blow in a particular order to play Christmas songs?) but I feel like crying. I’ve had that experience a couple of times and it’s one of the most isolating feelings I can think of. It makes me feel so alone and disconnected from everyone and it’s horrible. I haven’t figured out what to do about this feeling yet but I think the first step is acknowledging it and accepting that it’s there. My plan is to try some of the things I listed in a previous post about connecting to the world around me. I’ll report back with whether it works or not.
Accept the anti climax – I often crash after Christmas and really struggle with the anti climax. That really drags my mood down. I’m hoping that spreading out the Christmas events will soften that a little and I plan to have some fun, gentle things to do to afterwards but again, I’m trying to acknowledge and accept it. I probably won’t be as calm about it when I’m in it; I’ll probably rage against it as is my default these days but I can but try. At the end of the day, that’s all you can do.
When you can’t get out of a stressful event, create a safety net – If there’s a stressful event that I have to go to, I plan as much as possible. I’ll scout out somewhere to retreat to or bring/find a friend who can rescue me if needed. I create a safety net for myself and often it’s existence is enough. It takes off the pressure.
Take the time to think about the sad stuff if you need to – At Christmas, I can’t help but think of the people who aren’t there, who are gone for whatever reason. I miss them, not necessarily more than any other time but in a more obvious way. They are not there at Christmas dinner, there’s a glaring hole in your shopping list, and there’s no present from them on Christmas morning. I think we do a disservice to ourselves and our emotions to push that aside, because it’s a holiday about joy or because it’s too hard. But if it’s something you want to do, you have to do it in a way that works for you. Sometimes it feels right to raise a glass at dinner and sometimes it’s right just to take a few moments to think of them. Sometimes it’s right to flip through photo albums and sometimes it’s right to cry about it. Grief and sadness aren’t things you can do to someone else’s formula. But I think it’s important to take the time to remember and acknowledge the sad stuff, in whatever way you choose.
Ultimately, it’s all down to communication and planning. Planning, planning, and more planning, as always. That’s what I’m learning. I hope this has been somewhat helpful and that you guys all have the lovely, safe Christmases you deserve.
Posted on December 5, 2017
Over the years, I’ve had periods of feeling really far away. It often overlaps with my bouts of depression but sometimes it creeps in out of nowhere and I feel completely lost, untethered from everything around me. It fades in and out like a fog, sometimes with no warning and often there’s nothing I can do to dissipate it or avoid it. It can be really scary, especially when it first started to happen, but at the same time, it’s like I can’t really feel that fear or any of my emotions. I’ve described it in different ways but they all describe the same feeling: feeling completely disconnected from myself. But I thought I’d include a few of those descriptions because they give more of a sense of how it feels:
- It’s like looking backwards through binoculars so everything seems really far away when it’s actually close. Sometimes I can almost see the black tunnels that would be the inside of the binoculars. This is the way I usually describe it; I think it fits the best.
- I feel like I’m five miles back inside my head. I can’t reach anything or anyone and it feels like no one can hear me, the real me.
- It’s like watching everything happen and feeling like it would continue as normal if I wasn’t there, almost like people wouldn’t notice if I disappeared. They’ll keep talking, leaving spaces for me and responding to what I would’ve said if I was there.
- Similarly, it can feel like I’m invisible, like people will look right through me.
- It feels like I’m stuck behind glass, like there’s glass between me and everybody else. I am physically separated from everyone. This is another one of my ‘favourite’ ways to describe it.
- A variation of that is feeling like I’m wrapped in cling film: separated from everyone but also trapped. It makes me feel like I can’t breathe.
- I feel disconnected from my life, my body, like I’m in control but it’s not mine. I’m moving my limbs but they feel oddly numb, thick and heavy and clumsy.
- One of my earliest memories of this feeling is feeling like I was out of sync with everyone else. That’s a very lonely and uncomfortable feeling.
- Sometimes it feels like I’m underwater. It’s like I’m surrounded by something other than air and there’s more resistance when I try to move.
- The most recent description is that I feel like I’m sleepwalking and can’t wake up. This one overlaps with how I feel when I’m really depressed so it’s not the most reliable analogy, if that makes sense. It fits both.
To be completely honest, I’m not sure what causes it, given the overlap of the different mental health problems I struggle with. This is something I have a lot of anxiety about, not being able to pinpoint where individual problems come from. Everything’s connected to everything else. Everything influences everything. But from my own reading, it seems to be common in depression and in Borderline Personality Disorder. It’s often a coping mechanism for stress or overwhelming emotions. The Mind website has a great page about this. My experiences line up best with the description of ‘Depersonalisation’.
I still haven’t found anything that does much to help it but there are a few things that give me a few seconds of relief, of connection. Usually, it’s about tapping into my senses. That seems to bring me back to the world a little bit. So things like opening windows, sitting in the sun, touching leaves or flowers, stroking a pet, having a cold shower or holding something cold… they don’t fix it but they do have a positive effect. Even if it’s tiny, they do create small positive spikes in my mood. They’re like stars in a suffocatingly dark sky. With this, it’s more about getting through it than trying to fix it. It’s about creating one moment after another to carry you through to the other side.
I want to add that I’ve also used self harm to ‘wake myself up’ from this. I’m not advocating it; it’s dangerous and damaging and really difficult to get free of. But if nothing else, I’m honest and it has helped. When I’m in a really bad place, I don’t want to hear that I shouldn’t do it because it feels like the only thing that helps but when it’s not quite so bad, I try really hard to find other ways to cope. I try the things I’ve listed or I try to distract myself. I don’t want to get too far from the point of the post so I’ll come back to this in another post but I felt like I had to include it here.
Friends and family have asked me what they can do to help and if I’m honest, I don’t really know. It can be hard to think about that when I’m just trying to get through it. But I do want to help them help me. At some point, I will write more about this, but I do find it really helpful when the people around me let me set the pace and decide what I can and can’t manage. Sometimes a push is helpful but in this situation, it isn’t. A sense of control grounds me a little bit. Plus, there are some things that are just really hard to manage when you feel like you can’t connect to your emotions. For example, I find it really hard to write songs and be creative when I feel so disconnected from everything. So being able to (and feeling safe to) adapt my activities does help. And talking. Talking it through, figuring out solutions, letting off steam. That really helps.
Posted on November 29, 2017
I’ve been really struggling with my hair pulling lately. It goes through phases: sometimes I can go several days without pulling and sometimes it’s like my fingers are velcro-ed to my head. Right now, I’m in the latter. I don’t know whether it’s linked to my mental health (which hasn’t been great) or whether it’s just so ingrained that maybe nothing can stop it. Either way, I’ve been tearing out a lot of hair recently.
When I was writing my original post about Trichotillomania, I rewatched this video. I had discovered Rebecca and TrichJournal very early in my hair pulling and it was incredible. I wasn’t alone! I felt understood and I’m pretty sure that that helped me to stop pulling the first time. Even though it hasn’t lasted and I’ve since started pulling again, I’m still so very grateful for that.
That first post didn’t seem the right place to include this video but I have wanted to post it because I related to it so strongly and out of all her videos, I think it so truly shows the distress that Trichotillomania can cause. It’s not just pulling a bit of hair out; it has profound effects on the person and their life.
A few quotes from this video:
- “My fingers are screaming to tear at my hair right now. In the past I’ve described them like magnets: they are attracted to my hair.”
- “I really, really want my hair to grow. And I’m really, really scared of losing it.”
- “Yes, I’m still pulling, because the pulling never stops.”
I’ve been watching Rebecca’s videos for about three years now. Apart from videos on Trichotillomania, she talks about mental health, hoarding, makeup, her life… oh, and her cats. They’re gorgeous. You can find her channels here and here. I really recommend checking out her videos.
Posted on November 25, 2017
If I could change one thing about myself it would be my energy levels.
I’ve struggled with fatigue for most of my life. When I was twelve, I suddenly got sick and missed a lot of school. I was nauseous and so tired that even walking upstairs was exhausting. I went to the doctor, had many, many blood tests, saw various specialists but no one could figure out what was happening. No one could find anything wrong. And yet I was still very unwell. The only clue we had was that the blood tests showed I had had Glandular Fever at some point. But that was it. Months passed and we tried lots of different approaches but nothing helped. I was managing a bit of school but it was only a handful of classes a week and even that exhausted me. I basically lived on the sofa, missing out on pretty much everything.
Just over two years in and someone suggested something called the Lightning Process. It sounded strange but I was desperate so we said yes. It’s a fascinating idea: changing the pathways in your brain to affect your body and your health. I went to the three-day training course but by the end of the second day, I knew something had changed. I felt completely different and it showed. I still had very low stamina but somehow I had more energy. It was like a switch had been flipped. I went back to school and although I did still struggle a bit, it was so much better than before.
Everything seemed normal until I was eighteen and doing my A Levels. The stress was overwhelming and before I knew it, I was drowning in exhaustion. Somehow, I made it through my exams but my mental health deteriorated to a point where I couldn’t start the next course I’d planned to do. I struggled with both anxiety and depression and my fatigue seemed – and still seems – to be inextricably linked. It’s not as simple as ‘I’m more tired when my mental health is bad’ but there is a correlation. Medication has helped and was one of the major factors in getting me through university but it’s still something I struggle with daily.
When I was diagnosed with ASD, I was told that fatigue isn’t unusual and sleep problems are common with Autism. Personally, I’ve struggled with insomnia but more often, I sleep long hours only to wake up as tired as when I went to sleep. It’s like sleeping is just a break between days; I don’t feel like I actually get any rest from it. I think that it’s also to do with how hard my brain is working all the time. Simply existing requires a lot of processing of information: my surroundings, what other people are saying or doing or feeling, sounds, smells, as well as my own reactions and emotions about all of those things. I have to actively process all of that and it’s exhausting. That’s a normal day. If something emotional happens, good or bad, it takes all of my energy to deal with that. To me, strong emotions are like fog and it can take days or weeks to work my way through it. Sometimes longer. I also live with a lot of anxiety, which has always done a number on my energy. That anxiety feels like a programme running in the background of my brain, using up my energy, physically and mentally.
It’s a constant struggle, a constant frustration. I know that I have less energy than the people around me but I can’t seem to change my expectations. I try over and over again to do the same amount as everyone else but I can’t sustain it. Sooner or later, I crash, completely exhausted. I’m getting better at managing my energy and building in recovery time but I can’t seem to stop myself raging against it. I can’t accept it. I feel a bit like one of those wind up toys that just keeps running into a wall. I want to do so much more than I have the energy for and that’s really, really hard to deal with. As is the long-term nature of it. You can’t just quit your life for a few days like when you get the flu or have a migraine. I’m not making light of those things – I’ve had and hated both – but the need to keep pushing forward despite feeling so exhausted and the anxiety about not making any progress wears me down in a way nothing else does. It affects every aspect of my life and it’s starting to feel like a part of me.
This makes it impossible for me to work. I’ve been extremely fortunate to get some benefits over the last few years but it’s still very, very stressful. I find it so difficult to adjust my thinking, to adjust to my new reality. I keep trying to meet the standards I’ve grown up believing I need to reach only to feel like a failure when I can’t reach them. The idea of even a part time job fills me with blinding panic because I know that I am physically incapable of doing all the tasks that would be required of me. Some days, even having a shower feels like climbing Mount Everest. I want to link to this Tumblr post because I think it explains the relationship between energy and the tasks you’re trying to do really well.
And it’s not just physical energy; it’s mental and emotional energy too. I get overwhelmed and burnt out really quickly, I think because I feel everything so intensely. A job that doesn’t account for that would have a devastating effect on my mental health and even though the world is starting to think about mental health and spread the message of putting you’re mental health first, I still feel incredibly anxious about this area of my life. I feel like having so little energy means I’m lazy. I feel like a burden for not having moved out, for not being able to be independent, for not having a job. Everyone I know has had jobs that they didn’t like and I feel like I’m entitled for wanting a job that I like and can do with the limitations I have. I feel like I shouldn’t want more than my neurotypical peers, like I should just get on with it and stop expecting special treatment. And yet, I know the limits of my mental health and of my body. These two sides keep clashing (which I’m sure doesn’t help my energy levels). It’s a horrible place to be stuck in and I can’t help but think that it’s connected to getting an Autism diagnosis so late: I grew up with the same external expectations as everyone else but a different internal capability. I know that now but it’s hard to hold onto that when the voices in my head are telling me that I’m just not trying hard enough. That one is a constant, in every area of my life.
I’ve often used being a Mac in a PC world as an analogy for Autism: most of the functions are there but they’re in different places or you have to find an alternate way of doing something. And I think it’s true here as well. When you run a programme that isn’t meant for the system you’re using, it doesn’t work as well. I think that’s a good analogy for being neuroatypical in a neurotypical world. I feel like I have not been designed for this system and so I don’t function as well as the people that have. Or maybe the system hasn’t been designed for me. It’s a chicken and egg situation. But you get my point. For whatever reason, I feel incompatible with my environment and that takes up a hell of a lot of energy.
I don’t really have any answers to this problem. I’m not even sure how to finish this post. This is something I struggle with daily and at the moment, I feel very worn down by it. I don’t want to spend my whole life planning in recovery time, replying to ‘how are you?’ with ‘tired’. I don’t want my life to be decided by my energy levels but I’m scared that it will be.
Posted on November 18, 2017
Living with depression is hard. Yes, I know, I’m stating the freaking obvious. But I want to write about something that doesn’t come up that often, in my experience at least. And when I say ‘living with depression’, I mean going through repeated bouts of depression over a period of time. I’m not diminishing the difficulty of going through an isolated experience; I just want to point out something specific to the continued one.
Being at your lowest is excruciating but it’s simple, when it comes to the complexity of emotions. Depression is overwhelming; it blots out everything. The world is one colour. But as you start to move out of that place, it becomes emotionally confusing. A lot of you is still depressed but there’s also a part of you that’s trying to move forward. And that conflict is exhausting. Your emotions are constantly clashing and that takes up so much energy.
I recently landed in the lowest place I’d ever been. I feel like I say that every time but I know that this was the worst I’d ever felt. I had a very emotionally traumatic meltdown – again, the worst one I’ve had – and ended up sitting in the middle of my local park, crying my eyes out at eleven o’clock at night. And it was that heaving kind of crying where it feels like it’s coming from a place inside you that’s deeper than physically possible. It was horrible and when I woke up the next morning, I was in such a deep depression that I couldn’t do anything. I literally couldn’t. I lay in bed all day, staring at the wall. I felt completely hopeless. I couldn’t see the point in anything. There was no point in trying to be happy, in trying to do anything, because the only real thing is misery.
It took days to start functioning again (move around, interact with people, eat, etc), but I was still firmly locked in that point of view. I couldn’t see the point of anything but the oppressiveness started to lift and other emotions started to creep in. I was able to smile again and sometimes I’d even laugh and that was really hard because I still felt so hopeless. It felt wrong. I didn’t feel ready to be okay.
I feel like I have two levels of mood, my surface mood and my inner mood. The labels speak for themselves but I want to elaborate a bit further. My inner mood is what I feel at the centre of myself (my automatic thought was to name it my ‘real’ mood but I know the surface mood is real too – please bear with me: words are hard!) and at the moment, that is depressed. If I had to choose one emotion to associate with myself, it would be a sad one, like depressed or disheartened. My surface mood reacts to outside stimuli: good weather, spending time with people I like, a new episode of my favourite TV show. Those sorts of things do create spikes in my mood. It can be really easy to brush those moments off because they feel so wrong when I’m depressed. But they’re both real and both deserve to be recognised. That’s why I like the two levels of mood idea. By having two levels, one emotional reaction doesn’t invalidate another. I can feel really depressed and kind of okay – even optimistic – at the same time. It’s too simplistic to think that we only feel one emotion at a time but when they’re so opposite, it just makes the whole thing more difficult, more confusing, more exhausting.
The only time the two seem to synchronize is when I’m really, really depressed. It sounds sad when I put it like that but right now, it’s the truth. I know that my surface mood can change so hopefully the inner mood can too. Hopefully I’ll reach a point where it’s not so low.
Posted on November 16, 2017
The last post was a heavy one with lots of emotional stuff in it so I thought I’d go for something that was a bit more light hearted this time – try and maintain a kind of balance. So here we go. The animals in my life have had a really big impact on my mental health so I thought I’d introduce them and talk a bit about the positives of having pets when you struggle with mental illness.
This is Lucky, our thirteen-year-old Labrador. We first met him when he was two days old and we’ve had him since he was about eight weeks old. He’s endlessly friendly and enthusiastic. One of my favourite things about him is how unashamedly excited he gets about everything: people arriving, food (even though it’s the same thing everyday), any kind of attention. It’s a good little reminder to appreciate the good things, even if they are everyday occurrences. As he’s gotten older, he’s become very sensitive, especially to people’s emotions. At it’s most extreme, he’s left the room when people on TV get upset. Poor boy. I can relate to that.
And this is Lucy, my two-year-old cat. She’s all energy and adventure, in the daylight hours anyway. Come the evening, she’s very happy to curl up on my bed with me. She sort of reminds me of a teenager that doesn’t want to be seen with her parents because it isn’t cool but once there’s no one around, she enjoys a good cuddle. She loves Lucky and often tags along on the evening walk around the block. I absolutely adore her. She’s incredibly calming to watch and play with; she’s so present and that’s really good for my anxiety. And having her sleeping beside me helps me to sleep because I can focus on her breathing (and purring) and block out any anxiety I have.
She also had kittens last year, which was a great holiday from real life. They were gorgeous and when I was watching them or playing with them, everything else fell away. It was like the world outside my bedroom didn’t exist. They were the only thing that helped me when Christina Grimmie was killed. I’d been watching her videos for years and she was the same age as me; it was very upsetting (and I’m still dealing with the emotions of that but I’ll save that for another post). Watching them play and wrestle and explore my bedroom with such focus and such fearlessness was very soothing. I’m so grateful to have had them for that period of my life. And I was very aware that, as one of the few humans in their lives, I was affecting who they would become, consciously or not. It made me feel like I was making a difference, even if it was only on a small scale.
But back to Lucky and Lucy. They frequently accompany me to therapy (although not together). Neither are actual therapy pets but having one of them with me often helps, especially when we’re talking about really tough stuff. They can be a distraction, a tension diffuser, a comfort.
So there you have it: my animals. They are so important to me and have such an impact on my life that I couldn’t not write about them. I hope you enjoyed this and if you need me, I’ll be curled up with either or both of them.
Posted on November 11, 2017
Feeling abandoned is a big thing when it comes to Borderline Personality Disorder. And events as everyday as someone not immediately responding to a text can trigger that feeling. The smallest slight can be incredibly upsetting and anything bigger can feel devastating. It’s never ending and exhausting. And with the fear of being abandoned hanging over you, relationships (of any kind) can be very stressful. They can feel like a waiting game, wondering how long it will take for the other person to give up on you.
As someone with BPD, I feel emotions very strongly and when something upsetting happens, it feels like I’ve been hit by a massive wave and it’s all I can do to find my way back to the surface. The emotion overwhelms me and there’s no room for logical reasoning. It doesn’t matter what else is going on; all my energy is taken up trying to process all of that feeling. It can take weeks to recover and I feel more fragile each time.
And what makes it more difficult is the fact that it’s not completely irrational; there is ‘evidence’ to support the fear. People have abandoned me in the past, both voluntarily and involuntarily, so whenever I try and talk myself out of the panic, my BPD lays out all these examples, ‘proving’ to me that I will always be abandoned. It’s an exhausting cycle.
I’m not going to go through my history of feeling abandoned, example-by-example, but there is one experience that I want to share. I think it’s too important to leave out. A few years ago, someone really important to me cut ties when I was in the lowest place I’d ever been (something they were aware of). I felt completely abandoned and it had a massive impact on my mental health and view of the world. I was so hurt and so confused and for a long time, those emotions overwhelmed everything. I felt broken. But slowly, that weight lifted. It took two years but I’m finally free of it. And that’s amazing. But it’s not the end of it. That experience has affected me, especially when it comes to my relationships and my anxiety around them. And like I said, it’s hard to talk myself out of that fear when I feel like I’m about to go through all that again.
I’ve wanted to write about this for a while but I wasn’t sure how to frame it, if that makes any sense. But a conversation with one of my best friends brought all of this to the surface.
So let me tell you a story:
One of my best friends had just come back from a trip to the US and was desperate to go back. I was in a pretty fragile place already (dealing with another situation where I felt like I was being abandoned) and watching her plan her next trip abroad felt a lot like she was abandoning me. I didn’t want to say anything and I felt guilty for feeling the way I did: she was building her career and she was so excited and here I was, wanting her to stay. But in the end, I had to say something. We’ve always talked everything through so, even though I was terrified of sounding needy and pathetic, I reached out and told her how I was feeling. She knows a lot about my mental health difficulties so I told her how I struggle with feeling abandoned and that I might need some extra reassurance around her upcoming trip.
(I want to add that although it might sound easy, it wasn’t. Part of me – a big part of me – was convinced that expressing these feelings would be the ‘final straw’ and that she would abandon me on the spot, that I had finally become too much to deal with. This is something that I think is often misunderstood about BPD. This reaction is not because of the other person; it’s because of the BPD. The other person could be the most reliable person in the world. It doesn’t matter. It’s the BPD telling you that everyone will leave, that you’re not enough to make the other person stick around. So defying that and telling my friend how I felt was very, very scary.)
And this is the important bit: how my friend reacted. Instead of telling me I was being ridiculous or brushing off my request, she responded compassionately. She told me not to feel pathetic or guilty, that she understood why I was feeling the way I was. She asked me how she could help, and said that she would do whatever she could to make it easier for me. She said, “I am not going to leave you.”
It was such a relief that I burst into tears. It meant (and still does mean) so much to me. She validated my feelings, asked me what she could do, and gave me the reassurance I needed. I wish everyone responded this way. Perhaps ironically for a condition with such close links to invalidation, these feelings often get written off as being oversensitive or overdramatic. And in my experience, that only makes it worse. Things are better now that the important people in my life understand where these feelings come from; before the diagnosis, the only explanation was that I was very sensitive and therefore needed to ‘toughen up’. It was a fault. And that’s what I thought too. But now that we understand it, we know how to handle it, how to approach it.
I will likely need to hear this again and again to combat my fear of being abandoned but that doesn’t minimise the importance of this moment. As I’ve said, change is a series of moments like these, moments I hold very close, like charms on a charm bracelet.