lunechante

[lunechante]

Dans ce monde où les valeurs centrales sont l’argent et l’abnégation au travail, je n’arrive plus à être.

Les arrêts de travail me permettent de micro-bouffées d’air qui semblent m’aider mais ne m’empêchent pas de me noyer.

Mon cerveau a fini par s’habituer au médicament qui pendant 3 mois m’a permis de dormir convenablement. Les insomnies reviennent. Le sommeil est entrecoupé, pas vraiment réparateur. L’été arrive. La température est maintenant bien au-dessus de celle qui me permet de dormir convenablement.

Je passe mes journées à me reposer mais me sens toujours aussi fatiguée.

Je ne fais rien de la semaine mais dois presser mes proches pour organiser le moment où on va se voir quelques jours à l’avance. Si je ne demande pas, je dois m’adapter, encore et toujours. Et quand je demande, j’ai vraiment l’impression de faire chier, puisque je ne respecte pas leur rythme. Mais passer des journées entières à ne rien faire d’autre qu’attendre un appel, c’est ne rien faire de peur de ne pas être dispo pour ledit appel lorsqu’il arrivera. C’est passer la journée à penser en boucle « il faut que je sois dispo ». Et parfois l’appel n’arrive même pas.

Enfant, l’idée que je devais être capable de me débrouiller seule sans demander d’aide était quelque chose de central. Alors demander qu’on anticipe un peu pour mon confort sans que j’ai besoin de perdre de l’énergie à demander, ça me parait vraiment insurmontable.

Et puis il y a les conversations. Parlons politique (donc société) comme si ce n’était que de l’abstrait et que ça ne concernait pas la vraie vie des gens dans leur réalité. De tous ces fonctionnaires qui coûtent de l’argent pour les services publics qui ne servent à rien puisqu’ils ne produisent pas d’argent. Qu’il faut quand même être pragmatique, sans argent on ne fait rien. C’est pas juste que mes valeurs font que je suis en désaccord complet avec la phrase précédente. C’est aussi que mon quotidien c’est que je fais un job qui n’apporte pas d’argent, mais qui était quand même bien considéré comme essentiel pendant la crise du Covid. C’est aussi qu’à m’être trop brûlée à tout donner pour mon travail (en parallèle du fait que j’ai vécu 30 ans en ignorant mon handicap et donc en épuisant toutes mes ressources faute de savoir pourquoi et comment les préserver), je ne suis plus capable de travailler à temps plein. C’est que je passe sous le seuil de la pauvreté en travaillant à mi-temps parce que la RQTH ne donne pas droit à compensation financière, juste à la réduction du temps de travail comme s’il s’agissait d’un choix. C’est que je me bats chaque jour à me convaincre de ne pas croire ma tête qui me dit que je ne vaux rien. Et après une semaine bien noire, se reprendre tout ça dans la gueule alors que je voulais juste me détendre avec mes amis. Et de culpabiliser en plus parce que je me suis énervée, j’ai pleuré, mais j’ai été incapable d’argumenter mon point de vue. J’étais trop épuisée, mais je n’ai pas pu me faire comprendre.

[lunechante]

J’étais une enfant brillante. De celleux qui lisent sans arrêt, se souviennent de tout, pensent et connectent les choses entre elles rapidement, font des maths comme un loisir et ont toujours besoin de stimulation intellectuelle et cognitive. Mon vocabulaire était très étendu, et bien que très littérale, je prenais toujours soin de choisir le meilleur mot pour traduire mes pensées avec exactitude.

Le harcèlement dû à cette appétence pour l’intellect a débuté dès l’entrée au collège (dès les dernières années de primaire devrais-je même dire en toute honnêteté, mais l’école primaire était encore ponctuée de grandes amitiés). Pour essayer de me fondre dans la masse - ce qui, rétrospectivement après vingt ans, n��a pas été très efficace -, j'ai appauvri mon vocabulaire pour me plier aux “standards”. Ceux de ma classe bien sûr, pas ceux qui entretiennent l’excellence pour paraît-il nous permettre de viser le sommet. C’était comme apprendre une nouvelle langue, dans laquelle j’étais immergée au quotidien. 

Néanmoins, j’ai lentement “oublié” ce style de français qui était le mien. Cette langue que j’avais apprise dans les livres pendant toute mon enfance. Revenir à un registre de langue plus soutenu aujourd’hui me semble être impossible. Non seulement il ne m’est plus instinctif, mais j’ai également perdu les capacités cognitives pour fournir le travail intellectuel nécessaire à sa “récupération” en raison de plus d’une décennie de burn out. Aujourd’hui, même passer du français à l’anglais m’est difficile.

En réalité, je perds mes mots constamment, quelle que soit la langue. En plein milieu d’une conversation, je ne vais pas trouver les mots les plus élémentaires. Je dois souvent utiliser les compétences que j’ai développées par la pratique de langues étrangères, en trouvant discrètement des périphrases pour exprimer l’idée. J’utilise parfois le mauvais mot, une autre langue, ou même, quand je suis en confiance, en montrant la chose et en reconnaissant que je ne me souviens plus comment la nommer. La plupart du temps, j’arrive à continuer la conversation sans que mon interlocuteur·ice ne remarque que je ne trouve pas mes mots. Mais cela n’empêche pas la frustration, la peur et la honte de m’assaillir. Ma grand-mère avait une aphasie progressive primaire. C’est comme ça que ça commence. On a commencé à le remarquer au début de sa soixante-dizaine. J’essaie de me convaincre que je ne suis qu’au début de ma trentaine, que pour moi, c’est dû à l’épuisement, que j’irai mieux quand je ne serai plus fatiguée - quoi que ça veuille dire. Mais en dépit du repos, ça arrive de plus en plus souvent. Mais je vois que je ne parviens pas à récupérer certaines de mes capacités. Il suffit de voir mon registre de langue. Où mon arithmétique. Après des années à sans les travailler, ces compétences doivent être apprises à nouveau. Peut être qu’elles ne nécessitent qu’un rafraichissement, mais même cela me paraît être l’ascension du mont Everest.

En grandissant, la puberté est arrivée tôt (de façon pathologique) et fort ; je suis devenue laide. A 12 ans, on me l’avait dit bien assez de fois pour que j’ai complètement internalisé ma laideur. Je ne suis toujours pas passée au-delà. Comme je rencontrais beaucoup de problèmes pour comprendre l’humour, la seule chose que j’avais pour moi était mon intelligence. C’est autour d’elle que je me suis construite. Même si mes pairs me rejetaient à cause d’elle - où du moins, c’est ainsi que je le comprenais -, la connaissance était la chose la plus importante pour moi. Il est difficile de mettre en mot ce que je ressens. La peur, à la fois du changement et de la perte de la seule chose qui me donne de la valeur. La frustration de ne pouvoir rien y faire. La honte de ce que je suis en train de devenir, et la confiance en moi qui s’éteint un peu plus chaque jour. Ne plus savoir qui je suis, parce que cette personne n’est pas celle que j’allais devenir.

In English

[lunechante]

I used to be a bright child. One of those who read a lot, remember everything, think and connect things rapidly, do math as a hobby and need to be intellectually and cognitively challenged all the time. I had a large vocabulary, and although I tended to take things literally, I would always choose the best word to convey exactly what I meant. 

As soon as secondary school began, so did bullying due to my inclination for anything intellectual - from the last years of primary school would be more accurate, but it was still punctuated with great friendships. In order to try and fit - which unfortunately, looking backwards almost twenty years later, did not prove efficient - I depleted my vocabulary to fit society’s “standards”. The ones of my class, that’s to say. Not those that enhance brightness and supposedly allow you to reach for the top. It was like learning a new language, one I was immersed in all the time.

However, slowly, I forgot my “native” kind of French. The language I’d learnt with books through my childhood. Going back to a more formal language register now seems to be an impossible task. Not only is it not instinctive to me anymore, I also have lost the cognitive ability to provide the kind of intellectual labour needed to get it back due to more than a decade of burn out. Nowadays, even navigating between French and English seems hard.

Actually, I lose my words all the time, whatever the language. In the middle of a conversation, I won’t find the word for the most trivial thing. So I often find myself using my foreign language learning skills, discreetly finding circumlocutions to express the idea. Sometimes using the wrong words, or a foreign language or when I’m with someone I trust, showing the thing and admitting I don’t remember how to name it. Most of the time I do manage to keep the conversation going without my interlocutor noticing I could not find my words. But that doesn’t stop the frustration, shame and fear from striking hard. My grandmother had primary progressive aphasia. That’s how it starts. It got noticeable in her early 70s. I try to convince myself that I’m only in my early 30s, that for me, it’s only a matter of burn out, that it will get better when I am not tired anymore - whatever that means. But in spite of rest, it’s happening more and more. But I see that I am not able to get some of my abilities back. Look at my language register. Or my arithmetic. After decades of not practicing, the skills need to be learnt again. Maybe they just need to be refreshed, but even that seems like climbing Mount Everest.

Growing up, puberty hit me young (pathologically) and hard, making me ugly. By the age of 12, I’d been told more than enough to have internalised my ugliness. Still haven’t gotten over it. Having huge problems understanding humour, my only asset was my intelligence. I built myself on that. Even though my peers rejected me for it - or that’s what I understood -, knowledge has always been the most important thing for me. It’s hard to put these feelings into words. The fear, both of change and of losing the only thing valuable about yourself. The frustration from the inability to do anything about it. That shame of what/who you’re becoming, and the self-confidence that just disappears a bit more every day. Not knowing who you are anymore, because that person is far from who you used to be becoming.

In French

[lunechante]

My back has been aching at least 6 hours a day for the past 2 weeks. I have had chest pain at least 6 hours a day for the past week. When I concentrate on my breathing, I realise that I can never really catch my breath. I realised that two weeks ago. All these feelings are varying in intensity throughout the day.

After a week, I thought that, as my burn out thermometer states, I would call my GP if things didn’t change. On Monday, a new feeling appeared in my wrists. I could feel my blood pumping and it felt heavy. Sometimes it’s just the wrist, or the elbow, of the forearm. Sometimes it’s from the fingertips to the back ribs.

On Thursday I had an important project meeting, and on Friday a training I’d been leaving no stone unturned to make sure I’d be registered for. That training - about the film Persepolis - was the best 3 hours of my weeks. The only 3 hours without any pain. That ended awfully as I turned the radio on when it ended, only to hear that a teacher - thus a colleague - has been stabbed, just a couple of days before the 3-years anniversary of an other.

So, I did not call my GP during that week. I kept going. Because I could do it a few years ago, why not anymore? Because I was engaged in that project, I could let the kids down. Because I wanted to attend that Persepolis training (and I’m so glad I did!). Because I really thought working 80% would be enough to get a better balance. Because whatever I try to do to get better is never enough. Because everyone around me does so much more. Because I can’t accept that I’m never going back to all I could do in my teens or 20s. Because I’m so used to feeling that constant pain and not to act upon it. Because everyone else's shit seems so much more than my own. Because I still don’t know where the limit is.

That physical pain never comes alone. There is also the emotions and the thoughts. That I’m not enough. That I'm a bad, selfish person. A useless piece of shit, not capable of anything, always complaining. Everyday I get exhausted more easily than the previous one.

And that's when the other thoughts come in. The "what's the point?", the self-harm and suicidal flashes. Oh, I don't want to act upon those, they just appear out of nowhere. But what if I get even more exhausted? Then I believe all of it. A few months ago I even became impulsive.

Keeping busy helps diminishing the pain and the thoughts. But they’re back as soon as my brain is not focused on three different things at once. And most things that keep me busy this way involve social interactions (spending time with my friends and family, face to face or on the phone, working: being with my classes or my colleagues). Then I’ll have to pay the price: more exhaustion brings worse symptoms. Even going to the cinema yesterday was exhausting. The crowd was so noisy.

Often, I want to tell the people who are close to me. When I do, they usually don't say anything other than "see a professional" - when they say anything at all. The "professionals" answer is that I have to adapt my environnement to my needs. I dont get any help in doing that. So I feel that I’m helpless. And that talking about it makes me a burden. If no one can help, and considering how hard it is for me to acknowledge these pains and thoughts, then surely they're not real problems. Makes me so ashamed.

How do I know whether I'm actually not able to go further or if I simply am just lazy? How do I know the limit? When to stop? What level of pain, of self-deppreciative thoughts is acceptable or not?

[lunechante]

National Park, Arizona, USA.

[lunechante]

Bill

So, today I went to a new therapist. I booked a "coaching session", with hopes of exploring NLP with him, to work on letting go, especially of what other people think (in order to respect my boundaries, which hopefully would have an impact on my constant blushing, but I forgot to tell him that last part).

Turned into an acupuncture session.

I came to him with a diagnosis, and clear objectives. Didn’t seem to care about these. Asked many questions about my anxiety and depression, traumatic events that might have happened to me. Decided I needed several acupuncture sessions to settle things down before working on anything else. And also asked me to buy expensive food supplements (that he calls "plants" even though they are pills) to take on a daily basis. I said alright, booked the next appointment, paid and left.

I don’t really know what to think about it. I have done acupuncture before. Never had any results. The things he wants to balance have always been issues for be (as in, basically since birth): a rupture between the heart and the kidney, resulting in my bottom limbes being cold and easily ache-y (which has only been something for me for four months) and all the heat running up to my head, resulting in flushing (story of my life). And an emptiness in the middle which according to him is my depression (which actually, having lived with and as myself for a bit more than 30 years, I know now is the result of overwhelm and exhaustion that were now taken care of when it should have been).

Actually he doesn’t seem to even think that my depression could simply just be burn-out-induced (I know by experience as it is an endlessly repeating pattern, but also by the way that works to recover, that it is for sure).

He also talked about an imbalance with the live because my lips have different colours, from real clear to bright red and purple. I didn’t dare tell him that it’s simply because I pick off all the skin I can from my lips and some parts are just raw.

Also it was weird when he asked me to take my clothes off to be in my underwear and then told me I could put my upper-underwear back on and I had to explain I haven’t worn any of these in more than a decade. Like, is it seriously an obligation to wear a bra?

[lunechante]

The end of the rope

“You have to stop when you are pulling the rope, before you reach its end.”

I think I’ve heard that about a billion times. Every time I politely answer “yes”. I never use that expression when chatting with friends.

Many people would regularly tell me that. But no one ever came up with concrete examples.

What is pulling the rope exactly? Being tired (whatever that means)? Exhausted? Crying all the time? Not wanting to exist anymore? Contemplating suicide? Hurting myself, even unconsciously? Attempting suicide? Being hospitalised?

And what is its end? Death?

I learnt, in June, that having cold, flat suicidal thoughts is more worrying than wanting to kill myself while in crisis. I thought that as long as I was not in a permanent crisis, I could go on overworking, so I did. Occupational medicine told me that I had to get on sick leave next school year as long as I was pulling the rope. She knows I am autistic. I politely said ‘OK’. She actually did consider my ASD. When trying to get me an emergency appointment with NHS psychological services, she declined a solution that would have me stuck in an unknown waiting room for an unknown amount of time.

So I asked my psychologist several days later. I usually tell her what’s on my mind and she asks questions to deepen the topics. But this time, I just bluntly asked “What is pulling the rope? Is getting to bed everyday at 9pm? Having a nap after class and yet getting to bed at 9pm? Crying every day at home? Having suicidal thoughts? Crying every day at work? Thinking about the most efficient way to kill myself even when I’m felling kind of ‘fine’?” That was less than 3 weeks ago and I already don’t remember the answer to the big question. Anyway, she asked if every time is escalated in that order when I did not stop to rest. It does. So she said that the first or second (that’s what I can’t remember) is when I should stop.

After letting that soak into my head for a few weeks, now I wonder how long do I need to stop for when I reach that threshold we agreed upon? GPs always ask me how long I need to be on sick leave for, but I can never tell. I usually underestimate the amount of time I need to rest for. I rest for a couple of days, and then I feel fine so I engage in work or socialising. And then I get dyspraxic, or I forget and lose things. That’s when I realise that I’m not rested. I’m just tired.

I don’t know what tired feels like. I can spot and interpret signs of tiredness. From my body (herpes, cysts, rashes, pain in the limbs, mycosis). From my brain too (oblivion, irritability, loss of proprioception, difficulties to focus). But having one or several of these things at once won’t make me stop. Or rather, I don’t see them as valid reasons to stop working and rest. When people check-in with me, I say I’m fine. I just go on until I undeniably reached exhaustion. That’s when I tell people I’m tired.

I’ve been working on that for a while, so now I tell my friends and family that I’m ‘tired but better’ (or worse). But I still tell other people I’m fine.

[lunechante]

Quand il s’agit de ce que je ressens, j’ai l’impression de ne plus arriver à faire la différence entre ce qui est réel et ce qui ne l’est pas.

Des semaines que j’ai de légers acouphènes en continu. Parfois, je sais que c’est ça, mais à d’autres moments, je ne sais pas si c’est moi ou un bruit discret mais réel que j’entends.

Au niveau émotionnel, c’est encore pire. Hier par exemple. Tout allait bien, enfin, je croyais. Je venais de passer une nuit sans interruption (très rare pour moi, la dernière date de début février, les précédentes de novembre…) et une copine venait manger le midi, j’étais plutôt contente.

En discutant avec la copine de mon dernier rendez vous chez le médecin, elle m’a dit que j’étais en colère et m’a demandé pourquoi, ce qui m’a beaucoup décontenancée parce que je n’avais pas remarqué que j’étais en colère. J’ai essayé de lui expliquer, la fatigue de devoir toujours tout réexpliquer, mon manque de confiance en les professionnels de santé (suite à de nombreuses fois où je n’ai pas été prise au sérieux, où on m’a prescrit des médicaments dont je n’avais pas besoin et/ou qui ont considérablement empiré les choses), mon agacement à ce que cette médecin qui n’est pas ma médecin traitante me demande systématiquement si je suis à jour de mes frottis alors que je n’ai pas de vie sexuelles et que je viens la voir pour un arrêt de travail pour me reposer une semaine avant de me refaire happer par les idées suicidaires contre lesquelles je peine de plus en plus à lutter. Bien sûr que dans ces moments-là j’ai pas envie en plus de devoir me justifier auprès d’une inconnue de ne pas avoir besoin de frottis parce que j’ai autre chose à foutre que d’avoir une vie amoureuse et sexuelle. Que j’en ai marre de devoir toujours justifier mon diagnostic parce que je masque tellement bien que je n’ai pas du tout « l’air autiste », whatever that means, et que parce que ça ne se voit pas ça ne veut pas dire que les difficultés ne sont pas là et qu’il faut me traiter comme une neurotypique. Que j’en ai marre de passer mon temps à renoncer à avoir une vie personnelle pour être tout juste capable de fonctionner en pilote automatique au travail. Que en fait j’ai envie de voir ma famille et mes amis (mais j’ai pas eu le temps d’expliquer que c’est pas si simple parce qu’il faut que ce soit à petites doses parce que ça me demande du repos, et que le repos c’est du temps seule. Toute seule. Dans le calme, chez moi, sans personne d’autre autour). Que ça me fait du mal de ne pas pouvoir avoir accès à tout ça. Parce que c’est quand même des besoins que j’ai. Et la seule réponse que j’ai c’est « mais une vie de famille c’est fatiguant aussi tu sais », alors que en fait ce qui me fait mal c’est ce renoncement sans fin. Toujours.

C’est un peu comme mes crises d’angoisse, que j’ai mis très longtemps à identifier comme telles, parce que je n’hyperventile pas (comme apparemment la plupart des gens). Et je n’ai pas non plus l’impression que j’ai un poids sur la poitrine. Non, il y a deux possibilités : soit j’ai mal au ventre à en avoir du mal à rester debout. Mais je vais quand même attendre d’être seule pour me mettre dans un position plus confortable, soit j’ai mal au cœur. Je crois. Quelque part par là en tout cas. Que ce qui est entre la cage thoracique et le diaphragme se rétrécit. Si je prends de plus grandes respirations, c’est bien pire. Les premières fois, je croyais que j’allais mourrir. Puis vers 14 ans j’ai pris l’habitude. Il faut attendre que ça passe. En général quelques heures. Parfois plusieurs jours, voire un peu plus d’une semaine.

C’est aussi me rendre compte que quand mes proches sont au bout du rouleau, la pire pensée qu’ils ont c’est « ce serait bien que ma fille soit malade comme ça j’aurais une excuse pour rester à la maison ». Moi les 3/4 du temps c’est « quand tu rentres du boulot tu es trop crevée tu n’arrives même pas à t’occuper de toi, tu n’as plus envie de rien du tout, tu sers à rien, tu ne vas jamais mieux, ça n’ira jamais mieux, tu emmerdes tout le monde avec tes problèmes qui n’en sont pas, arrête tout ça. Mais bois pas de l’eau de javel, tu te raterais. Si tu te jettes par la fenêtre c’est pas assez haut tu te raterais aussi. Il faut prendre le reste de neuroleptiques que ce débile de psychiatre t’avait fait prendre ». Pour moi c’est quasi quotidien, depuis l’adolescence. Mais quand les autres sont dans un état inquiétant, c’est bien éloigné de ça. Et on s’occupe d’eux. Moi la première. Mais quand moi je suis comme ça tout le monde s’en fout. Je n’ai pas le droit à cette attention. Quand j’essaye de l’exprimer, soit on change très vite de sujet, soit on me dit qu’on est triste pour moi mais qu’il faut que je vois un professionnel. Comme si j’en avais pas vu assez, qui soit ne m’aident pas, soit me sédatent au point que je ne suis plus moi. Vraiment, dans ma tête il n’y a plus rien. Aucune envie. Aucune attention. Je ne peux même pas lire. Alors me ressourcer, n’en parlons même pas. Je ne suis plus en capacité de m’engager dans les activités qui me font du bien.

Alors oui, j’étais en colère, merci de me l’avoir fait remarquer. Je n’avais même pas haussé la voix. Après ca je me suis mise à pleurer. Mais j’en fais quoi de cette colère ? Quand je la garde en moi, elle ne disparaît pas, elle grandit jusqu’au moment où elle explose. Quand je l’exprime, je vois bien que je gêne. Que je peine celles à qui j’essaie d’en parler. Personne ne me répond jamais qu’elle est légitime. C’est qu’elle est donc irrationnelle je suppose. Mais qu’est-ce que je fais avec ?

La copine en question (qui donc ne va pas bien en ce moment), elle arrive à exprimer ses besoins à son conjoint. Moi, ça me met très longtemps pour les identifier. Puis après, je ne sais pas trop à qui en parler… Quand il s’agit de besoins/limites sensorielles, à chaque fois que je les ai exprimés à ma famille, on s’en foutait, j’exagérais. Mes besoins humains (d’attention, d’être rassurée, de connexion), j’ai honte de le exprimer. Parce que ce serait réclamer l’attention de l’autre, être needy. Alors je n’ose pas. On m’a tellement dit que j’étais comme ça, et que c’est pas bien, que ce n’est que quand j’arrive au fond du fond du trou que je vais lever ma main. En espérant qu’on la voit et qu’on l’attrape. Mais sans être capable de demander clairement.

[lunechante]

Work

3.

So I broke. Again. Deeply. I couldn’t realise that I was too far. When I did, I thought ‘Why stop now, when I’ve made it this far?’. Everyone is at the end of the rope.

I am learning to say no. It’s hard. Because I never know when I can say it. Because I do not want to hurt other people’s feeling. Because I do not want to appear rude. Because I wouldn’t want my refusal to change the way others percieve me. But this has to change. I have to change. Set my boundaries. With boundaries, I am a different person that the one I was without them. And that’s the scary thing. It would make me less lovable. Less worthy of affection, or even attention.

The workplace is the only environment in which I feel confortable enough to refuse things. It’s hard, because I love my job, get super enthusastic especially when I can link it to my passion for cinema -or any other passion to be honest- and also because I can go through big length for my students growth.

I do manage to brace myself, once in a while. I still need excuses though. I still don’t feel confident enough to just refuse. No, I am not going to organise a trip to the UK... after Brexit and in the middle of a pandemics. No, I am not going to cover for a colleague two hours from now... because I have other plans (I actually did manage not to say that the plan was to rest in order to be fit for the following class and that I did not have anything ready for the class he wanted me to take because I was not supposed to see them before 6 days). No, I am not going to be the IT go-to person next year... because I cannot take all the extra-work (especially when it brings me no joy, only panic attacks and a feeling of constant failure). No, I will not attend a meeting on lunchbreak today (2 hours from now)... because I need to eat before my medical appointment in the afternoon.

I need to learn to say no unapologetically.

1. - 2.

[lunechante]

Work

2.

Ever since my first work-related burn out - I had an other one years later that led to a car accident -, I only managed to implement 2 tools to try and keep me from losing it again.

6 years.

And I only found two tiny tools not to get overpowered by my job.

I don’t work after 8:00pm anymore. I try to avoid it from 6:30 but it’s not always possible. The later I work, the harder it gets for me to sleep. First because I need all that time for my brain to cut off. So it can slow down and feel sleepy. But also because the longer I spend on an activity in a day, the bigger space it takes in my brain. It’s here. Whenever I close my eyes. When I sleep. Until it suffocates me. And that when work goes well and on a normal schedule. The extra hours, projects and meetings don’t only mess up with that, but they also bring anxiety of their own.

My other tool is writing down in my planner all the hours I work. I’m a teacher, I’m not on the clock. But I need clarity. I need to see I’ve worked more than my share and deserve the break that I need. Or don’t realise that I need.

The thing with teaching is that you usually get the same grades. You can reuse the stuff you have experimented and know work. 4 years I’ve been in the same middle school. 4 years with the same 4 grades (that’s actually a lot, most of my colleagues in other middle-schools only have 2 or 3). Many things I do reuse. But most need improvements. Or I get bored with them, so I switch to something completely different. 4 years I’ve waited for that moment I’ll rely on all of my previous hard work to get some free time. To engage in my hobbies. I’m still not there. I don’t think I will ever be.

Because you have all the other stuff. All the extra work you are more or less pressured to take upon. There has to be an IT go-to person. You’re the only one who know how to handle computers and tablets, can you do it? Otherwise there’s no-one else. We don’t have enough class teachers, you must step in. We need teachers among the administrators. You are single, don’t have any children and live right next to the school, it’s not a big deal for you to enrol. We need teachers to sit at the student meetings. You enjoy organising festive stuff, can you please come? I found half an hour lacking in your yearly timetable. You are going to give some kids you were not supposed to teach at all this year some methodology workshops according to their needs. Even though you suck at methodology and have to press your colleagues to consult them about what to do with who. You are going to step out of your class in the middle of a lesson tomorrow to attend a meeting with a mum and plenty other important people and then go straight back to teach an other class without any transition (I’m autistic, I simply cannot do that). You really love cinema, you should build up a project about animation film (I did, because it’s thrilling, but also it’s way too much right now, but I just can’t let the chance go).

One of the things in education is that it’s a public service. My employer is the state and work regulations don’t apply to the state as an employer. I never signed a contract. There is no job description. We are constantly ‘invited’ to meetings and training, whether they are mandatory or not. Of course no one lets us know which ones are mandatory. We have nothing to refer to clear that out. For a many months, my headmaster mastered the art of making us assume things are mandatory so we all attended everything and he could brag about how diligent his team was. Everyone around me is tired about it. Some are, like me, getting annoyed. But I seem to be the only one to get insomnia from not being able to figure out what is expected and to what extent.

Not to mention that most of us teachers (not all obviously, but at least 70% of the people I have worked with, to different extents, since some actually know how to set boundaries - or just don’t give a shit) are meticulous, assertive swots who only aim to be the best we can. That haze is the best way to keep pressing us like lemons. And we’re aware of it. But our sense of duty is so exaggerated, we keep playing the game. Until we break.

1. - 3.

[lunechante]

Work

1.

Ever since I started working as a teacher, that how it felt like. Work work work.

Wake up, read a bit and watch a few music videos for a while, have breakfast, get ready, work.

Don’t you have somewhere to be, at 7:30?

Work. Lunch break: talk about work. I wouldn’t know what else to talk about anyway. Back to class. Classes are over: work. Meetings, preps, marking…

Don’t you have somewhere to be, at 7:30?

Still working.

When I started working as a teacher, I was living with my parents. I did not do much except for working. It was exhausting.

Teaching involves interacting with people. All day long. Most interactions are with the kids, they’re socially scripted. Rather easy, although always peppered with imponderables. Mishaps, sometimes flukes. Usually they’re manageable. You also find yourself interacting with peers, colleagues, administrators, nurses, school principals, parents,… Formal, informal, both or neither… These interactions are not so scripted. The tone, the ties, the position. It is never clear. What can I say or not say? What is expected?- it’s exhausting.

When I started working as a teacher, I was living with my parents. I worked every single day. I did not cook, I did not clean, I took no care of the groceries or laundry, I worked. A job I never even trained for. Usually from 7:30 to 21:30. The few breaks I had (lunch, a quick snack after school, dinner), I only talked about work. The topics I was working on, my students, how to be the best for them,… I only met my friends for a few hours on Saturday evenings. They also work in education. When we meet, we spend at least half of our time together discussing work.

After barely more than a year, I was burnt out. For weeks I could not stop crying. I would not talk anymore outside of class. My colleagues found me in the teachers lounge toilets, sent me to the nurse who demanded that I call my GP to get on sick leave. He gave me anti-depressants and refused to put me on sick leave, even for a few days. After all, even though it usually takes ADs weeks to reach any kind of efficiency, I had not cried in front of the kids yet, so I was good to go. I found an other GP.

A week before my 25th birthday, I was already on sick leave for a burn out.

2. - 3.

[lunechante]

Trying to convince myself I did not overshare and made a very close friend feel uncomfortable by telling her about my latest epiphany on my suicidal thoughts.

[lunechante]

GP

So, I have live in the pretty remote countryside for 4 years now. Growing up I found it less and less possible to actually communicate with my family doctor. It got even worse with the ASD diagnosis (he refused to write a referral letter to get the diagnosis, and then was totally blank when I came back with said diagnosis). Also this GP was a 80min ride from my home.

So in January I decided to switch to the one in my village my friends were advising me. Not only is he much closer (3min walk), but he is also understanding of my condition. He helped me with the disability file to get accomodations on my workplace.

Dr P. works in a practice with 5 different doctors (or 6, I’m not sure how many interns there are - by now I’ve met 2).

He’s been my GP for 5 months and the last 4 times I needed to consult him I didn’t get to.

I have been having an autistic burnout for years now - never fully recover so I relapse easily. I can’t identify my own fatigue, and I don’t allow myself to stop even when I know I should. I feel so guilty about getting on sick leave. So I usually end up at the GP’s because I’ve been crying most of the time (including at work, often up to the classroom threshold) and I get too tired to internally fight my suicidal thoughts.

That level of exhaustion means I am even more hypersensitive than usual and I also usually get selective mutism by that point - though I fight it to talk to the doctor as I need help to make the situation stop. Which obviously exhausts me even more. I get so anxious I have to anticipate the whole appointment and conversation in my head as soon as it’s booked.

Problem is, when you need an appointment the day you call, there is no way to get Dr P. Last time I couldn’t get a slot for a whole week (he was not on vacation), so I got an appointment with someone I had never met two days later, and also an other one with Dr P. the following week.

Getting someone new means I have to deal with a sudden, unexpected change (sometimes the secretary says you’ll get a doctor, but then the intern shows up - I have nothing against her, I just need to know who I’m going to meet). That means it’s harder for me to interact. Also, as things are not going according to plan, I forget to bring up important stuff. That unexpectedness kind of freezes me, so I am not able to express my distress. I just put on my poker face smile and go along.

The reason why I need to consult is usually ASD-related anxiety/depression/burn out. It’s a topic I feel really private about and I have a hard time discussing it with a stranger. Last week, I was told I would see Dr G., then my friends told me that I wouldn’t because it’s his intern on Wednesdays. Turned out I saw the 2 of them at once. They were an hour late (unexpected change!). I had to wait a whole hour in the well sun-lit waiting room, which also had neon-lights on (I hadn’t opened my blinds for days), with 5 other people including a child who was speaking at a very normal volume but that felt like screaming to me as I had spent the previous days in the total silence that I needed. I spent the whole time focusing on not crying and only letting my leg shake instead of my whole body. With the long-built burn out and after that unbearable hour, not only did I have to talk about how bad I felt to two strangers, but also to one more time explain my diagnosis.

I am so great at masking people have no idea I even encounter difficulties. And thanks to global and family cultures, I can’t help but see most of these difficulties (or their consequences, or the consequences of burn out, I don’t really know) as shameful. I hide them well, it’s really hard for me to talk about it, and every time I need help to get better, it also means making myself feel even worse. In addition, I have once again have to over everything that is wrong, just because I can never get to see my doctor.

Yesterday I was supposed to see Dr P. Up until I stepped into his office, no one had bothered letting me know the intern would be conducting the consultation instead, and that he’d just be listening. I was feeling better than when I was her last week. I needed to ask about how hormones affect my moods and sleep, and what could be done about that. I also needed to ask about some administative aspects of my ASD diagnosis within social security. I also needed to express my need to know who I would be meeting, to avoid anxiety and/or having to deal with change of plans, and about maybe making the waiting room more accessible. I did not get to adress any  of these topics, because I was dealing with not meeting the doctor I was told I would. And then having to educate her about late diagnosed adults with ASD (not that I mind, I think it’s important to make sure young doctors are educated about the topic, but it was not the time for me).

I got out of there feeling both tired and bad about myself, for not being able to express my needs. Not knowing how to communicated them. Feeling trapped in this situation I don’t know how to handle that brings me some stress I could not have anticipated.

What should I do? How do I communicate these needs? If I can never do that during consultation, because I am always left to deal with mishaps instead, should I write something? With which tone? How am I supposed to get it through to my GP?

[lunechante]

Emptiness

You get back home an sit on the couch. Turn the TV on to fill the emptiness with sounds. Light sounds. Just loud enough to cover the fridge's noise. Or the radiator's noise in the winter. Or the neighbour's bathroom noise.

The weighted blanket is suppose to help. However there is no way you could take it off. It's spring, so you're getting too warm. You've got pins and needles in your feet. Also you're starving. Yet you can't take it off. The fridges noise has been here for too long. Should check it. The water bottle is empty. Still can’t take the blanket off.

Nothing is even playing on the telly. You turned it on but didn't open any app or video. The Amazon pictures are going by. You don’t even look at them. Well, actually you do, but you don’t see them.

You have food to cook in the fridge, but it’s too much. Moreover all the pans are dirty. So are the plates, the knives, the spoons. Haven’t had the energy for the dishes in a week.

There’s so much work to do this afternoon. You eventually stand, grab a bit of bread and cheese and a yoghurt. Fill in the water bottle. Get back to the couch, turn on a dull TV show. Before the episode’s over you fell asleep.

When you wake up, the afternoons well advanced. You should wash your hair too (should have days ago), but it doesn't seem like a priority. Again. You wanna get up. Still can't.

When you eventually do, you're hoping for a shower to reinvigorate you. You turn your laptop on before stepping in the bath tub. Because you know it won't.

After the shower, you manage to work for 45 minutes. Back downstairs - to the couch. No energy left for the things that brings you joy. You don't want music. You could cook but not without clean dishes. You don't want to cook after all.

You practice some Irish in order not to lose your 'strike'. You're shit. You stop. You're shit. You can't work. You can't do the dishes. You can't cook. You can't stand any noise. You can't focus on anything. You've wasted water trying to relax again. You're not even relaxed. You're bad. At everything. Useless.

You try actually watching a show to thing about anything other than your own worthlessness. Can't even do that. The tears are slowly replaced by a massive panic attack. Xanax. Now you can focus on something else.

At some point you're gonna need to sleep if you want to try a better tomorrow. How are you gonna sleep without TV to distract you? Xanax. You feel yourself falling asleep, so you turn everything off and go to bed. Don't wanna sleep anymore. Maybe tomorrow will be better. Are you serious? Obviously it won't. It keeps looping and you suck too much to do anything to change it. Why carry on? Xanax. Sleep.

[lunechante]

Forces de caractère

Empathy and active listening

The fourth and fifth strengths the group used to define me are empathy and active listening. I find them too intertwined to be reflected upon separately.

If someone cries, I cry. If there’s tension in the room, I soak it up as a sponge - as my mom would say. I often feel other people’s emotions. Strongly. No later than this morning, a mum cried telling her son she was proud of him as we (a colleague and myself) were telling her how considerate and caring he is. I cried too. Most of the time I can tell whether they’re positive or negative. That’s it. I can’t label them. So I don’t know what to do, how to deal with them - it’s the same with mine. I have empathy in that I feel the physical passion and affection. But I don’t understand it. I can’t go any further than just feeling. So my understanding is that I suck at this, so much. Again, apparently not.

Active listening is something I am learning. I know that to be a good friend, you have to be a good listener, so that’s what I provide to my close ones. It’s something I find difficult, but I know I’m good at it - not only from the friend who told me in training, but from my sister too. My friend said she knows she can call me and I’ll listen. Like humour, it’s not natural to me. I’m a problem solver. You have a problem, I want to fix it. It wasn’t until my 20s either that I learnt that the way to fix some problems is to listen. So I try. But I never really learnt active listening. I try. I’ve been trying for years. I feel like I suck at it because I was never taught. But apparently I did teach myself. It’s now a strength I have. And yet, when I am in need of being listened to (and I am, a lot), I have no idea who to turn to. I get stuck with myself. Keep it all in, no one to reach out to. I provide what I need but don’t get it I return.

That’s the problem I have with positive psychology. My negativity bias is overwhelming. I know it need to work on this issue. Not against this bias, rather with it, to tame it so it doesn’t annihilate any positivity. Equalise. When I started writing that paragraph, I intended to write about the internal struggle I was having. Solved it before putting it into words. If you train your brain to focus on the positive, then you don’t focus on fixing the problems that can be solved to improve your life. Black and white. But it shouldn’t be an opposition. It’s a balance.

[lunechante]

Forces de caractère

Resourcefulness

The third strength the group mentioned to describe me is full of resources.

That one I agree with, no discussion. I didn’t think of it myself, but it’s undeniable. I guess it’s because I see at as crucial, like, humans have to find tools to get through, we just have to. It’s neutral.

I’m full of resources and able to help my close ones when they need. And they seem to know when I can help and not hesitate to come to me. It is true. For many things. When it’s not work-related, then mostly administrative stuff (I wouldn’t say I enjoy that, but I find its predetermined and mechanical aspect relaxing, as long as it’s not stupid like ‘tick the boxes that are so disconnected from reality you don’t fit any’). And writing. I’m my whole family’s public writer. I write my sister’s motivation letters, I proofread and amend my mom’s sensitive mails, or people’s thesis, CVs, motivation letters. I can’t satisfyingly write one for myself, but apparently I’m good at pulling the needed personal data and arranging it.

At work, colleagues come to me for computer stuff, but also to ask about tons of different things - about meetings, projects, the kids,… Actually quite the same as in my personal sphere. I even occasionally help colleagues with IT stuff in their own personal life. I hate IT stuff, I really couldn’t care less. And I’m really not good at it, is can just do basic stuff, things that seem to be the bare minimum to me. Most older people around me (but also younger, like my sister, as people born from the late-1990s onwards were not taught to use a computer or an office suit at school) come to me because of that. I am happy to help, but also I find engaging in it annoying. It’s like what Jean-Louis Trintignant’s character says in Those Who Love Me Can Take The Train: ‘I don’t like it, but I’m good at it’. It’s okay. I have to come to terms with it.

I realise two things writing this: the resources I am known for are the same in every sphere (including empathy and active listening about which I’ll write later), and I forgot the second thing already [2 days later that other thought still has not come back to my mind]

I also give cooking and baking advice, I can help with different languages. A friend sometimes calls me for help making decisions - if I have knowledge on the matter that can weight. I’m realising now at some point or an other, most things I am (even self)educated about, will or has at some point been in use to help a close one.

I don’t know how I feel about that though. I want to know everything, and I’m proud to be recognised for that. It makes me autonomous and that’s what I want to be. But I also think that I see sharing my resources as a way to make people like me. Especially for stuff I take no pleasure at. I don’t feel proud of that. Quite ashamed actually.

I’ve been thinking and I’m pretty sure I get all these resources for my own autonomy. I know (have learnt) sharing resources that is a tool to connect and yesterday I wrote in a draft that I don’t think it’s a respectable one. I think it’s because I see it as a form of manipulation and I remain convinced any form of manipulation is intrinsically bad (I even philosophically struggle with politeness). But I feel like I’m beginning to change my mind about it.

[lunechante]

Forces de caractère

Humour

The second strength the group used to describe me is creativity. Humour is something I struggled a long time to understand. A very long time. Up until my 20s, it felt like a foreign language. My whole life I’ve been told I’m a killjoy. Because I don’t laugh at what should be funny - or rather, what is socially established as funny. And what makes me laugh, many people don’t grasp.

I did drama from 8 to 17 with a comedy company that worked with teenagers. My mom said that’s what opened me to other people (though I had had dance lessons since the age of 4). I don’t think I really got the comedy side of it. I did learn a lot about what is considered to be funny. Traditional theatre comic situations and dialogues. My love for language made it easy to enjoy puns - but also critical as it also means I care too much about the precise meaning of words. I think most puns are lazy and not accurate, so don’t work (killjoy) but when they do...

Reading sociological essays about humour helped me a lot. I still don’t laugh, but I do understand why many people find sexism, racism, homophobia and many other reasons from exclusion funny. How on Earth can they be that wrong and keep thinking that? Killjoy. For a while my (male) friends’ favourite activity was to constantly tell misogynistic jokes (or even just stuff) to watch me get angry. They thought it was fun watching me fulminate. That I don’t get. Yet I was forced for weeks to show no reaction at all so they would stop. The fun was literally to make me furious. When I stopped, they stopped. Some strangers morons still do that, and it’s hard to pretend not to care. But reacting makes it worse. How? Why? How is it the people who actively use humour as a tool for oppression the ones who firmly believe humour is neutral and apolitical? How can they be so blind to their own actions?

Still, this LSBE exercise showed that people who know me think I’m funny.

There is only one type of comedy I have always loved: dumb guy. But like, kind ones that are presented with empathy so even though you laugh at them, you tenderly love them. One of my favourite films as a kid was La Tour Montparnasse Infernale. Then there was Mission Cléopatre, and all the Nuls and Chabat things (funny how I did not understand most of the jokes, I loved it at 9 or 10, and every time I watch them again I find more reasons to love them). So I also grew fond of the absurd. I love it. I admire people who excel at that humour so much because I’m so ground I’m incapable of it. And I love being smart and a know-it-all and knowledge is one of the the things I value the most so my taste in humour is not what makes me fun.

I watch way too many films and series. Especially British ones. That’s how I discovered sarcasm. In my very late teens, I understood it as a casual way of interacting that sounded cool, so I learnt it. Basically by mimicking. To me it was like a foreign language, but I wanted to use it. Around that time, I got into Wes Anderson, but it wasn’t until years later I understood many of his characters were sarcastic. The first years I was rude. Then I got less rude and began actually being good at it. The only thing is, I don’t ‘see’ micro-expressions. I do have an expressive face most of the time but it’s actually over-expressive. Otherwise it’s neutral. So, I do sarcasm, but without the micro-expressions. I think I understood from what the group said that’s what makes me funny: I casually, l’air de rien, say the funny thing. So it looks natural. In fact it’s nothing like it. At all. And even I am completely able to tell whether someone is being sarcastic or not if I don’t know them really well - and I have panic attacks and insomnia about it for days.

Besides, I have the knack. It runs in the family, my cousin’s the same but it never seemed to bother him. It was hard to swallow for the teenager I was and always hurt a bit. I can just walk into a stage, not doing anything than walking there being myself, and the audience laughs. I don’t know why. It’s there. It’s cool. But also I can’t understand it so it freaks me out.

So I guess I do understand why people see that it me, yet I’m highly surprised it is perceived as an essential part of me when it’s something that has required and still requires a lot of effort that I often don’t feel like engaging in. And that to me still is a symbol of failure to understand and communicate.