Oh yeah, and I should mention as an autist I have had my fair share of meltdowns. In fact, when I started researching autism it’s the first thing that made me immediately recognize I am autistic as I, over my entire life, have had some glorious meltdowns.
From other people’s perspectives it probably just looks like I go from a little agitated (if not completely quiet and reserved) to full on nuclear explosion, but for me the experience is something much different. In both cases, it probably feels like a nuclear explosion. Fortunately, in only a hand full of cases did it become physical. No, no, no, I’ve never hit another person, but I have taken out a handful of meltdowns on physical objects.
The list of physical meltdowns is so short I can list them.
My first was when I was a teenager. My mother cornered me in my room and was sending all of her anxious bullshit in my general direction. I responded by sweeping an entire shelf of my toys and books onto the floor (in hopes that the exaggerated behavior would get her to leave me alone). She responded by having me committed. Little did she know then (or know now) it was mostly her bullshit causing the entire situation. Sadly, to this day, I can’t have an honest conversation with her about it.
My second would have been with my first fiance. We were watching a movie. We’d both had a couple glasses of wine. She wasn’t listening to me about god knows what. I walked out of the room and threw a bowl of Pace Picante sauce at the wall.
The third and fourth was with She Who Will Not Be Named, the most abusive person I’ve ever met. In one, she kept following me around my house during an argument. I kept asking her to leave me alone. She wouldn’t. She kept yelling at me and criticizing me. I told her that if she didn’t leave I’d call the police. Her abuse only intensified. I finally punched a wall in my house, breaking the plaster. The second time, I was cooking a stew for her. She decided to start micromanaging me. I tasted the soup then decided to add a pinch of salt. She started insulting me and calling me names. I picked up the soup off the burner and threw it across the room (this was after a year of such regular verbal abuse, which I couldn’t make sense of when I was spending hours making her, what I considered to be, a wonderful dinner). After throwing the soup I just ran into my shower and turned on the hot water without taking off my clothes and cried for about an hour while she came to my side pretending to be my savior, a very common behavior with serial abusers.
Her page will come.
And once I lost it with my wife, physically speaking, that is. She doesn’t listen well and I was drunk and was tired of her staring at her phone and iPad and Nintendo all day and not doing a damn thing around the house or getting a job (after promising me that’s something she’d do when we got married) so I went nuclear with an all too fair, “You don’t listen and stare at screens more than a 12 year old,” and picked them all up and threw them out the back sliding door after which I later (unfortunately) continued drinking then threw some things from the top of the stairs. One instance where cops were ever called on me (only instance that any should have, to be fair) but I stood outside talking to them for fifteen minutes until they realized I am, even while inebriated, a perfectly rational person that will hit the pause button if and when people listen, don’t corner me, or engage in physical or mental abuse. Yeah, funny, you listen and acknowledge my very real and valid concerns and I’m perfectly peachy and when you don’t, well, after the hundredth time I try to express myself I have a meltdown (another pattern I’ve seen with other adult autistics).
So those are the physical ones and sure, they can be extreme enough, but never took my meltdown out physically on another living creature no matter how angry or inebriated.
Never.
Now, in terms of meldowns where I just get verbal, that’s another matter. Probably hundreds of those. Being autistic doesn’t excuse me. But that’s not the point of this post. It’s just a continuation of the, “I’m not perfect,” thread, “and I have no issue talking about that.” To my benefit, unlike most neurotypicals I know, I’m able to talk about them in graphic and honest detail, describe how and when and why, and take responsibility for my part.
Anyway.
Tomorrow we talk about Teague, my best (female) friend as a wee tot, and how she helped created scars that fucked me over for (most of my adult) life.
Cheers,
Aslynn
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