Now Playing -
nothing.
Now Eating -
drinking, ice water
Now Feeling -
conflicted.
Now Tweeting
- Melanie
I fuss a lot. And by that, I don't mean I am "fussy" (though admittedly I am about some things), but that I fidget. A lot. Anyone who's sat next to me in a theater could tell you as much. And I'm especially fussy when trying to go to sleep.
I have to wear clothing that will keep me warm when it's cold, or cool when it's hot, but that won't constrict me. I get very itchy some nights, nights when the antihistamines I take are as much for their intended use as for a sleep aid. I can sleep on top of the covers if it's hot, but don't like to feel a fan or A/C blowing on my skin. I can sleep under the blankets, but they have to be close enough to my face - but not covering it. And lying on my skin, not tented over. (Our winter quilt is notoriously unwieldy in that regard.) I tuck my arm under the pillow, but the sheet has to be covering the exposed part of my arm because I CANNOT STAND FEELING MY OWN BREATH ON MY ARM. And don't get me started on sleeping next to The Huz. [internal monologue]"You are breathing on me. Roll over. Oh please, oh please roll over and STOP BREATHING ON ME!!!"[/internal monologue]
It has to be dark. WHY is the light from the damn cable box so bright you could READ by it??? WHY are those flood lamps aimed DIRECTLY AT OUR WINDOW?
There has to be noise. But pure white noise. The fency-schmency Sharper Image sound machine was banished to the living room because I could hear where the digital recordings began and ended, and after a while THAT WAS ALL I COULD HEAR.
[Let's not even discuss the mental fussing - the song lyrics that won't leave my head, the replaying of the day's events or anticipation of tomorrow's....]
I've always been this way. I remember putting my hand beneath my pillow, and how the tingling coolness had me convinced there were ants crawling under there. I hated wearing jeans as a kid, resisted wearing bras until I had to. There are foods I still won't eat (bananas, citrus, melon, tomatoes) because I cannot stand the texture. My orange juice must be pulp-free.
The more I learn about sensory integration disorders, the more I think I understand why I was such a weird little kid. And a fussy adult. I am not one to jump on any old diagnostic bandwagon, but it explains so much. The hypersensitivity, both emotional and physical. The abject fear of needles at the doctor;s office. My father's assertion that as a child I would "...never sit still. You never wanted to sit on my lap." And yet somehow, without clinical help and without knowledge (at least until recently) that there might even have been a problem, I've managed to become a functioning adult. And even overcome some of these issues. (Hypodermics? Bring 'em ON.)
Amalah's entry is really what spurred me into verbalizing what I've suspected for a long time. And her realization that in many ways her son is just like her puts into words one of my fears of parenthood. As an adoptee who knows precious little about her medical history, I worry about saddling a child with a sketchy gene pool. I've had physical issues both commonplace and strange, but hadn't put much thought into the mental/emotional aspect of my particular brand of genetic jackpot. And yes, I've coped, I'm still coping. But there's so much guilt involved in parenting anyway; how can you deal with the guilt that's a result of who you are? What you come from?
I don't know if I'll ever have the answer.
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a very fine cat indeed - Friday, Jan. 17, 2014
happy new year! - Thursday, Jan. 24, 2013
this is where i am - Saturday, Jun. 30, 2012
this is how it is - Friday, Feb. 24, 2012
a very late last year's wrap-up - Wednesday, Jan. 18, 2012
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