aspergers

SPD Diagnosis in Adulthood

Here is a fun fact according to many medical professionals: children with sensory processing disorder grow out of their sensory issues, and become well-adapted teens and adults.

 

In a previous post I coined the phrase: people grow out of sweaters, not neurological conditions.
I know this is true because nearly every week I read about a new person realizing that they have had sensory issues since childhood and these same problems continue to plague them in adulthood. However, these adults struggle to find a doctor willing to help them.

So this leads me to my next conundrum. Due to the belief that SPD is a disorder of childhood – WHICH WE GENIUSES OF THE INTERNET KNOW TO BE NOT TRUEanother belief now exists that there are no adults suffering with SPD. I use the term suffering because I’m almost certain nobody that has this condition actually enjoys it.

love having spd

Because of this idea that adults don’t have SPD, and doctors don’t always recognize it, we cannot get treatment or help OR ANYTHING because apparently we are not legit.

Story time:

Start from the Beginning

When I was thirteen years old, I went to a occupational therapist to talk about my worsening sensory issues. I was previously diagnosed with SPD at age 6, and 10 by an OT. Here’s a little summary of what happened:

it looks like

I know

grow out of it

info

goodbye forever

thank you for nothing

The end.

The OT handed me a piece of paper containing information about how to create a good sensory diet, AKA things I already knew.  My experience mirrors that of countless others, who, as adults, were unable to receive actual therapy beyond a consultation from an OT solely due to their age. Even worse, most adults who believe they have SPD cannot find an OT who will see them just once for a consultation.

I don’t know of any other condition where this happens. Age should not be a factor in being able to receive treatment for a possible neurological disorder. And so I thought to myself, “Self, it’s time to investigate.”

Find me an OT!

I took it upon myself to pretend to find an OT in my area that would work with SPD adults. Trusty ‘ol Google helped me out with this. I am not lying when I say that every single place that offered occupational therapy services in my area were clearly places for children:

Pediatric This; Pediatric That; Fun in the Sun OT; Big Leaps OT;  Little Hearts OT. You get the picture.

Strangely, back in the early 90’s when my Momsy was desperate to get me some help, she had a very hard time finding an OT that would work with children! I kid you not. OT was an adult thing. My my, how the times have changed!

Like with other neurological conditions, people like to pretend that once children grow up, the problems don’t exist anymore. It’s like the Magical Neuro Fairy waves his wand and the problems are gone! AMAZING!

poof

What now?

How do you get a diagnosis or even better – TREATMENT – for Sensory Processing Disorder as an adult?

I don’t know.

The world of Occupational Therapy and SPD seem to revolve around children and children alone. I don’t know why this is, when there are clearly so many adults with sensory issues.

However, I’ve created a list of ways that will give you the best chance of getting a diagnosis:

  1. Contact any and all OT’s in your area and ask if they’re willing to meet with you (yes, call the OT center for children. You have nothing to lose). Even if they aren’t willing to do actual therapy with you, at least they can screen you and tell you whether or not your issues are sensory related.
  2. If option 1 doesn’t work, speak with your regular doctor and ask for a referral to see a specialist, such as an neurologist or psychologist/psychiatrist. There is a small chance that they can help you with your sensory issues. This is a neurological condition after all.

 

Crap. That list was shorter than I expected.

What to do if Kelly’s list didn’t work because it was too short:

Luckily, Sensory Processing Disorder is one of those problems that you can successfully manage on your own, without the help of an OT or medical professional. There is an abundance of information online – as well as in print – to guide SPD’ers of any age.

Here is my new list of what to do if you believe you have SPD but are unable to get a diagnosis/treatment because of your age (or any other reason):

  1. Go to a library, bookstore, or Amazon.com and get the following books: 
    1. Making Sense: A Guide to Sensory Issues by Rachel S. Schneider
    2. The Out-of-Sync Child Grows Up by Carol Kranowitz
    3. Uptight and Off Center: How Sensory Processing Disorder Throws Adults Off Balance and How to Create Stability by Sharon Heller
    4. Too Loud, Too Bright, Too Fast, Too Tight: What to Do If You Are Sensory Defensive in an Overstimulating World by Sharon Heller
  2. Create your own Sensory Diet. What is a Sensory Diet? A Sensory Diet is a treatment plan that will help you throughout your day to manage your sensory issues. The “diet” usually consists of various sensory-related activities that help regulate and calm your specific sensory woes. For example, using a Wilbarger Brush 3 times a day, or using Chew Toys can be part of a sensory diet. Each person is different, and so each Sensory Diet will be different too.
  3. Join support groups for adults with Sensory Processing Disorder. I am currently an administrator for the Facebook group, Sensory Processing Disorder Adult Support. The page provides great emotional support and answers for SPD adults, both diagnosed and undiagnosed. There may also be support groups that meet in-person within your community.
  4. Find a mental health counselor or therapist to guide you through the other crapsauce that comes along with dealing with sensory issues. It’s not all about OT, you know. We are people, and people have feelings.

For the record, it’s very much OK to not have an SPD diagnosis. This is not a life-or-death condition, even though it can be a this-is-ruining-my-life condition. A diagnosis will not change how you approach your own life, and how you go about being proactive about your sensory issues. (An exception to this would be if you need a diagnosis for work or school modifications. In that case, a doctor or even a therapist may be able to sort out your educational/vocational issues without having to give you an “official” SPD diagnosis.)

I hope this was helpful to you, and if it wasn’t…then I’m not sorry because I did take a lot of time to look into this (hahaha).  However, I am sorry that the world isn’t up-to-speed with how to best help adults with sensory issues. It really sucks. Until that time, be your own advocate, and have some cake/cupcakes my friends.

cupcake

xo kelly

 

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The Day I Learned I Couldn’t Dance

 In other words, can my neurological condition take the blame for my lack of groove?

 

In a pathetic moment of hormonal-induced rage, my depressed, potato brain had created two options for itself:

1. run around and destroy local property and regret it later while in jail

2. find a sweet-ass dance video on youtube and dance my awful feelings into oblivion

Luckily for everyone, I selected option 2.

 

After throwing on some terrible pink shorts and a ugly maroon tank top, I was ready.

lord of the dance

Youtube provided a wide array of follow-along workout videos. I decided to watch the one with the most attractive, happy, and successful looking people. If I danced with them, I could become them. That’s how it’s supposed to work, right? They were led by her:

hot workout 1

Her name is Bipasha Basu; she’s a popular Indian actress with hair that flows and skin that glows.

At first, it was encouraging. All these attractive people dancing and exercising together to make themselves even more attractive. I too, was dancing with them. Bipahsa was talking to me; her incredible abs motivated me; her bronzed cleavage cheered me on.

 

It would be nice if my dance story ended here:

I danced into the sunset with Bipasha and the crew, as my mental health struggles melted away. Everyone was right – exercise does help!

 

Unfortunately, the story goes more like this:

Within approximately 7 minutes, I realized that I was not only struggling to dance along with Bipasha, but I was completely unable to dance at all.

As Bipasha and the rest of her gorgeous friends boogied effortlessly, I was unable to follow even the most basic dance instructions.

Literally, no exaggeration here:

me vs bipasha

To add to the incredibly low level of self worth I was experiencing, the dance moves became increasingly more difficult and soul-crushing – this one was referred to as the “sexy sway.” I’m not joking, look at the screen shot I took:

sexy sway oh god 2

I can assure you there was no swaying and there was definitely no sexiness on my end. If I had dance moves, they would probably be:

trex dance

SULTRY STUBBED TOE

ANXIETY

My dog Sam sat silently nearby, judging me. (Also, what a hypocrite! As if Sam can dance better than me! What’s his best dance move you ask? Probably the “Fantastic Fart.”)

JUDGING YOU

 

To add to the insanity, I danced in the privacy of my own bedroom, which is barely large enough to accommodate regular life activities, let alone dancing and dog lounging. Sam didn’t want to lay on my bed or in any surrounding area. No, he chose to sit right in the middle of my personal dance arena.

places to sit

What can only be described as some freaky, alien-esque aerobics, the experience left both me and the dog in a state of hyper confusion.

wave those arms!

 

Sam, not being the type to filter his facial expressions, or shower me with unconditional love as other dogs do, was clear about his opinion of me at the time.

what the crap

My only saving grace was in the few moments during the workout where Bipasha and the gang would march in place. I’ll have you all know that marching in place happens to be one of my special talents.

march workout 2

so good at marching

 

As I marched in place (into the sunset), I became comfortable with the fact that I cannot dance along to any sort of choreography at this time. (It also occurred to me that I should probably see a neurologist because WTF something is WRONG.) 

Maybe one day, when my brain decides to get with the program, I will join in the ranks of Bipasha’s aerobic dance team/squad/army. Until then, I will march on….in place, obviously.

xo kelly

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Real Restroom Dilemma

Last summer, Momsy and I attended an Arts and Crafts Fair. After bopping around from one crafter to the next, we needed a bathroom pit stop. Luckily for us, there were actual bathrooms at this fair – not a porta potty in sight. Unfortunately for me, those bathrooms were very noisy, and included my least favorite thing ever: air-powered hand dryers.

At the bathroom building, I informed Momsy that I did not, in fact, have to pee.

I lied.

i lied

Was my bladder going to explode if the internal pressure was not released at that very moment? Probs not. But there was no way I was going into the noisy restroom.

I waited patiently outside for Momsy, watching women join the long line for the restrooms, then watching them exit after several minutes. The roar of the hand dryers, women talking, and the toilets flushing collided with the quieter sounds of the world outside as I stood baking in the bright sun, like a cookie.

Walking past me came a woman pushing another woman in a wheelchair. The woman in the wheelchair was missing her one leg below her knee. The pair were heading towards the restroom line.

Suddenly, a young volunteer working at the fair asked the woman, “are you headed to the bathrooms?

The woman in the wheelchair replied, “yes.”

The volunteer said, “oh, come this way, this the employee bathroom, but you can use it.”

The two women thanked her casually and followed her past a security gate and into another small building.

That moment resonated with me. The woman in the wheelchair was clearly disabled – anyone could see both the wheelchair and the fact that half her leg was not there. The volunteer did the right thing by trying to make life easier for her by accommodating her needs and allowing her to use a separate, less crowded bathroom.

I began to imagine if I had asked that same volunteer if I could also use the private bathroom. I envisioned myself explaining – in my awkward-while-trying-to-be-confident manner –  about my sensory processing disorder, and how the normal bathrooms were very uncomfortable – in this case, impossible – for me to use.

I could see her making that “ehhh” face, the one where she isn’t buying it, but she doesn’t want to look like an absolute idiot either. She responds with something along the lines of “well, you see, that bathroom is for employees only. I’m sorry but I don’t really work here. I’m just a volunteer, and I don’t think it would be allowed.”

the ehh face

If I was a true badass of disability equality and advocacy, I might say something along the lines of, “But I noticed you allowed that other disabled woman to use that restroom. I was hoping I could also be accommodated because of my special needs.”

Next, perhaps, she would create some kind of excuse for her decision, like “I allowed that woman to use the other restroom because her wheelchair would be too big for the regular restroom.”

OrI didn’t want her to have to wait on the long line.”

Or maybe even, “She is in a wheelchair so she has a disability. You are clearly a fully-functioning person because I cannot see any visible sign of a problem. So you cannot use the other bathroom because you are a liar and you are trying to mooch the system. SHAME….SHAAAAAAMMEE.”

Was there a small chance that this volunteer would allow me to use the private restroom after I politely explained my situation? Of course. But that small chance was probably very, very small. And for some reason, I would end up feeling guilty asking for this accommodation in the first place.

The whole moment made me think about every person with an invisible illness or disability or condition. Our lives are spent trying to make the best of a world that doesn’t seem too eager to accommodate our particular needs. Whether those needs are closer parking spaces, equal treatment in school or at work, or the need to use a different restroom when one is available.

As a teenager, I used to wear brightly colored earplugs to visually remind those around me about my condition (aside from using them for hearing protection, too). Without them, I’m certain most people would have completely forgotten about my severe sensitivity to sound and things would have been more miserable then they already were. I used to jokingly tell Momsy that I wished I was in a wheelchair because maybe then people would respect and understand my needs once they saw a visual sign of a problem. How sad is that?

Would it be tacky of me to walk around with a massive sign drapped over my shoulders, reading: PERSON WITH NEUROLOGICAL CONDITION. MAY REQUIRE SPECIAL SERVICES?

perosn with condition

I wish I didn’t have to feel that way, but that’s how much of our society thinks of differently-abled people, and that’s how desperate I am to make things easier.

As we left the arts and crafts fair that day, Momsy and I talked about it. I said, “What if a mother and her young, autistic son asked to use separate bathroom and were turned down, even after the mother explained her situation?” Momsy replied, “They would’ve had to use the regular restroom and the boy would’ve been very upset in there, and the mother would be frustrated and tired.”

I mumbled something like, “that’s not fair. Life sucks. Can we get ice cream?”

tps

And so we got ice cream, and I peed when we got home (in case you were concerned).

The Attic

Some people have stairs leading to their attic. Some people don’t even have an attic. Then there are some people, like my parents, who had a ladder leading up to the attic.

The attic; a strange, foreign land of trinkets from years past, balls of tangled Christmas lights, and deadly creatures. My childhood fascination with such a space overwhelmed me. In the rare moments when the attic door was opened and the ladder would reveal itself, my insides tingled anxiously. It was as if I was staring into the vast reaches of outer space; the universe in all its complexity and mystery lay just beyond the top of the ladder. Green slime oozed from the edges of the attic, surely an indication of some other-worldly experience.

attic 1

I was enamored with the attic. It was terrifying and amazing; it was terrifazing. Amazifying? Whatever. My youthful spirit longed to know of its secrets.

attic 2

Soon enough, that fated day arrived when I would experience the attic. Dad needed to retrieve something in a box up there, and I saw my golden opportunity. This is it, I thought to myself, this is your moment.

With my emotional security blanket (which I named Star) tied firmly around my neck like a cape, I began to ascend the ladder.

How I thought it was:

attic 3

How it really was:

attic 4

As the wind began to pick up, I tightened Star around me and secured my grip on the ladder. Nearly at the top, there was no telling what awaited me. The anticipation was overwhelming.

attic 5

attic 6

Alas! I had reached the surface to discover a world of boxes filled with junk I didn’t really care about, yet I was overjoyed to explore this new, vast wilderness.

attic 7

After what seemed like only a few minutes (probably because it only was a few minutes), I heard the call of my parents from the world below. It was time to descend the ladder and bid farewell to the new world.  As I crept near the opening from which I came, it occurred to me exactly how high up I was. The task ahead required me to turn and go down the ladder. Thanks to my sensory problem, this seemingly simple action became my equivalent of bungy jumping off the empire state building into a pit of blood-thirsty wolves.

attic 9

 

attic 10

With this revelation began a true anxiety meltdown in the four foot high space on the attic. No amount of coaxing or words of reassurance from my family below were alleviating my overwhelming panic. The prospect of having to go backwards down the ladder was truly disturbing and frightening to me. As an adult looking back on the situation, I agree with my childhood self for getting upset. This was a totally rational situation to meltdown over.

It was during mid-crisis in the attic when I realized that the attic was a slightly creepy place to be. Looking around, it became clear to me that there was plenty of potential for evil creatures to jump out of the darkness and swallow me whole. Above me, giant nails protruded through the ceiling, as if a monster was clawing at the house trying to get me. (I later realized these were nails which held the shingles in place.) But things got worse. The beams supporting the roof were covered in some sort of gross, sticky brown substance. A Christmas tree loomed in the corner, ready to attack me with holiday cheer. An old toy doll …well, let’s just say she was the new bride of Chuckie.

I wrapped my blanket, Star, around my head like a veil. It was my only ally and source of protection in this strange and dangerous land.

attic 8

The minutes passed as my family failed to convince me to climb back down the ladder. I became a incoherent blob. As far as I was concerned, I was never coming down. This would be where I’d spend the rest of my sorry little life. My fate hit me like a ton of bricks.

attic 11

Suddenly, Dad appeared at the top of the ladder. Again, I assured him I would not be making the descent back to the mortal world. He managed to convince me to hold onto him and close my eyes. He held me and climbed down the ladder; it was the scariest 3 seconds of my young life. I felt like Carol Anne as she was sucked away from the demons of the underworld in that movie, Poltergeist. I can’t believe we made it down alive. To be able to live among my earth family yet again was such a relief.

attic 12

To this day, climbing any kind of ladder disorients my body and mind. The fear takes me back to that fated day in the attic. Will I ever be able to conquer this body-ladder coordination conundrum? Only time will tell.

attic 13

Also, F.U. to my sensory problems. Struggling to stand on a basic 2-step ladder is super embarrassing and mildly inconvenient.

xo kelly

Enough with the Fireworks

I’m here to declare July 4th as the worst Holiday ever. Columbus Day is a close second, by the way.

Don’t get me wrong internet friends, I support freedom and independence from the British empire. Our flag has lots of nice stars and stripes on it, and red, white and blue are a sweet color combination. That’s all very nice.

But July 4th is only known for one thing:

FIREWORKS

The concept of fireworks really irks me.

(And no, this is not because I have sensory processing disorder and fireworks are the bane of my existence, much like thunderstorms, barking dogs, escalators, and clothing tags to name a few.)

Shooting off fireworks on July 4th is awesomesauce for many people. Fireworks are colorful, big, and very loud, and I’ve learned that most people like colorful, big and very loud things. (My sensory-avoiding friends make a collective eye roll and groan here.)

Still, there are less – but still plenty – of people who dislike fireworks for various reasons.

 

Imagine this scenario: It’s National Blob Day, and everyone is celebrating. However, some people experience pain when people use blobs.

blob day 1

better blob day 2

blob day 4

blob day 3

 

It really bothers me that even though many people are aware of the struggle and pain that this “holiday” brings for thousands of people – and animals – across the country, they insist on shooting off fireworks anyway. Because, you know, apparently their fun is more important than the mental and physical well being of their neighbors. Why is this ok?

 

It makes no sense to me.

July 4th makes a miserable experience for veterans, trauma victims, people with disabilities, elderly and young children who are frightened of sudden sound, and many animals. How is it fair, to the middle aged man with severe war trauma, to sit sobbing and delirious for hours because people want to celebrate? How is it fair to the child with autism, who cries and punches herself in the head because the sound of fireworks are so disturbing to her? How is it fair to the neighbor’s dogs, who run around whining and cowering for hours because people want to enjoy explosives?

 

I wouldn’t mind the fireworks so much, except for the fact that people in residential areas use them –  many use them illegally, mind you. I understand that we live in a loud world where life is unfair and unkind to people whose bodies and minds deviate from the “norm,” whatever normal is. I understand that people want to celebrate and have fun, and that fireworks are traditional. But I simply can’t get past the anger I feel knowing that people continue to use explosives when so many suffer because of them. These people are not going to July 4th parties, and then getting upset over the fireworks. These are people in their own homes, not knowing where to go to escape the sound. I admit that I have considered driving to Canada for the weekend, in a desperate attempt to avoid this. There is literally nowhere to hide.

Imagine this other scenario:

Several of your neighbors are highly allergic to roses. The scent of them traveling through the air gives them a terrible, but non life-threatening allergic reaction. Still, every Spring, you argue that you have to plant all your roses because they make your house look nice and you really like to garden. Your neighbors will suffer for a while, but roses are SO PRETTY, so you do it anyway.

Any decent human must recognize that this is ridiculous, and quite frankly, bullying. But if we replace roses with fireworks, this suddenly becomes ok? Sadly, I know fireworks will always be part of this holiday, and there is little I can do to stop that.

 

This weekend, I will be on high-alert. I will put uncomfortable ear plugs in as the sun sets. I will sit close to my dog, his body wrapped tightly in his thundershirt; his one paw is picked up off the ground – he is nervous and upset. I will try to sleep through the storm of sudden and random explosions . My entire body jumps with each one, and my ears ache. It’s a long night, and the same will happen on Sunday. I know many, many others like me will wake up like this:

morning after july 4

But at least some people out there are having fun, right?

 

xo kelly

The Big Band-Aid Calamity

A few months ago, I was cutting some mat board to put with a framed drawing. Tragically, I lost my grip on the mat knife and accidentally sliced my left index finger.  I grabbed my finger tightly and ran to the bathroom where, luckily for me, Momsy was there to assist me with my new wound.

The minute I released my hand on my finger, blood began to pour. It was like a horror movie, (if that horror movie was about Momsy and I standing in the bathroom, and I was just saying “ow, ow, ow”). TERRIFYING.

We wrapped it up quickly as a dull throb slowly began to overtake my whole hand. I’m lucky to be alive, honestly.

stitches 1

stitches 2

stitches 3

After a while, we re-wrapped the large cut with proper bandages and gauze. It wasn’t until this moment that I realized the doom which I now faced.

The new bandage monstrosity on my tiny finger was a huge sensory turnoff. I mean, HUGE.

I couldn’t for the life of me stop sensing the bandages on my finger. It wasn’t the pain, which was slightly annoying, rather, the heap of gauze, tape, and other junk piled onto my finger tip was like an assault on my entire sensory system. I’m not kidding you when I say that the illustration below displays the actual bandage to finger ratio:

stitches 4

Two days passed and still, the bandage predicament consumed my thoughts and will to live. My family informed me that I have been walking around the entire time with my finger stuck out awkwardly. Humiliated and moody, I told them that I had no idea that I was doing that, and further, I couldn’t seem to control it. I’d try to push it down into normal finger position, but it would pop right back up like a jack-in-the-box.

STITCHES 5

stitches 6

stitches 7

STITCHES 8

A week passed, and still my ugly finger wound was relentless in its quest to destroy me via sensory tactile WARFARE.

stitches 9

As a child, I had similar reactions to things like denim, tags in clothing, or socks that became awkwardly bunched in my shoe. I referred to the sock problem as a “coo-eee.” All were the cause of extreme distress. Parents with sensory kids, I know you feel me right now.

As an adult, I’ve managed to conquer the denim thing, but the same cannot be said for the clothing tags and sock cooees. Sensory adults, I know you feel me right now.

The giant band-aid was merely the tip of the iceberg, so to speak. If I was having a bad sensory day, my band-aid finger was sure to put me over the edge.

stitches 10

Thankfully, because the world is merciful, I was upgraded to a single band-aid after two weeks. I saw the light at the end of the tunnel. Perhaps there was hope after all!

One morning, that glorious day had arrived where I needed no band-aid whatsoever. My finger was free! And so was I.

All that remains now is a scar on my finger tip – the memory of a harrowing three-week period of sensory insanity. I will never again underestimate the mental anguish that a bandage can cause. More importantly, my finger returned to its resting position, and life went on. My tiny scar and I became very close.

stitches 11

xo kelly

 

 

Tina vs LSP

I’m unsure if this comparison exists already, but seeing as Tina Belcher from Bob’s Burgers and Lumpy Space Princess (LSP) from Adventure Time are two of my most beloved television characters of all time, I thought I would go ahead and make a blerg post about them. These two characters represent the epitome of the phrase, “always be true to yourself.” Through this comparison, I hope it becomes clear that they are fantastic models for morality, honesty, and integrity.

This is Tina Belcher:

Tina_render

She is the eldest daughter of Bob and Linda Belcher, and sister to Gene and Louise. Her family owns a restaurant, Bob’s Burgers.

bobs_burgers__season_05_929b4912_us_v2_463

This is Lumpy Space Princesss, more commonly known as, LSP:

general lsp

LSP presumably lives in Lumpy Space with her parents. Although, she often runs away and spends time wandering all over the Land of Ooo (the main setting in Adventure Time).

The Tina Trinity: Boys, Zombies, and Unicorns

Tina loves boys, zombies, and unicorns; not always in that order.

tina everything

unicorns tina

tina zombies

(I love the swagger of zombies too, Tina. Me too.)

Tina’s most highly-prized boy is a young lad named Jimmy Junior, a fellow student at Wagstaff School. Although Tina is religiously devoted to Jimmy, she is especially dedicated to his butt.

buns

jimmy butt 2

Sadly for Tina, Jimmy is not as enthusiastic towards romance as she would like. Still, her fixation on him (and his butt cheeks) remains strong.

Boys, zombies, and unicorns all converge in Tina’s fan fiction  – a notebook filled with her fantasy musings.

The LSP Trinity: Boys, Independence, and Physical Appearance

Much like Tina, LSP dedicates her time to hunting down “hot guys” to date and potentially marry. Unlike Tina, LSP’s priorities are unrealistically high.

babe with money lsp

Back in Lumpy Space, LSP does everything she can to gain independence from her parents, including living out in the wilderness with a can of beans, and joining a pack of wolves.

lsp beans

Like Tina, LSP enjoys writing and dreams of an exciting career as a famous novelist.

lsp books

LSP’s biggest trait is her obsession with, well, herself. She has no filter, and is well-aware of her best features. There is no shame here, folks.

self absorbed lsp

Being Real

Need a fresh dose of reality? Tina and LSP have got you covered. Whether it’s a reflection on their own lives or a reflection on the lives of others, they always know what to say.

In bad times:

floor dying

lsp love fall

They know what to say to make things right:

honest lsp

boob

 Fresh Attitude

Tina and LSP are fluent in the language of sass. This takes years of experience, persistence, and a ruthless mentality.

goof life

lump off

ass grass

what the lump

Be True to Yourself

Above all, Tina and LSP both possess the ability to remain true to who they are; individuality is of the utmost importance.

strong smart sensual woman

lump influence

So here’s to you Tina Belcher – you strong, smart, sensual woman. You unicorn-fantasizing, boy-chasing, crap-attacking, zombie-butt cheek checking, adolescent.

And to you, LSP – you lumpy, trashy-novel, beauty queen, drama-bomb, fresh-to-death, honest-to-glob, princess.

tina faceangry lsp

(Angry LSP by Ricardo Perez Moreno)

 Stay weird; stay awesome; stay you.

xo kelly

(note about images: with the exception of the first image before the title of this post, the rest of the images featured are not mine. They’re mostly screenshots from the two featured tv shows, and a few I’ve found using google. I’ve given credit to the images when I’ve found the source. If you happen to know the source of the uncredited images, please let me know in the comments, thanks!)

Sensory Sea Turtle

Attention sensory human beans of the earth, and beyond:

wah beans

I have discovered the internet meme, Sensory Sea Turtle via the appropriately named tumblr blog, fyeahsensoryseaturtle.tumblr.com

The joy and delight I feel over this discovery is past the realm of comprehension.

wha are these feeels

 

The internet community, in all its glory, created a meme specifically for Sensory Processing Disorder. What an honor, really.

Sensory Sea Turtle is a way for SPD’ers everywhere to share and acknowledge the insane amount of issues that results from SPD. Sensory Sea Turtle is sometimes crude, sometimes gentle, and absolute perfection in every way.

 

The following 14 Sensory Sea Turtle memes are from the blog above, fyeahsensoryseaturtle, aka, they are not mine and I did not create them. (WARNING: some of the memes contain bad language)

1. occupational hazard

sensory turtle 16

 

2. hopeless romantic

sensory turtle 15

 

3. ain’t playin’ no games! (also, please ignore the misspelled word in this one. Have mercy on its creator, somewhere out there, someone doesn’t know the lose/loose difference).

sensory turtle 7

 

4. a hot dog prison, essentially

sensory turtle 8

 

5. gotta keep it real

sensory turtle 4!!!!

 

6. went to a movie!? WHAT ARE YOU, SPD SUPERMAN? sheesh

senory turtle 9

 

7. only thing worse than an emergency is the alert system: BUUUS RUUUU ZOOO RAPPP weeeeeeeeee

sensory turtle 10

 

8. while in a room full of successful, fully-functioning, neurotypical human beans…

sensory turtle 11

 

9. time to get new frenz I suppose

sensory turtle 3

 

10.  story of my entire college experience….

sensory turtle 13

 

11. rock on

sensory turtle 14

 

12. demonic attire

sensory turtle 12

 

13. in the midst of a nightmare

sensory turtle

 

14. slight miscommunication

sensory turtle 5

 

See? Sensory Sea Turtle is just like you and me. (Except he’s a turtle, and he’s also a product of the internet, and he doesn’t exist in real life.)

Sensory friends, let us make Sensory Sea Turtle our international mascot. He is the face of our mission (our mission to do stuff, and things…). He is the uniting force that brings us together in times of despair.

Thank you, Sensory Sea Turtle. Thank you. May you never get suffocated by oceanic trash. We love you.

xo kelly

 

The Things I Need

The following blog blerg post is short writing piece I sent to The Mighty, a website that publishes short stories that empower the human spirit, specifically, human spirits with various disabilities or special needs. Anyone can send a story to this website, so I spent quite a while writing this little number below, as well as created two illustrations to go along with it. After all, who would I be if I didn’t include an awkward illustration in my blerg posts?
To my dismay, I received an email stating that this was not going to be published on their website, but they would be happy to receive other/different stories from me in the future.
Still, I wrote from the recesses of my shoul (yes, my shoul); I spent a lot of time working on this, and it would be wrong to keep it to myself knowing that someone out there might benefit from my words.
So I’m sharing it with you, dear reader:

 

The Things I Need

I am someone who has lived with a neurological condition my entire life. At the ripe old age of twenty-four, it has become clear to me what I need from those around me, and more importantly, what I don’t need.

I have learned that people are generally very uncomfortable and rather ignorant when it comes to interaction with those of us who are dealing with any sort of brain dysfunction. Whether it be mental health problems, or autism, or epilepsy – the gray mushy blob in our skulls causes us to experience numerous struggles to which people often don’t know how to react.

This lack of awareness in the world has caused me to place a high value on the few people in my life who have shown a great depth of understanding for my unique challenges. These people are my gold. It wasn’t until recently that I wondered as to why I prized these people the way I did. My thoughts traveled to the idea that, as a person with a disability, I need certain things from people around me. But these things weren’t really things, they were intangible; they were tiny, unforgettable moments of compassion and empathy.

They were things I needed to feel.

 

A question arose in my mind. How I don’t want people to make me feel?

The answers appeared slowly, accompanied by a sinking feeling somewhere deep within my chest: burdening, weak, dramatic, pathetic, incapable, overwhelming.

I don’t need a doctor to make me feel like I’ve wasted his time. I don’t need someone to tell me to “snap out of” my depression or anxiety. I don’t need people to assume what I’m able and not able to do. I don’t need people to separate me from my condition, as if it’s an insult to be considered disabled or ill.

life bad

Those are the things I don’t need.

 

So the question then became, how do I want people to make me feel?

The answers entered my mind quickly and randomly, in bursts, suddenly like bright fireworks against a dark sky: loved, supported, strong, independent, accepted, wanted.

I know now that the people in my life who I value like gold not only make me feel the things I do need to feel, but they erase the possibility that I could ever feel the things I don’t need to feel. Burdening, weak, dramatic, pathetic, incapable, or overwhelming; these are not options, ever.

 

I need someone to say to me, “Damn, this sucks. Let’s lay on the couch today and just talk and eat cupcakes.” I need medical professionals to treat me like a person, and not a number. I need honesty, laughter, and equal amounts optimism and pessimism (for when I don’t want to pretend to be happy and positive for five minutes, please). I need someone to hug me for no reason – and I mean, a real hug, not one of those crummy-half-pat-on-the-back-for-two-seconds hugs.

life good

As one of my most beloved writers, Maya Angelou, stated, “At the end of the day, people won’t remember what you said or did, they will remember how you made them feel.”

 

xo Kelly

How Harry Potter saved my mental health

Ok, so maybe Harry Potter didn’t really save my mental health. He saved the ENTIRE WORLD from Lord Voldemort. All Hell broke loose at the Battle of Hogwarts, and Harry claimed victory, (even though Hermione did ALL the work but that’s not the point I’m trying to make). Since the beginning of the end, AKA middle school, the Harry Potter series has had a tremendous influence in my life.

Potthead Puberty

I read the books on the school bus every morning as a distraction from the impending doom and anxiety that awaited me at my destination.

bus there

I read during study hall.

studyhall

*Except for that one year, where my study hall teacher was the wife of Satan…

damn kids!

I read on the ride back home.

bus there

It was middle school that taught me that the majority of other people my age were severely lacking in moral fiber, rational thinking, and general intellect. These are not qualities that a young girl needs during a time of mental and emotional turmoil. My peers were alien to me, and so, I sealed myself shut within the pages of the HP books; a safe and comforting place to be.

One of the Gang

Soon, the films were created. Amazingly, I was the same age as the actors playing the main characters: Harry, Ron and Hermione. When they were eleven years of age and starting their first term at Hogwarts, I was nearly eleven myself. What a coincidence, I thought to myself, it’s like I was supposed to be at Hogwarts too.

pastywhite

As my neurological crap grew increasingly more devastating, I propelled myself into the world of wizardry and witchcraft. No human bodily malfunction could bring me down me, I WAS A WITCH IN TRAINING. There was bound to be some spell to alleviate all this junk happening in my life.

I clung to the ridiculous and impossible chance that I would receive my letter to Hogwarts. I fantasized about the day I would look out my window and spot a doofy owl hurling itself towards my house, a tiny white envelope clutched tightly in it’s possession. I would retrieve the letter containing my acceptance, and my life problems would simply vanish. My salvation and mental health were dependent solely upon my acceptance to Hogwarts.

GOODBYELIFEPROBLEMS

My letter never came.

I started high school in September, trying to retain a sense of normalcy despite the fact that everything was not normal. My anxiety, depression, and sensory processing disorder reached a record high score on the “How Much Does Your Life Suck Right Now” meter. I was brought to doctors and therapists of all kinds, and in return, I received puzzled expressions or bottles of pills that made everything worse.  But I still had Harry Potter.

At the end of my freshman year I was pulled out of school because I was so ill. During that summer, I painted murals all over my walls – my own art therapy. Sprawled across one wall, monumental and extraordinary, was my rendering of Hogwarts Castle. Above it was a portrait of Harry surrounded by his name. In my little miserable world, it was breathtaking and comforting.

its...its

PERFECTION

*Note: The mural truly looked like this. It was ginormous and super awesomesauce.

The years grudgingly went by….

The one constant in my life was Harry’s journey. During the deep, unrelenting surges of depression, anxiety, anger, and isolation, the wizarding world was my safe haven – an alternative reality. Granted, things were not super great in Harry’s world either. Lord Voldemort was trying to kill him, and he was trying to kill Lord Voldemort; it was not all butterbeer and chocolate frogs, if you know what I mean.

But the idea of it all – the story from start to finish – carried me away.

Here I am, 24 years alive, and still awaiting my Hogwarts letter. Santa bought me a fake one for Christmas a few years ago – was he seriously foolish enough to think I’d fall for that crapsauce? Would YOU fall for this?? (note: the fuzzy yellow caterpillar was not included in the original letter. I drew it there to cover my address. I don’t need internet hooligans knowing where I live).

(click to view bigger):

new hogwarts letter

I do not want to identify myself as a muggle (non-magic folk), for that would delete my rich, inner fantasy life that keeps me afloat in moments of suffering. I am the owner of a wand – with a tip that lights up when the wand is waved. I have a Hogwarts cloak, Gryffindor scarf and hat, Harry Potter quiz book, a 200 lb Harry Potter encyclopedia of sorts, Harry Bobble head, Snape action figure, and a million more things which you don’t probably give a crap about.

Dementors and Depression

By engulfing myself into the wizarding world, my numerous illnesses morph into Dementors; soul-sucking, happiness-destroying, butt-ugly creatures. Dementors cannot be killed, only kept at bay until they die from natural causes, or from crashing into the night bus.

Either way, you must use the Patronus Charm to protect yourself from the Dementor’s kiss of death (it’s as delightful as it sounds). The Patronus Charm is conjured by concentrating intensely on your happiest memory while stating the words, Expecto Patronum. Your wand should release a glowing animal figure which will defend you from the Dementors.  Expecto Patronum can be roughly translated from Latin to mean “I await a protector.”

“Ok Kelly, that’s real fascinating, but how does this all relate to depression?” -You

“GIVE ME A MINUTE, WOULD YOU? THIS IS COMPLICATED MATERIAL!” -Me

 

The author of Harry Potter, JK Rowling has confirmed that she created the Dementors after her own experience with depression. She stated: “Dementors are among the foulest creatures that walk this earth. They infest the darkest, filthiest places, they glory in decay and despair, they drain peace, hope, and happiness out of the air around them”.

expecto patronum

The story of Harry Potter has given me unrelenting strength when facing situations that I was certain would be my demise. When curled into a blobby ball of emptiness, it is the thought of the antics of Fred and George that bring a stupid smile to my face. It is Hermione being a general badass. It is Ron dancing awkwardly with Professor McGonagal. It is Severus Snape, dashing around down the castle halls with his cloak billowing behind him like a majestic, dark stallion. It is Harry, doing…ugh…whatever it is that Harry does.

 

In conclusion, I’d like to amend my original statement to this: Harry Potter did save my mental health. Thanks, Harry…cough…cough..Hermione.

xo kelly