highly sensitive person

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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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 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

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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

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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

 

 

Highly Sensitive Person vs Sensory Processing Disorder

I’ve been basically dying to make this post for a long time:Picture 34

See, I told ya.

The more I read online about Sensory Processing Disorder (SPD), and the somewhat related, Highly Sensitive Person (HSP) concept, the more I needed to explain the distinction between the two. I’m finding that people are diagnosed with (or more frequently, diagnosing themselves) with SPD, when really, they are more HSP.

So let’s begin by identifying what these two things are:

1. SPD, aka Sensory Processing Disorder (which I write about for pretty much every post) is a neurological problem where the brain’s sensory system does not function correctly. Meaning, when you perceive something in the form of sensory info, the brain is all “WTF.”

Picture 33Picture 35

Picture 37

 

 

SPD involves your SENSES, your vestibular system, proprioception, motor control, balance, and spatial awareness. There is a dysfunction in the actual processing of sensory information.

 

2. HSP, aka Highly Sensitive Person, is a “character trait” created by Dr. Elaine Aron. As much as 20% of the population, she believes, has this trait which makes them a highly sensitive type of person. What does this mean though?

HSP’s are very in-tune with their environment. They are overwhelmed by the world in general, specifically emotional situations, and they often struggle to watch or read violent/upsetting things. They are considered shy, quiet, introverted, and anti-social. They are deeply moved by music, art, nature, and all things beautiful.

Here’s the important part: HSP’s also have a problem with sensory info, as it can overwhelm them. They can be sensitive to noise, light, touch, taste, etc. They can become overstimulated and need to withdraw from the world to recoup.

This trait for sensitivity is so closely related to Sensory Processing Disorder, that Dr. Aron also refers to HSP as SENSORY PROCESSING SENSITIVITY. 

Good grief! Now you can see why Sensory Processing Disorder and Highly Sensitive Person are often confused.

Picture 41

 

Here is – what I believe to be – the difference:

I think Highly Sensitive People DO NOT have issues with balance, motor control, or body-spatial awareness. Their sensitivities are usually less, but more specific, meaning, they might be sensitive to a certain type of food, or a certain texture of clothes. The bulk of their sensitivities are more abstract, emotional sensitivities.

Their sensory system is probably not dysfunctional, rather, their brains are in a constant state of hyper-awareness and the world can become all too much…all the time. They are sensitive.

If a person is deeply disturbed by emotionally charged situations, or too much socializing, or being in a crowded room, I do not believe they have SPD. They are a HSP.

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To make things more confusing, people can be BOTH SPD and HSP. I know this because I am both.

Picture 39

Now you’re thinking “Kelly, you’re crazy. You’re a crazy girl.”

And I’m like: “yea. YEA I AM.”

It’s ok to be both. I have both, and I’m decently ok.

Picture 40

 

I have learned to separate  what I’m feeling and experiencing with SPD and HSP. I know the bulk of my overstimulation is SPD, and I know the sensations I feel that are a result of too much sensory junk because I feel spacey and unbalanced. I need to do my sensory exercises and sleep it off. This is SPD.

I also know when I am overwhelmed and upset by other things, like being around an angry person. I am overwhelmed by their intensity and I cannot separate myself from them emotionally. I need to get away from them and distract myself, or their emotions will make me ill. This is HSP.

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What bothers me, and what I feel is not ok, is to assume a diagnosis of SPD when really, you’re just:

“I’m don’t like arguing or the smell of mustard. Country music makes me angry. I am introverted. I have SPD.” No, bro. You are probably a highly sensitive person.

“Loud noises make me cry, as do sudden bright lights, and I can’t spend more than an hour in the supermarket because I feel spacey and floaty. I don’t like to wear any clothes because they all make me want to crawl out of my skin, and I’m always bumping into things like a drunk weirdo. I have SPD.” Yes, bro. YOU PROBABLY DO.

Moral of the post: If you feel like you have Sensory Processing Disorder, GO TO AN OCCUPATIONAL THERAPIST. Get yourself a proper diagnosis. BUT, before you do so, look into Highly Sensitive Person traits, and perhaps you will find that you are more of an HSP and not SPD. It will save you a lot of trouble (and money). SPD is a disorder, HSP is a sensitivity/trait.

Here is the website for Highly Sensitive Person info: hsperson.com

As usual, feel free to post comments/discussion/ sappy love messages in a reply to this post.

Peace Out homies xoxo

kelly