It’s been my first autistic Christmas. Well the first one since my diagnosis (in March).
In the run up I was less than enthusiastic – I’d managed to get pretty run down this year with no time to process events due to an extraordinary heavy workload. Christmas was almost here with no time to prepare. Or so it seemed to a tired brain. Until several days beforehand.
And then it dawned. Christmas wouldn’t be the same this time. We could take all of the pressure out. And we did. Mostly.
I felt joyful.
Decorations went up late and were minimal.
We had no radio blaring carols.
I refused to buy too much (and nothing which wouldn’t be useful), and avoided the sales.
When I popped into town I gave bank notes to an elderly woman sleeping rough instead.
I watched some carefully chosen DVDs but no TV.
I stayed away from Social Media (except for a couple of positive exchanges) and blocked a few random Twitter haters who found their way onto my timeline.
Mainly I stuck to my Bulletproof diet – so my digestion didn’t suffer.
I learnt to make broth over the holidays – the meanest broth, which could probably raise the dead. Ordinarily cooking isn’t really for me but with time on my hands I got my mojo back and rediscovered the soup queen in my soul.
I gave my attention to family, but allowed them to scatter to the four corners of the house.
And I didn’t feel under siege or responsible.
I saw a short 1956 film called The Red Ballon. It’s so beautiful! It speaks to me in a language I understand as autistic. A language of objects and poetry.
It’s taken me so many days to wind down but soon I’m going to need my routine.