I'm going to start this post by saying that I am not sure if this is experienced by the majority of people with mood disorders and/or anxiety, or by a few, or by just me. I also don't know if my being a quasi HSP and empath contributes to these, though I suspect so. I haven't written on this, ever I don't think, so it seemed time to do so.
As a socially anxious introvert, my natural tendency is already to keep myself surrounded by just a few individuals I'm close to, and to take stretches of time where I surround myself with nobody but perhaps my dog. It is no offense to anyone (trust me, you'll know if it is), it's simply that I need to restore myself. At times when my sensory triggers are especially sensitive, this is even more crucial. It's difficult to explain what a sensory trigger feels like to me. The best I can do is explain what it might feel like to you.
Have you ever been on one of those rides that tries to make you feel like you're actually experiencing some event that you absolutely aren't? Perhaps they have you traveling to the moon on a space shuttle, and the room, or at least the seats in the room, are physically moving, jostling you back and forth. They have things "flying out of the screen" at you (or at least it appears), and you're sure they're going to careen into you any second. Bright lights are flashing, and you can feel the vibrations of the noise. It's like that. Except you're not in a theme park ride that's making you feel like you're headed to space. You're going through your daily routine. The "seats tilting wildly" are everyday movements. Sometimes, it's simply someone walking past you. The noises are people's voices, the TV, the blender or microwave running. The bright lights are the lights in your home or office or grocery store, the light coming off of the tv. The items careening off the screen at you is your coworker passing you in the hallway, or your spouse or family member walking around your home. They're other cars on your drive to and from work.
That's what it feels like. Or, if you've spared yourself from these rides, think of it this way: you're going through your regular day, except that everyone around you has their TV or radio blaring to the point that you can feel the sound vibrations; everything you read is highlighted in bright neon, everything you look at is in 4-D. Everyone you come in contact with is standing so close you can literally feel them breathing on you.
For me, the two senses that aren't assaulted are smell and taste, and my guess is that one is spared because of the other, though I'm not sure which way it works. However, I am significantly less hungry during these times. I eat because my low blood sugar and low sodium tell me I must, and because I have to take meds. At times I feel hungry, only to eat a little and feel absolutely stuffed. So perhaps it's my gut taking the hit for my taste and smell.
And the thing is, it's nobody else's fault. People are not, in fact, blaring TVs or radios. They're not what's known, a la an episode of Seinfeld, as "close talkers". Nobody's doing anything outside of their normal routine. It just feels that way. I can physically feel sights, movements, sounds. In these times, it's even more essential than it normally is to focus on self-care. I need to maintain an existence that I can best describe as "soft", though that doesn't really make sense, I know. I need to keep myself in only the closest of company, often my own, focusing on pursuits such as yoga, meditation, writing, reading and my new found refuge, intentions with my mala beads. I need a lot of rest, and I need to make sure I nourish myself, despite not feeling hungry. Luckily, these times don't last super long, usually, though as my depressive spells lengthen, I worry that theses will too.
So if I seem scarce or quiet, it is not you. I am simply doing what I need to do, and what I all too often neglect, in order to keep forging ahead, even if slowly and more quietly than usual.
As a socially anxious introvert, my natural tendency is already to keep myself surrounded by just a few individuals I'm close to, and to take stretches of time where I surround myself with nobody but perhaps my dog. It is no offense to anyone (trust me, you'll know if it is), it's simply that I need to restore myself. At times when my sensory triggers are especially sensitive, this is even more crucial. It's difficult to explain what a sensory trigger feels like to me. The best I can do is explain what it might feel like to you.
Have you ever been on one of those rides that tries to make you feel like you're actually experiencing some event that you absolutely aren't? Perhaps they have you traveling to the moon on a space shuttle, and the room, or at least the seats in the room, are physically moving, jostling you back and forth. They have things "flying out of the screen" at you (or at least it appears), and you're sure they're going to careen into you any second. Bright lights are flashing, and you can feel the vibrations of the noise. It's like that. Except you're not in a theme park ride that's making you feel like you're headed to space. You're going through your daily routine. The "seats tilting wildly" are everyday movements. Sometimes, it's simply someone walking past you. The noises are people's voices, the TV, the blender or microwave running. The bright lights are the lights in your home or office or grocery store, the light coming off of the tv. The items careening off the screen at you is your coworker passing you in the hallway, or your spouse or family member walking around your home. They're other cars on your drive to and from work.
That's what it feels like. Or, if you've spared yourself from these rides, think of it this way: you're going through your regular day, except that everyone around you has their TV or radio blaring to the point that you can feel the sound vibrations; everything you read is highlighted in bright neon, everything you look at is in 4-D. Everyone you come in contact with is standing so close you can literally feel them breathing on you.
For me, the two senses that aren't assaulted are smell and taste, and my guess is that one is spared because of the other, though I'm not sure which way it works. However, I am significantly less hungry during these times. I eat because my low blood sugar and low sodium tell me I must, and because I have to take meds. At times I feel hungry, only to eat a little and feel absolutely stuffed. So perhaps it's my gut taking the hit for my taste and smell.
And the thing is, it's nobody else's fault. People are not, in fact, blaring TVs or radios. They're not what's known, a la an episode of Seinfeld, as "close talkers". Nobody's doing anything outside of their normal routine. It just feels that way. I can physically feel sights, movements, sounds. In these times, it's even more essential than it normally is to focus on self-care. I need to maintain an existence that I can best describe as "soft", though that doesn't really make sense, I know. I need to keep myself in only the closest of company, often my own, focusing on pursuits such as yoga, meditation, writing, reading and my new found refuge, intentions with my mala beads. I need a lot of rest, and I need to make sure I nourish myself, despite not feeling hungry. Luckily, these times don't last super long, usually, though as my depressive spells lengthen, I worry that theses will too.
So if I seem scarce or quiet, it is not you. I am simply doing what I need to do, and what I all too often neglect, in order to keep forging ahead, even if slowly and more quietly than usual.
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