The Art of Disappearing: A Symphony of Self-Loathing

My absence is a finely tuned instrument, a melody of discomfort played on the strings of my low self-esteem. It's a concerto composed in the key of self-loathing, a solo performance for the orchestra of empty chairs that line the stage of my life.

I don't grace people with my absence out of arrogance, like some aloof king bestowing his presence upon the unworthy. No, it's a desperate act of kindness, a sacrifice on the altar of their comfort. I'm a walking storm cloud, a human embodiment of awkward silences and forced smiles. My presence, I fear, is a contagious disease, my laughter a discordant note in the symphony of social harmony.

So, I vanish. I become a ghost, a whisper in the wind, a shadow flitting through the periphery of their vision. I cancel plans, feign illness, invent elaborate excuses to slip away into the comforting embrace of solitude. It's a lonely dance, this self-imposed exile, but it's a dance I've mastered with the grace of a seasoned ballerina of self-deprecation.

Why subject them to the spectacle of my self-inflicted misery? Why burden them with the awkwardness of interacting with a creature who sees only flaws in the mirror of self-reflection? My absence, I believe, is a gift, a silent plea for them to forget the rain cloud that lingers above my head and remember, for a fleeting moment, the sunshine that may once have peeked through.

It's not a noble act, this self-imposed exile. It's a symptom, a festering wound of self-doubt that festers in the recesses of my soul. I envy the ease with which others navigate the social landscape, their laughter echoing like wind chimes in a summer breeze. I yearn to join the dance, to shed the cloak of invisibility and step into the light.

But the fear, it's a paralyzing monster that claws at my ankles, whispering tales of rejection and disappointment. It's a voice that drowns out the timid counter-melody of hope that whispers of connection and acceptance.

So, I retreat, my absence a silent apology for the person I fear I am. I build walls of solitude, brick by painful brick, hoping that one day, the mortar of self-forgiveness will be strong enough to hold back the tide of self-loathing.

Perhaps one day, I'll find the courage to disarm the monster, to silence the chorus of self-doubt. Perhaps one day, I'll be able to join the dance, not as a ghost, but as a participant, flaws and all. But until then, my absence will remain, a melancholic symphony played on the strings of a heart that yearns to be heard.

The Face I Wear

 The abyss that is my own reflection. I avoid it as I would a festering wound, a putrid sore that seems to sear my very soul. Cameras, too, are anathema to me, those unblinking eyes that capture the very essence of my self-loathing. I duck and weave, dodging their gaze with a desperation that borders on hysteria.

But it's not just the camera's lens that I fear. It's the mirror's flat, unyielding gaze that seems to mock me with its very presence. I glance at my reflection, and for a moment, the world tilts on its axis. The contours of my face, once so familiar, now seem distorted, like a funhouse mirror reflecting a twisted, warped reality. My eyes, once bright and alert, now seem dull and sunken, like two dying embers.

I've always been haunted by the specter of ugliness. As a child, I'd stare at myself in the mirror, convinced that I was the most hideous creature in the world. My parents' reassurances meant nothing; I was convinced that my face was a grotesque parody, a monstrous aberration. And as I grew older, this self-loathing only intensified. I'd catch glimpses of myself in store windows, on street corners, and in strangers' eyes, and the feeling would wash over me like a cold, dark wave.

But it's not just the physical appearance that bothers me. It's the sense of self, the notion that I am somehow less than, that I am an imposter in this world. I feel like a fraud, a charlatan masquerading as a human being. And when I look in the mirror, I'm confronted with the crushing reality of my own inadequacy.

I've tried to outrun this feeling, to distract myself with work, with hobbies, with the fleeting highs of human connection. But it's always there, lurking just beneath the surface, waiting to pounce like a snake in the grass. And when the cameras come out, when the lights are turned up, and the world is watching, I'm forced to confront this abyss, this chasm of self-loathing that threatens to consume me whole.

And so I hide. I duck and weave, avoiding the mirror's gaze like a rat avoiding a snake. I'm a master of evasion, a virtuoso of avoidance. But even as I flee, I know that I'm only delaying the inevitable. The camera's gaze will find me, and when it does, I'll be forced to confront the abyss once more. And so I go through the motions, putting on a mask of confidence, of assurance, of humanity. I smile and pose and pretend to be someone I'm not, all the while knowing that it's a lie.

But perhaps that's the only way to survive. Perhaps the only way to make it through this life is to don the mask, to pretend to be someone you're not, to hide behind the façade of a man who's whole and complete and beautiful.

And yet, as I stand before the mirror, frozen in terror, I know that it's all a lie. I'm not whole and complete and beautiful. I'm broken and fragmented and hideous. And the only way to make it through this life is to face that truth, to confront the abyss head-on, and to emerge on the other side, scarred and battered and bruised, but alive.

The camera's gaze will find me, and when it does, I'll be ready. I'll stand before it, my mask firmly in place, my eyes blazing with a fierce and desperate intensity. I'll show it the abyss, I'll show it the void, and I'll show it the man who's hiding beneath. And maybe, just maybe, that man will be enough.

The Silence Within

In 2012, I became the echo of my own existence. A whisper in the wind, a distant memory, a mere trace of the person I once was. It was during that year that I quit music, evaporating into obscurity, leaving behind a void that stretched further than the eye could see. My online presence, like a mirage, gradually dissipated, the digital residue of my music slowly slipping through the cracks of the internet. A melancholy silence enveloped the very essence of my being, and in its wake, I was forced to confront the unyielding darkness that had gnawed at my soul for far too long.

The music had been my guiding light, my solace, and the very essence of my identity. It was how I communicated with the world, how I found purpose and meaning. But in a single, life-altering moment, it all came crashing down, leaving me shattered and alone. I was besieged by a deep, all-encompassing depression that left me unable to function, let alone create. Each note, each lyric, each melody felt like a burden, a weight that threatened to drown me.

As I spiraled deeper into this abyss, I found myself withdrawing from everything that had once brought me joy. Friends, family, and fans alike were left to wonder where I had gone, what had become of the person they once knew. In my isolation, I became a stranger to myself. To the outside world, I was a ghost, a whisper in the wind, my absence as profound as my presence had been.

During those two long years of isolation, I battled a relentless war against myself. The demons within were vicious, their gnashing teeth tearing at my soul. I was plagued by self-hatred, a venomous poison that seeped into every fiber of my being. As I waded through this quagmire, I found solace in the quiet, the silence that surrounded me. It was in this desolate landscape that I slowly began to rebuild, one crumbling brick at a time.

The return was gradual, like the first rays of dawn after a long, dark night. It was not a triumphant return, but rather a tentative reemergence into the world I had abandoned. I emerged from the shadows, my spirit battered and bruised but still holding on with a tenacious grip. And yet, despite my best efforts to pick up where I had left off, it seemed that my fans had vanished into the ether, leaving me bereft of the support I so desperately needed.

The silence that once surrounded me had become my prison, my solace now a double-edged sword. As I cautiously navigated the industry once again, I found myself gripped by an insatiable fear that I would never regain the audience that had once been mine. And so, I continued on, my journey a winding path lined with doubt, uncertainty, and a deep-seated longing for the person I once was.

Today, I stand at the precipice of a new chapter, a new beginning, and a newfound appreciation for the power of vulnerability. My music, once a shield, has now become a beacon, a reflection of the darkness I have faced and the resilience I have found. It is in this silence within that I have discovered my true voice, one that speaks to the very essence of my being. And as I continue to share my story, I find solace in knowing that my silence has the potential to give voice to the countless others who have faced their own battles with depression and self-hatred.

For it is in the silence that we may find our strength, our purpose, and our song.

Creativity: A Path to Wellness and Self-Discovery

 In the tapestry of human existence, creativity is a vibrant thread that weaves together the colours of imagination, passion, and self-expression. It is a force that transcends boundaries, defies limitations, and has the power to heal the mind and body. This journey into the world of creativity is a path worth exploring, and for individuals on the autism spectrum, it can be a particularly transformative and liberating experience.

The Creative Connection: A Universal Language:

Creativity is not bound by language, age, or circumstance. It is a universal language that speaks to the very core of our being. Whether it's painting, writing, music, dance, or any other form of artistic expression, creativity offers a sanctuary where individuals can escape the confines of daily life and find solace in their unique perspectives.

Unlocking the Benefits of Creativity:

The benefits of embracing creativity are manifold, impacting not only mental well-being but also physical health. Here's how creativity can be a source of healing and transformation:

1. Stress Reduction: Engaging in creative activities has been shown to reduce stress levels. Whether it's the rhythmic strokes of a paintbrush, the flow of words on a page, or the harmony of music, these creative outlets can act as powerful stress relievers.

2. Enhanced Self-Expression: For individuals on the autism spectrum, who, like me, may sometimes find it challenging to convey their thoughts and emotions verbally, creativity provides an alternative means of self-expression. Art, in its myriad forms, allows individuals to communicate their inner worlds with depth and clarity.

3. Emotional Resilience: The creative process often involves navigating challenges and setbacks. This builds emotional resilience and the ability to persevere in the face of adversity, which can be especially valuable for individuals with autism.

4. Increased Self-Confidence: As one hones their creative skills and witnesses the tangible results of their efforts, self-confidence naturally grows. This newfound confidence can extend beyond the creative realm into other aspects of life.

5. A Gateway to Mindfulness: Engaging in creative activities often leads to a state of mindfulness, where individuals are fully present in the moment. This practice can be calming and grounding, offering respite from anxiety or sensory overload.

6. Sense of Achievement: Completing a creative project, whether it's a painting, a poem, or a musical composition, provides a profound sense of achievement. This feeling of accomplishment can boost self-esteem and foster a sense of purpose.

Creativity Knows No Labels:

One of the remarkable aspects of creativity is its inclusivity. It knows no labels or preconceived notions. It is a sanctuary where everyone, regardless of neurodiversity, can find refuge, meaning, and a sense of belonging. For individuals on the autism spectrum, creativity offers not only an outlet for self-expression but also a bridge to connect with others who appreciate their unique perspectives.

Embrace Your Creative Journey

In embracing creativity, we embark on a journey of self-discovery and self-acceptance. It is a journey that allows us to celebrate our differences, harness our strengths, and find beauty in the tapestry of our lives. So, whether you're painting a canvas, composing a symphony, writing a story, or engaging in any form of creative expression, remember that you are not alone on this journey. Your creativity has the power to transform not only your own life but also the lives of those fortunate enough to witness your artistic journey. In creativity, we find healing, connection, and a profound sense of well-being.

On the Periphery of Perception: A Meditative Exploration of Painting Walls

There is something eerily mesmerising about the act of painting walls—a silent meditation that weaves threads of transformation and introspection. As I stand before a bare expanse of white, brush in hand, I am transported into a realm where time slows, thoughts dissolve, and the physicality of the task takes center stage. It is in this realm that I find solace, a momentary respite from the chaos of the outside world. I invite you to accompany me on a reflective journey, delving into the nuances and revelations that arise from the seemingly mundane act of painting walls.

The process begins with careful preparation, an intricate dance of masking tape and drop cloths. Each step, each measured stroke, carries intention and purpose. As I dip the brush into the pale hue, my mind drifts into a state of suspended animation. The familiar scent of paint wafts through the air, mingling with memories of past endeavors. It evokes a certain nostalgia, reminding me of countless rooms transformed, identities reshaped, and emotions laid bare.

There is a certain vulnerability that arises when faced with a blank canvas—a blank wall awaiting the touch of color and imagination. It becomes a mirror, reflecting back the layers of my psyche. I am confronted with my desires for change, for reinvention, and the simultaneous fear of exposing my innermost self. The walls become a metaphorical threshold, a liminal space where the external and internal converge.

As the first brushstroke meets the surface, the energy of creation reverberates through my veins. It is as if I am participating in an ancient ritual—a quiet collaboration between artist and environment. The paint becomes an extension of my being, manifesting the colours of my emotions onto the walls. In each stroke, I release fragments of my past, layers of experiences, and embrace the freedom to recreate my surroundings.

The act of painting walls becomes an act of reclaiming space—of establishing ownership and asserting my presence. With each coat, the room undergoes a metamorphosis, shedding its previous identity and embracing a new narrative. The walls bear witness to this transformation, silently holding the stories and emotions imprinted upon them. They become a testament to the impermanence of our lives, a reminder that everything is transient, and beauty can be found in the transient nature of existence.

Amidst the repetitive motion of brush against wall, my mind wanders, traversing the corridors of memory and contemplation. I find myself questioning the constructs that define us—the invisible boundaries and societal expectations that shape our perceptions. Just as the walls confine and separate, they also have the power to liberate and unify. They carry the weight of history, collective memories, and the echoes of those who have walked before us.

In the solitude of this act, I discover a sense of agency—a reclaiming of control over my environment and, by extension, my own narrative. The walls become a canvas upon which I can project my hopes, dreams, and aspirations. They serve as a reminder that, despite the chaotic world beyond, there exists a space where I can shape my reality, one brushstroke at a time.

And so, as the final stroke completes the symphony of colours, I step back and witness the fruits of my labor. The walls now breathe with new life, infused with my intentions and a profound sense of accomplishment. In this moment, I realise that painting walls is not merely a superficial act of decoration; it is a profound exercise in self-discovery and expression.

Joan Didion once wrote, "We tell ourselves stories in order to live." And as I stand amidst the freshly painted walls, I am reminded that we also paint our walls in order to live. It is an act of self-definition, a tangible manifestation of our desires, fears, and dreams. It is a testament to our resilience, our innate need to create and leave our mark upon the world.

In the periphery of perception, in the stillness between brush strokes, we find ourselves. We are the artists of our own existence, and through the act of painting walls, we reveal the intricate tapestry of our souls—one layer, one colour at a time.

Autistic Stimming essay

 Stimming is something that's very personal to me as someone with autism. It's the little movements that I make that help me feel calm and focused. Things like rocking back and forth, tapping my fingers, or making odd little noises. These little motions can make such a big difference in how I feel.

For a long time, I didn't know what stimming was or that it was a common trait among autistic people. I just thought that I was weird or that something was wrong with me. So, I tried to suppress my stimming behavior, thinking it would make me more "normal". But the truth is, suppressing my stimming was really harmful to my mental health. It was like trying to hold back a sneeze, and it only made me feel more anxious and overwhelmed.

It wasn't until I learned more about autism and stimming that I realized how important it is to accept this behavior. Stimming is a natural part of who I am, and it's something that helps me regulate my emotions and sensory input. It's a coping mechanism that helps me feel safe and in control.

It's not always easy, though. Sometimes people can be judgemental or misunderstand my stimming behavior. They might think I'm being weird or rude, when really I'm just trying to stay calm and focused. That's why it's so important to educate others about stimming and autism. When people understand why I stim, they're usually more accepting and supportive.

It's been a long journey, but I'm learning to accept and even appreciate my stimming behavior. It's a reminder that I'm different, but that's okay. In fact, it's something to celebrate. Stimming is a part of my identity as an autistic person, and it's just one of the many things that makes me who I am.

Autistic Burnout - what it is and how it feels

 Autistic burnout is a real struggle and something that affects me frustratingly often. It's hard to describe how it feels, but it's like a constant, overwhelming exhaustion that just doesn't seem to go away. I often feel physically and mentally drained, and even the simplest tasks can become impossible to complete.

One of the worst parts about experiencing autistic burnout is the embarrassment that comes along with it. I know that people don't understand what I'm going through and often see me as lazy or unmotivated. It's a frustrating feeling because I want so badly to be able to just snap out of it, but it's not that simple.

Autistic burnout is a result of sensory overload and feeling constantly overwhelmed. It's like my brain just can't keep up with the constant stimulation and it crashes. I try my best to avoid situations that trigger it, but sometimes it just sneaks up on me.

It can be really tough, but I've learned to accept that this is just a part of who I am and that it's okay to need a break. I try to make sure I take the time to recharge, whether it's through self-care or just taking a nap.

If you're experiencing autistic burnout, know that you're not alone. It's important to take care of yourself and not be too hard on yourself. Try to find things that help you relax and give you a break from the constant stimulation. And remember, it's okay to need a break. You're not weak for having this experience, you're just human.

Barnaby J. Tremayne.