How to Make Meltdowns Work for You

I had a difficult start this morning. 

A really difficult start.

About two months ago, the cat food that we always buy changed its recipe.  Almost immediately afterwards, the cats’ poops started to stink.  This had never before been a problem in our home.  Maybe once in a blue moon a cat would have a stinky bowel movement, but that would then signal us to keep a close eye on that cat and make sure that they weren’t sick, and in a day or so, it would be resolved.

Consistent, stinky poops from all of our cats was new.  This was an assault on my senses that happened at random, multiple times a day.  When it inevitably happened, my mind would go blank, and I’d be a sack of rage and disgust, barely able to form words.  I would call out, “Offense!  Stinky, stinky!  I can’t!  Offense!  Offense!”

My wife (also Autistic) who does not have the same sensitive sense of smell that I do, would casually nod and get up and spray the area of the box with a homemade room spray, then look at me with uncertainty—not judging, but unsure what else to do.

Then, this morning…I hit my limit.

I had kept my shit together until then.  For almost two months, I would be going about my business, then, out of nowhere, experience sensory assault.  My mind would go blank and I’d be filled with rage…but I didn’t know what to do to make it stop.  My mind literally could not think about it.

Growing up, I was often accused of being manipulative, self-centered, and a whiner.  I was always stunned by this accusation, because, from my perspective, I was constantly working so much harder to cater to other people than anyone else around me. I now think this is why. 

When I am in sensory overwhelm, I literally cannot problem solve or strategize.  My prefrontal cortex simply disengages.  I am an ancient ball of primitive survival emotions.  And ancient balls don’t have strategies—they just react. 

Interestingly, I can’t problem solve around this after the fact or when I’m in a safe sensory area either.  I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s related to trauma, maybe even the memory of it is overwhelming, who knows.  What I can tell you is, it’s not because I haven’t tried.  Oh, how I’ve tried.  I have tried, and failed, and shamed myself more times than I think most people can comprehend.  I have tried. 

Now, I’m giving up.  I’m giving up out of compassion for myself and acceptance of my neurotype.  I give up the fight, the shame, the spiral.  I am out.

So, this morning, when two cats pooped within seconds of each other, I went through the roof and language started to warble and mix inside my mouth like marbles and trip wire.  Completely dysregulated and unable to access any strategic coping skills, I did what I could: I huffed, I paced, I became more dependent on echolalia to communicate, and could no longer form linear sentences. 

In a muddle of tears, I mustered up enough language to utter, “I don’t know if this is fair, but I feel like you should have done something to help me.  I don’t know why and I really, really don’t know if it’s fair, but it’s how I feel, and just…I need help.  Help feeling this.”

She looked at me tenderly and suggested that I find a sensory soothing space and let my nervous system calm down for now and then we could discuss more later. 

I went outside to our backyard, and carried our half-feral cat, Fergus, around the garden.  It was early morning, so the sky was pretty purples and pinks and the neighborhood was quiet.  I walked in circles for ten minutes, encouraging myself to notice the pretty flowers, the cool breeze, the feel of Fergus’s fur. 

After my nervous system had re-regulated, I kept walking.  I have learned that self-compassion is essential for self-examination.  I cannot be honest with myself if I’m afraid of being berated by myself.  So, with kindness, I examined what I was experiencing.

What had happened?  Why did I feel like Chris should have helped me earlier?  Why did I feel like that wasn’t fair?  Was it?  Why hadn’t I taken steps earlier to mitigate the sensory difficulty?

After a few more minutes, I went back inside.  My wife looked up, and I sat next to her.

“I think I know what happened.  Growing up, I was shamed for my sensory needs and my inability to problem-solve around those needs.  I was called names and made to feel like it made me a bad person.  I know I’m an external processor and sometimes just need to talk something out and don’t want you to fix it for me, but when it comes to sensory stuff, that’s different.  My brain doesn’t do that.  I do need help.  We already ordered new food, and I know it’s trial and error until we find a new formula that works, but maybe we need to move the boxes until the food arrives—but actually don’t do that because the re-arranging will just be another change, I don’t want that, but then…I don’t know. Part of the struggle is, I can’t even ask for help when it happens.  I just can’t.  Maybe if I’m kinder to that part of me, in time, the grip of trauma will lessen and maybe then I’d be able to—I don’t know that yet.  What I do know is, for now, I can’t ask for help. 

When I complain loudly about a sensory struggle like yelling, ‘Offense!’ repeatedly, that is my very best attempt to get my needs met.  It’s not perfect, but it is what I’m capable of doing right now.  I need that to be okay, and I need you to jump in and help me problem-solve sensory stuff when I do that.  I need you to take that as a cue to help me then, BEFORE it becomes a meltdown.  I may not even be able to say, “Yes,” or, “No,” to your ideas because it’s so confusing, but I need you to try anyway.  I know it’s not perfect, but it’s what I’m working with right now.”

She nodded, “Okay. I can work on noticing that and then help you come up with solutions.”

Then, sheepishly, I added the scariest part: '“I also need you to tell me that it’s okay.  I need to hear, ‘I’m so sorry you’re dealing with that this morning.  That must suck.  I’m here if there’s something I could do to help you carry that burden.’  I think it will help my trauma.  I need to know that I’m still loved even when I’m inconvenient.”

This is not our first rodeo. 

Chris and I have been working on our communication, understanding, acceptance, and compassion for years now.  So—unlike any other time I have similarly expressed needs like this in my lifetime—Chris smiled gently, nodded, and said, “I AM sorry you are feeling this way.  I know how much it sucks.  It’s okay to react in big ways to big feelings.  You haven’t done anything wrong and I’m here for you.  You help me when I need it, and I can help you when you need it. This is okay.”

I cried.  A lot.

All of the younger versions of myself who live within me cried too.  Salt water is healing.

This morning I had a meltdown.  The meltdown lasted about 15 minutes.  The cool down lasted about 15 minutes.  The discussion after lasted another 15 minutes.  And then—in the embrace of acceptance and understanding—it was over. 

I am exhausted and feel worn-down, but I’m okay.  My day hasn’t been ruined.  I had a crappy 45-minute bump in the road this morning.  Now I’m tired and will do gentle, soothing things for the rest of the day.

But I’m okay.   I’m not in a shame spiral.   I don’t hate myself.  I’m not going round and round in my head trying to analyze and detect and figure out what the heck is ‘wrong’ with me and what I ‘should’ have done differently. 

This is what unmasking means to me.  This is what selfcare means to me. 

It’s not an Instagram post about bath bombs and luxury lotions—it’s hardcore, unconditional self-acceptance.  It’s showering myself with so much compassion and acceptance that I can be honest with myself and see myself clearly.  I can own what’s mine to own (like being vulnerable and honest with my partner and communicating with her when I’m able), and I can let go of what’s not my responsibility (like the fact that I’m affected by decades of trauma and sometimes that means I’m messy, and confusing, and inconvenient, and need help).

I’m not a rugged individual like our society so prizes. I thrive in symbiosis—mutually caring for, and being cared for by a loving partner; helping each other carry burdens that are too big for any one person to carry alone.

Today, I had a meltdown and I used it as an opportunity to love myself instead of shame myself. 

Today, I had a meltdown and I used it as an opportunity to grow closer to my partner.

Today I had a meltdown…and I’m okay with that.

How do you hold yourself gently through a meltdown? What works for you? Tell me about it in the comments!