-10 HP

In the 3.5 version of Dungeons & Dragons, your character became unconscious when they fell to 0 hit points, hit points meaning "health" or, less obscurely, "how many times you can get hit before you black out and die." From -1 to -9, they were dying, requiring you to roll for stabilization or slip another notch closer to double xxs. At -10, they were dead. The exact numbers vary slightly from game to game, mostly because everyone is to punk to actually read the Player's Handbook all the way through, but you get the idea. Things are bad, things are rapidly worsening, things are the worst.

Overstimulation has always been a thing in my brain and body. An unwanted thing, a painful and isolating thing, but my thing nonetheless. For those of you blissfully unaware, overstimulation is when you do too many things, hear too much noise, smell too many strong smells, have too many people around, see too many bright colors or bright lights, or basically exist outside of your safely dark coccoon bedroom for any prolongued period of time. I never realized that there was a name for this soul-extinguishing phenomenon when I was little. I was "sensitive." In high school, I was "weird." In college, I became difficult, the problem child my parents had never expected me to become as years and years and years of constant cycles of low-grade to catastrophic-meltdown-level overstimulation burned me out a little more with each passing semester. Wellesley women are "women who will" -- it's our mantra. Women who will take five classes a semester, lead extracurricular activities, show up to parties and events ready to rock and roll, have lots and lots of friends, and graduate amidst sunshine and honors. In my case, I was a woman who would lose control and shout at her roommates, fail to complete two semesters in a row, fall into a bleak dark space of hopelessness and confusion and existential apathy, miss her guinea pigs, assure annoyed professors that I really and truly and honestly was trying, was trying so hard and with such pathetic results, and cry a lot. I had never really cried a lot in my life until I got to college. It wasn't even sad crying. It was stress-crying, the kind your body does involuntarily until it has burned off the topmost layer of static in your nervous system and you can watch some more Netflix.

I remember, the last semester I was at Wellesley, being in a classroom where the light was too bright, way too bright, and each little comment and voice of my classmates and professor drilled hotly into my head. I left the room, went to the cool, quiet bathroom, and just sat in the chair in the corner, hiding. I moved behind the door whenever anyone came in, staying there until they left. I felt like a ghost, something that couldn't have talked to any of my fellow Wendys if I tried. I was exhausted. When class let out, I walked zombie-like into my old linguistics professor. This is a transcript of our conversation:

Linguistics Professor: Kathryn, hello! How are you?

Me: I just had to leave class because everything was too much and the world is too much and I've already been homesick for my cool dark bedroom at home and one of my youngest guinea pigs just died in my hands on the way to the pet hospital a few nights ago -- I could feel her heartbeat right up until the moment when I couldn't -- and I haven't turned in homework already because I've been unable to think or move because of all the stuff that is Happening and Way Too Much and I've been skipping meals to get more time alone in my dorm room and people play music too loudly and it makes me want to gouge out my eyes because it takes my last little safe place of rest and turns it into another painfully stimulating experience and all my friends moved into the same dorm as the girl who told me I was subhuman and got her friend to tell me that my struggles with identifying and feeling emotion and feeling isolated from everyone was proof that they were all better human beings than I was and now I can't go see them without feeling a sense of hopelessness that doesn't help my depression at all.

Linguistics Professor:

Me: And I really, really need a cup of coffee. I haven't had coffee today.

Linguistics Professor:

Me: I wish my mom was here.

Linguistics Professor: Well, you need to learn to do something about this overstimulation, Kathryn, how are you supposed to function with it?

Me:

Linguistics Professor: I've got to go, but I hope you have a great semester!

I went back to my room that day, got a cup of coffee, and watched a lot of Parks and Rec.

I can't sleep when overstimulated. When it's bad, my brain shuts off, leaving me to grope around from [-----] to [-----] without any way to really grasp onto what I was doing or why I was doing it. I would wander around Wellesley and forget my passkey, meaning that I would then sit on the steps and wait until someone let me in. I would stare at my computer, stare at my notes, stare at my wall, and then go lay down. I would stock up on coffee and food from the dining hall, despite the annoyed looks of the employees, and then stack the dishes up in my corner and try to dig up the motivation to take them back downstairs. Often I just went to the swing by the church and pushed myself back and forth until my hands ached and the world had gone dark.

At my own pace, I do things very slowly. I read in increments, allowing myself to close my eyes, maybe lay down, and just zone for a bit until I've regained enough energy and focus to continue. I clean in deliberate, well-planned intervals, If I go to the store, I go in, get what I want or need, leave, and then lie down for a while. Anything more feels like an incredible physical and psychological strain. I become stretched too thin, like a person falling over the event horizon into a black hole.

Worse yet, nobody seems to believe me, really believe me. My reality doesn't translate. People are loud and emotional and expressive and move from Thing to Thing to Thing and shout and bustle about. Don't mistake me, I've gotten all the messages from my parents, my professors, my peers, etc. loud and clear. Why can't you keep up with your peers, Katie? Why don't you just try harder or want these daily successes more? Why are you inconveniencing us so much? Why are you causing all of these problems? What can we do to fix you? What if we can't fix you -- what are you going to do then?

I either force myself to do more, hit the blue screen of death, and need so much time to recuperate while people say you need to recognize your limits, Kathryn, or I take the pace that I need to take, go slowly, do less, and then get prompted to do more, go faster, by the frustrated people around me. My homes and schools always end up feeling like the same hot-cold places of shifting support and frustration, acceptance and annoyance, it's okay, Katie and you just need to decide to be normal, damn it. You can't rely on other people to put up with you. Being independent means not being so damn weird.

See, I want approval, but I also don't want to hurt myself to get it. This puts me at a crossroads that never gets resolved and never goes away.

It doesn't help that while I can do things, I like to do things -- I like to be excited, to go to new places, listen to music, do thrilling things like ride the same rollercoaster ten times in a row or try weird new food or be in places full of sparkling white and amber light. I can't stand being bored. But I can only do these things for so long, "so long" meaning "not very long at all." And then people get confused. And then they get frustrated. You just need to decide what you want, Katie.

One of my longest-running fantasies is just leaving all of this behind. Going to live somewhere completely alone. My own personal amusement park / library, surrounded by woods and woods and woods, the kind gothic romance writers put around the ominous castles of dark, handsome strangers. I would write so many books, at my own pace, in my own quiet. I would drink coffee and tea and hold my guinea pigs and everything would feel stable and okay.

It's the fantasy of a spoiled little girl -- trust me, I know. But it's hard not to dream about it when everything aches and I just don't want to be here.

#overstimulation #mentalhealth