Break

I am  in holiday humour, but I probably oughtn’t to be.

Several interviews down, some of them second, after a sterling CV and application offensive with recruiters, agencies, employers, means I now have several irons in the fire, and can afford, for a bit, to relax.

It meant I could let my hair down last weekend for a stolen night of fun at my sister Katie’s hen, her third or fourth such event, although it is only her second marriage. It took place in Reading of all places; a proper old fashioned stretchy dress, stomach in, tits out, night on the tiles, complete with shots, fags and a posh hotel that stunk the next morning of vodka, girl sweat and last night’s perfume.

Sunday was a write off: internal organs griping, exhausted from simply socialising, I lay helpless on a pouffe in the shade of my own backyard, while Monday, basking in sunshine, I went to the lido alone to attempt to regain my balance and to hell with everything – and everyone – else.

Later, a phone interview and a test proceeded, and another, tomorrow an exciting opportunity at a top global agency ,which sounds like I’m bragging – I am – as it means perhaps I too am not a total write off either. But the nagging stress pain in my stomach has returned, and the recurring thought that perhaps I should find something unambitious and local keeps popping up again and again.

Being “off” means I’ve had time to address issues in the other bit of my life, things that lay dormant while I killed myself for a living. Jonah’s too frequent bruises, Ava’s need for some attention and perhaps, a hobby of her own. My own need for good food and exercise, and perhaps, a lifelong doctor’s note, as well as Johnny the pug’s need for twice daily walks.

The sunshine has helped keep my pecker up: the option to lie in it when there’s not much else going on. But to be honest, the school day helps too, book ending the day with some fresh air and exercise, a little human interaction, cushioning me from too much solitude and I’ve begun to rather enjoy being alone. I’ve batted away invites to coffee from local mums lest I find myself clucking and nodding and empathising too much with them – and giving away too much myself. I’ve got enough on my plate without having to think about the school association’s latest fund raising effort with a bunch of rich-enough-to-stay-at-home do-gooders who probably bitch about me behind me back. There, I said it, whatever it might also say about me.

The red raw scratch on his neck Jonah came home with last night meant I lost my rag and called the school in a rage. “Not enough’s being done,” I spat. “It’s happening too much.” In the biggest concession I’ve made to his ASD diagnosis, I’m now – with the school’s permission – letting him stay in at playtime to play on the iPad rather than face the playground jungle anymore. To hell with trying to be normal, with teaching him to get along with others. He can’t and they won’t so he’s stuck in the library from now on despite the fact he will no longer get his daily allowance of fresh air and sunshine. It’s better than a lifetime of psychological distress.

He reacts to seemingly innocuous irritants, you see, and having reacted, it’s all too easy for other kids to know how to push his buttons. A typical example of this is the Pharrell song ‘Happy.’ Hard to see how that can trigger a tantrum, but, used as a treat by his teachers when the class change quickly for PE, it got played too much and now induces a rage. All the other kids have to do is sing it at him, to bring on a minor tantrum. Although how this ends up with him getting a bruise of a cut is anyone’s guess. “A lot of it,” says his teacher goes under the radar. But not to me.

I talked to him today about takings the power back: to not react,  to ignore the others and rise above the things that make him mad. It’s the only power he has. That and his secret weapon: me. Getting the teachers on side to help him escape his tormentors for half an hour in the middle of the day. After all, everyone needs time to themselves. As I’m belatedly learning myself.

Next week, half term, we camp. A cheap three dayer to the Isle of Wight: Tom’s organising the creature comforts – an electric hob, a fold away table, a super duper six man tent. All I have to do is sort out our all-weather clothes and remember to pack marshmallows. Hopefully, by the time it’s over, I will have organised the rest of my life too.

But in the meantime I just wish for a world that was more accepting of people who prefer their own company,  rather than the enforced society of schools and offices where only a blanket approach to people’s needs can be applied, to the detriment of those who just don’t always fit.