Over-stimulated

I should note that there is no point to this, but to just write an observation, I guess.

When you have a young child (or care for one), you'll see them experience what moms tend to call "over-stimulation". It's generally a result of a very busy/hectic/active period of time and exacerbated by missing a nap or bedtime, going off their normal routine, or even an excess of sugar. For example, you take them to another child's birthday party, and there are games and activities and lots of cake, and they spend a couple of hours running around with a bunch of other kids and having a grand time of it. Get them in the car afterward, maybe even get them home, and something in them wants to keep going and going, but they've long passed their mental and/or physical capabilities of doing so. They're irritable, cranky, tired, over-reactive, emotional, and they don't know yet how to stop, take a breath, take a break, etc. (much less recognize what's going on).

At this point, the adult steps in and finds a way to help guide the child to a calmer state so that they can catch up with their senses. We make them sit down. We remove further stimulus by turning off the tv or moving them to a different environment. We soothe them and help them transition from this frantic state of being to one of quiet and peace. It takes a lot of damn work, too, because they're almost locked inside that vibrating, buzzing, stimulated mindset even though they really can't take in anymore input. They're a computer that needs a defrag, for crying out loud.

Somewhere, over time, we can handle more stimuli, and we learn how to recognize this moment for ourselves as we grow up. We reach that point of over-stimulation, and we give ourselves our own version of a time-out by changing rooms or putting on some soothing music or a hundred other things that adults call "me time" or "down time" or "taking a moment".

Sometimes, I drive myself into that state without realizing it's happening until the anxiety symptoms are signalling that it's too late, and I've driven myself off a proverbial cliff. I was getting better at recognizing it while I was on medication, so it happened less often, but it still happened.

It's like cycling through a mini manic episode. There's a rush of emotional upheaval (good or bad, depending on the circumstances) amidst events or circumstances that are often unexpected or unplanned, and throughout it all, from beginning to end, I'm up, I'm down, I have multiple trains of thought careening around my head at once, and I'm acting on most of them either through actions or conversations or both. There's an intensive pace to it all, and I'm in the moment and of the moment, and the moment is bigger than life.

But just like that kid at the party, it goes too far, too fast and wants to keep on going long beyond the moments it was meant for. There's an abrupt end to things, an end to the bridge, and I forgot that my brakes need time to slow me down before stopping. So, I try to continue onward to the next thing. After all, I have momentum now! I can't stop just because whatever was going on has stopped! I must do the next thing and the next and the next!

And somewhere along the way, I realize that my hands are shaking or that I've tensed up to the point that my muscles are strained and aching. I went into fight or flight mode and my nerves are humming and raw. My heart is racing, and I can't catch my breath, much less draw in a deep one to slow it all down. And if something isn't done soon to stop it, there's a complete seizing that leaves me curled in a ball, shuddering and shaking, fists clenched so tight that there are half-moons in my palms, and I just. can't. breathe.

And here I am, still trying to continue on with "the next thing", because that's what I've locked myself into doing. I'm over-stimulated, and somewhere inside my mind, there is no way but onward. I've forgotten that simple need to stop, take a breath, change my environment, turn off the now far-too-loud sounds. Sometimes, I recognize this is what's going on, but just can't switch gears to fix it.

That's where Mike steps in if he's around. He's learned to recognize it when he sees it, and I've learned to try to ask for help when I realize it's happening but just can't stop it. He becomes the adult while I'm the over-stimulated child. He pulls me away from that "next thing" and hugs me tight or sits me down. He gives me half a Xanax and runs his hand over my back, keeps me from curling my hands into fists, strokes my hair. He soothes, helps me remember how to breathe.