My experience living with sensitivity to sensory input and sensory overload
There is something gripping my skull that no one else can see.
The light shining through the windows is a blade slicing into my retinas, that no one else can see.
There is a shrill pierce of an alarm outside, a deep rumbling of passing traffic, a buzzing of an electrical outlet, the grinding hum of the refrigerator, ringing in my ears, the *mwulump* of swallowing saliva, the grating scrape of a breadboard being pulled over a granite countertop, the drumming in my head, the drumming in my head, the drumming in my head as I close my eyes tighter, the burning white light shining brighter…
There is a cacophony of noise and destruction happening within me, that no one else can see.
I have struggled with sensory sensitivities since I was a child. One of my earliest memories is refusing to wear any clothing because I didn’t like the way it felt on my skin. As I grew older, I got used to this sensation of bizarre and unwanted tactile input, and started to wear clothing most of the time, but it would take me a while to overcome my seemingly random animosity towards various garments.
In primary school, we had to wear a tie as part of our winter term uniform. I absolutely despised the sensation of having things around my neck and would start most days off throwing monstrous tantrums as I got dressed for school. Eventually someone gave me a clip-on tie.
This didn’t alleviate my discomfort however, because I also happened to be sensitive to colour and the school tie happened to be bright red, and well, I just was not a fan of my school tie.
There are so many ways we as humans sense the world around us, and for someone like me, the world is filled with what can seem like an onslaught of stimuli. I am most sensitive to visual, tactile, and auditory input, which as you can imagine makes the world a very sensory place. Sometimes this can be a delightful experience and makes interfacing with existence that much more wondrous. I am in love with the feel of certain fabrics and textures, sounds and sensations. Please, give me mushrooms and mochi to eat in a dimly lit room splattered with autumn colours, the scent of patchouli, vanilla and citrus, soft textured floppy clothing, singing bowls, bells, and wooden wind-chimes gently knocking against each other as they hang in front of an open window bringing in a cool breeze and the smell of rain. With such marvelous sensory information for my body and brain to take in, I am comfortable and at peace.
When I am attempting to focus intently on something, or requiring space to mull over thoughts, I am most vulnerable to sensory overload. I often feel that my brain is constantly trying to absorb everything around it, and if it receives too much information at once, it short circuits. I feel that I am becoming increasingly sensitive to sensitivities I have always had but was better at ignoring, or better equipped to deal with. The social isolation of the COVID pandemic has made this feeling more obvious to me, and I am finding myself far more likely to go into full overload.
With an overload of my senses, a few things happen. It has taken me a while to learn how to acknowledge and track these warning signs. I still don’t get it right every time. Typically, I find myself feeling physically uncomfortable and “squirmy”. I sometimes call it “feeling spiky”. It’s like feeling as if my skin doesn’t fit quite right over my skeleton. I become irritable and snappy, and less tolerant of small interruptions, unable to handle disruptions to my focus.
Unless I remove myself from the offending environment, practice breathing slowly and deeply, or put on my noise cancelling headphones, these feelings will escalate. An escalation from this state results in a full feeling of shutdown, and I find myself unable to process any new information.
I begin to feel small; I start humming and groaning, unable to communicate effectively. I shut my eyes tightly, hyper-ventilate, pace or rock my body, pick at my fingers… I used to brush my hair obsessively or count in my head. I begin doing all that I can to self-soothe and regulate. Sensory overload to me feels like my entire understanding of reality is trapped in a cage of chaos, swirling violently, a jagged disintegration of my very being, a loud eruption of God-like roaring at the very seat of my soul.
It doesn’t last very long, 10–15 minutes at most, but it is an exhausting experience, and can take me a while to recover from.
Having sensitive senses can be a magical thing. It allows me to perceive positive experiences with such remarkable fullness. Emotions become live-action poetry. Small, fragile moments become richer and more robust. Life occurs as art. Genuine laughter is the most wonderful sensation of all.
But then, there are the moments where it is too much. Moments where I wish so much to dull my senses so that I can experience things as others do, without it all becoming too much.
I wish that I could sit at my desk and focus instead of being startled by the unpredictable noises outside that seem so loud and jarring, irritated by the feeling of my skirt against my legs, the humming of the laptop fan gnawing in my ear, the aches in my joints feeling as if they were to break me in half, the taste in my mouth inducing nausea, the light outside blinding.
The sounds all-around of everyday life that often seem so magical now clawing their way into me, piling on top of each other in endless pandemonium. An endless pandemonium that no one else can see, until they see me curled on the floor, eyes shut tight, groaning quietly, picking at my thumbs, trying to steady my breath.
I cannot read when others are talking. I cannot listen when being touched. I cannot write when the kettle is boiling. I cannot think when the washing machine spins. I cannot learn when the light is too bright. I cannot focus when my body is in pain. I cannot sleep when the cotton bed sheets are too scratchy. I cannot eat when food is too warm.
I cannot when it is too loud. I cannot when it is too bright.
I cannot breathe when there is simply too much of everything, in ways that no one else can see.
