Colour My Life with the Chaos of Trouble

Lyrics have always fascinated me. I’ve found myself in them, understood the world better because of them, and felt seen through the words of artists who share their realities. Music has a way of untangling the chaos in my mind, giving shape to thoughts I struggle to express.

Lately, that chaos has felt overwhelming. If I’ve been quiet here, it’s because I’ve been navigating a storm within myself - one that’s been brewing for a long time.

You see, my brain doesn’t work like most. I am, in all likelihood, autistic. On paper, I meet the criteria for assessment, and after a recent screening, I’ve now been referred for the final stage of diagnosis, which will take place on the 1st of July. At 37, after four years of deep research and a full cycle of grief over what this means, I no longer doubt it. My mind has always functioned differently, and now, I finally have an explanation.

I could write a whole post on this journey (and maybe I will) but for now, this is the reason behind my recent radio silence.

When the Weight of the World Feels Too Heavy

I have always carried the weight of the world on my shoulders. Even in the calmest of moments, the sky has always felt like it was falling. The way I process life, the depth to which I feel things, the struggles that exist beneath the surface only very few people truly see them, perhaps only my partner. And for the past few months, those struggles have been relentless.

I’ve always done this, hit a point where everything becomes too much. For years, I assumed it was just my anxiety flaring up, sending me back into an endless cycle of seeking professional help. But now, I understand it differently. Certain situations, certain stressors, make functioning feel impossible. And when I reach that point, I don’t just burn out - I crash.

If you’ve read my previous posts, you’ll know I lost my unofficial emotional support dog, Rigby, to cancer in January. After that, we were hit with flu, then another wave of illness, then family members became unwell. On top of it all, the little rented home we had settled into (our safe space) was plagued by two rodent infestations under our home (through no fault of our own). That was the tipping point. It broke what little resilience I had left.

I spiraled.

My anxiety skyrocketed. My obsessive tendencies took over. My OCD ran wild. I developed a phobia. I became consumed with trying to control the uncontrollable by researching, cleaning, plugging every gap, hyper-fixating on every detail, talking about it on repeat. Eventually, my mind and body couldn’t take it anymore. I shut down. And in survival mode, I did the only thing that made sense - I retreated to my parents’ home to recover while our landlord addressed the situation.

The Invisible Struggle

Much of what I battle is internal. It’s not something people see. To an outsider, it may have just looked like I was ‘stressed about the house,’ but inside, I was unraveling. My actions lie compulsive cleaning, constant checking, obsessively researching… were symptoms of something deeper. The exhaustion wasn’t just mine; I knew it must have been exhausting for those around me, too.

Yet, even now, my family doesn’t fully grasp the depth of it. My daughter remained blissfully unaware because, in my mind, I was protecting her from an unsafe environment. And my parents, despite seeing me in their home, likely didn’t realise just how far I had spiralled, because I’ve spent a lifetime perfecting my mask.

I mask so well that people would likely say, “You don’t seem autistic.” But that’s the thing, what they see isn’t the full picture. It’s not ‘high-functioning’; it’s high-masking. And it’s exhausting!!!

If and when I receive an official diagnosis, my hope is that I can begin accessing the right support - not to function as if I’m neurotypical, but to function as me. To stop surviving and start thriving.

Where Do I Go from Here?

In the meantime, I find myself questioning where to take this space. I’m still here, still living slowly and simply on the island, still committed to home educating my daughter. My life remains unconventional - but it’s unconventional for a reason. My brain needs the quiet. It needs nature. It needs space to breathe.

This past year, island life hasn’t been easy, but it has been healing. And maybe that’s something I want to speak more about, how the island is a remedy for my autistic mind, how the slow rhythm of life here soothes the chaos within me.

So, I’d love to hear from you. What would you like to read more about? Family life on the islands? The realities of home education? The ways in which simple living helps me navigate neurodivergence?

Let me know.

Til Next Time | A recovering, burnt-out soul.