One of the key ways I self-regulate in the face of
the disorienting and emotionally exhausting combination of too much and too
little information neurodiverse persons live with (for example, I have a fair
degree of face blindness, which means I cannot tell apart most of the
average-height white men I run with, which is really awkward as I muddle their
names and the personal or family histories they have shared with me in previous
conversations; see also the older women in my congregation; or the couple I met
with this week to plan a baptism, whom I didn’t recognise as having done a
funeral for) is to do laundry.
This means that my washing machine gets worked
hard, and this in turn means that it needs repairing frequently.
On Monday gone, it died, yet again. This time was
one time too many. We decided to replace it. We decided to replace it with a
machine made by a small-scale, local (County Durham) manufacturer that Jo had
come across, that had good eco- and quality-of-construction credentials. But
this also meant a waiting time. Our new machine should be delivered on Tuesday
coming.
This means that I am living for more than a week
without a washing machine. With bedding and towels and everyday clothes (how
many underpants do I need?) and running wear mounting up, and our daughter
returning from university later today with more bedding.
This is not a so-called First World Problem, but a
genuine neurodiversity challenge.
Of course, we have good, local friends who have
offered use of their machines in the meantime, but I cannot bear the thought of
using someone else’s machine. This is not pride or self-reliance, but, again, a
neurodiversity issue.
My neurotypical wife, who does not do empathy (it
is okay: I know that she loves me) asks for your thoughts and prayers for
Andrew.
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