Baggage

To shred or shed?

How’s your baggage this week? Mine’s a bit dynamic if you don’t mind! A bit fancy, a smidge sparkle pants, it’s all aquiver and could go in any number of directions.

Noticing seems to be the thing du jour, and I tell ya what, once you start to clock these things they seem to be going ding ding ding all over the place. Is everything connected? Of course it is!

So I’ve had the shit OT experience(s) but one of them led me to these organising ladies who have changed everything in my life for the better. Fellow glitter brains, do you spend 87% of your time not being able to find a thing or even to remember where the hell it should be? That used to be me. Then Catherine and her team came in and put labels on tubs everywhere and made it make sense. I have all this time and energy now that used to be spent in a state of self-flagellation.

A few weeks ago we conquered THE SHED. I booked a skip, and good LORD so much baggage did get flung in it, and so much other baggage made its way to the op shop to find a second or fifth life. If you find an absolute motherlode of baby stuff in a Castlemaine oppy, you’re welcome.

Visual description: a meme with text Karen is not messing around with baggage claim shenanigans. Photograph below of a queue of boomers with their rolling suitcases. The person at the back has an image of her face that covers the entire suitcase.

I was cut throat, making decisions I hadn’t been able to make for decades. Ones that sound like “I don’t need my childhood doona because I now have other items that bring me comfort” and “wow that is gross and mangled so it should go in the bin”. These replaced statements that were flavoured with ill-conceived promises of projects, repair and reuse that were never going to happen. I can Sister Maria the shit out of my shed now, the kids can ride their scooters in a big circle, we could even put a car in it!

I have a teeny pile of things that need homes, and I’m tackling it one bit at a time when the mood strikes. I am not allowed to add to that pile.

When the skip drove away, it felt like I’d done the biggest poo the world had ever known, and I felt light and bright, as though I could genuinely be a spokesmodel for Metamucil.

Going through a box of stationery, I remarked that it was weird that my passport hadn’t turned up yet, as we’d gone though most of the boxes and worked out what was inside them. Two items down in the pile of crap WAS MY MISSING PASSPORT. Five years it’s been in that box.

Finding my passport means I can do my legal name change, which means I can stop flinching every time I receive mail of an official nature, attend the GP, fill out forms for the NDIS, making a phone call to an insurance company or whoever, and on and on and on. Death by a thousand papercuts. Last week I did the thing, and after battling it out for many hours on the Births Deaths and Marriages portal to HELL I decided to opt for sending certified photocopies and originals instead. It’s done! I’m going to hunker down in my office once my new birth certificate arrives and update EVERYTHING.

This week I have reams of good news that I can’t really go into but it’s all due to the skip poop. I’m sure of it. It’s a better type of normal.

Baggage. The whole point of this Substack completely slipped my mind due to the reverie I found myself in. So last week I was booked in for a masterclass with Charlotte Wood because three people from my writing group were going and I enjoy following them like a puppy, or perhaps more accurately a duckling who has imprinted that these folks are Mother (agender).

In the days prior we received an email with some homework exercises and requests. One of these requests was to only bring pen and paper, as screens are so distracting. But you can use your laptop or tablet if you need to do so for access reasons.

Speaking of baggage... I teared up, I panicked, I raged, I cycled through all of the emotions swiftly. This ain’t my first rodeo. I reached out to my group and they reassured me it would be perfectly fine if I used my laptop. That it’s my right to do so. But that’s the thing, access is usually hunky dory for all as long as it doesn’t inconvenience, distract, or as my baggage told me, completely destroy the point of the experience for everyone else.

Handwriting is painful in this body, and wreaks havoc for days after. I type because it’s quicker. It isn’t pain free, but it’s the most accessible way I have of recording words that isn’t voice. So I packed up my laptop and its charging cable, and all the bits and bobs I need to leave my sanctuary as a person with OCD and a well-founded and justified fear of germs. It’s a lot of literal baggage.

When we got to the room I was finding it hard to breathe with my mask on and removed it, then my friends were talking about someone who’d been hospitalised with Covid recently. It was much easier to breathe with the mask after I heard that and remembered the last time I was in hospital. I’ve burned a few bridges there so it can’t happen again. My bag was heavy, and full of stuff, and then I just pulled out my notebook and pen and a memoir I’d referred to in my homework. I left my laptop in my bag because I felt self-conscious. I flinched every time one person in the room who was also wearing a mask coughed, which was quite often.

I raged about this on social media the following day, processing my jaunt to the big smoke. If you’re sick, the policy on the ticket for the class says to stay home and you’ll receive a full refund. Why had they come? It was so difficult to concentrate when I was murky of mind with fear and tension. I remembered my counselling session that reminded me that people aren’t taking precautions anymore. I can’t control that and I need to let it go. I might be ok if I get Covid. I might not. I might end up in hospital. I might not. I can take precautions. So I remembered that I’d snorted the nasal spray and done the mouthwash and had my mask and even though the room was hot and didn’t feel particularly breezy, I might be ok. Might might might. It had to be enough.

A friend responded to my ragey post saying it may have been a post viral cough, or asthma. May have, yes. I had to remind myself that the coughs don’t punch everyone in the face like they do to my senses. That it might not be noticeable (this was confirmed afterward when I went to lunch with my posse). I wondered why the cougher didn’t let us know if it was one of these things that were benign and harmless. Because it wasn’t harmless? Or because nobody else was freaking out about this as much as I am?

Visual description: a meme from neurodivers.show. An illustration of the four horsemen of the apocalypse in dark frightening images. They are each labelled: Loud noise, Bad texture, Alterations to a comfort food, Change in plans.

I wrote my notes with pen and paper and did not die. I enjoyed not using a screen. I adored being able to focus completely without distraction and the hum of electricity messing up my flow. I wished my hands worked better, but they don’t, and I can take that love of focus and channel it into my way of working. I can remember that it’s possible.

Access needs should always be prioritised and never shamed. When the words that fling us into feeling are between the lines, and wrought from our own baggage that was handed to us by an ableist world, it’s a tricky balancing act. Where has this come from? Is it mine? Can I cast it off? I couldn’t, on that day, leaving my home and being in a room with audible coughs was enough. I didn’t have any more leaps in me. The result was good, in the end, and I’m glad to have had the opportunity to try doing things differently. It could have gone either way. My baggage tells me it will go badly every single time. I’m starting to notice that isn’t true.

Visual description: a white tile with black border. Bottom right hand corner has ifunny.co written in yellow. Black font in tile says A photon checks into a hotel and is asked if he needs any help with his luggage. Image is of a round cartoonish sphere with a smiley face and tiny arms, one of which is holding a bundle in a red and white polka dot hankie on the end of a stick. There is a small yellow and orange sun in the top right corner below the text. Text below image reads “No, I’m travelling light.”

The day before, I’d let the author of the memoir know that I’d mined their content for homework for this class (it was about courageous and risky writing), and after some lovely chats they invited me to do an in conversation event with them in Sydney. Sydney! How long would it take to drive? Too long. A plane would be an hour. But a plane, could I do it? I checked in with my writing group. Could I do this? Would this be possible? The people I trust told me yes, it was indeed possible, so I considered that it could be true. Imagine if I got to buy a ticket that had my name on it. Not the one I used to have, but my name. Imagine going interstate on a plane and believing that I might be ok, that I can take precautions and do a thing that would mean so much to me.

This is what I’m scared of: deep vein thrombosis, Covid, other germs, resulting death from all of the prior points. But crucially, and increasingly, I’m scared of always being this scared. It is deeply limiting. I want to commune with my lit pals and be together and weave the conversations that keep us warm and help us grow. I want to see places through the lens I have now, after all the work I’ve done to be able to have clarity. I want to keep going.

I’ve said yes to the In Convo, booked in some therapeutic scaffolding in the lead up, and I’m curious about the baggage. Will I need to bring so much stuff? Or just a pen and paper, AirPods, phone charger, some clean undies for the next day, a toothbrush and medications? That’s carry on baggage, baby. Whack it in a backpack or wee rolling bag and Robert’s your mother’s brother.

That’s it for now, folks. If you’re looking for something to watch, may I recommend Unmasked? I’m on the telly inside the internet with two beautiful people and we’re talking about being neurodivergent, and them about being musicians. Damon Smith and Our Carlson kindly joined me on the set so deliciously designed by Bec Petraitis from Humdinger with bits and bobs from around my house. I very much enjoyed loading up a stack of books by ND authors for the set, and you can see them in the background along with Cool who was perpetually asleep and dreaming of being cosy.

There’s a new episode out each week. Episode two is about Parenting and I’m joined by Anna Spargo-Ryan and Flis Marlowe. That should be up soonish.

I can’t recommend highly enough Em Rusciano’s new podcast Anomalous - a love letter to the neurodivergent community and a roadmap for neurotypical people. This is beautifully made audio and explains everything you need to know. I’ve always admired Em and recognise another person who is equal parts heart and overwhelm. Her work just keeps getting better and better, and it’s a pleasure to watch her evolution as an artist and creator.

Ok, I’m out. Love you, bye.