tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34210991176116430392024-01-07T00:29:49.674-08:00Coming To My SensesA Journey into Sensory Processing Disorder
<p>
The Companion Blog to www.rachel-schneider.com</p>
Rachel S. Schneider, M.A., MHChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10550842365173231153noreply@blogger.comBlogger155125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3421099117611643039.post-62679542066296201772021-09-27T10:30:00.000-07:002021-09-27T10:30:12.146-07:00The Year of Absent Blog Posts*Waves*
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitnC5quPP23lO346XIdxYPIuUKNdTu4bawy3n5m-5gEasvapi722F4xVjetenxXpeiNji4Ed92VFlMuVcMokzh7PViCKdd8SDfXC9Vqzs49jPNqLtSM0gOf40rzFI0mnb7MH-ZKe_xY4vi/s626/young-woman-with-cats-ears-her-head-is-peeking-out-from-white-banner-looking-away_158522-44.jpeg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="417" data-original-width="626" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitnC5quPP23lO346XIdxYPIuUKNdTu4bawy3n5m-5gEasvapi722F4xVjetenxXpeiNji4Ed92VFlMuVcMokzh7PViCKdd8SDfXC9Vqzs49jPNqLtSM0gOf40rzFI0mnb7MH-ZKe_xY4vi/s320/young-woman-with-cats-ears-her-head-is-peeking-out-from-white-banner-looking-away_158522-44.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
You know it's been a long, long time between posts when your followers start reaching out to you with some concern. That started happening last week, and it caught me by surprise. Surely, I thought, it hasn't been that long since I've posted to this blog and to social. But yes it has. My last blog post was in January and we're just a few days away from October. So what happened? Why have I spent so many years voraciously posting here to take an unplanned, extended absence from my life of advocacy? <br /> <br />
I don't know. I mean, I can take a guess. Single/divorced mom working full-time with sporadic external support and endless demands during a long pandemic seems to capture the essence of it. There's just less time to connect - with myself, my world, and you - and the time I do have has been dedicated to the care of my delicious daughter, my challenging work, and my wonderful (and new to you) boyfriend (!), who you'll be glad to know is one of the most solid, smart, well-educated, and loving humans on the planet. (At least I've learned valuable lessons from the things I've been through.)<br /> <br />
This sounds weird, but there's less time for SPD in my own life. I still have the same sensitivities and challenges I had the last time we "spoke," but I've had to put my own needs on the shelf over the last few years to survive. As many of you remember, I was living through truly horrific and unprecedented times before we all started living through globally unprecedented times. I haven't stopped to survey my sensory life because much of the time, I just don't have a minute to stop.<br /> <br />
Seeing as I'm giving myself a few moments now for sensory-related reflection, here are a few noteworthy things I've learned or encountered (or created!) since last we spoke:<br /> <br />
1. <b>The Teen Guide to Sensory Issues</b> <br /> <br /><u>
I wrote a third book!</u><div><u><br /></u></div><div>WOOHOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Meet my third book baby. <br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhpaS84D-rfCZ2UhxwQOG-chEZ3M_TP9CtdaZ-usOIkZLgnXypwezeUPhk0NgObbx75KSiCikvYtcejyr0aLWtjIlluIyhjn9hXk0wzQjbR6lg_B8KprbvkYg_k8m8Y7VoWkzPs7Met-6B/s2048/IMG_7994.jpeg" style="clear: left; display: block; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhpaS84D-rfCZ2UhxwQOG-chEZ3M_TP9CtdaZ-usOIkZLgnXypwezeUPhk0NgObbx75KSiCikvYtcejyr0aLWtjIlluIyhjn9hXk0wzQjbR6lg_B8KprbvkYg_k8m8Y7VoWkzPs7Met-6B/w240-h320/IMG_7994.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div> <br />
<div>At a conference in the spring of 2019, someone asked if I had written a book for teens with SPD. It's something I'd always had planned in the back of my mind, especially since I lived as a teen with undiagnosed SPD and the wrong anxiety disorder diagnosis. I started writing the book in my old life, and I honestly didn't know if I'd be able to pick it back up once I woke up a single mom in a brand new life. Lucky for me, my editor and publisher were supremely supportive of me, the losses I'd experienced, and the life transition I was making, and they gave me lots of time to work on the manuscript. Like . . . two years' worth of time. The book launched in late June. </div><div><br /></div><div>Some days, I thought I'd never finish it. While it's healing and satisfying to have written about a difficult time in life, it's challenging in the moment to face those difficulties, make sense of them, process them, capture them, and then put them neatly away.</div><div><br /></div><div>It was in my early teen years that my undiagnosed sensory symptoms really surged. It was when I had my first memorable shutdowns and meltdowns - it was when my anxiety really bloomed and I felt like I was doing daily battle with some unnamed <i>thing</i>. Writing about all of that - my first love and my first job and my first best friend - all in the context of the unnamed <i>thing </i>left me having big feelings. And with my life just beginning again right before the pandemic, I was already Queen of the Big Feelings. </div></div><div><br /></div><div>I'm not sure who to credit with pushing me through the writing process, but I know my mom played a big part in keeping me calm and focused (not a far stretch given her existing role in my life). Writing this from the other side, I'm so glad I stuck with the book and finished it. It tells the stories of my undiagnosed SPD teenagehood memoir-style before diving into advice across a range of topics. I hope you check it out for you or your teen on <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Teen-Guide-Sensory-Issues/dp/1949177416">Amazon</a> or <a href="https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-teen-guide-to-sensory-issues-rachel-s-schneider/1139442867">Barnes & Noble</a>.</div><div><br /></div><div>2. <b>The Sensory Perks of a Covid Mask . . .</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLmHVm06bPwOKONIgSjS0-qlfd1NqEA3_1L8RAKbYZpcNP8hMooYPHe6Mx4hvaDqNDC8HLrlySFrLQ38RTeXsyT067kwQJbJWLjIxAL7CPlN3IO7rFcA7pRLMhaZcNCt4Qjl__BUW46qhZ/s2048/IMG_3160.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2036" data-original-width="2048" height="318" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLmHVm06bPwOKONIgSjS0-qlfd1NqEA3_1L8RAKbYZpcNP8hMooYPHe6Mx4hvaDqNDC8HLrlySFrLQ38RTeXsyT067kwQJbJWLjIxAL7CPlN3IO7rFcA7pRLMhaZcNCt4Qjl__BUW46qhZ/s320/IMG_3160.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>A gentle heads-up, I love you and care about you/your child/your partner/your loved one's SPD, but I'm truly not here to debate or discuss your personal feelings on wearing a mask during a pandemic. I'm a woman of science and I'm doing what I believe to be the safest things for vaccinated me and my someday-vaccinated kiddo. BUT I've learned something interesting from a sensory perspective about wearing a mask. I used to wear <a href="http://comingtosenses.blogspot.com/2014/05/la-vie-en-bleu.html">blue tinted glasses in my daily outdoor journeys</a>. When Covid hit and I was wearing a mask during every trip outdoors, I realized that I felt too claustrophobic wearing my blue tinted glasses too. And so I took the glasses off. Weirdly enough, I found my visual processing to be about the same - that is, I didn't feel especially challenged or overloaded by my visual field like I used to pre-mask and pre-pandemic (and the reason why I was wearing blue tinted glasses in the first place). I took this puzzling little nugget to my optometrist over the winter, and she said the most obvious and brilliant thing: <u><b>when you wear a mask, about half of your visual field disappears</b>. </u></div><div><br /></div><div>So of course I didn't feel like I needed my tool to process vision - the tool to keep me safer from Covid was also helping my eyes to feel less overwhelmed and inundated with information because it blocked some of what I used to be required to see. I'm wearing my glasses less, even when I don't need a mask, and most of the time feel better able to process the visual world. I call that a tiny pandemic win.</div><div><br /></div><div>3. <b>Working My Way Back to You (Babe)</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div>So yes. I've been absent, but I really haven't been completely gone. I think I'm learning that in advocating for anything, a person has to make room for the way life ebbs, flows, and changes. I suspect there'll be times in my life where I can't blog enough about what I'm experiencing in my sensory world, and there'll be moments, like right now, where a bunch of other things necessarily have to come first. Either way, I hope you forgive me. I hope you know I'm still right here. I hope you know I'll write you back in time. I hope you know I'm collecting memes like nobody's business so I can share them again with you. </div><div><br /></div><div>Sending love and I know we'll connect again soon. </div>Rachel S. Schneider, M.A., MHChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10550842365173231153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3421099117611643039.post-59453110934768189912021-01-19T08:00:00.006-08:002021-01-19T09:35:01.674-08:00Bearaby's Napper: The Weighted Blanket That Holds Your Hand<p> Sensory Friends, I'm in love!*</p><p>*with a weighted blanket. </p><p>Yes, you heard me. I'm in love with a weighted blanket. </p><p>A few months ago, the good people over at <a href="https://bearaby.com/">Bearaby</a> asked if they could send me one of their weighted <a href="https://bearaby.com/products/the-napper">Napper </a>blankets to review. I should first mention that I'm a decade-long connoisseur of weighed blankets and other weighted things. I own two weighted lap pads, two weighted blankets, a weighted scarf, a weighted stuffed animal, and two weighted sleep masks. Basically, if it's weighted, I'm game. </p><p>Like a good little student of life, I googled "Bearaby" and up popped these beautiful, colorful woven blankets. There they were in shades that sounded delicious: Butternut Bliss, Evening Rose, and Moonstone Grey - casually sprawled across modern couches and cozy armchairs that I'd give my right arm to own. West Elm features them in their store. HGTV and Insider reviewed them. </p><p>I skeptically looked up from my laptop and scanned the room, as if clearly they intended this email to go to someone else, someone cooler and luckier than me. Realizing I was alone (and it was, after all, my inbox and my laptop), it hit me that they were actually talking to me. They wanted to send me something beautiful and useful to try. My opinion in the social sphere mattered. </p><p>And then it hit me:</p><p><i>I've somehow become a sensory influencer!</i> (Listen closely, and you might still be able to hear my squeals of delight all the way from NYC). Only took a decade of hard work. </p><p>But back to Bearaby. They wanted me to weigh in on their Napper (weighted blanket pun not intended, but digging it anyhow) as an adult with SPD and write an honest review. And if you know me, you know I'm always up to the task of checking out something that could enhance my sensory life and yours. I think I emailed them right back saying YES, HOW QUICKLY CAN YOU SEND IT?! I was told to choose a shade (Evening Eggplant - a rich, fall shade of purple) and sit tight. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p style="text-align: left;">A few days later, my daughter's nanny dragged in a massive box behind her. <i>It's HERE! </i>she exclaimed, as excited as I was. I ran to the box and immediately sliced it open. I was expecting to see my new blanket peeking out at me, but instead there was a cream-colored cotton (muslin?) bag with self care tips. I took a million pictures because I always take a million pictures. It was so enticing. And then I unlaced the bag and out peered my new blanket. </p></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVw-1HTDQwp8-TGppbOGy-iZjE1-LYKzxU5hFCv2xgyhQEVR52zAzfV_AoYPwAZZZQqmNHSiG9BOVZ-v4ZwWRYzl2NanS6MoSizfK_OTh7f4Pglr4Jx6whgRDa69lG9fjH4IeLi660YE44/s2016/IMG_7631.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVw-1HTDQwp8-TGppbOGy-iZjE1-LYKzxU5hFCv2xgyhQEVR52zAzfV_AoYPwAZZZQqmNHSiG9BOVZ-v4ZwWRYzl2NanS6MoSizfK_OTh7f4Pglr4Jx6whgRDa69lG9fjH4IeLi660YE44/w300-h400/IMG_7631.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Peek-a-Boo, I Love You<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p></blockquote><p>My daughter's Elmo was an immediate fan too.</p><p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAG4shB0EX3vVnyE0SFqyxwIFmjPZwcG3SLZANjjlHa2rTZn9Nh_yZ2y0xUxiAbBoRuuHC0DtWA4dtfBp3MOhJh7rQVDBSNrDQKoBt28H6qnrVBvAzXUoBdv0HhYrYH6bon3h4a9hMKKza/s1965/IMG_7634.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1965" data-original-width="1352" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAG4shB0EX3vVnyE0SFqyxwIFmjPZwcG3SLZANjjlHa2rTZn9Nh_yZ2y0xUxiAbBoRuuHC0DtWA4dtfBp3MOhJh7rQVDBSNrDQKoBt28H6qnrVBvAzXUoBdv0HhYrYH6bon3h4a9hMKKza/w276-h400/IMG_7634.jpg" width="276" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Peek-a-Boo, Elmo Loves You Too</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijQqvWgR0pMMpIBeqKKPUYL_A9ysJuA3qO_NN54R9BvZxan7aP8OJwGfXrUPn0tqf3XSDyj33W0DjO2NLjzbPSDmiT5INTLaxAUHuOx0Ftv4zrNtidWHkTUnptBt3yvPq3GSMWv50Di3R_/s1512/IMG_7646.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="1512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijQqvWgR0pMMpIBeqKKPUYL_A9ysJuA3qO_NN54R9BvZxan7aP8OJwGfXrUPn0tqf3XSDyj33W0DjO2NLjzbPSDmiT5INTLaxAUHuOx0Ftv4zrNtidWHkTUnptBt3yvPq3GSMWv50Di3R_/s320/IMG_7646.jpg" /></a></div>Finally, I pulled the blanket out of the bag. From the photos, I expected something that felt knit, like the sort of thing someone called Aunt Maude would make you during a long, sickly winter - except weighing as much as a one-year-old. But instead, it felt like thick, cool cottony ropes. I pushed my fingers through the weave and stared at my hand, fascinated by the whole thing. I'd never encountered a weighted . . . well, anything . . . quite like this. I squeezed the strands. They felt like pressing my fingers against a stack of t-shirt fabric. There wasn't a bead in earshot. </div><div><br /></div><div>I was totally baffled and had to ask what made it so heavy, and it turns out they hand-knit each blanket, adding layer on top of layer of organic cotton, so it's naturally weighted. I took a nap on the couch later that day, and I dragged my new 20lb friend over me. Instead of hovering at the curve of my hip, like a tent, the blanket eased over every curve and line of my body. I felt the fan's breeze blow gently through the open weave - I even had to put on a sweatshirt! (No sweating - a weighted blanket first.) And yes, I felt a little like a fish caught in a net at the beginning, but then I laced my fingers through the weave and realized the blanket's best feature might, indeed, be this:</div><div><u><b><br /></b></u></div><div><u><b>It holds my hand.</b></u></div><div><u><b><br /></b></u></div><div><u><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDPdVOqdoaOEkJ-wuoPp62_dopfluOFd7XThDOHmBHGCU37YYXEoG9C9TirwhAEGN9yKxUyGZDBIJMVgv2SxDubn-noy4VKGsNECAAjfqPqVp7JnmtSzrlXmZ75PBBHBWznEV-lEGt8KX2/s1544/IMG_9034.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1544" data-original-width="1158" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDPdVOqdoaOEkJ-wuoPp62_dopfluOFd7XThDOHmBHGCU37YYXEoG9C9TirwhAEGN9yKxUyGZDBIJMVgv2SxDubn-noy4VKGsNECAAjfqPqVp7JnmtSzrlXmZ75PBBHBWznEV-lEGt8KX2/w300-h400/IMG_9034.jpg" width="300" /></a></div></u></div><div>Anyone who's ever read my blog or my books knows my obsession with hand-holding. Nothing makes me feel safer or more connected to the world around me than holding a trusted person's hand. The weave - weighted magically as it is - somehow squeezed my fingers back. Not only was my whole body receiving proprioceptive input, every single finger was as well. I felt peaceful - and then I fell asleep. </div><div><br /></div><div>This continued over the next few weeks. Given any opportunity to nap, I grabbed my Napper. Yes, I could've easily used this blanket for nighttime sleep too. But I'm a weird creature of habit and wanted the soft, fluffy texture of my current weighted blanket to stroke as I slept at night. And so, my Napper has become my go-to naptime blanket. It's also seen me through one particularly ugly meltdown and one meltdown that I circumvented entirely, thanks to this blanket. (Sprawled out on the ground in my famed "Hit the Deck" style under my Napper, I was able to recover quicker than ever before.) </div><div><br /></div><div>It's also my favorite <a href="https://bearaby.com/pages/weighted-blanket">weighted blanket</a> to share with the ones I love. Instead of melting under the weight of a blanket plus the furnace of shared body heat, we're never uncomfortable together under the Napper. It makes the perfect snuggle-up-together-and-watch-TV-from-under-it companion. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibNF0AhmN3L1HJyHOu20HC1sZ5ZU2NjY8gWllGZgxjbFXxS7FBKlqZXdu78BqJPMsgB49M-Jp_SAt7j8YNHUr9nWGmqeA1tpcWLqs7kS3sHkvXhi1grjXiycMfVPm7TQTgA7ed06vlvRFD/s1544/IMG_9030.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1544" data-original-width="1158" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibNF0AhmN3L1HJyHOu20HC1sZ5ZU2NjY8gWllGZgxjbFXxS7FBKlqZXdu78BqJPMsgB49M-Jp_SAt7j8YNHUr9nWGmqeA1tpcWLqs7kS3sHkvXhi1grjXiycMfVPm7TQTgA7ed06vlvRFD/w300-h400/IMG_9030.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">So, thanks Bearaby. Thanks for creating what has to be the most visually-beautiful and uniquely-designed weighted blanket on the market. Thanks for naming your creation The Napper, because we all deserve a break to rest sometimes - especially under the delicious weight of this blanket. Mostly, thanks for finally developing a tool that holds my hand. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil2KdlDaHNyhMEGv5UlC0MATfMpFIi7H75hkY0gBwnj76kae7WKJpnvezEr2hn73BKYWDiNtZqPixbdQLr03GLL84UKxBOZCx6yC5TTVzHfMqIaRLzVYQwriNJA2zLkTRk2psaE-AZdQYL/s2016/IMG_9026.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil2KdlDaHNyhMEGv5UlC0MATfMpFIi7H75hkY0gBwnj76kae7WKJpnvezEr2hn73BKYWDiNtZqPixbdQLr03GLL84UKxBOZCx6yC5TTVzHfMqIaRLzVYQwriNJA2zLkTRk2psaE-AZdQYL/w480-h640/IMG_9026.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p><br /></p><p><br /></p></div>Rachel S. Schneider, M.A., MHChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10550842365173231153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3421099117611643039.post-1351143476110691772020-08-17T08:46:00.004-07:002020-08-17T08:47:13.409-07:00Coming to My Senses Turns TEN!<p>A whole decade ago yesterday, a very unsure and giddy young woman opened her first clean blog page and <a href="http://comingtosenses.blogspot.com/2010/08/coming-to-my-senses.html">wrote a post</a> about SPD for absolutely no one but herself to read. She had no idea what she was starting - maybe you'll indulge me when I call it a movement towards self-understanding and a way for others to finally come to their senses too.</p><p>That unsure and giddy young woman was me. That blog was this blog. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJmHLwjv_-xTve_4G0t-5Mr_9cUsJ0_V4Z-NoV5qWydB81mcsmjQfee8LDYULk318ZSMbeDBnSyg5a-hBzc2iHmpKNf_CWX9Sqzqd6l7F_Mh1o70J1mUkMRvpVqUWXUnyFCNVAJXmBuj5F/s900/9E23437D-1E26-400A-9D57-D0FD14F26F1C_1_105_c.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="786" data-original-width="900" height="447" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJmHLwjv_-xTve_4G0t-5Mr_9cUsJ0_V4Z-NoV5qWydB81mcsmjQfee8LDYULk318ZSMbeDBnSyg5a-hBzc2iHmpKNf_CWX9Sqzqd6l7F_Mh1o70J1mUkMRvpVqUWXUnyFCNVAJXmBuj5F/w512-h447/9E23437D-1E26-400A-9D57-D0FD14F26F1C_1_105_c.jpeg" width="512" /></a></div><p>Had you told me then that a decade later, I'd have moved beyond a blog into the world of article interviews, speaking engagements, social platforms, and published books on this subject, I'd have said you were absolutely insane. I thought I was completely alone with my differences, but instead you were all out there somewhere on my path and I was somewhere on yours, and we were just waiting to collide. </p><p>And that's how I like to picture life. All of the joys and horrors you're bound to experience - all of your loves and your greatest enemies and that one quirky passion - all of your best days and worst days are out there somewhere, just waiting for you to walk by. </p><p>I'm glad after 27 years of my life, I finally walked by. </p><p>I can't say what the next decade holds, personally or professionally. This year of absurdities and traumas and unexpected joy has shown me that nothing is ever quite as it seems - but I know it's going to be interesting. I believe it's going to be filled with new studies about SPD, new tools to make our lives more comfortable, new opportunities for sensory adults to have a voice, and new ways for me to reach my sensory soul-friends who have also always felt slightly off-center. </p><p>I hope you'll be there too. Without your love and support over the last decade I don't know where I'd be today.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT0_OxRTDic3dCAjBxYNNPkYLN3_Y7CAeZMxrIrUGp1xAq14fUvveYclfRAslEG86hTaIU74KqDIjuvHEpJPxkJRZcbXZzaDZ_x8BVGZucKvtkUJmdwfhfru3Q_znRROdNTx1-swaU6vJk/s2048/1975ADA5-C6DE-44C6-BF8F-318B14F53D21_1_201_a.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="512" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT0_OxRTDic3dCAjBxYNNPkYLN3_Y7CAeZMxrIrUGp1xAq14fUvveYclfRAslEG86hTaIU74KqDIjuvHEpJPxkJRZcbXZzaDZ_x8BVGZucKvtkUJmdwfhfru3Q_znRROdNTx1-swaU6vJk/w384-h512/1975ADA5-C6DE-44C6-BF8F-318B14F53D21_1_201_a.jpeg" width="384" /></a></div>Rachel S. Schneider, M.A., MHChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10550842365173231153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3421099117611643039.post-3097703712239249562020-03-16T11:04:00.003-07:002020-03-16T11:04:50.686-07:00Five Ways to Handle Social Distancing from an Expert Neurodiverse Distancer Okay, I have something important to admit: I've spent a good part of my life social distancing. Like, long before Coronavirus drove us indoors. Long before it was in style.<br />
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And something else: the world's always felt scary to me. Like, long before it was a shared global sentiment. Long before the news was reporting on it constantly.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The <a href="https://www.deviantart.com/purplephoneixstar/art/The-world-is-a-big-scary-place-89088656">truth</a><span id="goog_1597226393"></span></td></tr>
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Having Sensory Processing Disorder (SPD) means that the world most people take for granted is overwhelming for me, purely due to the way my brain is wired. For people with SPD, the world is often a scary place filled with jumbled, intense sounds, sights, smells, and other sensory input and related feelings that we can't untangle. It's loud when we least expect it. Someone surprises us from behind when we thought we were alone. We can't connect our bodies to the physical space we're in, and we crash about like a gasping fish on the shore. And sometimes, when it becomes too much, our brains temporarily disconnect from processing this distressing input, and we lose our already tenuous connection to our bodies and our environments. It's these sensory shutdowns and meltdowns that often drive us indoors and away from people. We can't be overwhelmed when we're alone. We don't have to account for unpredictability when we control our environment.<br />
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In watching my friends, family, neighbors, colleagues, and really my entire social network retreat into their homes for the immediate future, I keep thinking - <i>finally, something I'm skilled at doing!</i> As friendly and outgoing as I am, I'm great at social distancing because being in my own space alone is my most comfortable state of being.<br />
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So what advice can I pass along during this time to keep you both safe and sane?<br />
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<br />
<ol>
<li><u>Embrace the situation.</u> This health crisis and its rippling impacts are happening, whether or not you like it. You can't change it, but you might be able to "flatten the curve," as they say, and have a greater impact on our collective health by staying put. You're safer staying put. As much as I like to challenge my sensory differences, there are days where I feel safer staying put too. As much as I wish I could undo how I'm feeling and the ways in which my neurological differences impact my life, I can't. There've been many times where I've had to let my friends and family go out, engage with the world, and live more fully knowing I can't handle the [concert, fair, party - insert all events here, really]. Those moments make me feel especially sad - like I'm missing out purely because of something beyond my control. And it's true, sometimes I am - but I can control how I feel about it, myself, and my life. My reaction won't change the situation but it will change my personal climate. Embrace this time. Even if it sucks and it's scary, hopefully it's temporary. </li>
<li><u>Redefine your indoor space</u>. I like to think of my apartment as having zones with different potential activities connected to each zone. When I'm having one of those sensory-triggered social distancing days, I like to shift from room to room and from zone to zone. I think of them each as their own individual space. Divide up your house and rotate around the different stations like they're their own locations. You'll feel less cooped up if you're not just sitting on the couch having an endless Parks and Rec marathon. While you're at it, throw open your blinds and let daylight in - open the window if it's not freezing. Bring the outside to you as much as you can. </li>
<li><u>Get creative with your activities.</u> Think about your zones and what you like to do in each one of them. Kitchen: try a new recipe, whip up some homemade hand sanitizer, organize your recipe box (make a recipe box!), pick one ingredient and have your own mini Iron Chef competition, play bartender and day drink. Bathroom: have a spa afternoon (if you do this, enjoy it for me - this is impossible to do with a preschooler), take a long bath with a glass of wine and your favorite book, finally clean the damn tub, sing every song you know and pretend you're grammy-worthy. Living room: watch a series you've been putting off, rent a movie (or a bunch of movies - pick a theme), watch documentaries about new things so you feel like you learned and engaged with the outside world even while inside (this always helps me), read a book/magazine/old journal, do an online exercise class or dance routine, dance party!, sort through old photos (extra points for posting them to social media and entertaining others), play a board game, play solitaire, take a nap. Bedroom: . . . I don't need to tell you what to do in the bedroom *wink*, just don't sleep there because you'll want it to feel fresh at nighttime. If you have outdoor space, you're super lucky - enjoy that fresh air for me. Be sure to vary these activities like you do the zones of your house. And then - and this is the hardest part - repeat. Don't use up all of your activities in one day. Space them out throughout the week. (SIDE NOTE: If you have a kid like me, a similar concept applies, except it's mostly chaos and frantic wall-climbing - lots of zone movement, lots of activities, lots of exhaustion - you can do this and you're not alone, but yes, it's hard entertaining people when you yourself are bored and feel stuck.)</li>
<li><u>Take to social media but don't let the news break you.</u> Sometimes, the safest way to connect with people as someone with sensory sensitivities is virtually. This applies to neurotypicals now too. Go online, text, FaceTime, Skype, Zoom, just be careful for the onslaught of deeply upsetting news. Won't help your situation at home and might make you feel hopeless. If you do this and feel terrible, see #1 again. Your reaction won't change the situation but it can change your personal climate.</li>
<li><u>Get the hell outside - safely.</u> For me, this has always been a walk around the block or around the neighboring, familiar blocks. Maybe for you it's a hike deep in nature or sitting on your front steps. Even on my most sensitive days, I make sure I get outside, and even just 10 minutes of sunlight will make you feel better.</li>
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Did this help? Maybe not. Maybe it helps to know that a whole bunch of people often social distance because their unique wiring makes it necessary. We've survived. We continue to survive. So will you.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Basically, <a href="http://lastlemon.com/harolds-planet/hp5175/">yes</a> </td></tr>
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Wishing you all health during this uncertain time,</div>
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<br />Rachel</div>
Rachel S. Schneider, M.A., MHChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10550842365173231153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3421099117611643039.post-2221693169196905132019-11-27T06:37:00.000-08:002019-11-27T06:43:22.872-08:00Sensory Meltdowns and Shutdowns are Not Panic AttacksHow do I know that? Because I'm having a panic attack right now . . .<br />
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***<br />
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Or, well, I was when I wrote the start of this post a few months ago.<br />
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My life had been turned upside-down by the person I trusted the most in this world - the one person who should've put the needs of his family above his own, as I'd always done. As we're all supposed to do. Instead, I'd woken up to the aftermath of a real-life Law and Order SVU episode. Olivia Benson, where were you when I needed you the most?<br />
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That morning was also, I imagine, how it might feel to wake up to the day after a devastating natural disaster: a high magnitude earthquake, say, or ancient Pompeii the morning after the eruption of Mount Vesuvius. I'd unknowingly survived the major event - slept right through it, really - and while it felt like the earth had spun straight off its axis, the rest of the world marched calmly forward. My apartment was intact. My daughter was eating her waffle. I sat silently at our dining room table, our nanny watching me closely. The emotional debris of such destruction hit me in waves. The first wave came on with a series of new sensations. It felt like somewhere inside of me, someone was trying to smother me with a pillow. My chest felt heavy and tight. My breathing became quick. My heart ached. I kept trying to catch my breath, but instead I become overcome by heaving tears. I stepped away into the bathroom, panting and sobbing and shaking.<br />
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<u>What it wasn't</u>: a sensory meltdown. I've had so many of these episodes in my life.<br />
<u>What these feel like:</u> sudden overwhelm by sensory stimuli - too much noise, too much movement, too much to see - and an inability to escape. Dark clouds, a flood of tears, and in time, a groggy waking up to the world as if I'd never melted down in the first place.<br />
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<u>What it wasn't:</u> a sensory shutdown. I've had so many of these episodes in my life too.<br />
<u>What these feel like:</u> a disconnection from the body and environment, triggered by an overwhelming amount of sensory input and an inability to make sense of all of it at once. A feeling that no matter what I do, I'll be lost inside of myself forever. Passes in time in a quiet, safe space. Scarier than it sounds.<br />
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<u>What it was</u>: a panic attack.<br />
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And not just a panic attack, my <i>first-ever </i>panic attack. In the middle of the tight-chested panting, through the pile of filth my former partner stranded me in, I somehow had the clarity of mind to think: <i>huh. Funny. So this is a panic attack. </i>For decades, professionals thought my sensory meltdowns and shutdowns were panic attacks and that I had Panic Disorder. It was my official diagnosis according to the gods of psychology and the authors of the DSM. I did Cognitive Behavioral Therapy, Exposure Therapy, Biofeedback - everything they could think of to reduce my panic symptoms. Except nothing really reduced these symptoms and no one could tell me why I had these "attacks" mostly in the presence of bright lights and loud sounds - and often at night. It was an ill-fitting diagnosis with symptoms that almost matched the descriptions of my experiences. Almost but not quite.<br />
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Friends, we now know I never had panic symptoms. I had undiagnosed Sensory Processing Disorder (SPD). I had my first panic attack at age 36 when my life came crashing down around me. You know, as most of us would.<br />
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The weird thing is, as uncomfortable as that panic attack was, it was NOTHING compared to the sensory challenges I've faced in my life. When the first one was over, I was like: okay, that was it? Cool, because a meltdown is way harder and a shutdown is way scarier. And maybe this isn't the case for everyone, but it was for me - even as I had panic attacks over the next few weeks that followed. The worst were the ones right before bed, when the air was still and quiet and I had to sit very much alone with the enormity of what happened to me and my daughter. The more I worked on the traumas I'd endured in September with my therapist, the better the panic attacks got, until they stopped happening altogether.<br />
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I think it's important that we work to distinguish what we're experiencing, as sensory people. Because SPD is still largely misunderstood and misdiagnosed by so many, we're quick to lump all sensory happenings into the panic attack bucket. I think it's because we're more familiar as a society with psychological terms and diagnoses and not as comfortable with neurological differences. But meltdowns, shutdowns, and panic attacks are not the same thing. Two are the result of a differently wired brain contending with a demanding sensory world. One is the result of anxiety overloading a system. Two we learn to live with because they're a part of our neurodiverse makeup. One can be helped through psychotherapy. All are difficult. All are part of the human experience as a whole. But they're not the same.<br />
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I'm not thankful for what happened here in early September. How could I be? Two weeks after that morning, I was injured in a bizarre accident involving a toddler, a forehead, and a step stool. I carry a scar above my left eye now. When I look in the mirror at that crooked red line, I remember everything: the waking up to a new role, a new me, a new life I didn't ask for or see coming. I carry all sorts of scars with me, externally and internally, as I continue to move into the future. But strangely, I'm thankful to have experienced a panic attack, if only so I could put to bed my original misdiagnosis. A strange token to pull from the mountains of rubble.Rachel S. Schneider, M.A., MHChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10550842365173231153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3421099117611643039.post-64255727153283399612019-09-13T07:03:00.000-07:002019-09-13T07:03:49.518-07:00On the Loss of a Handler (or Skydiving Without a Parachute)Let me start by saying I never expected to have to write this post. Not for a very, very long time. And allow me to clarify what I mean by <i>loss</i>: my handler is alive. He is not lost to the world, just lost to me. After making a series of hurtful, selfish, and inexcusable decisions that put me and my child at risk, I have had no choice but to escort my handler out of the life we've shared for a decade.<br /><br />
In short: this week's been a living nightmare filled with actions I never thought I'd have to take and more sadness and anger than I ever anticipated I'd encounter.<br />
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Losing a handler is like losing your parachute mid-jump. You pull the handle only to realize that you're falling fast without the gear you've necessarily relied upon guiding you safely down. There's a sense of surreality, finality: a quickly approaching landscape and a new future you never intended to face.<br />
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In searching for an image to convey this sentiment, I came across an article about skydiving without a parachute. It asked: <i>can you survive a free fall without one</i>? The answer: <i>surprisingly, yes</i>. The article goes on to ask, <i>what should you do if you find yourself falling without a parachute? The first thing you have to do is stop panicking. </i>It goes on to say, <i>you need to quickly look for the best landing spot and aim at it</i>. I'll admit that their further guidance on body positioning to avoid getting water up your nose isn't as helpful in this scenario.<br />
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But their first two points are valid:<br />
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1. Stop panicking.<br />
2. Aim at a landing spot.<br />
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Apparently, a person dealing with such trauma only has to read articles about extreme sports to learn how best to cope. And maybe it's because life - with or without neurological differences - is an extreme sport (I'm liking this analogy, so bear with me, readers). We are all always a single moment and a single decision away from skydiving without a parachute.<br />
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I'm going to try to stop panicking. Panicking won't soften the descent, it'll only impact me as the level-headed parachuter. Through the quickly passing clouds, down on the ground, I'm starting to see a crowd of people. They have blankets, pillows, trampolines, and signs. Their arms are raised in love and cheer. They're my family, my friends, my colleagues, my support network.<br />
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I'm aiming at them. It's there I will land.<br />
<br />Rachel S. Schneider, M.A., MHChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10550842365173231153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3421099117611643039.post-53901700760433789792019-07-25T06:56:00.000-07:002019-07-25T06:56:36.395-07:00I'm Coming Back to Your Bookshelves!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Rachel S. Schneider, M.A., MHChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10550842365173231153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3421099117611643039.post-85010688182435411662019-06-05T07:32:00.002-07:002019-06-05T07:32:57.849-07:00Play-Do? Play-No.Nearly nine years into my official SPD journey and I'm still uncovering sensory input that I just can't stand. The most recent offender? Our daughter's seemingly most innocuous artsy-play-thing: playdough. It's colorful, transformable, and relatively neat as artsy-play-things go. Who doesn't love playdough? <b>Friends, I don't love playdough. I don't even like playdough. </b><br />
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This is a weird revelation for this 80s-90s kid who absolutely adored packaged playdough. I have a childhood scent-memory of making wheaty vanilla braids on my grandma's Floridian lanai; taking a short break from snapping open her tiny pair of opera glasses, my favorite of her knickknacks. It's one of those precious memories, tucked away in that warm place where vivid moments of the past thrive. When I think about it, I'm instantly and happily transported back to a very cozy time.<br />
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So imagine my joy when our toddler turned two and we could finally break out the colorful wads and start creating. I was a child of playdough. I am not an adult of playdough. Now, I am hyper-aware of my hands - or rather, the residue playdoughs of all kinds leave on them. I can't stand the smell, the gummy feeling, the give as I roll the mass into shapes that delight our daughter. I feel myself become increasingly finicky in my skin; my blood starts to pulse angrily through my veins. I have the urge to run.<br />
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The other day, I had what I thought was a brilliant idea: make playdough from scratch! Everything is better from scratch, right? Besides, I've made my fair share of playdough: I dabbled as a preschool teacher for a hot minute in my early 20s. Our daughter ran for her step stool and together we mixed, dyed, and kneaded the dough. She was thrilled. It was gorgeous. I felt like Super Mom in all of her heroic glory, a human Pinterest success story. And then we got down to playing with the dough. I had to suppress an actual gag. It was essentially the same sensory experience as the packaged stuff.<br />
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I'm not here to present a solution. I mean, I've considered chucking all of our playdough out the window while shouting expletives, but it wouldn't be productive and I'm pretty sure I'd make our daughter cry. I typically try to wait for my husband to walk in the room so I can direct our daughter to him. When he's not around, I'm a big fan of distraction (shiny thing! Let's go see!) and if all else fails, I cringe my way through playdough. All sensory experiences are temporary, anyhow. I know that. I'm just fascinated that my sensory complexities continue to reveal themselves after so long.<br />
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Rachel S. Schneider, M.A., MHChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10550842365173231153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3421099117611643039.post-51440841442234852762019-03-15T09:02:00.002-07:002019-03-15T12:17:56.929-07:00Six Scenes of Sickness in a Sensory Life <br />
One.<br />
<br />
I'm lying on a cot in the nurse's office at school staring blankly at the light blue walls, waiting. The table is lined with crinkly paper that sticks to my arms and the pillow is lumpy and unfamiliar. The lights feel brighter than usual. It's one of those <i>waiting-to-get-picked-up</i> visits, one of those <i>I-was-sick-earlier-in-the-week</i> visits. One of those <i>my-senses-haven't-recovered-yet-but-no-one-realizes-it </i>visits. I can't explain my symptoms because, in the traditional sense, I don't have any.<br />
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Two.<br />
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On the tv: The Muppet Show. It's the only thing I can make sense of through the haze of Flu. I picture myself as Miss Piggy, beautiful, bold, and pink with those envious golden locks, winning the heart of humble, sweet, sincere Kermit. And then a myriad of muppets begin to sing. My body instantly overflows with fear. I can't hear them, see them, and be in my sick body at the same time. The tv goes off, and I'm escorted down the carpeted hallway toward the bedroom, unsure why I can't feel a single foot fall on the floor or my limbs in motion through space.<br />
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Three.<br />
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I'm barefoot and standing over the shallow end of the pool in early August. A swarm of campers shout and splash from all sides of the bustling rectangle. Through the chain-link fence, the weeping willows are gently tossed by the warm wind, but I'm shivering, even though my insides are burning. My favorite camper hoists herself over the lip of the pool and scuttles past me to retrieve her towel. As she does, pool water is dashed across my skin, and it feels painful, like tiny shards of glass.<br />
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Four.<br />
<br />
When my college roommate finds me, I'm on the floor near the bathroom sinks, muttering about schooners. It's where I'd fallen when the walls started to tip. As for the schooners, they're all I can see: tall, masted ships tossed in an angry sea. The word crashing like waves - <i>schooner, schooner -</i>until I am the words and the billowing sails. She helps me to my feet and walks me back down the hallway. I don a hoodie and some jeans, and we slowly make our way up the hill and around the bend toward the health center. The nurse is concerned. It surprises neither of us that I am dangerously dehydrated, delirious, and in dire need of rest. My family makes the long drive to retrieve me.<br />
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Five.<br />
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They call it Mono, but the tests come back negative, and so I eat the occasional Chipwich and sprawl across my bed, unable and unwilling to budge. Weeks of lethargy are punctuated by tiny sojourns outdoors, where I squint at the harsh, ceaseless motion of taxis, buses, and people around me before hastening back indoors to the safety of my apartment.<br />
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Six.<br />
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Our little one succumbs first and then we follow suit. It's not the Flu, but it sure feels like it - in spite of the shot, in spite of the test results. It's been so many nights of broken sleep: cradling, instead, a tiny body as warm as a roast turkey just pulled from the holiday oven.<br />
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I remove my hearty, noise-reducing earmuffs and peel off my weighted lap pad before crossing from bedroom office into the living room. There, she colors with chalk, smiling: her highest fever finally, dramatically diminished. Two days behind her in health, my handler stands watching - a picture of my own future well-being. They are my maps, my guides. My head pounds and my torso aches. He pulls me into a full-body hug, the way my body craves. Below, she points gleefully to her masterpiece and cries: "elephant!"<br />
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<br />Rachel S. Schneider, M.A., MHChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10550842365173231153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3421099117611643039.post-46426624961561302272018-09-24T10:38:00.000-07:002018-09-24T10:38:50.704-07:00The Great Weighted Sleep Mask Hunt Yes, I know - I have become an unreliable blogger! I am so sorry for that. If you've ever had SPD, a toddler, a husband, and a full-time job, then you know that blogging is a luxury reserved for stolen moments of solitude - or if you just must share something new and exciting.<br />
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And that's what brings me here today.<br />
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Sensory Friends - after seven years . . . I have finally found - and purchased - a new, ever-elusive weighted sleep mask!<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tada</td></tr>
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What's that? <span style="text-align: center;">I think I hear one sort-of bored reader mouthing a half-hearted </span><i style="text-align: center;">yay</i><span style="text-align: center;">. </span><br />
<span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span>
<span style="text-align: center;">Sorry if this isn't as exciting as you'd hoped. It's not always exciting over here. Or maybe it's that as a mom, things are rarely for me or about me. But imagine this: discovering a package at the door with your name on it. You forget, just for a brief moment, that you placed an order for something you need and haven't been able to find, and you tear open the yellow packaging with your hands and extract the precious bundle. </span><span style="text-align: center;">The reason this particular bundle is especially precious is that, for the past six years, I have been looking for a weighted sleep mask. Any weighted sleep mask. </span><br />
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<span style="text-align: center;">You may remember <a href="http://comingtosenses.blogspot.com/2011/08/comorbid-anxiety-and-sleep-masks.html">this post</a> from August 2011 when, inspired by a simple action by my clever handler, I bought a weighted sleep mask from a vendor on Etsy and my sleeping life changed forever. I loved it so much that I immediately bought a second one, and soon after, the shop closed - and then morphed. Whatever the case, the sleep mask with the strap disappeared.</span><br />
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<span style="text-align: center;">I watched my beloved masks deteriorate with quiet worry. I'd googled "weighted sleep mask" multiple times over the past few years to find nothing. </span><span style="text-align: center;">I went so far as to accost a lovely husband-wife weighted product maker team at an SPD conference on the west coast to encourage them to develop one for me. The wife said she'd never heard of weighted sleep masks for people with sensory issues.</span><br />
<span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span>
<span style="text-align: center;">Apparently, I was the only sensory weirdo who needed to sleep with weight on my face. </span><br />
<span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span>
<span style="text-align: center;">Seven years later, after wearing it for over 2,500 nights, my newest mask was crumbling into bits in my hand. What was once a luxurious poofy pink mask had turned into what amounted to a drowned Muppet on a thinning string. And then last week, just when I thought my search was futile, I stumbled upon this beauty:</span><br />
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<span style="text-align: center;">The only problem? It's made by Gravity, a company I'd seen crop up on the news in the past year touting weighted blankets as if they invented them. As a person with a neurological difference who's been using a weighted blanket since my diagnosis, I sneered at Gravity. <i>Surely,</i> I thought, <i>you can't believe you came up with this concept - you just captured the collective's attention by marketing your products better. </i>But you know the old adage, <i>sleep mask beggers can't be sleep mask choosers </i> (or something like that), and I bought one. </span><br />
<span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span>
<span style="text-align: center;">Aside from the satin lining on the side that goes against my eyes (a short-lasting chilly, awkward sensation when I'm used to warm fluffy against my eyelids), the mask is perfect. The strap seems hearty and there's no velcro looming that might cause the strap to pull away from the sides (or scratch a delicate face in a sleepy state). The website says it's about a pound of weight distributed across the face, which - to me, at least - feels ideal. </span><br />
<span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span>
<span style="text-align: center;">Want the best weighted blanket of your life? Go see Keith Zivalich at <a href="https://magicweightedblanket.com/">Magic Weighted Blanket</a> - I own two chenille blankets and one weighted scarf that acts as a multipurpose wonder-weight for every situation. I'd bet many nights' sleep that you'd love their delicious blankets.</span><br />
<span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span>
<span style="text-align: center;">But if you want to take your need for deep-pressure touch and proprioceptive-grounding to the next level with a weighted sleep mask, </span><span style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://gravityblankets.com/products/the-gravity-sleep-mask">Gravity</a> is the best game in town.</span><br />
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<span style="text-align: center;">Sweet sensory dreams, friends.</span><br />
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Rachel S. Schneider, M.A., MHChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10550842365173231153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3421099117611643039.post-81999834091121934202018-03-22T08:52:00.001-07:002018-03-22T17:46:14.240-07:00Sometimes I Still Feel the Bruise Dear Sensory Friends,<br />
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I have a confession: I am injury-prone.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm sticking to this story.</td></tr>
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Actually, saying that is like saying <i>I like dark chocolate</i>, when in reality, the truth is much closer to <i>if I don't eat at least a square of dark chocolate once a day, I turn into a red-eyed demonic force haunted by the very thought that chocolate exists and I presently don't have any in my possession. </i><br />
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So maybe it's more like: I am a human bruise. I am the human embodiment of bruising.<br />
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I honestly don't think my body is ever entirely unbruised, if that's even a word. Instead, I am like a madman's canvas of blues and purples, and 95% of the time, I can't tell you what I walked into or what object tumbled down on me to cause such epidermal trauma. <i>What's this from? </i>a caring friend or family member might ask, pointing at my colorful calf or forearm. <i>Huh</i>, I'll say, momentarily regarding the spot, <i>this is the first time I'm seeing it</i>. (What I can tell you with certainty is based on my perpetual bruising, I must always, always, always walking and banging into things.)<br />
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About 5% of the time, I am all too aware of the bruise's origin. Like the moment last week, with my toddler daughter's dinner in both hands, that I walked straight into the metal-tipped edge of a safety gate so hard that a dime-sized spot, rimmed in crimson, immediately appeared on my leg. I can't remember what unfortunate obscenities I screamed (or how loudly the sound), but I watched with fascination as the patch spread and changed colors over the course of the next few days, until it faded away.<br />
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And then there was the incident Monday night, when I managed to lose my grasp on a rather large can as I attempted to put it on a rather high pantry shelf, and it came crashing down on my toe. I'm pretty sure I blacked out for a few minutes there as I knelt over my foot, mewing and crying like an injured cat. With the intensity of pain came the waves of nausea and then, for me at least, the inevitable feeling that I was, indeed, going to pass out - something that I found both comforting confusing in the moment. I was so close to the floor I wouldn't have far to go if I fainted. My Handler, having run into our living room from the kitchen with a bag of ice, helped me sprawl out as I made animal noises that echoed down the hallway. Mine was a distracting, throbbing pain. I popped a few Advil, gingerly taped the poor toe to its neighbor, and woke up in the morning hoping it wasn't actually broken. Spoiler alert: it wasn't. (I can do many things, but tending to a spirited 13-month-old while wearing a cast is not on my most immediate bucket list.)<br />
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<i>We all bruise</i>, I hear you say. <i>Everyone gets hurt! </i>And yes, this is true, but for those of us with SPD, especially those of us who find it impossible to connect our bodies to the outside world, we are even more at risk. If I can't properly locate my hand in space and how it connects to my wrist, and my hand is holding a sizable, heavy can, then it only makes sense that I would find a way to drop it. If I can't properly locate my leg in space and how it connects to my knee and ankle, then it only makes sense that I would find a way to smash into a gate meant to keep my daughter safe. (The irony of getting injured on the safety gate hasn't escaped me. You failed your one task, gate.)<br />
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Note to anyone with proprioceptive concerns from your pal Rachel: maybe don't put groceries away late at night, when your already tenuous connection to your body and the outside world has been further taxed by the day's activities, and is essentially non-existent. Maybe abandon heavy cans with sluggish glee. Tuck them away in the corner for the night in their little paper bags, and then fold yourself under the hug of a weighted blanket and dim the lights.<br />
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Your toes will thank you.Rachel S. Schneider, M.A., MHChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10550842365173231153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3421099117611643039.post-28711145290176583492018-01-24T06:53:00.000-08:002018-01-24T06:53:45.331-08:00Sensory Mom Turns OneThis Saturday, our delicious, sassy, smart, hilarious, spitfire of a baby girl turns ONE - something that I couldn't begin to fathom back when I was pregnant, and something that I have trouble even believing today. And because she's turning one, in many ways, so am I.<br />
<br />
Motherhood changes a woman.<br />
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Before our girl was born, so much of my life centered around what sensory stimuli I could and could not handle. I talked about it, I wrote about it, I laughed about it, I cried about it. I felt around it and outlined parameters. I measured my abilities for size.<br />
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I'm so glad I took the time to really engage with my SPD when I did. What I couldn't see last year that I see now is how much mental space and energy I had for myself pre-parenthood. Well-established parents who are reading this are probably shaking their heads at me. <i>Of course you had mental space and energy, silly girl, you didn't yet have a baby.</i> As the rest of us (and I) now know, parenthood, in many ways, is the true suspension of the self for the enhancement of someone else. How many times this year have I said: <i>it doesn't matter, as long as she is rested/fed/happy</i>? (Answer, for those of you who are not my Handler: MANY.)<br />
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Funny thing is it feels natural for me to go: <i>yup, you first.</i> In many ways, as exhausting as it is, it's simpler and nicer to put my sensory issues on the back burner for a bit. This isn't to say that I don't still use my Wilbarger brush or fidgets (I do!) or that I don't have sensory overload followed by a full-on meltdown or shutdown (I do!) - it just means something different to me now. If I can survive pregnancy, a complicated delivery, Newborn Bootcamp (as my friend so eloquently puts it), and a full year of a human's infancy, then I can survive just about anything. Bring on the strobe lights and patter-speak!<br />
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Or maybe don't.<br />
<br />
This Saturday is not only our daughter's first birthday, it's my first birthday as this modified version of myself. I am still working to remind myself that I am still <i>me</i>: the sensitive poet-writer who loves to bake desserts and lounge in lavender-scented baths and listen to music. I am the girl who was undiagnosed, the teen who longed to know more, the young adult who found answers, and the woman who blogs before you today. I've had to reconnect with these different sides of myself in this first postpartum year, and I am still making tenuous connections with the aspects of my life that came before the toughest and most worthy transition I've ever experienced.<br />
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The word I'd use to sum up my first year as a mom with SPD: pride. I'm proud of our baby girl, I'm proud of my Handler and I for learning how to hold on tight and establish a family, and I'm proud of myself for being a wonderful mother. Yes, I'm wired differently. Yes, things can be especially challenging for me. But boy, does it make the reward of every small success even sweeter.<br />
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And yes, this small success is truly my biggest.<br />
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<br />Rachel S. Schneider, M.A., MHChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10550842365173231153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3421099117611643039.post-90048187497082033052017-10-30T08:46:00.000-07:002017-10-30T08:46:32.714-07:00My Sensory Halloween: A Retrospective <div style="text-align: left;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2mrPRt97AEuY8yVnJPJFA5Jjsb91v-zn_t-hcFPkXA1spQ3CzMRa_SQQcIDCBLb97ZrUGUlK0SCZALjy-0ekbL7fdpwFKkdyJ1y0deSIPMeb5jrN9hkqYyA5ZXVOYJvgnDN8k7GLXsTtA/s1600/fullsizeoutput_bbfe.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="754" data-original-width="385" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2mrPRt97AEuY8yVnJPJFA5Jjsb91v-zn_t-hcFPkXA1spQ3CzMRa_SQQcIDCBLb97ZrUGUlK0SCZALjy-0ekbL7fdpwFKkdyJ1y0deSIPMeb5jrN9hkqYyA5ZXVOYJvgnDN8k7GLXsTtA/s400/fullsizeoutput_bbfe.jpeg" width="202" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px; text-align: center;">Pretty Princess</td></tr>
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Halloween and I have always had both a loving and clandestinely stormy relationship. As a child, unaware of my unique neurology and willing to do pretty much anything for a single Reeses Peanut Butter Cup or Kit Kat bar, I outwardly loved Halloween - beautiful costumes! Sparkles! Crowns! Chocolate! - and I inwardly hated it - roaming from strange apartment to strange apartment and brightly lit hallway to brightly lit hallway in the quest for my beloved candy. I was, after all, an undiagnosed child with Sensory Processing Disorder (SPD).<br />
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You'd never have known my displeasure back then, though. I wouldn't have had the words to explain the anticipatory anxiety I experienced every October 30th, or the discomfort and detachment I felt from the fluorescent lighting and echoed stairways, and the fear of who and what was on the other side of the door after we yelled, "Trick or Treat!" (and the noise and movement that their presence would introduce into my already atypical, un-patterned evening).<br />
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I never would have admitted that I struggled in any way, shape, or form with Halloween or anything that strayed from the norm of my social group. We were 80s and 90s American kids, and so naturally, we went trick-or-treating. How would I have begun to verbalize why something like this, something deemed <i>fun</i> by my peers, was any sort of an issue for me?<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhclg0KXqP4J3kktvzaN7gCurqxDNy9ftvl7bZ5Ce_pvCDhPkBqsZXcSRtDQxw0hiMc9nEfirrSNGLGllLImx-3y35noPftUupV2mNxcIkiuIcXHhRXYNNdYaKpaY1HELN_LlwXZLPlyaqv/s1600/Halloween1991_Rach.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1067" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhclg0KXqP4J3kktvzaN7gCurqxDNy9ftvl7bZ5Ce_pvCDhPkBqsZXcSRtDQxw0hiMc9nEfirrSNGLGllLImx-3y35noPftUupV2mNxcIkiuIcXHhRXYNNdYaKpaY1HELN_LlwXZLPlyaqv/s400/Halloween1991_Rach.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px; text-align: center;">Captivating Cat</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOjMPpMSoXbpsZe2AIejHLWleTUuc8xKlNnYM_LqJWKpPLS1G-TiwiXD5toPCxZt8s8HCJQS7gykV735B6t79c-8pmXIMTTkwNxQ_RDBJFow06sxHu5PUUBZJ233jQ1Zna82mLWelAh_GU/s1600/Halloween1989_Rach.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1067" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOjMPpMSoXbpsZe2AIejHLWleTUuc8xKlNnYM_LqJWKpPLS1G-TiwiXD5toPCxZt8s8HCJQS7gykV735B6t79c-8pmXIMTTkwNxQ_RDBJFow06sxHu5PUUBZJ233jQ1Zna82mLWelAh_GU/s400/Halloween1989_Rach.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px; text-align: center;">Blushing Bride</td></tr>
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And yet, Halloween is still one of my favorite holidays.<br />
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Much like I wrote about in the post, <a href="http://comingtosenses.blogspot.com/2014/12/here-i-am-say-cheese.html">Here I Am (Say Cheese)</a>, <u><b>when I'm in costume, I can pretend to be anyone feeling anything. </b></u><br />
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It's always been that way for me.<br />
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As a kid, this meant dressing up and feeling more than myself. While I couldn't stand the feel of lipstick on my lips or eyeliner on my face (something else I would have never, ever admitted for fear of ruining my costume and my sugar prospects), I knew both helped to transform me into that extra special version of me - one that was less sensitive and had no questions or unexplainable quirks - and instead was bold and shiny, all while being just another kid in the crowd. I wanted people to look and comment: what a pretty kitty! What a beautiful bride! - because that's all that they'd see about me and that's all they'd need to know. How simple to merely be that one, uncomplicated thing. How nice to take a short detour from certain aspects of myself.<br />
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As an adult, I still insist on dressing up for Halloween.<br />
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Exhibits A, B, and C:<br />
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF8ES9C8UNg9SrHk5_8Musy5vev_9-UXIXppRXF7iVsGEtdNmczy6PWp9mKbkRlqdAQJwdnZFy5rwDM1AxMPVtiE0ZSd78XryB9ft_IGZuHQUbeZZa-Wka971QCUVfT9890SOmmMQTnTQ5/s1600/Halloween+10_08+047.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1101" data-original-width="1600" height="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF8ES9C8UNg9SrHk5_8Musy5vev_9-UXIXppRXF7iVsGEtdNmczy6PWp9mKbkRlqdAQJwdnZFy5rwDM1AxMPVtiE0ZSd78XryB9ft_IGZuHQUbeZZa-Wka971QCUVfT9890SOmmMQTnTQ5/s400/Halloween+10_08+047.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Kate from the t.v. show Lost</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Janice the Muppet from Dr. Teeth and the Electric Mayhem</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Baby's First Halloween Costume</td></tr>
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<br />. . . and honestly as frequently as society allows (ANY excuse to wear a tiara is legitimate, IMHO). I think it harkens back to that same feeling of pressing pause. A butterfly isn't complex. A butterfly doesn't have sensory issues or anxiety disorders. It doesn't lose its connection with the world when its brain decides it's overwhelmed and needs to pause. It is the unfurl from a chrysalis and gossamer wings. It's the freedom to be temporarily free of unusual intricacies. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Beautiful Butterfly</td></tr>
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This year, my Handler and I will be dressing up to match our daughter, and the two of us will take her trick-or-treating for the first time. It's fair to say I've never been more excited for a Halloween. At 9-months-old, our little girl won't remember this day - how her costume got lost in the mail, how her dad and I had to scramble and get very creative to recreate it - but she'll relive the day sometime in the future through photos. I can't say for sure who she'll be then and what her relationship will be to either Halloween or the sensory world. I don't know much for certain yet. When it comes to babies, every day is an adventure with a brand-new roadmap.</div>
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I do know one thing, It's something I whisper to her as she sips away at her bottle, fighting to stay awake; something that I hope she stows away somewhere in her rapidly developing mind. She'll have the sense that she, too, can be anyone feeling anything in this lifetime, whether or not she happens to be wearing a costume. </div>
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Rachel S. Schneider, M.A., MHChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10550842365173231153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3421099117611643039.post-73278200137886295572017-08-07T10:15:00.001-07:002017-08-07T10:15:32.060-07:00To the Pharmacist from the Woman with SPD <i><b>What you saw:</b></i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Under-slept, over-worked new mom of 6-month-old came to the drugstore to pick up her prescription and forgot her ID, and then strangely and awkwardly cried when you said she couldn't buy her medicine without that piece of identification, before gathering her other bags and heading back out into the haze of August.<br />
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<i><b>What you didn't see:</b></i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Adult with Sensory Processing Disorder woke up for the fifth day in a row thinking - <i>do I feel able enough today to make it to and through the drugstore to pick up my medication this morning? Did I sleep well enough last night to help soften the blare of traffic noises and intense fluorescent lighting required to make this trip a success? Can I manage the transition both in and out of the store and through the steps of the transaction without losing my tenuous grasp on the world around me today? </i><br />
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The debate that lasted through breakfast, caring for infant daughter, sending husband off to first day at new office, starting own work. <i>Do I feel able enough?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
The question of need vs. ability: <i>I need the prescription, can I handle the actions necessary to meet the need? What happens if I don't have it? </i><br />
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The feelings of shame and guilt, of having to pawn an errand off on someone else, albeit a loving and well-meaning someone else who gets the intricacies of living with SPD. The feeling of sudden empowerment, of <i>I can do this silly little thing! </i>Of wanting to rock and own the very thing others take for granted.<br />
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The wishing it was fall so I could locate the ends of my body again. The wishing I was neurotypical so I could just <i>run the damn errand like a sane, logical adult who needs something done</i>.<br />
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The sense that logic has nothing to do with differences in neurology.<br />
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And then: the decision made somewhere between the second and third floors as the elevator descended. <i>I can do this today, I am able enough</i>. The bold, short walk through the thick air that feels ready to burst into rain. The sliding doors and the densely packed aisles. The syrupy music and sharp lighting.<br />
<br />
The Pharmacist. The request. The missing ID. The tears of <i>but look how much I went through just to get here, just to pick up this little thing like a capable adult</i>. The tears of <i>but how will I do this all over again if I went to fetch my ID? How will I tell my handler, yet again, that I need his assistance? </i><br />
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The sense that he'd never understand, even if I explained it in great detail.<br />
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The shame. The guilt. The exit from the pharmacy and back out into the summer air, restless.<br />
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Rachel S. Schneider, M.A., MHChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10550842365173231153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3421099117611643039.post-35177718218365612352017-07-13T10:18:00.001-07:002017-07-13T10:18:43.432-07:00A Sneak Peek Into My Sensory Meltdown/Shutdown<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1jfvJmOtZ0nzBSdIaTkd4M64Zl1iWbBaalHfk8WQjr4N7TkwodVbvskm1XK54wZGLvlnhyphenhyphenYBmz20WyRQpoLpEtqDAf3puOiPST3JEg4WNFVStZZ_3alsybxGumUDdZf-g9tM-2CcDck2u/s1600/ShutdownMeltdown.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1jfvJmOtZ0nzBSdIaTkd4M64Zl1iWbBaalHfk8WQjr4N7TkwodVbvskm1XK54wZGLvlnhyphenhyphenYBmz20WyRQpoLpEtqDAf3puOiPST3JEg4WNFVStZZ_3alsybxGumUDdZf-g9tM-2CcDck2u/s640/ShutdownMeltdown.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "San Francisco", -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; letter-spacing: -0.24px;">In an ongoing effort to destigmatize </span>sensory <span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "San Francisco", -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; letter-spacing: -0.24px;">meltdowns and shutdowns, and humanize </span>SPD<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "San Francisco", -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; letter-spacing: -0.24px;"> in general, here I am last night in the middle of what I can only call a mix of both a meltdown and a shutdown. I'd "Hit the Deck," as I like to call my need of laying supine pressed against the floor, and I went back and forth between angry-tears and staring into space. I thought of you all in this moment, ho</span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; display: inline; font-family: "San Francisco", -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; letter-spacing: -0.24px;">w the members of the sensory community all do this when we've been pushed too far, when we're taxed and burnt out and overwhelmed by endless input and processing, and I took a single photo.<br /><br />I almost didn't post any of this. I looked at this picture today and immediately felt ashamed of my behavior and my need to lose composure, and embarrassed by my differences in neurology. That's when I decided it needed to go up. It's why I'm here. It's why I do what I do.<br /><br />To the person mid-meltdown or mid-shutdown, tight-lipped with the glassy eyes, I see you. You are a wonderful, worthy person. This moment doesn't define you. Hit the deck, cry, scream, stare. Breathe. Reconnect. Think of those who love you and who you love. This moment will pass, as all moments do. Mine did. The next moment and the one after that are new, brighter. They belong to you.*</span><br />
<span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; display: inline; font-family: "San Francisco", -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; letter-spacing: -0.24px;"><br /></span>
<span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; display: inline; font-family: "San Francisco", -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; letter-spacing: -0.24px;">*Originally posted on <a href="https://www.facebook.com/coming2mysenses/">Coming to My Senses</a> on June 30</span>Rachel S. Schneider, M.A., MHChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10550842365173231153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3421099117611643039.post-16329021759425221602017-06-13T07:21:00.001-07:002017-06-13T07:22:25.351-07:00Sensory Snapshot <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj95IvhBthD11iRA7h_u73UXVc2Vpa842pPifI1G3TFHrIM2Qcv9iMcrRzYoMqXUxSY1AuZxkEPY5Idr_0j5O-9PGRv7ymA32Vxxmna0uL1T1BXnsMy5XO9I68U6RWgDou-_tzvB2ABpUMz/s1600/Flowers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1065" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj95IvhBthD11iRA7h_u73UXVc2Vpa842pPifI1G3TFHrIM2Qcv9iMcrRzYoMqXUxSY1AuZxkEPY5Idr_0j5O-9PGRv7ymA32Vxxmna0uL1T1BXnsMy5XO9I68U6RWgDou-_tzvB2ABpUMz/s640/Flowers.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-size: 14px; letter-spacing: -0.24px;">Photos aren't always as simple as they seem.</span><br />
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Found this picture on Facebook's On This Day feature, snapped by my Handler on June 12, 2010. It looks like a pretty composition of flowers with me, hazy, moving down the street on the left. What you can't see, and what I remember about this moment, is we had to walk a good 15 city blocks back to our apartment, and I was in full-blown <a class="_58cn" data-ft="{"tn":"*N","type":104}" href="https://www.facebook.com/hashtag/sensory?source=feed_text&story_id=1597431096958496" style="color: #365899; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit; text-decoration-line: none;"><span class="_5afx" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit;"><span aria-label="hashtag" class="_58cl _5afz" style="color: #4267b2; font-family: inherit; unicode-bidi: isolate;">#</span><span class="_58cm" style="font-family: inherit;">sensory</span></span></a> overload - even on this seemingly calm and beautiful street. The day was especially warm <span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;">and white and overwhelmingly bright, and we'd just come from a few hours of visiting our friends' new baby. I was burnt out from the engagement and uncomfortable in my skin and in my clothes and I just wanted to be back in our safe space with the AC on. I think I walked strides ahead of my Handler (again, back before I knew how powerful and helpful holding his squeezing hand could be) the entire way, frantically chasing down our final destination in my attempt to stave off a shutdown and seek safety.</span></div>
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It's this sort of subtle way that <a class="_58cn" data-ft="{"tn":"*N","type":104}" href="https://www.facebook.com/hashtag/spd?source=feed_text&story_id=1597431096958496" style="color: #365899; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit; text-decoration-line: none;"><span class="_5afx" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit;"><span aria-label="hashtag" class="_58cl _5afz" style="color: #4267b2; font-family: inherit; unicode-bidi: isolate;">#</span><span class="_58cm" style="font-family: inherit;">SPD</span></span></a> hides in plain sight: the woman speeding down the street attempting to escape from her own neurology, desperate to touch some sort of base like in her childhood games of tag - the bushes and stoops that surround her, a jumbled blur that her brain can't quite piece together; the painful sound of sirens and cars whirring by. Many feet behind her, the man snapping pictures of what he deems beautiful.</div>
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And aren't we?</div>
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*Originally posted on <a href="https://www.facebook.com/coming2mysenses/">Coming to My Senses on Facebook</a> on 6/12/17</div>
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Rachel S. Schneider, M.A., MHChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10550842365173231153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3421099117611643039.post-89462764039170579722017-04-20T11:34:00.000-07:002017-04-20T11:34:01.564-07:00The Sweetest Tool in My Sensory ArsenalYou guys.<br />
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Why did no one ever tell me that babies make for the best sensory tools?!<br />
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Yes, I know my 12-week-old daughter isn't a sensory tool . . . per se. She's a human being with an infectious smile and the most delicious coos and she loves me, possibly more than anyone's ever loved me before (we're in this phase where I walk into a room, she either hears or sees me, and her face erupts into wide grin after wide grin) - but in the midst of her tearful cries and the raise of her tiny arms, when I hoist her small frame onto my torso for a cuddle, she becomes - for a few moments at least, until she wiggles away like a tiger cub - the best sensory tool I have in my arsenal. Who needs a weighted lap blanket when there's 10ish lbs. of sweet-smelling, tactile-pleasing-fuzzy-headed mini-me right under my chin pressing deeply against my chest?<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_8Mp7KzfWSxce18LYlimgj4RvkXiFaGhx6MgLWPzK591SYdEPz-IWHIkpdd7C05i4RGxr6XbtZF3ejAX3r-82F11vevciptihsBupmCIv1GmHH1sBsWBWD6UskFzQIu-1ii-NhHNAPAct/s1600/IMG_1676.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_8Mp7KzfWSxce18LYlimgj4RvkXiFaGhx6MgLWPzK591SYdEPz-IWHIkpdd7C05i4RGxr6XbtZF3ejAX3r-82F11vevciptihsBupmCIv1GmHH1sBsWBWD6UskFzQIu-1ii-NhHNAPAct/s320/IMG_1676.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Perfection</td></tr>
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Throw in the Baby Bjorn, my beloved and trusted baby-wearing carrier, and I'm a happy SPD adult these days. For me, nothing feels more prioprioceptively grounding than trekking my infant around, strapped to my body.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizktz-xGy96qSFyR8X5s6oHUHmbiqa53SMx6UwOfQlnFMWALA2Qt5LEJ-JH_XXfTiFlUYMXxk8WqKhnkeN8H-e8cUMuYaC2jZRd-6j29SXyBpOktIxSqBlmiZ6DxzUsNQXLAtU8AsGb1oN/s1600/IMG_2701.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizktz-xGy96qSFyR8X5s6oHUHmbiqa53SMx6UwOfQlnFMWALA2Qt5LEJ-JH_XXfTiFlUYMXxk8WqKhnkeN8H-e8cUMuYaC2jZRd-6j29SXyBpOktIxSqBlmiZ6DxzUsNQXLAtU8AsGb1oN/s320/IMG_2701.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Birds-Eye Bjorn View of Bow-Hatted Babygirl</td></tr>
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<br />Delayed diagnosis sensory adults who are also parents of infants, may we relish our children for their intelligence, energy, and beauty - but also for their natural way of supporting our sensory needs.<br />
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Except for the screaming. I'm pretty sure we could all do without the screaming.<br />
<br />Rachel S. Schneider, M.A., MHChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10550842365173231153noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3421099117611643039.post-36894643134987434382017-02-20T10:18:00.000-08:002017-02-20T10:18:27.346-08:00On the Newborn Life. Sleepless Nights, and Flexibility Sensory Friends! I'm officially a mom.<br />
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On January 27, 2017, without much warning or enough preparation, I gave birth to our tiny, sweet, and headstrong baby girl. She wasn't due for another three weeks at least, but on day four of a ceaseless headache, I was diagnosed with preeclampsia, a condition related to elevated blood pressure and swelling that, when gone unchecked, used to kill women only a century before. The cure for this headache, said my doctor, was delivery. Talk about a strange remedy.<br />
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Walking from the doctor's office to the hospital, me in tears while calling family and wishing we'd found time to complete our birthing course, the Handler in best form scooting me and our almost-baby around the world, something my mom had begun saying lately started really resonating with me: be as flexible as you can. And as someone with Sensory Processing Disorder (SPD), I am rarely - if ever - flexible with surprises that come my way. Unexpected happenings come with a deep degree of unpredictable sensory information - strange locations, sensations, experiences. They're especially frightening and taxing. But on January 26, I was in no position to have a choice. It wasn't a case of <i>well thanks, Doc, I'll take your suggestions into consideration. Let me sleep on it! Let me finish packing my hospital bag and schedule time off from work and really deal with the fact that our lives are about to change in unspeakable ways. </i>There's no "let me cope first" time once a medical diagnosis has been cast.<br />
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I'll sum up the 23 hours of induction and treatment and labor (and the 72 hours that followed) as a hazy, medicated mess. I was on some crazy and necessary substances to keep me and the baby safe from symptoms like seizures, and they have turned my memory of the day and the days that followed into a weird, haunting haze. Looking back, I feel like someone who experienced some sort of trauma. In the first week, I'd startle awake at night with a foggy, scary half-memory that I'd clarify with the Handler in the morning. <i>Did that really happen?</i> I'd implore, trying to connect fragments of experiences to piece together a story. In the hospital, the doctors and nurses commented on how well I did, how nice I was, how flexible and calm I remained through delivery and long after. This is not a memory I have, it's one that's been reinstated for me by my husband and parents, who did most of the communicating for me once the medicines had kicked in and I was MIA. Although I have to say, I very clearly remember delivering our daughter: how powerful and capable I felt with each push.<br />
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But enough about that. I love that human beings have the capacity for forgetting the explicit details of pain, and with each day, whatever minutiae I registered fades further. Our daughter is a gorgeous mix of our features, and when she's not struggling and crying with what we think could be colic (and what I suspect may be some early sensitivities - only time will tell), she squeaks and coos and makes adorable kissy sounds. At two days old, she was already holding her head up on her own, and at just over three weeks, her legs are so strong that she finds a way to stand up in our laps - as small as a table lamp and already seemingly ready to walk away and lead her own, independent life. <i>And though she be but little, she is fierce. </i><br />
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The challenge for me now is the chronic exhaustion and limited sleep, which would've wreaked havoc on my sensory life long before our baby girl arrived, and now just has me living in a daze with my postpartum body attempting to make sense of proprioceptive input (or lack thereof). I suppose it doesn't help that I dropped my full pregnancy weight gain of 25 lbs in 11 days thanks to my medical condition, although it sure is nice to wear my old clothes. While out on maternity and paternity leaves, the Handler and I have been sleeping in six hour shifts, giving the other a chance to be baby-free and really rest, although six hours seems like it'll never progress to seven or even eight, and 5am on a Sunday is really the loneliest time all week (take it from one who knows).<br />
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Funny, I'm now looking forward to change. I can't wait for this little girl to sleep later into the night, to grow so we can keep her ever-hungry belly fuller longer. I know with these anticipated changes, there will be new challenges, new reasons to be as flexible and bold as I can as we face the unknown together.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWwBeCR1pJ18Vg7BO31kq1j3uKQU3Bcfvxma-mhCO408DKC1vFjFOdmrJAORP2G4qP-LoLv4kEC5LsyyM2TJN5XNK_OGU2qJAWh0ppp5kiH1KPuWXpgu4p60RNO3HY4Z4VrBTeB-i5VGQ5/s1600/IMG_1196.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWwBeCR1pJ18Vg7BO31kq1j3uKQU3Bcfvxma-mhCO408DKC1vFjFOdmrJAORP2G4qP-LoLv4kEC5LsyyM2TJN5XNK_OGU2qJAWh0ppp5kiH1KPuWXpgu4p60RNO3HY4Z4VrBTeB-i5VGQ5/s320/IMG_1196.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
Rachel S. Schneider, M.A., MHChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10550842365173231153noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3421099117611643039.post-34030997554987891082017-01-16T08:02:00.000-08:002017-01-16T08:02:51.099-08:00Now I Recognize You, Now I Don'tLately, the people around me look something similar to this:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNczqA77i56mDW6sZX32VAewNagw7VyI1KLc97f7PwePKJvDbqWkFDuXyseUXvSXZu3OvJAnSNY4JVjzSuP34YCs8EEyPGktbQy2G9tfH9WOAO3U1aHMgH7uCabnl6fSDPrQmbpTt3xlI_/s1600/blurred_face1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="325" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNczqA77i56mDW6sZX32VAewNagw7VyI1KLc97f7PwePKJvDbqWkFDuXyseUXvSXZu3OvJAnSNY4JVjzSuP34YCs8EEyPGktbQy2G9tfH9WOAO3U1aHMgH7uCabnl6fSDPrQmbpTt3xlI_/s400/blurred_face1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Or maybe something more like this:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFpZ-bt32VlWL33XVXOZHPRSGiUR7bwlIyaFKN6KJGF5dxmperkbK5C0EWBpFxfgIm0D5xY7iVSt4ooHE1ckms2OpDyTr2-O3aP_lxe2LWeCCqZm-c_w-L5IpO42g7qr0xeoGOvbNll6Js/s1600/FaceBlur2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFpZ-bt32VlWL33XVXOZHPRSGiUR7bwlIyaFKN6KJGF5dxmperkbK5C0EWBpFxfgIm0D5xY7iVSt4ooHE1ckms2OpDyTr2-O3aP_lxe2LWeCCqZm-c_w-L5IpO42g7qr0xeoGOvbNll6Js/s400/FaceBlur2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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I feel as if any capacity I once had to recognize new people has completely vanished. It's not that my eyes are blurry and I need my vision checked. My sight is just fine. Instead, it feels like I'm struggling to process new faces - as if I have no discernible feature to hold on to as I add new people to my catalogue of facial memories.<br />
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To be fair, I've never been particularly adept at facial recognition. Growing up in Manhattan in the middle of New York City, you'd think I'd have some exciting stories to tell of the famous people I'd accidentally bumped into while waiting for the subway or traipsing down Madison Avenue, soda in hand. But aside from a walking companion frantically waving after a few celebs I couldn't visually place, I've not once to my knowledge shared the sidewalk with a star. I now blame most of this on my SPD, especially my penchant for avoiding visual stimuli because it's just so overwhelming. When I'm moving through the sensory chaos of the world, I'm too preoccupied as I contend with the onslaught of flashing lights, passing voices, and the perpetual whirl of a city that never sleeps to stop and notice the people that stagger by - and especially process their features.<br />
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Recently, eight months into my first pregnancy and as dumb as I've ever been (yes, pregnancy brain is insanely real), what little capacity I've had to identify newer people I see on a semi-regular basis seems to have diminished completely. My Handler jokes with me about this issue, calling everyone I don't recognize, a "<i>hat rack</i>." I see a whole bunch of hat racks these days.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDpknX3zE0A3OX-MOof8dsHOgdC83SZln4jfUnMsVpWUms1JrHf8VW_32gG237BJVCKQYH-gAf7i7ovoH-U4jibzjlN1TQi6ikJ2tfn4ZfOiJpxD9iF7krd_kVT4pUzix97MddvQnlTOfB/s1600/hatrack.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDpknX3zE0A3OX-MOof8dsHOgdC83SZln4jfUnMsVpWUms1JrHf8VW_32gG237BJVCKQYH-gAf7i7ovoH-U4jibzjlN1TQi6ikJ2tfn4ZfOiJpxD9iF7krd_kVT4pUzix97MddvQnlTOfB/s400/hatrack.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Meet my BFF</td></tr>
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<br />Take for example the recent widower on our floor. We've only been living in our new apartment for a few months, and this is a man I've only met a handful of times. The first time we met, I identified myself as my grandparents' grandchild (they were well-known in this neighborhood for their clothing boutique), and I watched the delight spread over his face as he recounted stories of running into them along the main avenue here. Once his wife passed, a few weeks into our residency, I had the urge to ring his doorbell - or to at least be prepared with words of condolences and big hugs should I come across him in the hallway. But honestly, for the life of me, I could not picture a single feature of his face. If he was forced into a strange Police lineup of recently bereft septuagenarians, I wouldn't have the faintest clue how to find him and say I was sorry for his loss. I ran into him in the company of my Handler recently, and from the cues around me, I gleaned that this was, indeed, our widowed neighbor, and I leapt right in for that bear hug and meaningful conversation about the loss of his wife. As he walked slowly away, I whispered to my Handler, "that WAS him, right?!"; me, still completely unsure, even after our discussion.<br />
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Then there was the smiling young mother pushing her carriage of twins through the produce aisle of the supermarket. Earlier in the day, I'd completely missed the greeting of a woman I see daily on my morning walk, screaming hellos back to her after we'd passed each other by half a block, startling her young charge. And now, hours later in the brightly-lit and densely-packed supermarket, my Handler and I came across someone else I should've recognized, having met her, her husband, and her two babies a few times in our elevator lobby since the fall. "Hi! Nice to see you. When are you due?" she asked as I was midway through maneuvering around her on the hunt for pink lady apples. I stopped and stared blankly at her warm grin, then down at her twin babies. "Hi guys!" I cooed at the infants before gazing back up at the unfamiliar face. "In a month!" I replied, feigning intimacy and familiarity with no true sense of who I was supposed to be connecting with in the moment. She told me to be well and that we'd see one another again soon, and as she turned away, I once again whispered to my Handler, "is that the lady with the twins from our building?" "Yes," he reassured me, knowing that I was only seeing a hat rack and her tiny, baby shoe racks. <br />
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I can't decide what's more true in this case: with my black plastic nerd glasses and sizable baby bump and with my husband's vibrant reddish beard, it's hard to miss us as we move together through the world OR in the past eight months, a semi-sensory-related issue of mine has (hopefully temporarily) grown tremendously, especially in light of living in a large, new community of people. I suspect it's a bit of both. Regardless, it's made my journey through the sensory world even more special. It's enough to manage eight senses' worth of intensity and dullness, seeking some sort of equilibrium as I attempt to go about my journey. But now, muddy-minded from pregnancy and suddenly unable to delineate strangers' faces from those of new acquaintances, the world outside my front door feels even more mysterious and uncertain: a veritable department store of empty hat racks, and me, squinting, trying to place even the smallest fraction of a feature.Rachel S. Schneider, M.A., MHChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10550842365173231153noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3421099117611643039.post-34947656034207146802016-12-21T06:41:00.000-08:002016-12-21T06:41:26.912-08:00Sensory Like You Has Been Published!Great news, Sensory Friends!<br />
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My second book, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Sensory-Like-You-Rachel-Schneider/dp/1935567705/">Sensory Like You: A Book For Kids With SPD By Adults With SPD</a> has been officially released. Published by<a href="https://sensoryworld.com/"> Sensory World</a>, this book was a labor of love by illustrator Kelly Dillion of <a href="https://eatingoffplastic.wordpress.com/">Eating Off Plastic</a> and yours truly, with the goal of reaching children with Sensory Processing Disorder. There are so many books out there about SPD for kids, but this book is the first of it's kind, as it's the only book created entirely by SPD adults for SPD kids. Based on <a href="https://thebodyisnotanapology.com/magazine/how-one-adult-with-spd-wants-to-explain-this-condition-to-your-sensory-child/" style="font-style: italic;">How One Adult With SPD Wants to Explain This Condition to Your Sensory Child, </a>which was published by <a href="https://thebodyisnotanapology.com/">The Body is Not An Apology </a>, it's like a mini guide to SPD and self-acceptance for the under 10 set.<br />
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You can order your copy on <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Sensory-Like-You-Rachel-Schneider/dp/1935567705/">Amazon</a> or <a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/sensory-like-you-rachel-schneider-ma-mhc/1123976032?ean=9781935567707">Barnes & Noble</a> today - or if you're in Portland, OR (one of my favorite cities!) you can visit <a href="http://www.powells.com/book/sensory-like-you-9781935567707/61-0">Powell's City of Books</a> for your copy.Rachel S. Schneider, M.A., MHChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10550842365173231153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3421099117611643039.post-58875257488928082202016-10-21T06:56:00.002-07:002016-10-21T07:12:09.476-07:00Since I've Been Gone: An Update in Four PartsHi CTMS Readers,<br />
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Yes, I'm still very much alive and nope, I haven't abandoned you! It's just been a whirlwind of transitions and excitement since the spring and the summer, and I've been chasing after these life events trying to keep up with them and you.<br />
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Because there are four big things going on right now, I've called this post an Update in Four Parts. Most of you know these pieces from following me on social media, but I'm going to sum them up here.<br />
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1. I'M PREGNANT!<br />
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Yes, if you haven't heard the good news, it's very much official - my Handler and I are expecting our first child, a little girl, on Valentine's Day 2017. We found out in June, kept it a secret until August, and have been shouting it from the rooftops ever since!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFUNstiRDG5kxPp3ctj4kq7fOZmg7hPLQcsENlb-VkDkho_DPJD8PK6m2YLW9XODvlWLoJ0JVj28wX8PzsZC3HXmu0jayw0ZXuUrJubpCIvuBxLdulDdc6ZQgZdGLrdF9KYzFduPLkEYY3/s1600/IMG_6028.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFUNstiRDG5kxPp3ctj4kq7fOZmg7hPLQcsENlb-VkDkho_DPJD8PK6m2YLW9XODvlWLoJ0JVj28wX8PzsZC3HXmu0jayw0ZXuUrJubpCIvuBxLdulDdc6ZQgZdGLrdF9KYzFduPLkEYY3/s320/IMG_6028.JPG" width="213" /></a><br />
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In terms of pregnancy and my SPD, I'm finding that being pregnant has actually quieted down some of my more severe sensory sensitivities. I know that hormones ultimately have an impact on sensory symptoms (something that SPD researchers haven't fully understood just yet), but I've never been less anxious and more grounded than the past few months. I suspect some of it might have to do with proprioception - I suddenly weigh more and perhaps I'm feeling more connected to the physical world around me. Regardless, I'm excited about this next phase of our family and our lives.<br />
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2. WE'VE MOVED!<br />
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Much like the last post discussed, we moved to that exact neighborhood in September - and let me tell you, for all of the packing stress, moving stress, and being-in-a-new-location sensory stress, I absolutely love it here. The neighborhood is quieter and more family-oriented than our last, there's lots of greenery (we're on the cusp of what feels like city and suburbs), and I'm steps away from some local restaurants. It's also the neighborhood my dad grew up in and my grandparents lived in for over 40 years, and I spent many happy weekends here, so it's nice to be back. Again, with #MySensoryPregnancy underway and the crisp cool fall weather, I felt comfortable walking around here almost immediately.<br />
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3. MY NEXT BOOK IS DUE OUT IN NOVEMBER!<br />
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A joint effort between me and my favorite "lil sensory sister," Kelly Dillon of <a href="http://eatingoffplastic.wordpress.com/">Eating Off Plastic</a>, <u><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Sensory-Like-You-Rachel-Schneider/dp/1935567705/">Sensory Like You</a></u> is the first book for SPD kids written and illustrated by SPD adults. It's being published by Sensory World and should be out sometime in November. We're so excited to have the chance to engage kids directly to teach them a bit about SPD and remind them that having a neurological condition doesn't make them lesser-than - it makes them wonderful and special. </div>
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4. I'M SPEAKING AT THE STAR INSTITUTE'S 3S INTERNATIONAL SYMPOSIUM!</div>
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I've posted a bit about this one on social media, but I'm honored to have been asked by the <a href="https://www.spdstar.org/">STAR Institute for SPD</a> (formerly the SPD Foundation) to speak at their international symposium in Seattle, WA on November 4. My presentation will be all about my life with SPD, along with the lessons I've learned along the way and tidbits for parents to better understand and support their SPD child or teen. Nerve-wracking as always to be on stage under bright lights speaking into a microphone in front of strangers for an hour, but I'm especially looking forward to this particular presentation. </div>
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That's my wrap-up, so hopefully we can call it even and just move forward from here. I love this blog, I love that I have the opportunity to reach out to all of you and help you connect with your own sensory lives, and I hope that once things settle down a bit post-Seattle, I'll have the chance to update my blog even more. If you miss me in between, be sure to come find me online - especially on <a href="https://www.facebook.com/coming2mysenses/">Facebook</a> where I make it my mission to post and connect as often as possible.</div>
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xo</div>
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~Rachel</div>
Rachel S. Schneider, M.A., MHChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10550842365173231153noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3421099117611643039.post-49604176175179426012016-07-22T09:06:00.000-07:002016-07-22T09:06:08.404-07:00The Sensory Challenges of Moving MOVING.<br />
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For a totally innocuous word made up of harmless letters, this one makes my skin crawl.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUz8Wnc1TGXOuo-ETaNe4JuB8O3jHyZ0XL3dKN7Ty8pmaiRXUIvxuSmbBsDGoNYB-QaCr_0s8gHL2DqaaDwi3D2uus5rV5wwHYkXoghFuzS8vp0atExzCU6wrDv_xybQpp9uGI18By-wBZ/s1600/angry-house-flickr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUz8Wnc1TGXOuo-ETaNe4JuB8O3jHyZ0XL3dKN7Ty8pmaiRXUIvxuSmbBsDGoNYB-QaCr_0s8gHL2DqaaDwi3D2uus5rV5wwHYkXoghFuzS8vp0atExzCU6wrDv_xybQpp9uGI18By-wBZ/s400/angry-house-flickr.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cue the screams</td></tr>
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<br />I'm sure someone out there loves the premise of packing up their lives and setting out on a new residential adventure, whether local or abroad, but that someone is surely not me. As a person with SPD, I'm the Queen of Routine, the Siren of Sameness, the Darling of Doing Things on Repeat. The more things are familiar and well-established in the basic and required areas of my life, the happier I am; the better I'm then able to cope with the rest of the universe's surprises. The most important piece of this, outside of my amazing Handler, is our home. And although we're not moving just yet, we're in the process of looking.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4026-sAXeVsL-vYO8dU2HBPZxKP0CRwfnGBkP8mjTDWENWiJ8whse_nGgs1m460YQbKUiSoHmWgZ1j77sXNuxla6sK_iPwgAXJtM9_W_Oy_SFh2_CEEifVVHkIl1cZSkcp4rI1BOngmOY/s1600/Face2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="348" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4026-sAXeVsL-vYO8dU2HBPZxKP0CRwfnGBkP8mjTDWENWiJ8whse_nGgs1m460YQbKUiSoHmWgZ1j77sXNuxla6sK_iPwgAXJtM9_W_Oy_SFh2_CEEifVVHkIl1cZSkcp4rI1BOngmOY/s400/Face2.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nom Nom Nom<br />via http://www.dismuse.com/2010/06/houses-faces/<br /></td></tr>
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<br />SIDE NOTE: If you're curious, I use the term "home" loosely. Born and raised in the middle of Manhattan (and still a city dweller to this day), for me, "house" actually means "apartment." I don't personally get the appeal of a free-standing, ground-level dwelling a mere door away from ants and raccoons and the local band of roving townies (to each their own), but I understand the concept of a series of boxes stretching into the sky. I like to see for miles and pretend I live in the clouds.<br />
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Regardless, especially since I work and live in the same space, it's crucial for me to feel 100% comfortable in said space. And this is why the idea of moving freaks me out to the very depths of my inner being. Besides the impromptu touring of unfamiliar locations and new neighborhoods at inconvenient times, the picking the best streets closest to the best shops and transportation and schools, for a person with SPD, the entire apartment-hunt-moving process involves a secondary level of complication and questions:<br />
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<b><u><span style="font-size: large;">"Can I handle living here?" </span></u></b><br />
<b><u><span style="font-size: large;">"Will this be a positive sensory space for me?"</span></u></b><br />
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The most fun part of these questions is there's no clear or immediate answer. You can't, say, camp out on the floor of an empty apartment and wander the streets for a month to see if in fact you can tolerate the new location. You can't knock on the doors of your closest maybe-neighbors and ask them to have their dog bark as loudly as possible to gauge the sound levels or draw the curtains tightly to estimate the degree of darkness that will saturate your bedroom each night.<br />
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Mostly, for me, I can't properly read how my body will feel in the (albeit temporarily) foreign residence. Proprioception, and my brain's refusal to identify where my fingertips end and the world begins, means that I can consider a new space with a full heart, but I can't entirely be sure how I'll ultimately adjust to it or how quickly my differently wired body will feel at home and finally be able to rest.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlhPbNNvudzbBwRUFllkJcDgHpoKt52USJXhPIZj77FPgMgPKJ0BK2Mfbv-uy3ZF12HQi5kYBCXjZjdlkmAsn6orcXadwdC-uzoDja_Cj023UMsfXK5SWyXRtYQnUaPvQ7qHW5cI6j-j5d/s1600/face3.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlhPbNNvudzbBwRUFllkJcDgHpoKt52USJXhPIZj77FPgMgPKJ0BK2Mfbv-uy3ZF12HQi5kYBCXjZjdlkmAsn6orcXadwdC-uzoDja_Cj023UMsfXK5SWyXRtYQnUaPvQ7qHW5cI6j-j5d/s400/face3.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Skeptical Roof is Skeptical</td></tr>
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Once again, what is a neurodiverse life without the perpetual need to leap somewhat blindly into the great unknown? (I'm sure that's life in general, so imagine doing it with a different set of processing abilities!) While we're not boxing up our lives quite yet to take this particular leap, I see the general icky haze of moving looming somewhere in my future. It'll be for a good reason, a good cause: a space that fits our phase of life and current needs. We'll hopefully love it there. We'll make new memories. In time, my senses will adjust to the new set of circumstances. Mind-blowingly, the newness will become part of the routine, the sameness. Until then, though, I'll cling to other stable and familiar things. The click of this keyboard, say, and the words I'm writing to you.<br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "trebuchet ms", trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 15.4px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 21.56px;">****</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 15.4px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 21.56px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "trebuchet ms", trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 15.4px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 21.56px;">Shameless Self Promotion: Want to learn about SPD from a delayed-diagnosis sensory adult's perspective and hear more from yours truly? Order </span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Making-Sense-Guide-Sensory-Issues/dp/193556756X" style="background-color: white; color: #9c7ca1; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 15.4px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 21.56px; text-decoration: none;">Making Sense: A Guide to Sensory Issues</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "trebuchet ms", trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 15.4px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 21.56px;"> today!</span>Rachel S. Schneider, M.A., MHChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10550842365173231153noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3421099117611643039.post-17115174629674694172016-06-14T11:18:00.001-07:002016-06-14T11:18:55.178-07:00My Interview with Mosaic Science - "Why are so many of us over-sensitive?"Exciting news, reader-friends! Back in April, I was contacted by a journalist in the UK at <a href="http://mosaicscience.com/">Mosaic science</a> who was in the process of writing an article about Sensory Processing Disorder and related sensitivities. She traveled to Chicago to see me speak at the city's first <a href="https://www.eventbrite.com/e/chicagos-first-sensory-friendly-cultural-programming-summit-tickets-19452598245">Sensory-Friendly Cultural Programming Summit</a>, as well as to interview me about my life with SPD.<br />
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The final article, <i><a href="http://mosaicscience.com/story/highly-sensitive-people-sensory-processing-disorders">Why are so many of us over-sensitive? </a></i>was published today, and I'm so thrilled with the result, as well as proud to be affiliated with some truly amazing people in the field of SPD.<br />
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Take a peek at the piece here: http://mosaicscience.com/story/highly-sensitive-people-sensory-processing-disorders<br />
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<br />Rachel S. Schneider, M.A., MHChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10550842365173231153noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3421099117611643039.post-39884403033660927782016-05-19T09:55:00.002-07:002016-05-19T09:55:23.604-07:00The Odd Couple: SPD Mind vs. SPD BodyIt occurred to me this week, as I sprawled out on the floor deep in the throes of a new relaxation and visualization program, that I've been living under the same roof as the most unhappy couple I've ever met. Although these two occupy the same general space, they warm disparate corners. They make no effort to connect, aside from speaking ill of one another in off-handed, awkward comments to well-meaning, mutual friends. For the most part, their feud is silent - a behind-closed-doors iciness that escapes anyone who'd see them together pantomiming the actions of being fine. The truth is, it takes work for them to play pretend. They only stay together because they have no other option.<br />
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And no, I'm not talking about actual flesh-and-bones people whose relationship has been pushed past some emotional expiration date. It's something else entirely:<br />
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My brain and my body have become as foreign to one another as a couple on the brink of a divorce.<br />
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I know it's a strange concept; crunchy and froo-froo and oozing with images of healing crystals and long-haired hippies chanting Kumbaya. It was as uncomfortable for me to realize this as it may be for you to try to make sense of it. After all, aren't our minds and bodies part of the same entity, Team You? And don't they just automatically work together?<br />
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Clearly, they don't always.<br />
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Here's how it happened. The woman leading the guided visualization said, "now picture something in the natural world, like a mountain range, and see how it connects your brain and your body together. Allow them to have a dialogue." For a moment, I felt startled and forced my eyes open. "<i>What do you mean, connect my brain and my body?!" </i>I thought frenetically, on the verge of tears, <i>"I can't connect my brain and my body!" </i>And then it hit me hard as heavy, heaving cries began to erupt from somewhere deep in my stomach. <u>My brain and my body hate each other. </u><br />
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Let me explain. In living my life with SPD, I've come to accept a few unusual and necessary rules. I won't have a typical reaction to many typical scenarios, especially if sensation is required. I will lose my already tenuous connection to the sensory world if pushed too far. I will fight some primal urge to bite and cry and fling my body against hard surfaces when in public. I will hug every single person I meet without exception. These tenets, and actually my entire neurodiverse life, gravitate around one general concept: my brain processes differently, and so my body behaves differently. Because my brain is wired this way, I smash into most objects in my path. I can't always tell where my fingertips end and the outside world begins, so I lose my physical being in space. Sights become sharp and piece-y when I've reached some processing threshold and sounds feel as if they're trapped somewhere deep in my skull.<br />
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What's at the root of all of this? My brain. What suffers the consequences? My body. It's no surprise that the two refuse to get along.<br />
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I like to think that in between my brain and my body is my "mind" (or maybe even my "soul") - the piece of me that make me quintessentially "Rachel." This is the thoughtful, loving, empathetic bit of myself. When I share the message of acceptance and champion embracing differences, it comes from this area, and although I work with myself daily to nurture and accept my differently wired brain and celebrate and love my differently impacted body, I've never stopped to referee between the two of them before. I've never forced them to sit together in the same room and make peace.<br />
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If you're wondering, my "mind" (my "soul," my innermost-me, whatever you want to call it) chose a bright blue, flowing river as the natural imagery connecting my brain and my body, like a spine. I imagined that it was a chilly autumn day and the maple trees were turning shades of orange, yellow, and red. I hinged my being forward over the rushing water, trailing my fingertips along the stream, letting the motion move each digit. Faintly through the din, I thought I heard whispering. Something like, "I'll try to learn to trust you," and maybe even, "I love you" and "I'm sorry."<br />
<br />Rachel S. Schneider, M.A., MHChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10550842365173231153noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3421099117611643039.post-72902680323967796202016-05-04T09:03:00.003-07:002016-05-04T09:03:49.713-07:00IT'S OFFICIAL - BOOK #2 COMING OUT THIS FALL!My Friends!<br />
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It's been way, way too long since I've posted here, and I know I'm incredibly overdue for a proper blog post, but I wanted to share some exciting news. This Fall, <a href="https://sensoryworld.com/">Sensory World</a> will be publishing my second book, a joint-venture between yours truly and the amazing Kelly Dillon of <a href="http://eatingoffplastic.wordpress.com/">Eating Off Plastic</a> (henceforth known as Our FIRST Jointly Created Book!). It's a children's book for kids with SPD about SPD and by adults with SPD - let's call it an insider's book about SPD for your sensory kiddos. It's based on <a href="http://thebodyisnotanapology.com/magazine/how-one-adult-with-spd-wants-to-explain-this-condition-to-your-sensory-child/">this article I wrote for SPD kids</a> last summer.<br />
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Kelly and I will release more info as we progress, so stay tuned here and on social media to learn more!<br />
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P.S. Where else have I been lately? In Chicago in early April, I spoke at the C<a href="https://www.eventbrite.com/e/chicagos-first-sensory-friendly-cultural-programming-summit-tickets-19452598245">CAC/SPD Parent Zone's first Sensory Friendly Summit </a> and in late April, I co-founded the grass-roots <a href="http://www.rachel-schneider.com/#!sensory-is-real/at9vk">#SensoryIsReal movement</a> with Kelly Jurecko of SPD Parent Zone, along with the support of sensory leaders across the community. Click the link above for our video and manifesto. I've also been profiled by two journalists for two major publications - one in the UK and one in the US - and these articles will be published sometime in late spring or summer. As soon as they've been made public, I'll share them (loudly and widely) with all of you.<br />
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. . . and now this exciting new book, because truly, SPD advocacy never rests :)<br />
<br />Rachel S. Schneider, M.A., MHChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10550842365173231153noreply@blogger.com0