My meltdown began with music coming from a computer. I was well within earshot. Even if my life depended on it, I couldn’t explain why the sound of someone singing on a video triggered a magnitude of agony. I don’t know if there are words to describe this meltdown; if there are, I don’t know them.
I left the area to an adjoining room but I could still hear the sound. I didn’t know what was being sung on the video and why it triggered an eruption in my soul. I could not tell someone to turn the volume down or turn it off. That would not have been socially acceptable.
I was alone so I curled up in a fetal position, held my hands over my ear, bounced my leg up and down, and silently sobbed. What seemed longer than a few minutes, I went elsewhere to pace the floor in another empty room. When I was certain the music was off, I could start breathing again as if I had been sinking and was able to come back up for air.
The meltdown left me utterly exhausted! I sat down and rocked for comfort. Before my diagnosis a few months ago, I wouldn’t have known it was a meltdown. Just me acting crazy. I wouldn’t have known my rocking and pacing was “stimming” and how such is essential during and after meltdowns. Such repetitive behavior is the insulation from a meltdown’s cold and cruel wind that sometimes blows in from seemingly out of nowhere.