Enough Already: Notes on Sensory Overwhelm (part 2)

Why is it not enough to just be a gas station? Why does it also insist on being an entertainment platform, an advertising space, and a point of sale? All I’m asking from the Shell station is a fill-up on my little Prius. But as I stand there, pump in hand, the doors to the convenience store scream with images of Lottery jackpot numbers, cryptocurrency, Marlboros, and every flavor of beverage. Then, as soon as I’ve activated the pump, an upbeat voice starts speaking to me. About what now? The latest fashions on the red carpet? Yes, right at eye level, an entertainment “news”cast video selling more more more. More products, shows, celebrities, a car wash, and an upgrade to premium gas. 

Enough already!

This poor gas station. It can’t just be there doing its one important job. Nope, every inch of it has to be dedicated to generating buzz. Upselling. Producing value. Hustling for its right to exist.

It’s hard not to feel as much empathy as revulsion for this captive monstrosity. Yet I’m as captive as the station itself. The car needs gas, that’s the whole point. As we all are. Not just at the neighborhood Shell station but in waiting rooms, on public transport, while driving or strolling through downtown. So much is coming at us. 

Turns out, it’s not just us sickies who are gritting our teeth as we navigate the barrage of input. When sharing with friends my limits due to sensory overload, the thing I hear most often is, “Oh my god, I know. Everything is SO LOUD.” You don’t have to have a neurodevelopmental disorder or a chronic illness to be nettled by all the commodified stimuli of late-stage capitalism. The ads and streetlights and signs, the background music, the constant pinging of apps and delivery trucks and store scanners. The cacophony follows us pretty much everywhere that isn’t the woods or mountains (and sometimes even there). 

All the sensory input makes it hard to disentangle the important messages from the garbage. Then you drop into this mix an illness that dysregulates your senses. That feverish feeling of not being able to hear yourself think gets cranked all the way up to 10.

I mentioned in part 1 of this post that sensory overload is like walking around full to the brim and about to boil. It’s not working to just brace myself for the next surprise gas station video feed or whatever it is that’s going to startle me into a meltdown. The way I’ve been handling it lately is just to do less and less. Going to a musical makes me lose it? No more theater. Tea with girlfriends increases the heat? No more dining out. Forget shopping. If it’s not available through online ordering, I don’t need it. These days, I decline most invitations to do… well, anything.

The problem is that successfully keeping everything cool and manageable is only half a win. The prize comes at the cost of connection. Isolation is a very real danger with illnesses like Long COVID and ME/CFS. The world shrinks. Down to the neighborhood. To the front walk. To the couch. To the bed. 

But connection is lifeblood. It has to be possible to sustain it without getting sicker.

My son has been working since the start of the school year on an upcoming production of The Doctor in Wonderland. He’s co-lead of the set crew, staying after school and on weekends to build steampunk fantasy sets for the show. I’m not going to miss it. I can’t miss it. 

As nice as the school theater is, getting to it requires moving through a tiled hallway teeming with teens who move in all the cardinal AND ordinal directions simultaneously while talking at 78 RPM. I’ve done this a couple times since getting sick and it’s hell. Almost the instant I arrive at the school, my body rebels. I can’t think, can’t see straight, can’t hear or make sense of what’s happening around me. I shout at my loved ones. I cry in the bathroom.

Inside I’m screaming, “ENOUGH already!”

But there’s no way around it. If I want to see the production and avoid another dangerous PEM crash, I’ll have to somehow stay okay through this chaos. 

There are ways, beyond just saying no, to protect the senses from the onslaught. In general, things like deep breathing and calming sounds are important tools for lowering the overwhelm. They keep the cacophony out there while creating a pocket of peace in here. 

As we all find out sooner or later, the world has a way of refusing to stay on its side of the line. What happens when the crowded market or teeming theater lobby is unavoidable? How do I exist in connection with others, with all the sensory input, without exploding all over myself and my dear ones? 

Here are a few ways I’m learning to adapt:

1. Turn down the volume. What auditory, visual, and sensory stimuli can be turned down or off? Making everything a little quieter and softer can keep things simmering without the threat of spilling over. Knowing that a shop, restaurant, or theater is likely to be loud and crowded, I can make it a habit to bring my Loop Engage earplugs with me (and actually use them). These little dudes are wonderful at muffling environmental clatter while allowing for conversation with the people nearby. 
2. Make maps, plans, and lists. Cognitive tasks are impossible when the brain and body are in emergency stress response mode. Handling information in order to make decisions or solve problems effectively, other sensory demands need to be turned way down. This suggestion should be a no-brainer but I forget every time: it helps immensely to look at the menu before leaving for the restaurant. And to write up a grocery list organized by section of the store before getting in the car. When I use the quiet of home to draw a map or write out steps, I reclaim a little cognitive control. Preparatory decision-making can make many environments just a little easier to navigate. 
3. Create talking points. Remembering the basic rules of engagement is hard for me when I’m already overheated. Conversation doesn’t flow. As an extrovert, I’ve relied my whole life on improvisation in the social give-and-take. Trying to be “natural” when my brain isn’t working properly is incredibly taxing (and confusing!) I’m starting to consider the possibility of jotting down notes ahead of time about the friends I am about to see. What do I want to ask them about, what topics do I know interest them? A little priming ahead of time might keep me from drawing blanks and getting all tongue-tied.
4. Set the scene. Managing the environment as much as possible is key. I’m learning to opt out of triggering activities and find other ways to meet social and emotional needs. Thinking ahead about ways to gather in locations that are more chill gives me options to offer friends and family. There’s no requirement that says a chat has to happen at a coffee shop, or trivia at a bar, or shopping at rush hour. It’s ok to skip the concert and just lay on a blanket at the park with a couple of friends. 

Inside these various adapted practices is the one lesson I need to keep learning: a life that is slower and gentler can still be a good life. 

Filling up the Prius last week rattled my nerves not just because of the sensory overwhelm. It was also because the gas station was working so hard to be and do everything, including trying to get me in on the grift. No wonder I wanted to scream, “Enough already!” 

It’s worth remembering (and repeating): not every every dimension of our existence needs to be focused on engaging, improving, producing. On proving our worth. Mr. Shell Station may not have had a choice in the matter. But I do. We do. 

We are enough already.