Meltdowns and tantrums: know the difference

I am vexed at how the word “meltdown” is being slowly hijacked by the general population, and used to describe someone having a massive tantrum. Let’s be clear right from the start: an autistic meltdown is not a tantrum. Not even remotely. Not ever.

A tantrum is defined by Chambers (12th ed.) as “a sudden fit of childish, uncontrolled bad temper or rage”, and has the synonyms: temper, rage, fury, storm, outburst, fit, flare-up, blow-up, scene, paroxysm, paddy, and hissy fit. A tantrum is what people (aged two onwards) have when they’re angry about not getting their own way.

Meltdown (in the non-nuclear sense) hasn’t made it into Chambers yet, but online sources define it as “an emotional breakdown” (The Free Dictionary), “a very fast loss of emotional self-control” (Merriam Webster), and “an uncontrolled emotional outburst or a mental collapse” (Oxford Dictionaries). Synonyms include: freak-out, crack-up, fit, disintegration, collapse, tantrum, hissy fit, breakdown, angry, and crazy.

Sigh.

What is a meltdown?
Firstly, let me tell you what a meltdown is not: it is not a tantrum, a hissy fit, or a mere loss of emotional control – any emotions I experience are the result of the meltdown, not the cause of it. In reality, it goes much, much deeper than that: for me, a meltdown is a processing failure, like when a computer becomes overloaded with too many instructions, and goes haywire. A meltdown is a loss of cognitive control – I can no longer think. If we use the analogy of an epileptic fit as a hardware problem, a meltdown is the software equivalent.

What triggers a meltdown?
Many of my stress-triggers are the same as neurotypical people’s (fatigue, illness, hormones, hunger, conflict, etc.). Then add the autistic stressors that neurotypical people somehow filter out: noise (particularly sudden loud noise), bright lights (particularly flashing ones), visual clutter (e.g. too much mess, traffic, people), frenetic activity, unwanted physical contact (including from my own clothes), change of plans or some other disruption, all the noise in my head, etc. Throw too many of those at me at once, and I just cease to function.

Sometimes, it might look like the meltdown has been triggered by my not getting my own way, e.g. disruption of my plans; but in that case, the need to work out how to manage my day differently from how I’d planned (in order to accommodate someone else’s plans), on top of all the other things I’m trying to manage, becomes the final processing-request that freaks out the computer. It’s not that I’m unwilling to engage with the idea, I just can’t process it. Not at the same time as everything else.

What does meltdown feel like?
For me, the only emotions I feel during meltdown are extreme frustration, panic and fear. I am not angry – not in any way.

I am frustrated by not being able to function properly (often because I’m failing to understand something, or make myself understood), panicked by being overwhelmed, and I am scared because I can’t work out what just happened, what is happening now, and what is going to happen next. It’s not just that I can’t think straight – I can’t think at all. To begin with, the words I speak might stop making sense. I might roar, scream, shout, and/or cry. I might pace about, and rarely I might throw things or hit things (only things, never people) – but even then… even if I appear to be in a rage… let me say this again: I am not angry.

Alternatively, I might go straight to the secondary stage (which I call ‘shutdown’ – like when a computer freezes altogether), where I can no longer work out how to speak or move. In this stage I will curl up in a ball and become mute. I will probably close my eyes, put my fingers in my ears, and want to cover my head. I’m trying to shut it all out.

So you see, a meltdown is not a tantrum, and a tantrum is not a meltdown. They are totally different things. This is not to say some autistic people don’t have tantrums too, but it’s vitally important to know the difference.

A tantrum is a hissy fit, where the person is acting out his/her feelings of being hard done by. A meltdown is a loss of executive function brought about by cognitive overload, or in more simple terms – I am temporarily unable to do anything that involves thinking, i.e. reason, remember, plan, problem-solve, or perform tasks: there is only chaos in my mind.

How to help me during meltdown (any hopefully other aspies too)

  • Please don’t panic – meltdown is a temporary state (like an epileptic fit), and I will recover.
  • I don’t need a doctor or medication – all I need is peace, quiet, and time.
  • If possible, get me to somewhere quiet – preferably with subdued lighting or no lighting at all. I will recover most quickly in silent darkness!
  • If there is a window, please close the blind/curtain.
  • Please do not touch me (very important).
  • Please ask other people to stay away, and try to ensure no one comes bursting into the room.
  • Please ask “what can I do to help?” but don’t press for an answer; some of us become mute in meltdown.
  • A glass of water will probably be welcome.
  • Please don’t offer or ask me anything else more complicated – I won’t be able to process the question.
  • You are dealing with a highly intelligent adult, so please resist any temptation to speak in a sing-song voice.
  • Please stay with me if you can, but at a distance, and please don’t try to make small-talk; this will seriously delay my recovery.
  • Bear in mind that once recovered, I will be exhausted (and possibly embarrassed), and will probably just want to go home. This is okay – once I am functioning again, I am perfectly safe to leave on my own.
  • I might not be able to express my thanks effectively at the time, so please don’t be offended if I simply walk away. I will be enormously grateful for your care and understanding.

This is a very personal subject, and one that’s close to my heart. Thank you for reading to the end.


Related posts
Living the Nightmare
Assaulted by the Detail
What’s Wrong with Labels?
It’s no Excuse

Bullying, Abuse, and Autism: a survey

» Bullying & Abuse: Introduction
» About being Bullied, by Anon

THE SURVEY IS NOW CLOSED.
Thank you very much to everyone who took part.
Ad hoc results are being tweeted @spectrum_life, and full results will be published in due course.

If you would like to take part in future research, please subscribe to our “research” newsletter (see right-hand column). Your subscription details will not be linked to any survey you subsequently complete, and your anonymity is guaranteed.

Original Post (published 9th January 2014)
Many autistic people experience some kind of bullying/abuse during their lifetimes.

We have compiled a survey, on Survey Monkey, to explore these experiences in a little more detail. If you are autistic, or think you might be autistic, we’d be very grateful if you would take five minutes to look at these 10 questions, to let us know a little about your own experiences. None of the answers you give with identify you in any way, and your anonymity is guaranteed.

How we are defining bullying and abuse:
PHYSICAL abuse doesn’t need to involve black eyes or broken bones; it also includes ANY kind of unwelcome physical contact, e.g. being pushed, hit, slapped, poked/prodded, pinched, spat at, having your hair-pulled, etc. – even if the other person says he/she is “just joking” or “just mucking around”.

PSYCHOLOGICAL abuse includes: being called names and/or made to feel small or humiliated, being threatened, feeling you have to do things you don’t want to do [or can't do things you want to do] to keep someone happy, having your belongings taken and/or damaged, having someone checking your phone or emails, or always wanting to know where you are and who you’re with, being prevented from seeing your friends/family, someone playing ‘mind games’ with you, sulking with you until you give in, being told “you have no sense of humour” or “you are being unreasonable” or “irrational” when you object to any of the above.

SEXUAL abuse includes: you having to endure ANY kind of kissing or touching that makes you feel uncomfortable (even if you are in a sexual relationship with the other person), and/or sexual contact that you don’t want, but feel you can’t say no to (because of threats, sulking, etc.). It includes non-consensual sexual contact with you while you are asleep, drunk, or under the influence of drugs.

The Aspie Guide to Surviving a Family Christmas

Christmas is an intense time, even for neurotypical people, and it can be so much harder for autistic people, especially if you are undiagnosed or your family do not accept your diagnosis. There is more social pressure at Christmas than at any other time of year, to “do the right thing”, and you might feel your own needs are being lost in the tidal wave of traditional expectations.

Don’t be afraid to look after yourself. It is not selfish to protect yourself (and others) from the consequences of you becoming overloaded!

1. Schedule some down time: if you’re spending Christmas in company with more people than you are used to, make sure you schedule some time alone, at least once a day – more often if necessary. Tell others in advance that you’re planning to do this, but don’t feel you must apologise for it. Explain that for you to stay relaxed and happy (rather than getting stressed and grumpy) while in company with others, you need to pace yourself, and know you can get away (and recharge your batteries) when things get too much. If they don’t like it, that’s their concern, not yours. Your concern is looking after you.

2. Cut down the input: if you’re expecting to be around small children, consider investing in some earplugs. Seriously! The type used by musicians allow you to hear what’s being said, at the same time as cutting out the worst of excess noise. If you can’t get hold of any of these, regular earplugs are available from all good pharmacies.

3. Watch what you drink: remember how tired you will be by the end of it all, and think about whether you really want to add a hangover to that.

4. Be prepared for change: actively think about how your routine will be affected by the festive season, and try to anticipate any potential feelings of discomfort/distress. Knowing in advance why you’re feeling so unsettled (even if it’s always obvious in hindsight), goes a long way to helping you cope with it at the time.

5. Try to relax: if you’re playing host this year, you’ll probably have everything planned down to the last detail! But try not to let yourself get frustrated and/or anxious if things go wrong, or timings slip. Do not beat yourself up trying to provide the “perfect” day (there is no such thing). And even if you don’t feel the need to make a complete escape, make sure you schedule some relaxation time into your plans.

6. Get out for a walk! Try to get out of the house at some point during the day, however sluggish you feel or reluctant you are to go. Fresh air and exercise will work wonders! It’s also a great excuse to escape (even if you have company) from the pressures of being confined to the house with other people.

7. Get plenty of sleep: try to ensure you get enough sleep in the days leading up to Christmas, and afterwards. There’s always a strong temptation to wrap that last present, tidy that final corner, or prep one more bowl of veg before the big day. If there are still chores to be done, it might be better to get up early and do them in the morning (when you are fresh, and more efficient), than struggle on late at night and then be so overtired that you can’t sleep.

8. Don’t feel under pressure to be “normal”: there are so many expectations surrounding Christmas – about the food you should have, the kind of presents you should give, how you should decorate your house, who you should spend the time with. Yet there is no “should”. If, for example, you have no responsibilies, and just fancy spending Christmas alone with a box-set and a bottle of wine, you do just that. It’s possible that others secretly want to do the same!

9. Remember medication: this isn’t a trite or frivolous suggestion – it’s so very easy to forget regular medication (which could be anything from vitamins to antidepressants) when your routine is disrupted; but if Christmas is likely to be stressful, it’s all the more important to make sure you have all the help you can get!

10. Show this post to others: if you want support to convince others of your need for adopting these coping strategies, consider showing this post to your partner/parents-in-law/friends/etc., so they can see that this is a very real issue, and that their support will go a long way to helping you enjoy your Christmas too.

And remember, in just a few short days, it will all be over for another year!


Assaulted by the Detail

I was sitting in a meeting, on the first floor of one of a local autism-charity’s support centres, considering that particular room’s suitability for people with sensory difficulties, when my aspie colleague observed how bright the glare from the window was. I couldn’t help adding that the sun’s reflections off passing traffic sent sequential flashes of light across the walls and ceiling. Our neurotypical colleagues smiled, shook their heads, and admitted they hadn’t noticed these details. At that moment, a green flash appeared, and the noise of a diesel engine sounded outside. Those clues, coupled with a particular rattle as the passing vehicle went over a bump in the road, signalled (to me) exactly what kind of vehicle it had been. “Green lorry!” I declared. The others grinned. We noted down “get blind for window,” and moved on to the next subject.

My brain, however, began analysing the tonal quality of the green, and a range of green-lorry images shot unbidden into my head: Asda, Waitrose, John Lewis, the Co-op, Yodel, Tuffnells, Eddie Stobart. The meeting’s attention had now turned to the clutter in one corner of the room, and the need to free up the table for other purposes, but part of my mind had darted off on a tangent, trying to decide which company the lorry had belonged to: the colour was too yellowy for John Lewis, but not yellowy enough for Yodel; too light and too far south for Eddie Stobart; it was a good match for Waitrose, but their lorries are only green front and rear (the sides are mostly white). My best guess was either ASDA, Co-op, or Tuffnells. At this point, something about the rattle returned to my consciousness, suggesting the lorry had been a lighter-weight non-articulated truck, rather than an HGV. This likelihood was supported by the fact that the road outside was a busy, but urban, route, and HGVs tend to take the dual-carriageway instead. One half of my brain had just agreed to put up a noticeboard by the door, while the other settled triumphantly on a Tuffnells 7.5-tonner.

This kind of detail often assaults me. I call it an assault, because I don’t choose to think about green lorries. We aspies can’t help consciously processing a huge amount of input at any given moment, whereas others can just subconsciously filter it out. People often think I’m rude if I can’t hide the fact I’m distracted, which is frustrating; if someone shouted in your face – which is what the green flash was like for me – you’d be distracted too. It doesn’t have to be a sudden event either; a large amount of general input can render me completely dysfunctional given enough time. It’s all about the quantity. Right now, I’m only having to deal with: the light input from four sources (laptop screen, and three lights); the feeling of my legs being crossed; the sound of my typing; the occasional car on the road outside; an ache in my back and shoulders; the smell of casserole wafting from the oven; hunger; and the sound of the children playing downstairs. If one of the kids started crying, or if the casserole began to burn, anyone would notice. But I’m aware of it all now – these things are occupying my attention, yet I can still write. I realise this makes me a good multitasker, something rarely considered an aspie skill.

Fortunately, the meeting I mentioned above was aspie-friendly: if my distraction had been spotted, no one would have taken offence, which is refreshing. So, please, spare a thought for everything else that’s going on in an aspie’s head and, if you spot him going off on a mental tangent, realise his distraction might be conscious, but it’s not necessarily voluntary.

And remember, if there’s ever a quiz round about green lorries, make sure to have me on your team.

What’s Wrong with Labels?

People can’t help but label other people. Our fundamental labels of “friend” or “foe” are essential to basic survival, and the rest lead on from there. Subconsiously, we are asking ourselves “is this person going to hurt me?” or “is this person someone I want to become acquainted with?” or “is this person a potential partner?” In order to answer these questions, and calculate the potential threat-levels posed by other people (on all kinds of levels), we first work out how well they match with us: we look at their education, the way they speak, their ages, their clothes, their jobs, their interests, etc. And we label them in our minds. Ask anyone to describe the person sitting next to him, and he’ll say something like, “she’s thirty-something, brown hair, well dressed, middle manager…” or whatever. He can’t describe her (to himself or to other people) in any other way. He has to use labels.

The problem arises when people apply the wrong label. And I fall foul of this as much as anyone else: a mother at my children’s former school spoke in a particularly clipped manner, which I interpreted this as snobbery (the wrong label). I disliked her just for that reason. When someone told me she was foreign (the right label) – a fact that had been impossible to see through her impeccable English accent – my whole attitude towards her changed.

So, having said all that, some people worry that I allow myself to be defined by the “autistic label”. On the basis that I’ll never stop people sticking labels on me, I much prefer to be called “autistic” than all the other descriptives I’ve had stuck on me over the years.

So, there’s nothing wrong with labels, but there’s a awful lot wrong with the wrong labels.

Typical Autistic Characteristics How Society Choses to Label Them How Society Could Label Them
Uncoordinated cackhanded restricted proprioception
Keeping oneself to oneself unsociable private
Stimming retarded harmless
Doesn’t get the joke thick differently humoured
Laughs more loudly than others annoying gets your joke
Says the “wrong thing” rude mistaken
Identifies ways to improve critical useful
Doesn’t understand teasing oversensitive differently humoured
Prefers not to make eye contact guilty retiring
Likes routine and organisation awkward organised
Free thinking dissenting thinks outside the box
Keeps odd hours creepy polyphasic
Wears comfortable clothing scruffy self-caring
Interested in detail pernickety attentive
Uncertain of how to interact standoffish shy
Interested nosy interested
Trusting gullible trusting
Honest tactless trustworthy
Sticks to the rules dogmatic law-abiding
Keen to share ideas opinionated contributing
Happy to talk about interests boring sharing
Prone to anxiety weak has a lot going on
Likes to plan ahead fussy organised
Wary of others paranoid bullied
Hypersensitive to light/noise/etc. intolerant amazingly tolerant

Please help by not perpetuating negative terms, but by encouraging the positive terms instead.

Online Tests for Asperger’s syndrome

Having once been through the agonies of wondering if I were “aspie enough,” I’ve written a brief article about online tests, in particular the Rdos test. I’ve included a number of Rdos graphs to illustrate how varied results can be, even amongst formally diagnosed aspies. I’ve also included my husband’s graph, to show just how different a neurotypical looks on the same scale!

The page is here: Online Tests.

Why Don’t You Take More Care?

My sister says it was always me who knocked over my coke in the Wimpy when we were kids. I remember exasperated cries of “it would be you” and “not again” and “why don’t you take more care?” But I never knew the answers. Over the years, I developed strategies to avoid knocking over my drink, but it still happens. It seems I was born clumsy, and there’s only so much I can do about that.

I can parallel park and I can sew, but I can’t walk through a door without colliding with it. Nor can I put a mug away in the cupboard without crashing it against the shelf. Nor can I drink a cup of tea without knocking my teeth (or spilling it). My limbs carry a dozen bruises at any one time, only a couple of which I can ever explain. As a child, I was on first-name terms with staff in the local A&E. In short, I’m accident prone. And my small girl is the same.

Proprioception, often referred to as a sixth sense, controls your ability to know where your body is without visual reference to it: proprioception is what lets you touch your nose with your eyes closed. It’s a sense we take entirely for granted; but imagine life without it*. Imagine having to watch your hand as it reaches to pick up that coffee. All the time you must make judgements: not only about where your hand is in relation to the cup, but where your hand is in relation to you. It would be like operating a remotely-controlled robotic hand, except that once you have the cup, you can feel it’s warmth against your skin. However, if you close your eyes, you immediately lose track of the cup’s position, and are unable to bring it to your lips, because you no longer know where it is. Imagine that.

Many aspies have issues with proprioception. This is not the same as spacial awareness – I can easily judge, for example, if my car will fit into that parking space – It’s only a problem with where the various parts of my body are in relation to everything else, including other parts of my body. Yes, I’ve been known to smack myself in the face by mistake.

I am teaching the small girl the strategies I’ve worked out: to keep her cup away from the edge of the table (and not in line with anything she might reach for); to tie back her hair and roll up her sleeves before a meal; to “concentrate on avoiding things in her way” (“look where you’re going” is not a useful instruction for an aspie). But still, she spills her drink, dunks her cuff in her food, and covers her limbs in bruises. Just like her mother.

It doesn’t help that she, also like me, is hypersensitive to touch. We feel more than other people. The oft-cited analogy, of the lightest brush feeling like an electric shock, is not far off. This led me, as a child, to be labelled a crybaby. I never understood why people didn’t understand how much it hurt (whatever “it” was). I gradually learned that an injury didn’t count if I had nothing to show for it, and subsequently never understood why things hurt so much, without leaving a mark.

So I look at my daughter now, alerted by yet another wail of pain, and presented with yet another microscopic self-inflicted scratch to kiss and sympathise with, and I do sympathise. I know exactly how she feels. And however exasperating it is that this is a six-times-a-day occurrence, you’ll never catch me saying “why don’t you take more care?” because I now know the answer: she was born clumsy too, and there’s only so much she can do about that.


Some people find using weighted belts/blankets/lap pads help with proprioception issues. See sensorydirect.com and rompa.com. See also this great article about making a DIY weighted blanket.
*This topic is the fascinating subject of Oliver Sacks’s article, “The Disembodied Woman,” which is included in the anthology The Man Who Mistook his Wife for a Hat, (Summit Books, 1985. Picador, 2011).

A Mild Form of Autism?




This tweet was prompted by an incident at an autism-awareness event last month. Towards the end of proceedings, I spoke to the assembled company about Asperger’s syndrome being a hidden disability, and how my already considerable difficulties were worsened by society’s expectations of normality. I said I wanted people to understand that, just because I look normal and can (for short, exhausting, periods) put on a performance of normal, there is nothing mild about having Asperger’s. There were calls of agreement from the audience, an autism-friendly round of applause, and I went back to my children – their little faces glowing with pride that their mummy had stood up and spoken.

Next up was a woman who had a son with severe autism. Bristling, she spoke about how severe her son was, yes, very severe, and how you might see the two of them around town, and how you couldn’t miss him because he was so severe… Something inside me died. Even to me, it was clear I had offended her, about which I was mortified, but she had misunderstood me; she thought I was saying all forms of autism are the same, and that I thought I suffered as much as her son. I confess, I nearly burst into tears on the spot.

I hate conflict, and in particular, any division within the autism community; but there is a division, isn’t there? Right there: the devision between people with severe autism and people like me. I can see why their carers think I’m so very lucky: I can talk, I can drive a car, I am married and have children (and a realistic hope of grandchildren). I even have a job. What more could I possibly want?

For the next three hours I considered giving up autism advocacy. I questioned how someone with my lack of subtlety can possibly get across something as important as autism awareness to the general community? Hell, I couldn’t even get it across to the autism community. But a pep-talk from an aspie friend put me back on my feet; I took out my phone, wrote that tweet, and Twitter completed the rescue.

So, sure, Asperger’s syndrome can be considered mild when compared with severe autism. It can be considered mild in the same way as losing a leg can be considered mild compared with paraplegia. But do we refer to amputation as a minor injury? Do we go around telling amputees, “count yourself lucky you’re not paralysed”? No. We do not.

That severe autism exists, does not make my life any easier. And nor do my struggles detract in any way from the enormous difficulties facing severely autistic people and their carers. I’m a huge fan of positive thinking – I can talk, I can drive a car – and being positive helps me in so many ways. But it does not cure me. However lucky I might be in comparison with other people, I still struggle with my own, very real, issues.

So, please, don’t take what I say, then add a “yes but…” and list all the things that could be worse. Please just hear me: I’m not saying there is no severe form of autism, just that there is nothing mild about having Asperger’s.

It’s no Excuse

excuse noun /iks-kūz’/*

1. A plea offered in extenuation or explanation, in order to avoid punishment.
2. Pardon or forgiveness.
3. Indulgence.

ORIGIN: Latin excusare, from ex from, and causa, a cause or accusation.

Excuses are emotionally charged things, in search of absolution. They are what we offer when we’re trying to “get away with” not doing something we know we should have done. They carry a negative quality; I am at fault (e.g. I’m late for a meeting with a friend) and I regret it. As such, excuses are usually preceded by an apology, e.g.: “I’m sorry I’m late, but the traffic was terrible.” If I offer an excuse, it’s because I want you to say whatever I’ve done wrong doesn’t matter, so I don’t have to feel bad about it (because otherwise I will).

reason noun /rē’z(ǝ)n/*

1. Ground, support or justification of an act or belief.
2. An underlying explanatory principle.
3. Conformity to what is fairly to be expected or called for.

Origin: French rasion, from Latin ratio, onis, from reri, ratus to think.

A reason is a statement of fact, which carries no emotional charge; I am still late, but I am not seeking my friend’s forgiveness (even if I start with the socially essential apology): “I’m sorry I’m late; there was an accident and the traffic was terrible.” As it’s clear there’s nothing I could have justifiably been expected to do to avoid being late, the issue is not one for which forgiveness is appropriate, my friend will probably say, “Don’t apologise; it’s not your fault.” It’s a good reason.

This situation is completely different from: “I was late because I didn’t leave enough time to get through the rush hour jams,” in which case my friend (however open-minded she might be) would be justified in feeling annoyed, and think (even if she doesn’t say), “that’s no excuse; you know the traffic’s always bad at this time of day.” This is an bad excuse.

Of these two forms of explanation – the excuse (unjustifiable) and the reason (justifiable) – one is seen as good, the other bad. One requires forgiveness and the other does not. How any particular explanation is received depends on the wronged party’s own life experience and generosity of spirit.

So, when I hear someone saying “he [or she] is just using Asperger’s syndrome as an excuse for not doing it…” my hackles rise. (Sure, the aspie might be milking it to his/her own advantage; but aspies, by definition, are not inclined to manipulative behaviour.) In most cases, it’s likely that the other person simply has no concept of life on the spectrum. Particularly if the aspie “appears normal,” his/her autism is seen as an excuse, an unjustifiable reason, for being unable to do whatever “it” is.

Conversely, more visible disabilities (and the issues involved) are easier for others to comprehend. You have to be pretty sheltered (or cruel) to accuse a partially sighted man of using his blindness as “an excuse”. You’d never blame a deaf man for needing subtitles, or the paralysed for being unable to walk. These disabilities are imaginable: if I close my eyes, or stick my fingers in my ears, I can get some idea of what it is like to be blind or deaf. I don’t need an analogy to explain paraplegia. I can imagine the fundamental issues, and even with my limited “empathy”, I can see any of these disabilities would have a severe effect on my life.

But you can’t temporarily rewire your brain and pretend to be autistic.

Living with autism is hard enough without being made to feel I must justify everything I can or can’t do. Or apologise for it. So it’s important to keep educating others, to gently explain that – whatever their own experiences of life – I can no more “pull myself together” than a blind man can see. Asperger’s syndrome is not an excuse for the way we behave; it’s a reason.


I recommend The Man Who Mistook his Wife for a Hat, by Oliver Sacks, as a fascinating voyage into the world of neurological disabilities – conditions that are virtually impossible for the rest of us to imagine.

*Taken from The Chambers Dictionary, 12th Edition, 2011. I have omitted definitions irrelevant to this post.