Downtime

I’m old now. It’s been many years since I first realized I was not like other people. That realization was rather shocking since we are raised to believe that everyone is pretty much the same, we’re cut from the same cloth, and we see the world in pretty much the same way. But I’m here to say this is not so.

Early on, I didn’t know I was different. I just thought I was me. I was an odd child, a child who liked to roam the woods and the streets of my town by myself and with only me for company. I had a strong sense of being alone in the world, a strong sense that the way I saw my world was mine and mine alone, and that the things I was seeing belonged to me. I possessed them. That tree wasn’t outside me. It was inside.

Lying in bed at night in the darkness, I felt large, very large. I was the center, and my body extended out into the landscape. Like the wind itself, I couldn’t be contained. In my created world, there was a marvelous feeling of wholeness and oneness with no separation, isolation, or alienation. How very wonderful!

But this way of being was not a bed of roses. There were plenty of thorns.

It can be unpleasant to walk the path seeing every leaf, blade of grass and stone, as if they were individual beings. Each branch on the tree had its own story to tell. Every rock had a plausible narrative. It could be and was an ecstatic experience to see the world so full, so illumined, so alive, a cornucopia of sensation and movement. But too much seeing put me into sensory overload and made me want to hide in darkness, to shut down, to find a place for rest.

As I entered adulthood, I came to understand that I was not like other people, and yet I was expected to act like everyone else. I was expected to move through the world as if I were like them. My culture is very authoritarian. Conformism is valued. Differences are almost always identified as illnesses. Was there something wrong with me? Was I defective? Could I be diagnosed with some nameable disorder and put into a category along with others like me? Was I ill? Did I need medication?  

My difference was especially apparent when it came time for me to learn to drive a car. For me, this was going to be a challenge. I lived in a realm that at least visually was exploding exponentially all the time. The staggering amount of information I could take in was more than I could process from a stationary position. Now picture me barreling down the highway at sixty miles an hour. See the landscape flowing by on either side, see the grasses swaying in the wind, picture the trees strobing sunlight and shadow across the road in front of me. On an interstate amidst heavy traffic, not only would I be moving but these large objects all around me, the other cars and even trucks, were moving as well, and somehow I had to make life and death decisions in a split second. I can honestly tell you this reduced me to tears.

My coping mechanism was to shut down. Self-hypnosis allowed me to dampen some of the sensory overload. I’d lull myself into a calm and passive state, but this was problematic. Driving isn’t passive. Driving is about reacting. As a driver, I couldn’t close myself off. I had to be aware. I thought of myself as a smart person. Surely, I could master this skill that so many other people took for granted, but I never did. It simply wasn’t possible for me.

Sensory overload was my problem. Moving landscapes exhaust me. Sunlight, fluttering leaves, shifting shadows, glare, and at night the approaching lights of oncoming cars all cause problems. And it wasn’t just driving that troubled me. Many activities that refresh other people deplete me. While I might feel elated by a quiet walk in the woods, dappled and flickering light wears me down, and afterward I need to rest from resting. For some years, I tried hard to function as a “normal” person, but I couldn’t. I developed chronic fatigue. I was tired all the time.

Eventually I found a solution, and that was downtime.

Downtime involves shutting off the peripherals. I go into a darkened room, get into a comfortable position in bed with a large pillow propping me in a near sitting position. I put on blinders, insert ear plugs, and shut out the world. During downtime, I’m not sleeping. In this place of enforced idleness, my thoughts slow. I breathe. I give up all my agendas and orchestration. There’s a turning inward, a kind of receptivity that imperceptibly changes me just as dreams might change us.

Downtime is opportunity. I am a visual artist, and sometimes during downtime, I “see” the next step on a painting I’m working on. Perhaps there’s a new element I want to introduce. Or I might work with my food landscape. I am the chef for a communal household. Planning is everything, and I might mentally take myself through the preparation of a complicated multi-course meal. And there’s more. Perhaps I have a long mental conversation with someone about a concern I have. And even if I never have that conversation in “reality,” I’ve learned something. Clarification of a situation helps me to navigate the world of people and relationship with greater smoothness and accuracy.

And so, my downtime becomes more than my solution for sensory overload. It’s an essential element in my way of being.  I find that I’m at my best when I do several hours of downtime per day, even more if I’ve just returned from an overstimulating outing, busy vacation, or period of work. Downtime is more than recovery. It’s not simply recharging. Downtime offers an opportunity for me to live better and more intentionally.

It's true. The darkness and sensory deprivation that might depress another person bring relief for me. Unlike people with Seasonal Affective Disorder who crave sunlight during the winter months, I thrive on winter’s darkness. I love the stilled world, the trees without leaves, the slow movement of the stars across the sky, and the freezing of things in place. It’s almost like stopping time itself. And I’ve got this place I can go to. I have a way to help myself, and while it may not seem normal for someone else, this works for me. Downtime brings relief, yes, but it also brings insight and the opportunity to live my life in a different way. I need the darkness.

Jeri Griffith is both writer and artist. She regularly publishes essays and short stories in literary quarterlies. Many of these can be accessed through her website and read online. Her artwork—paintings, drawings, and films—can also be viewed on her website: www.jerigriffith.com. Jeri lives and works in Brattleboro, Vermont with her longtime collaborator and husband Jonathan, her best friend Nancy, and their two beagles, Molly and Ruby.