Is this a sensory meltdown? Or am I just a bitch?

September 2nd, 2026

By Emergency Contact (EC)

There are moments in life when self-reflection is important.

Moments when you need to sit with yourself, examine your behavior, and ask the difficult questions.

Am I overwhelmed?

Am I overstimulated?

Is my nervous system currently filing for disability?

Or am I just being a bitch?

These are the questions that keep me on my toes…

That and the fact that I’m fucking elf sized.

Because I have reached the unfortunate level of self-awareness where I know that sometimes my reactions to completely ordinary human experiences are… extra af.

Not necessarily externally.

I do possess self-control.

But internally?

Someone can chew too loudly and suddenly I am fighting demons that have absolutely nothing to do with that person.

They’re just eating.

Like a normal human being.

And somewhere inside my brain, I’m exploding into a fireball like Jack-Jack on The Incredibles.

PLEASE SHUT THE FUCK UP.

Which feels a little fucking dramatic considering nobody is actually doing anything wrong.

My Nervous System Has Strong Opinions

I have always had sensory things.

I just didn’t necessarily realize they were sensory things.

Tags.

Sock seams.

Tight collars.

Wet hair touching me.

Shower curtains touching me.

Sticky hands.

Grease.

Lotion.

Certain food textures.

Mushy things. Slimy things. Grainy things.

Hot food that unexpectedly contains a cold spot—which should frankly be illegal regardless of neurological status.

Bright lights.

Flashing lights.

Strong smells.

Clutter.

Chewing.

Repetitive sounds.

Buzzing.

Fucking buzzing.

There are sounds that other people seem capable of simply acknowledging and continuing their lives around.

I am not one of those people.

If something is buzzing, I need to know what is buzzing.

Where is it?

Why is it doing that?

Can we make it stop?

Has anyone else noticed?

Why has nobody else noticed?

AM I LOSING MY MIND?

Loud environments are another one.

Eventually it stops being “Wow, it’s loud in here.”

My ears physically hurt.

My heart starts pounding.

I get shaky.

I become approximately one overstimulated chihuahua in a human suit.

And touch?

Touch is complicated.

Sometimes I love it.

Deep pressure? Fantastic.

Heavy blanket? Smother me, sweetheart.

Soft things? Absolutely.

But unexpected touch when I’m already overstimulated?

Absolutely the fuck not.

My entire body reacts like somebody has personally attacked me.

And unfortunately, I am raising a sensory-seeking child who loves physical contact.

He’s currently rubbing my leg as I write this, and I’m crawling out of my fucking skin with overstimulation.

Grandpappy wants to climb on me. Lean against me. Touch me. Be close to me.

Which is normally fine.

I love that little human more than I could ever adequately explain.

But sometimes I come home from work after spending hours surrounded by people, noises, lights, movement, conversations, carts, things touching me, things beeping at me, and whatever fresh sensory hell the universe has prepared for that particular day…

…and I am fucking done.

The Touch Department is fucking graduated.

Except Grandpappy doesn’t experience my nervous system from inside my body.

He just knows Mommy is home.

And sometimes Mommy has to very intentionally communicate:

I love you. I want to be with you. And I need you to please not touch me for a few minutes.

Because he isn’t doing anything wrong.

And neither am I for needing space.

The challenge is making sure my discomfort doesn’t become his rejection.

That part matters to me.

And Then There Are the Fucking Towels

Listen.

I understand how this sounds.

There are certain towels in my house that have jobs.

They live in their designated places.

They are supposed to be dry.

This is not complicated.

Apparently, however, not everyone in my household received the orientation packet.

Grandpappy will use one.

Lady Glitter Sparkles knows better. 🤣

Or I’ll reach for a towel that I have mentally categorized as The Dry Towel™ only to discover that it is…

indeed NOT FUCKING DRY.

And something inside me fucking short-circuits.

Because now the towel is wrong.

It was supposed to be there.

It was supposed to be dry.

I needed it to be dry.

And logically?

I understand that this is a towel.

Stop being such a dramatic bitch.

The house is not on fire.

There are other towels.

I am an adult woman theoretically capable of acquiring another piece of absorbent fabric.

But my nervous system does not give one single fuck about this compelling legal argument.

THE TOWEL WAS SUPPOSED TO BE DRY.

And this is where we arrive at the central question:

Is this a sensory meltdown?

Or am I just a bitch?

Porque No Los Dos?

I think one of the strangest parts of becoming more self-aware is realizing that understanding why you react a certain way does not automatically absolve you of responsibility for what you do with that reaction.

Maybe my nervous system genuinely processes certain sensations differently.

Maybe there are moments when I am overloaded and my tolerance has dropped to the depths of hell.

That matters.

It means I can learn what overwhelms me.

I can communicate.

I can accommodate myself where possible.

I can walk away.

I can turn down the lights.

I can put on headphones.

I can change the offensive sock.

I can ask for five minutes without being touched.

I can locate and destroy the mysterious buzzing object.

And apparently I can establish fucking towel legislation.

But sensory overload does not grant me diplomatic immunity.

Someone chewing isn’t attacking me.

Grandpappy wanting affection isn’t doing something wrong.

Grandpappy using a towel has not committed a felony, despite what the prosecution—my nervous system—may say.

Other people are still people.

They deserve kindness even when every sensation in my body is screaming:

THIS IS TOO MUCH.

And I deserve enough understanding of myself to recognize that “I am becoming overwhelmed” is different from “everyone around me is suddenly fucking intolerable.”

Because when I don’t recognize the first one?

The second one starts feeling incredibly convincing.

So… Which One Is It?

I don’t know.

That’s kind of the fucking point.

Maybe sometimes it’s sensory overload.

Maybe sometimes I’m tired.

Maybe sometimes I’ve spent eight hours being perceived by the general public and my remaining tolerance could fit inside a grain of rice.

Maybe something really is annoying.

And perhaps, occasionally, I am simply being a little bit of a bitch.

Growth.

Self-awareness.

✨ ✨ BALANCE.

What I do know is that I’ve gotten better at noticing when my body is reaching capacity.

The sounds become louder.

Touch becomes more irritating.

The clutter starts screaming at me.

Every tiny inconvenience suddenly feels like it has personally woke up and chosen violence.

That’s usually my cue.

Not that everyone else needs to stop existing incorrectly.

But that I need to figure out what the fuck I need before my nervous system declares war on an innocent towel.

Sometimes that’s quiet.

Sometimes that’s space.

Sometimes that’s deep pressure.

Sometimes that’s repetitive music or movement.

Sometimes it’s removing whatever sensory input I can actually control.

Sometimes it’s dissociating. 🙃🙃

Which, admittedly, is less of a coping strategy and more like my brain going:

You know what? I’m clocking the fuck out. Y’all got this.

And sometimes it’s saying:

Hey. I love you very much. Mommy needs five minutes where nobody fucking touches her.

And yes.

I do include the fucking when I’m talking to the tiny human.

I cuss around my kids. I don’t cuss at my kids.

There is a fucking difference.

The point is, learning that I have sensory needs hasn’t made me less accountable for my behavior.

It’s actually made me more accountable.

Because now I can recognize what is happening before I decide that everyone in a ten-foot radius has suddenly become unbearably fucking annoying.