The Snowman has been my favourite film since it first appeared on our TV screens on Boxing Day in 1982. I remember watching it for the first time as if it was yesterday.
Years later, in some ridiculous corporate ice-breaking session with 10 senior business leaders, I was asked to share my favourite film - the only film which came into my head was The Snowman and the only words able to come out of my mouth ‘The Snowman’.
My revelation was met with sniggers from those around me and I remember not understanding why my choice of favourite film was so unpalatable to them.
It was the truth. I love the film - and only last week I read in the brilliant book Nine Minds by Daniel Tammet of another autistic person who enjoyed watching The Snowman on repeat.
I remember the September day we brought our newborn daughter home from the hospital, I made a comfortable nest for myself on the sofa with a cup of tea and as I fed her I watched The Snowman - my body slowly unclenching as the soft opening piano music began.
With the knowledge I now have about autism, I’m not surprised I needed to lose myself in the safety of The Snowman following an intense few days in hospital with bright lights, loud noises and people all around me - not to mention a newborn baby to look after.
Looking back over the years since our daughter was born, I have turned to The Snowman for comfort on many occasions.
Such was the case last Tuesday, when snow fell hard and fast outside my window.
I hadn’t initially recognised my reaction to the snowfall - it was our daughter who suggested I was freaking out as we drove to the bus stop. She was right, and I was grateful to her for sharing her observation as it enabled me to put in place the things I knew I needed to feel safe.
I wasn't shouting, panicking or crying externally. I’m good in a crisis. I was calm, organised and in problem-solving mode. But internally my systems were overloading and bit by bit my brain was closing down.
By the time I returned home, I was having flashbacks from years ago, my head hurt, my heart was pounding and I couldn’t remember where I kept ingredients to make bread. I walked around and around our kitchen in a confused daze.
Only the night before had I read a post by one of our community members about feeling stuck. I sympathised with her. I felt stupid - I had been doing so very well, climbing my way out of burnout and feeling less and less stuck. But here I was again, my brain whizzing round and round as I became stuck once more.
The words of wisdom gifted to me in my darkest burnout days were whispering in my ears - what do you need today? What would you do for your children if they were feeling like this?
A skill I have never quite mastered seemed to be kicking in - self care, putting my needs first, compassion. I can’t even think of the word to describe it, but it was fascinating to observe.
I answered with ease….
I needed to bunker down, to cancel plans, a warm bath, hot chocolate, yoga nidra, meditation, a crackling fire and The Snowman.
I couldn’t help but interrogate my mind, trying to understand my relationship with snow throughout my life. The first book I read about autism was Odd Girl Out by Laura James. She referenced an experience in the snow which resonated with me so much that I stored it away deep inside my memory.
I’m not sure I would even have thought to reflect on snow in such a way had Laura not written about her experiences in the snow.
I struggle with change - it makes perfect sense that I would struggle if my world suddenly looks very different, sounds different, feels different and has no trace of a normal routine. Walking becomes unsteady, clothing is different and uncomfortable. Other people become different too.
But there was more, a deeper and darker pain.
Where I live, snow is such an infrequent visitor so when it does appear I have quite an emotional reaction. Last week I experienced several flashbacks - not happy memories, but more trauma-based memories from times in the snow which I don’t think I would have remembered had it not snowed.
I was able to stop such thoughts quickly by reminding myself I was safe, and instead I encouraged my mind to share happier memories with me.
Had my daughter not alerted me to the fact I was freaking out, I would have mistaken the funny feeling in my body as excitement. In fact, minutes before she alerted me to my worsening frame of mind, I had been thinking of the exciting things I could do with my day - making a snowman for the children and taking a walk over the fields to make the most of the rare occasion were on the list.
But they would have made me feel worse.
I know this, because this is exactly what I have done in previous years when it has snowed.
I’ve always loved the snow - but only when the stars align and there is no expectation to leave the house, no requirement to deliver fun for family and friends and no need to do anything other the things I want to do.
I love the way it dulls the noises made by man, halts the traffic and almost stops the clocks, whilst allowing the soothing sounds of nature to tickle our ears… a creaking tree, a burst of birdsong and the hushing babble of a nearby stream.
My eyes feel quieter too as the landscape’s vast colour and depth become monochrome and much easier to digest.
In the words of The Snowman’s author, Raymond Briggs… Snow had fallen steadily all night long and in the morning I woke in a room filled with light and silence the whole world seemed to be held in a dream-like stillness.
‘The whole world seemed to be held in a dream-like silence’ - maybe this sums up the feeling I enjoy every single time I see and hear the opening credits of The Snowman, and maybe it’s why my own eyes marvel at the snowflakes as they fall outside the window in the quiet calm before the dysregulating reality of snowfall kicks in.
My job has always involved writing. I’ve been lucky in that respect, always writing with purpose about someone else, or for someone else. Writing about myself feels uncomfortable and alien.
What do I know?
What authority do I have to talk about such things. It would be easy to stop, to tell myself that no-one else cares about The Snowman. But I remember how much other writers have helped me to understand myself.
To feel as if I belong somewhere and that I am not alone. And that is how I tell my uncomfortable self to keep writing about my experiences as a late-diagnosed autistic woman.
Even if just one person sees themself in my words, feels understood through a shared experience and can see they’re not as irrelevant as they feel, then these words about my uncomfortable self have been worth it.
It’s so easy to feel alone. Too scared of the world to go out and meet people and too bruised by incessant misunderstandings to venture an opinion. Too exhausted to even consider risking the hurt, we retreat to safe spaces and faces.
You’re not alone dear friends, and neither am I.
In my loneliest of times, I listen to one of Catherine’s podcast episodes.
Her soothing voice, familiar phrases and likeminded beliefs and experiences lift my spirits, as do her guests with their familiar and honest approach to the world.
Thank you for being there.
This blog post is written by Ginger Writer - Gingerly becoming the writer I was born to be who is a community member, and forms part of a 6 week blog series, where Ginger Writer will be writing for us and sharing her words.
Images via Unsplash
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