Tag Archives: Mental Health

Why does everything have to be so fucking hard?

Malta’s bureaucracy is so out of control that it’s amazing the island hasn’t sunk into the Mediterranean under the weight of all the paper generated by government departments and the money earned by local lawyers.

Since I met my partner six years ago, it seems that there hasn’t been a single day when we’re not chasing down documents or anxiously awaiting news of a government decision about our lives. After a while it gets seriously detrimental to my health, and I don’t think my anxiety levels have been below a 6 out of 10 in the last six years.

My partner is from a non-EU country, whereas I was born in the EU, and in essence, that is the cause of all the difficulties. Just happening to have been born in a particular country affects our lives so much more than it should. We’re all human beings, right? What is the purpose of national boundaries, of passports, of visas, of apostilles, of work permits and restrictions? I’ll tell you. It’s racism, xenophobia and naked greed. It’s one group of people thinking they need to protect themselves and their wealth against another group. It’s one arbitrarily-bordered country deciding to restrict the rights of another. There’s no fundamental reason why the world has to be split into countries. There are enough natural resources for everyone.

And it’s simply egregious that when two people fall in love, they should have to jump through so many legal and bureaucratic hoops just in order to be able to live where they choose.

It started when we first got together. My partner was (informally) separated from her Maltese husband, and that meant she lost the right to stay in Malta, unless she took employment in a ‘reserved occupation’ which basically meant drudge work as a carer for the infirm – not exactly the life we wanted. So our first task was to find a way to legalise her residency based on our relationship instead of her previous one. That took 40 documents from an assortment of sources, 6 months of uncertainty and nearly €2000 in legal fees. We also had to wait until we had been together 2 years, which meant 2 years of not knowing if or when we would have to deal with a government department cottoning on to the situation and deciding she had to be deported. Anxiety score: 8. Luckily bureaucracy tends to breed inefficiency and confusion, especially in Malta, where most of the time the left hand hasn’t a clue what the right hand is doing, and I think we have that to thank as much as anything else, for getting things sorted without deportation.

The next problem we had was that her passport still bore her maiden name, whereas when she married she (unfortunately) took her husband’s surname and her Maltese identity card showed that name. Never change your name, people, we are witness to the hell that can cause. Every time we went abroad, we had to take her marriage certificate with us and run the risk of being denied passage because she was clearly not travelling with the husband whose name was on her identity card.

Could she have changed her name on her passport? Only by travelling to her home country and enduring more bureaucracy by registering her Maltese marriage there. She didn’t want to do that, not least because even early on in the marriage she was already having doubts about the relationship and was fairly sure it wouldn’t last.

In Malta you cannot legally change your name simply by filling in some legal forms like you can in the UK and other civilised countries. No, the only way to legally revert to her maiden name in Malta was either legal separation or divorce. WHY THE FUCK CAN’T MALTA GROW UP AND LET PEOPLE MAKE THEIR OWN DECISIONS ABOUT THIS STUFF? With legal separation taking 1 year and divorce 4 years, we opted for the former, to try and rectify the situation as soon as possible. That little process ended up with us having to produce another 20 or so documents, and was complicated by the fact that her husband had already moved abroad. In the end it took 10 months and entailed 2 court appearances and over €2000 in lawyers fees. Anxiety score: 9.

Finally, after those two prolonged and stressful processes, we were living together legally in Malta and could travel (subject to visas) without eyebrows being raised at the clash of names on her documentation.

You’d think at that point we’d breathe a sigh of relief and say, enough. Well, we wanted to, but couldn’t. Why? Because we wanted to exercise our human right to get married, that’s why. And marriage allows me to retire with her in her home country in the future.

In my partner’s home country, a nation stifled and held back by religion, divorce is not permitted. End of story. There is simply no divorce allowed. The ONLY exception is when a person of my partner’s country has married a foreigner, and the foreigner divorces them abroad (the foreigner must be the one initiating the divorce).

So my partner couldn’t legally divorce her husband in Malta and expect that divorce to be recognised in her home country. No, it had to be the other way around, otherwise if we ourselves married and travelled to her home country, she would be breaking the bigamy laws and could be arrested. He had to divorce her, which meant reaching out to him, cap in hand so to speak, and hoping that he would agree and do the right thing.

We swallowed our pride and managed to persuade him to divorce her in his adopted country – luckily a civilised, relatively secular country where divorce is easy and not too expensive. In the end it took 5 months and we had to send him about €800 to cover the fees (that was a condition of his co-operation). But at least he is now legally relegated to the status of ex-husband.

End of the story? Not quite. In order for us to marry in Malta, her divorce had to be registered with the Maltese authorities, which meant going back to her former husband and persuading him to request an apostilled copy of the divorce decree and fedex it to us, so that we could hand it in at the Maltese public registry and in return receive a Maltese divorce certificate. Anxiety score: 8.

I tell you, you couldn’t make it up if you tried. It’s like starring in Terry Gilliam’s film Brazil or being stuck inside a Kafka novel.

That brings us pretty much up to the present, where we’ve set a date for the wedding, our relatives have booked their flights, and we need to hand in all the necessary documentation (more visits to notaries with witnesses to get more meaningless rubber stamps). Except, my partner’s apostilled birth certificate, which she handed in for her previous marriage, now needs to be countersigned by her home country’s consulate in Malta ( I WASN’T told about this in advance), and the marriage registry won’t release it into our care, even temporarily, so we have to try and get this done using a photocopy and hope the consul doesn’t turn his nose up at it.

There may be a fallback option, which is to use a web-based service in my partner’s home country that promises to obtain birth certificates and get them authenticated (apostilled) by the government before sending them anywhere in the world by courier. So we’ll probably do that as well in case and I’m currently waiting for a quote from them. But it looks like this process needs us to obtain a special power of attorney (from the consul in Malta) and courier it to them first. More delays, when we have only 4 weeks to get this sorted before our wedding date becomes invalid and our relatives have to start cancelling flights.

Anxiety score: the needle broke.

I’m trying to think of a moral to this sorry tale to round things off, but to be honest there’s no clear message – not a realistic one anyway. But maybe some nuggets of advice, born of painful experience:

Nugget 1: If you marry someone and you’re female, hold on to your maiden name.

Nugget 2: If you aren’t 110% sure of someone, don’t marry them.

Nugget 3: If you need to deal with the Maltese government, get a valium prescription first.

Nugget 4: If you’re an EU citizen and thinking of living in Malta, check out some other places first.

Nugget 5: I’m running out of nuggets. Looking back at all this stress and torment, I honestly don’t see how we could have done anything differently given the circumstances. I’m just really, really angry that marrying someone takes 6 years and over €5000, just because one person has been married before and the two of us come from different countries. It shouldn’t be this way. We should be welcoming each new day of our life together, not approaching it with trepidation, waiting for the next official to tell us we did something wrong and something extra is needed.

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Come back Larkin

I recently saw a video on one of The Mighty‘s Facebook pages. Here’s the link:

It was entitled “Things you do as an adult when you’ve experienced childhood emotional abuse” and was simply a series of post-it notes, saying:

“I can’t stand conflict, loud sudden noises, shouting and screaming or agression in any form. It triggers my fight-or-flight instantly.”

“I can’t accept compliments. During my childhood, people just noticed my mistakes and not my achievements.”

“I’m an overachiever. I obsess about doing a job/task to perfection. And then I obsess about how I could have done it better.”

“I’m basically a hermit. My home is my fortress. I constantly fear everyone around me.”

“I have problems trusting people.”

“Indecisiveness. It feels like every choice I make is wrong even if I choose the option I’m told to take.”

“I avoid saying anything that others might not agree with, which means I’m never being myself.”

“I’m overly shy around people and struggle with having a voice. I believe no-one wants to hear anything I say.”

“I have a hard time making eye contact with people.”

“Blaming myself for everything. I have to fight the urge to beat myself up constantly.”

This series of simple, throwaway comments basically describes my life since being a teenager.

So this begs a question: how much of the shit I have to deal with in life is due to my Asperger Syndrome, and how much is due to the emotional abuse I endured as a child and teenager?

I’m suddenly not sure.

Points if you get the obscure poetry reference in the title.

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Cold Fire

Austistic people have meltdowns. The condition is famous for it. Sometimes things get so overwhelming that the part of us which copes with life and regulates our behaviour just shuts down, and the result is usually something akin to a temper tantrum or emotional explosion.

I have what I’ve learned to call meltdowns from time to time. But it seems to affect me a little differently than many autistic people.

I don’t (usually) fly off the handle. I don’t physically collapse into the fetal position and cry or scream. What I get is a cold rage that burns inside me, and that wants to do harm. To someone, to something, anything.

The things that trigger this in me are many and varied, and there doesn’t seem to be much consistency. Feeling out of control is one common factor though – if I can’t control my environment or circumstances, I’m at more risk, I know that much. And if someone causes something to happen in my life that I think is unjust, that also heightens the risk.

I’m not a violent person, and I think my cultural inhibitions against physically harming someone are far too strong and deep-seated for me to lash out physically. I’ve never hit anyone, ever – despite being physically abused as a child (or maybe because of it).

But when a meltdown happens, I’m still acting on a visceral subconscious instinct – I have no way of stopping myself doing what I do. And what I do is normally self-destructive in some way – either I find myself making social media posts that are likely to lose me friends, or I verbally abuse someone who could easily harm me if they chose to, or I destroy a possession that I would never normally want to lose, or I act out of spite against someone who has never given me cause to, or make an irreversible decision that will harm me in the long run, etc.

It seems my rage, when it erupts, is always directed inwards, whether directly or indirectly. When I do these things, it’s me that gets hurt by the consequences in the long run. And on some level, while I’m in the throes of such an incident, I actually do know this. But it doesn’t stop me. It’s like I have to let it play out until I’m calm and back to myself again.

No doubt a psychiatrist would have a field day with this, and would find causes in my childhood – quite aside from the fact that I’m autistic. And I’m certainly aware that I have a lot of unresolved rage against my parents.

I do consider from time to time whether I should start up again with regular counselling, like I had for a few years after giving up alcohol. But the only counsellor I trust is now living abroad, and it’s harder to properly connect via Skype rather than being in the same room.

So I’m hoping that by writing this post, and forcing myself to examine what happens in a meltdown, maybe I can start to find ways to ‘head it off’, or handle it better somehow. I never want to have a meltdown, and I always hate myself after it’s over. Maybe one day I’ll find that I can control it better. I hope so.

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Knowing your limitations

Before I knew I was autistic, I have many memories of agreeing to do things way outside my comfort zone, because I guess I figured I had no excuse not to do them.

Things such as attending parties, going to work social events, dinner parties, group activities – they were what normal people did, and I didn’t feel I had a valid reason to say no, so more often than not I said yes and then had a thoroughly miserable time at whatever the event was, usually feeling awkward and out of my depth, hating everyone around me and hating myself for having failed to find a good excuse to get out of it, or for not being strong enough to just say no without giving a reason.

It used to take me days after each event to recover, after having spent days or weeks before the event dreading it, with my anxiety levels building almost to breaking point.

Now, as a self-aware Aspie, I understand why these occasions were so unbearable for me, and I know that, despite what some people say, there is nothing, absolutely nothing, to be gained by trying to do something outside my comfort zone. “Oh look, I did something outside my comfort zone!” “Oh wow, how do you feel?” “Like shit.” “But it must have been good in some way?” “Nope, can’t think of anything.” In fact I think autistic people don’t have a comfort ‘zone’ so much as a reinforced concrete barrier, through which it is pointless to try and go.

Why would I put myself through that hell, when I could simply, you know, not do it?

So I say no. No to dinner parties, no to group barbecues on the beach, no to New Year’s Eve gatherings. Being self employed now means that work events are a thing of the past thank goodness. I don’t mind eating out with a friend, or even two friends at a push, but they have to be good friends – friends who know my character and accept it. And I don’t have many of those.

I was almost persuaded to attend a big event later this month (a school reunion some 30+ years after we all left school) – and I even bought flights – but several weeks after saying to an eager friend that I would go, I took a look at myself and realised that my anxiety levels were through the roof, my skin was breaking out like a teenager, I was having nightmares about the event, and other aspects of my life were suffering. So this is now a no, too. It’s just not worth it. And to be honest, out of the 200+ people in my year at school, I only wanted to talk to a handful of people anyway. The rest I either had no wish to talk to or hardly knew. And me, as a former alcoholic, in a room with possibly 100 people, almost all of them drinking to excess? No way in hell. A small sacrifice for peace of mind, and a lesson re-learned and reinforced.

POSTSCRIPT: It’s now the day of the event and I know I made the right decision. My skin has cleared up, I’m sleeping better and my anxiety levels are back to normal (which is to say, I have always lived with anxiety but now it’s manageable again). There’s a small part of me that’s a little sad about not getting to see two or three people in particular, but the sadness doesn’t translate into regret. And maybe I’ll get to see them in the future, in an easier situation.

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