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This would be today's motto.
Flight from Dulles to Boston was cancelled due to weather; when I tried to check in I was told to pick up the courtesy phone and listened to "Rhapsody in Blue" until ten minutes before I was supposed to have already been checked in, at which point I got increasingly twitchy and stood in line to talk to a real person. (Must not stim in airport.)
Spent most of the time in that queue alternating between really really really wanting to curl up and rock and wondering about autism.
Got put on waitlist for a direct flight home.
Spent the walk back to the car doing the face thing. Had a few tears as soon as got to the car, but still too public.
Always face. Too much face. I have a hard enough time believing my presence isn't unwelcome without letting my emotions out into it and getting under other people's feet. Especially negative emotions. Especially need, which is unacceptable under all circumstances. (And at some point i need to get through and write about UtBM and dissect that.)
I hate plans changing out from under me; it gives me extensive issues and doubts, and it's the form of stress that I deal with most poorly, the doubt and uncertainty. (Must not stim in airport.) I hate uncertainty; the standby thing was another layer, but I didn't realise it would be as much of a problem as it was until later, but that layered in.
It's hard enough leaving, leaving![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
brooksmoses (and suzimoses), without having the whole secure certainty of departure upended like that. Without having a wrench thrown in it. Without getting thrown off, having the settled stuff turned into leaving|notleaving|leaving|notleaving. (Must not stim in airport.)
Got back to apartment. Put together the things that I realised I had forgotten -- my incense, the new Tarot, and the Asatru martini glass. Arranged carry-on so I could fit them all.brooksmoses held me, and I broke, and chaospainhurtuncertaintydoubtfear. . . and my deepest reaction was to want to apologise. To react from shame at having broken face, at having shown weakness, of having revealed that much.
To a partner.
Gods be.
(Must not stim in airport.)
Did feel better afterwards. Thanked him several times. Returned to airport. New plan:brooksmoses camps out upstairs with laptop, does work; I go in and call him on the mobile when I learn whether or not I get to go home.
So I went through security.
Guess who got pulled out for special inspection and groping?
Actually, by this point I was beyond an impulse to stimming, having achieved a sort of Zen state of Bad Day, What Do You Expect? Exchanged commiserations in Spanish with an older woman also targeted for intensive shoe contemplation (I believe Peruvian from a comment from her English-speaking companion).
Found myself, while sitting and watching stray security people dismember my carefully assembled carry-on baggage, glad of two things: that I decided to abandon my tea candles withbrooksmoses and suzimoses on the principle that a flammable thing in a metal wrapper is probably a threat to national security, and that the interesting plantlife I picked up at PCon was in my checked baggage. (Which is, not to get ahead of myself, probably currently over Denver.)
Went to Gate 73, the place on my ticket. Which was, conveniently, right next to the security checkpoint. Was informed that my flight was actually leaving from Gate 89. Better known as "the back-ass end of SFO". I know this, because every damn time I fly in or out of there I seem to come in at one of gate 88-90, and thus am exceptionally familiar with this mighty trudge.
I trudge. Mightily. I wave my ticky at the counter to confirm that I'm there. I sit down.
I callbrooksmoses to give him a timescale on clue acquisition. I call my brother James to confirm that I will not be meeting him for dinner at Dulles, whatever else happens to me. I call teinedreugan to whine.
They start boarding. Chairs clear. I move to a chair. I strike up a conversation with another waitlisted person, who is reading a book I've heard about and is, I discover, also a Felding auntie, Class of '90. (Fold universe mightily now.) I also occupy myself entertaining an eleven-month-old with my prayer beads, which are brightly coloured and rattle. I am not sure if this counts towards my string as The Funny Lady.
Four names are called to get on the plane, standby. One person appears. Time passes. The board tics over to "flight closed". It is now 12:58, for a 1 pm departure; three more names are called, including the auntie. People depart.
I callbrooksmoses and teinedreugan again to confirm that I am not on this plane, will call with updates. (I think one of my compensation mechanisms for uncertainty, now I contemplate it, is to make everyone around me fully aware of all the details and minutiae of the extent of said uncertainty, as well as all delta-confusions that result.)
My neck is so tight I can feel the tension lines without touching it, that I can't look down without it twinging. The tension runs down into my back, centering under my right shoulderblade (which is aggravated by carrying the backpack mostly on that shoulder). I wait. The gate pulls back from the airplane door, which sort of confirms that I'm not on the damn plane.
I wait for someone to return to the counter. This is a while coming, and when it happens, it happens in a knot of people -- including the auntie.
I overhear the phrase "the red-eye is full", and callbrooksmoses to confirm that I can stay another day as necessary.
Eventually someone is available to talk to me, puts me on the next flight I can be actually booked for. Giving me a plan. Something I can schedule, pin down, plan around, something that I can at least know what the hell is going on about.
I am so tired.
Flight from Dulles to Boston was cancelled due to weather; when I tried to check in I was told to pick up the courtesy phone and listened to "Rhapsody in Blue" until ten minutes before I was supposed to have already been checked in, at which point I got increasingly twitchy and stood in line to talk to a real person. (Must not stim in airport.)
Spent most of the time in that queue alternating between really really really wanting to curl up and rock and wondering about autism.
Got put on waitlist for a direct flight home.
Spent the walk back to the car doing the face thing. Had a few tears as soon as got to the car, but still too public.
Always face. Too much face. I have a hard enough time believing my presence isn't unwelcome without letting my emotions out into it and getting under other people's feet. Especially negative emotions. Especially need, which is unacceptable under all circumstances. (And at some point i need to get through and write about UtBM and dissect that.)
I hate plans changing out from under me; it gives me extensive issues and doubts, and it's the form of stress that I deal with most poorly, the doubt and uncertainty. (Must not stim in airport.) I hate uncertainty; the standby thing was another layer, but I didn't realise it would be as much of a problem as it was until later, but that layered in.
It's hard enough leaving, leaving
brooksmoses (and suzimoses), without having the whole secure certainty of departure upended like that. Without having a wrench thrown in it. Without getting thrown off, having the settled stuff turned into leaving|notleaving|leaving|notleaving. (Must not stim in airport.)Got back to apartment. Put together the things that I realised I had forgotten -- my incense, the new Tarot, and the Asatru martini glass. Arranged carry-on so I could fit them all.
brooksmoses held me, and I broke, and chaospainhurtuncertaintydoubtfear. . . and my deepest reaction was to want to apologise. To react from shame at having broken face, at having shown weakness, of having revealed that much.To a partner.
Gods be.
(Must not stim in airport.)
Did feel better afterwards. Thanked him several times. Returned to airport. New plan:
brooksmoses camps out upstairs with laptop, does work; I go in and call him on the mobile when I learn whether or not I get to go home.So I went through security.
Guess who got pulled out for special inspection and groping?
Actually, by this point I was beyond an impulse to stimming, having achieved a sort of Zen state of Bad Day, What Do You Expect? Exchanged commiserations in Spanish with an older woman also targeted for intensive shoe contemplation (I believe Peruvian from a comment from her English-speaking companion).
Found myself, while sitting and watching stray security people dismember my carefully assembled carry-on baggage, glad of two things: that I decided to abandon my tea candles with
brooksmoses and suzimoses on the principle that a flammable thing in a metal wrapper is probably a threat to national security, and that the interesting plantlife I picked up at PCon was in my checked baggage. (Which is, not to get ahead of myself, probably currently over Denver.)Went to Gate 73, the place on my ticket. Which was, conveniently, right next to the security checkpoint. Was informed that my flight was actually leaving from Gate 89. Better known as "the back-ass end of SFO". I know this, because every damn time I fly in or out of there I seem to come in at one of gate 88-90, and thus am exceptionally familiar with this mighty trudge.
I trudge. Mightily. I wave my ticky at the counter to confirm that I'm there. I sit down.
I call
brooksmoses to give him a timescale on clue acquisition. I call my brother James to confirm that I will not be meeting him for dinner at Dulles, whatever else happens to me. I call teinedreugan to whine.They start boarding. Chairs clear. I move to a chair. I strike up a conversation with another waitlisted person, who is reading a book I've heard about and is, I discover, also a Felding auntie, Class of '90. (Fold universe mightily now.) I also occupy myself entertaining an eleven-month-old with my prayer beads, which are brightly coloured and rattle. I am not sure if this counts towards my string as The Funny Lady.
Four names are called to get on the plane, standby. One person appears. Time passes. The board tics over to "flight closed". It is now 12:58, for a 1 pm departure; three more names are called, including the auntie. People depart.
I call
brooksmoses and teinedreugan again to confirm that I am not on this plane, will call with updates. (I think one of my compensation mechanisms for uncertainty, now I contemplate it, is to make everyone around me fully aware of all the details and minutiae of the extent of said uncertainty, as well as all delta-confusions that result.)My neck is so tight I can feel the tension lines without touching it, that I can't look down without it twinging. The tension runs down into my back, centering under my right shoulderblade (which is aggravated by carrying the backpack mostly on that shoulder). I wait. The gate pulls back from the airplane door, which sort of confirms that I'm not on the damn plane.
I wait for someone to return to the counter. This is a while coming, and when it happens, it happens in a knot of people -- including the auntie.
I overhear the phrase "the red-eye is full", and call
brooksmoses to confirm that I can stay another day as necessary.Eventually someone is available to talk to me, puts me on the next flight I can be actually booked for. Giving me a plan. Something I can schedule, pin down, plan around, something that I can at least know what the hell is going on about.
I am so tired.
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From:
no subject
God, I know the feeling. *offers hugs if you can handle them*
Stoopid airports.
From:
no subject
And I know the whole "I need a plan, however pathetic and miserable a plan it is. I just need a /plan/" thing. Yarf.
'm sorry, in the sympathetic kind of way.
From:
no subject
From:
no subject
Yeah, I was wryly mentioning to an Aspie friend of mine that at least they got Interestingly Obsessive Behaviors with their neurological condition; I seem to have gotten the toe-walking, the hand-flapping, the lack of eye contact, the dislike of light touch and the craving for intense pressure, the advanced verbal skills and insanely retentive memory...
and I'm *bored.* I wanted the goddamn obsessive interests, darn it. ;)
From:
no subject
Nasty weather. Nasty other stuff. (Nice Auntie?)
I hope you get home and safe and all that good stuff soon.
From:
no subject
*hugs more*
*wishes she could be there in person to do this*
*contemplates wanton airport destruction, then decides same would be counterproductive and not accomplish anything*
*sends you imaginary rubber duckies and bath salts*
From:
no subject
*hugs*
From:
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From:
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My sympathies....nothing worse then being bundled around big icky horrid airports with nothing concrete to show for it.
From:
no subject
[leaving / not leaving is a feeling I hate as well (I think it's one of the reasons I'm really bad at packing), and it must have been even worse with the whole airport mess.]
From:
no subject
From:
no subject
From:
no subject
*deep sympathy*
From:
no subject
(stim? [*])
From:
no subject