A Grievance Letter

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Dear Medication,

When I began my working relationship with you, I thought we would be short-term collaborators, but your presence in my life has continued for several years longer than expected. Furthermore, your performance has been inconsistent and, at times, relatively poor. I try to overlook your harmful behavior: the nausea you cause, the thirst, the insomnia. People I trust seem to think that you benefit me, but I wonder if I wouldn’t be better off without you. I resent you. And I wonder if I’m wrong.

This grievance letter is for me. For my stubbornness. For my excuses and my denial. My doubt seems insurmountable, and it leads me to blame you. I cannot stop clutching at a hope that I could leave you behind. Maybe I’ve grown beyond you and could strike out on my own. Evidence of failed expeditions suggests that’s foolish, but I can’t help but nurture that seed of doubt. It’s fed with a steady supply of self-criticism and frustration.

You’ve been with me throughout a period of enormous change and development. How can I be sure that I’m still better off because of you? How can I even be sure that I’m myself when you’re influencing me? What effect are you having on my thoughts and perceptions? Always hovering over my shoulder, whispering in my ear. I recognize that I might not be here without you, but I desperately want to be free of you. Perhaps if I worked harder on my own, I could overcome my problems independently. Sometimes, I think I’m weak for relying on you, and at other times, I think I’m pulling all my weight by myself with the added burden of your shortcomings. If I let you go, maybe I’ll thrive. If I embrace you, maybe I’ll be at peace. I wish I could pick one because this wavering is torture. I hate uncertainty, but that’s all I feel when I think of you.

My unlimited ability to criticize myself allows me to see my desire to abandon you as a sign of an immature, selfish idealism I should root out and destroy. And it also allows me to see my reliance on you as a shameful weakness I should leave behind. Which flaw do I choose?  

I know that my feelings about you are irrational. You’re just a tool, and I’m just a messy human who wants to make everything perfect. Confronting these thoughts is not new territory for me, and yet I can’t seem to arrive at a decision. I wrestle with myself and rail against you and never make any progress. Siding with the rational arguments takes constant effort, and I’m tired. It would be much easier to give up on you, and I want to believe that’s a good choice. Part of me does. Part of me is afraid I’d be making a terrible mistake.

Sincerely,
Me

I wrote that letter two months ago when I was struggling with consistency. I was taking my medication roughly half the time and was having trouble getting back on track. I decided to give it one month of solid effort and restarted my old tracking method to gather some data. It wasn’t terribly revealing, but I did find that the act of tracking my mood and medication helped me stay consistent. It’s harder to push under the rug when I confess to my journal every day.

Embarrassment has been keeping me from examining this issue because I feel like I can’t get beyond my discomfort. I keep hoping I’ll work my way toward positive feelings about medication, all while knowing deep down that the more reasonable goal is to simply accept it. Accept that I’ll never like it, and embrace it as a necessary tool. I don’t like brushing my teeth, but I don’t resent my mouth for needing toothpaste. I just do it because I accept it as a task I’ll have to do forever. It would be irrational to expect my teeth to take care of themselves and then torture myself over their repeated failures.

I know that this is what I do when it comes to mental health medication. I can see acceptance over the ridge, but I can’t quite get to it. Having the ability to see exactly how I’m keeping myself stuck and yet not allowing myself to move feels unbelievably childish. I feel petulant — crying to myself about what I don’t want to do instead of sucking it up and doing it. The existence of the problem feels embarrassing because I know that I can fix it. I just haven’t done it because, in some ways, fixing it would require me to relinquish control. I have a deathgrip on the handlebars of life, and it’s starting to wobble. I know that letting go a little would solve the problem, but my instincts tell me to fight it. I want to make my emotions perfect and neat and palatable.

If I had an alter ego, she would be self-assured and unbothered. She would do things when she wanted to without overthinking, and she would feel her feelings without judging herself. She would be easygoing and relaxed. My alter ego would take her medication with the ease of brushing her teeth. It would be nothing to her. Maybe she wouldn’t like it, but she wouldn’t let herself be distracted by self-criticism. She’d let her emotions come and go while staying firmly on the path of rational decision-making.

Maybe I can be like her. It’s odd that the only way to do that is to stop trying so hard. Achievement has always been about effort for me. If I can work hard enough, I can do just about anything. But if I ever want to stop fighting with myself, I have to let go.

Acknowledgement of the Rules

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According to the potato scale, I’ve been some undercooked potato chunks in a stew. A little raw. I told my therapist that I’m in the “everything feels difficult” space of depression. It’s been a few weeks since my last post, and I’m struggling to develop any ideas. I’m at a loss.

Maybe I’ll let my subconscious work on that problem while I wander off. The door at my local coffee shop is malfunctioning; the tension on the hinge has reversed, so instead of swinging shut, it flies open at the slightest pressure and then must be pushed closed. There is a sign on the door that instructs patrons to “please push door closed after entering.” I’ve been sitting here, watching person after person approach the door, read the sign, and walk inside. About a third of people push the door closed without much effort, leaving it cracked. The other two thirds close the door with extreme care, even placing both palms on it and leaning in until it is firmly shut. I just think it’s interesting to notice these things. One person in the span of two hours has forgotten to close the door or maybe didn’t read the sign. Cold air rushed in. People are funny creatures. Why do we do what we do? Why do we follow rules? Rules are funny constructs.

My rule is that lots of rules are good. I was chatting with my aunt the other day, and somehow, the topic of the Outback Steakhouse slogan, “No rules. Just right,” came up. My personal philosophy is “Just rules. Just right.” But there are times when that’s not healthy. It can be a stifling way to live. Values are a kind of rule, and that’s important. But sometimes they get twisted. OCD rules hijack values, preying on your worst fears. What if I forget to close the front door and the cats get out and are lost forever? That would violate my values of responsibility and care for loved ones. I’d better go check the door and maybe lock the deadbolt just in case. What if my car’s broken sunshade mirror focuses the light and starts a fire? I’d better check and make sure it’s folded closed. I’d better do this. I’d better do that. What if, what if, what if? It’s exhausting, but it feels impossible to abandon. Uncertainty is unbearable mental chaos, but “certainty” is an illusion. I’ll never be certain of anything (except death and taxes, I guess).

Seeking Inspiration

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When I think about what I want my life to look like, I tend to imagine a me with more motivation. But there are nuances to what I desire, and I’ve come to the conclusion that I don’t want just any type. I’ve spent a great deal of time being motivated by anxiety and fear of failure and a sense of inadequacy. It feels better than nothing because, at its core, I think my discomfort comes from stagnation. Anything that moves me toward accomplishment soothes my fear of a wasted life, but it’s a frightening position to hold. Instead, I want to be motivated by inspiration. I want to chase something that feels meaningful and impactful, not run from something bleak.

My therapist sent me some journal prompts, one of which was “What topic or cause ignites a fire in you? How can you dive deeper into this passion, and how might it align with a larger purpose?” When I feel inspired, it usually revolves around my interests in art, writing, and science. As a teenager, I saw these interests as divergent, and when faced with the decision of what to pursue, I chose science as the safer option. Now, with a span of seven years between present day and college graduation, I feel I’ve strayed from that path. My job as an editor has nothing to do with ecology, evolutionary biology, or anthropology. Grappling with that void has revealed that the combination of my interests sparks consistent inspiration. Being in nature often gives me the urge to create something. I love marveling at the results of evolution: the complexity of forms and function and the beauty of competition and coexistence. Representing the colors, the scenes, and the thoughts and emotions they spark, whether through images or writing, feels satisfying.

But what is the larger purpose of art? Is simple appreciation a worthy pursuit? Does sharing a perspective benefit others? Writing this blog certainly feels meaningful. I enjoy reducing stigma surrounding mental health, encouraging connection and conversation, and helping others feel less alone. Perhaps creative inspiration fuels my desire to share with others — and hopefully be a force for good.

The singular problem with relying on inspiration is that the fear of losing it holds me back. When inspiration wanes, I find myself plagued by feelings of failure and the sort of motivation I don’t like: the relentless self-criticism that leads to unsustainable and unfulfilling production. Rather than enjoying the inspiration while it lasts and accepting that it might come and go, I resist even starting out of a shameful pessimism. Why invest in creativity when I’ll inevitably lose it and feel hopelessly frustrated and disappointed? This is perfectionism and the negative outlook of depression.

In an effort to combat this pattern, I’ve decided that the formula for inspiration is:

Exposure + (Intention – Expectation)

I need to put myself in situations that expose me to the kinds of things that inspire me, and I need to be looking for that spark. Walking through the world without the intention of finding opportunity, or worse — staying isolated — makes for a life sapped of color. Avoiding expectation is crucial, though. Guidelines can be good; I have a loose goal of posting to my blog every other week. But intending to find inspiration with a strict expectation that I will (or else), is a recipe for disappointment. I’m trying to be more flexible and less perfectionistic.

Applying this formula to my life is easier said than done, especially while dealing with the irresistible depression naps and fatigue. But I’m making small steps, beginning with a return to my blog and embroidery. These tiny pieces have proven to be approachable, satisfying, and fun.

I hope that all of you, dear readers, can find ways to be open to inspiration, whether it’s the spark to create, to reach out to a friend, to ask for help, or to learn something new. What inspires you?

An Honest Snapshot

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Much has happened since I was last a regular writer. The details are too numerous to recount, but suffice to say, I had a period of contentedness that convinced me depression was conquerable. I started a relationship, I moved, I made friends. Life was incredible and full and sparkling. But the contentedness didn’t last, and my memory of the feeling is becoming hard to grasp.

As always, depression is a heavy fog. The longer it lasts, the thicker and wider it becomes. It’s hard to imagine that there’s anything beyond it. It started as summer came to a close last year. I had a strong sense that winter would be difficult, and I was right. I got back on Lamictal and tried to remember to use my SAD lamp. The months slogged by, but having supportive relationships helped. I hoped that when the weather warmed in the spring, my mood would lift. Unfortunately, that hasn’t happened. I’m not the most depressed I’ve ever been, but when my therapist asked me if it would be okay if I felt the way I feel for the next five years, the answer was a clear “no.”

The most noticeable problem at the moment is the hibernation that I’m doing. I have a distinct daily pattern: I feel relatively good in the morning and then absolutely abysmal in the afternoon. The pull of my bed is terribly strong. Sleeping feels right in the moment, but I know it’s a bad idea. There’s a void in my day, and clawing my way out of it after several hours leaves me feeling much worse than when I fell into it. I know that I need to fill that time with something healthier, but leaving the house in the afternoon is difficult.

Writing has fallen to the very distant wayside for far too long. Running this blog was a source of satisfaction for a long time, and it always helped me work through my thoughts in ways a journal just couldn’t. A journal is usually private, but a blog has an audience, and the act of explaining can illuminate what we do not know and solidify what we do. Feelings are elusive and subjective, so the process of pinning them down in words others can understand often helped me work through them. But I’m out of practice, and I’m low on motivation. I’ve heard that when you lack motivation, you just have to do the thing until a habit forms. So let this be the first step in rediscovering my old habit. I’m going to trek out to the very distant wayside and poke around until I find it.

This post is in memory of Ashley Peterson, a fellow blogger I exchanged comments with before her passing in 2022. Her support of my blog helped me immeasurably during a difficult time, and I wish I had known her more. Ashley’s blog remains a valuable resource for those seeking information about mental health.

Noticing Signs of Depression

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Over the last couple of months, I’ve noticed a decline in my mood. I’m not sure why this is happening. Maybe it was stopping the ketamine, or maybe it’s the seasons changing. Or maybe it’s just the cycle my depression has taken. It was so subtle at first that I questioned whether I was imagining it. Fortunately/unfortunately, my extensive experience with being depressed has taught me to look out for several signs that my mood is trending in a concerning direction.

First, I start dreading and putting off my daily walks with Stella. When I do walk her, I get frustrated and impatient, often cutting the walk short so that I can get back inside. This sign is so consistently an indicator that my mood is slipping that I’ve learned to pay attention to it even before I notice any other symptoms of depression.

I also start crying more, which is extremely uncomfortable for me. Displays of emotion make me feel entirely too self-conscious, and crying in front of people is about seven steps too far. I dislike the feeling of losing control of myself. When I start crying at mildly poignant YouTube ads and any time I try to verbally express a slightly negative feeling, I know something’s up.

When I’m depressed, my PMS symptoms are monumentally more disruptive. The aforementioned tearfulness is elevated, my desire to do anything social disappears, and I often start to have urges to harm myself. It’s not a fun time.

Having trouble keeping up with self-care is a classic depression sign, and it’s definitely one I experience. When I start sleeping in my clothes because I just can’t be bothered to change into pajamas — even if it’s just one night — I try to pay attention. It’s easy to put off self-care tasks without realizing that I’m depressed, so sometimes I miss the significance of it. Certainly when it becomes a pattern, though, I know I’m in trouble.

Routine in general is very supportive for me. When I feel good, I adhere to my routine easily, and I feel that it helps me maintain my good mental health. But when I’m depressed, I forget to water my plants, I fall behind on laundry, and I don’t get dressed until the afternoon (when the dreaded walk with Stella becomes unavoidable).

Knowing my signs of depression is vital for combatting the slide into poor mental health, but it’s only part of the process. By the time I notice and accept that I’m becoming depressed, it’s already difficult to pull myself out of it. I’m considering reintroducing Lamictal to my list of medications, but I’m struggling with the concept of it. Being reluctant to take my medication is another unfortunate sign that my depression is worsening. I’m working on just being consistent with the ones I already take.

Seeing as tomorrow is Thanksgiving here in the U.S., I’ll end this post with some positive thoughts. I have a new job, which I really enjoy so far. I’m fortunate to be in a relationship with a wonderfully empathetic, intelligent person, and I’m looking forward to spending time with my family and friends tomorrow. My mental health may not be exactly where I want it to be, but my outlook is still largely positive, and my life is objectively amazing. Wishing you all comfort and happiness on whichever day of the year you read this.

Selective Mutism in Therapy

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The therapist I saw in college, having found me to be reticent on nearly every topic, encouraged me to express myself through visual art. She didn’t often give me assignments but instead preferred to let me draw what I wanted and bring my sketchbook to her each week. We’d talk about my creations and what emotions they evoked, and if we both were lucky, I’d expand on the state of my depression and suicidal thoughts. It was a fairly effective way to bypass my verbal barrier, as long as I felt confident in my artistic creations.

One week, while I was showing her my sketchbook, she exclaimed softly in reaction to one of the pages. It was just a little, “Oh!” but it triggered an avalanche of anxiety inside me that blocked off my ability to speak. I started to cry and hid my face with my hands. She asked me what was wrong, but I couldn’t answer. It was like I was trapped inside myself, all my words perfectly accessible in my mind — but incapable of being moved across my lips.

My therapist’s exclamation called attention to a drawing I was already anxious about revealing. It was a simple drawing of the materials I used to harm myself. I had found it nearly impossible to talk about my struggle with self harm, but it was an issue I wanted to work on, so I tried to initiate the discussion with a drawing. It backfired tremendously.

I felt strange – like everything was unreal and far away. I wanted to tell my therapist that I was trying to start a conversation with the drawing – even just to say I felt anxious – but I couldn’t. I felt acutely separated from everything around me and yet intensely aware of my therapist’s attention. I could feel her gaze on me, as if it were exerting physical pressure that made me want to crawl behind the couch and disappear.

My therapist sat with me for quite a while until I regained the ability to speak. I remember commenting on how strange that little episode was, saying that I wasn’t sure what had just happened. She agreed, perhaps not wanting to poke at me when I’d only just returned to verbal communication.

In hindsight, I was new to therapy and didn’t yet have the words to describe my intense anxiety, and I didn’t have the insight to trace incidents like that all the way back to my earliest memories. I’ve always had a problem with being put on the spot and asked to speak in front of people, but I’d minimized that issue in my mind.

I’ve since done a lot more therapy and introspection and am learning to connect the dots. A separate, more recent incident in which I found myself unable to speak led me to do a Google search for “inability to speak under pressure.” That Google search and a conversation with my current therapist have led me to believe that the likely explanation is selective mutism, an anxiety disorder characterized by silence in certain situations that trigger intense social anxiety.

The Beginnings of Selective Mutism

When I was very young, I remember feeling like being silent was the safest action, and if I could just outlast whoever was trying to interact with me, they’d give up and go away – and they usually did. I don’t think my silence was ever a choice, but it aligned more closely with what I wanted when I was young. It was like the expectation of speech created a vacuum around me that was impossible to fight. So I embraced it as a strategy for dealing with painful self-consciousness. I simply shut down.

But as I grew older, I became frustrated with my mental barrier. I recognized that speaking would make the painful attention go away faster – that being silent was attracting more scrutiny and prolonging the anxiety. But I couldn’t seem to break through when I wanted to. I could speak at home, and I could speak to my friends. But around strangers or when put on the spot, my words were locked away.

I’m not sure how, but I made progress. Perhaps I grew out of it to some degree. I got better at tolerating being the center of attention. For the most part, I function just fine now. I can even give presentations without shutting down. What seems to trigger selective mutism in my adulthood is the combination of being the center of attention and feeling shame or embarrassment. If I feel like I’ve done something wrong in my place at the center of attention, either by making a mistake or making a scene, I reach a level of social anxiety that punches me into my own little void.

Present-Day Therapy

Therapy is one arena where shame and embarrassment often come up, and as the client, you’re almost always the center of attention. I’ve practiced talking about the things that make me feel vulnerable and self-conscious enough that for the most part, I do okay now. I talk for most of my sessions, which is a huge improvement. But I had many sessions where I’d reach my limit and stop talking or we’d stumble into a topic that suddenly silenced me. It was very distressing. I’d be thinking a million things at once, trying to get myself to just spit out one of them. Sometimes, my therapist would rescue me and fill the silence. Other times, she would wait.

I would go home and write down everything I couldn’t say out loud and send it to her in an email. Two years ago, I wrote to her about therapy, saying, “…when I get there, I lose the ability to speak. It’s like every week, I have these big hopes that I’ll just sit down and say things and it’ll be easier. And then I sit down and remember I’m me. I have made progress, but the worse I feel, the harder it is to override my silence. […] It feels like I’m just incapable of speaking openly, like I send the words out from my brain and they hit some kind of barrier at my mouth. I don’t know how to fix it, but I’d like to.”

At some point, I figured out that I could break through with a fun fact. My intention was to distract and bamboozle with a stunning tidbit about the biology of scallop eyes or some other interesting concept. It never worked, but I did discover that I could say something when I felt like I couldn’t. There was potential. The longer I go in silence, the harder it is to speak. If I can say something – anything – I sort of reset the clock, and it’s easier for me to get subsequent words out.

Introversion and Selective Mutism

I’m glad that somewhere along the way, I learned how to get my words out in therapy and in life, but I wish I’d known that there’s a term for what I was experiencing. It’s comforting to be able to recognize and label an issue I’d never understood as selective mutism. I’ve always chalked my general quietness up to extreme introversion, but that label never seemed to explain my occasional inability to speak. Now that I know about selective mutism, I think I’ll be a bit gentler with myself when social anxiety crops up.

Somehow, the fact that I experience social anxiety has been quite a recent realization. I knew I was very shy as a child, but I thought that I magically overcame that. Maybe it was wishful thinking. I’ve always worried that my quietness might be interpreted as aloofness, and I’ve been told I’m quiet so often that I’ve developed a little shame pearl – layers of practice to cover up the sharp edges of my grain of silence. Talking is expected, and if I don’t meet that expectation, I feel guilty. As if my lack of social grace might make someone else uncomfortable or ruin their time in some way.

I think I’ve learned to operate in social situations so seamlessly that I forget how much effort I’m putting into them. I feel somewhat adept at socializing, but only because I’m constantly monitoring my own facial expressions and trying to match others’ body language so that I appear comfortable. The rules of conversation – the progression of topics and little linguistic customs – are old hat to me now.

I still default to quietness, which frustrates me sometimes. I’ve often wished I were outgoing and talkative and tried to will myself to be different. I didn’t recognize the legitimacy of what I experienced as a kid or that I’ve been working against it this whole time. I thought I was fighting what I saw as a flaw in my personality. It seemed the introversion was to blame and that if I could just overcome that, navigating the social landscape would be easy and enjoyable. I’ve come to realize that, while I am highly introverted (and it’s not something to be overcome), there’s an additional factor in the form of social anxiety.

Teasing apart introversion and social anxiety is sometimes difficult, so knowing when to let myself hang back and when to challenge myself isn’t always clear. I push myself to talk and engage in conversation, but I’m also working on accepting and appreciating my quiet nature.

Using Weighted Blankets for Sensory Processing Disorder: Sleep and Anxiety

Genevieve2 Comments

Table of Contents

  1. Weighted Blankets and Sleep
    1. What Scientific Research Says
    2. Are Weighted Blankets Safe?
    3. Should You Sleep with a Weighted Blanket for Sensory Processing Disorder?
  2. Calming Overstimulation and Anxiety with Weighted Blankets
    1. Deep Pressure for SPD
    2. Sensory Over-Responsivity, Sensory Defensiveness, and Anxiety
  3. How to Use a Weighted Blanket for Sensory Processing Disorder

For people with sensory processing disorder, weighted blankets can be valuable tools. I use mine for more than just sleeping; it helps me ground myself when my senses are overwhelmed, it helps me focus, and it helps me calm my anxiety. Many people report feelings of safety and relaxation when they use their weighted blankets for sensory processing disorder. In this post, I discuss the science of weighted blankets when it comes to sleep and relaxation, as well as my own experience using a weighted blanket for SPD.

Weighted Blankets and Sleep in SPD

Tools like weighted blankets and vests use deep pressure, which is thought to reduce the body’s level of arousal, leading to relaxation. They’re highly popular among kids and adults alike, and some people swear by them for alleviating insomnia. But when it comes to whether weighted blankets help you fall asleep, stay asleep, and enjoy better-quality sleep, the evidence is mixed.

Image by Victoria_rt from Pixabay

What Scientific Research Says

I found studies that offer evidence for and against the idea that weighted blankets can improve sleep in people with sensory processing difficulties, often defined by falling asleep faster, waking up less during the night, improved mood in the morning, and other measurements like sleep efficiency.

Surveys

Some research shows that weighted blankets are effective at improving sleep quality and sense of restfulness as well as shortening the time to fall asleep. Weighted blankets were shown to improve morning mood in this study, but the overall results were inconclusive. Most of the studies I looked at that concluded that weighted blankets can improve sleep used surveys to collect their data, which have their limitations.

Observational and Experimental Studies

While surveys offer valuable insights into subjective experiences, experiments can provide a more objective look at a question. In a study that used actigraphy (small accelerometers that measure movement), weighted blankets had no effect on the number of times participants moved in their sleep. In a different study on people without SPD, weighted blankets were associated with a significant 32% increase in salivary melatonin, but they didn’t affect cortisol, oxytocin, subjective sleepiness scores, or the duration of sleep.

On the other hand, another study that used a sleep sensor and surveys (funded by Gravity Blanket) found a significant 7% improvement in a measure called Wake After Sleep Onset and improvements of 2% or less in other sleep measures.

To me, the most interesting part of that last study is that participants’ subjective reports seemed to overshoot the measurements – by a lot. They thought they were sleeping 36% better without waking up in the night. Compare this to the 7% improvement in Wake After Sleep Onset, and this seems to match what we see from other surveys; people feel like they sleep better when they use a weighted blanket, even if the objective measurements don’t match.

More research is needed to understand the effects of weighted blankets on sleep in people with sensory processing disorder, but if you feel that they help you, why not use one?

Are Weighted Blankets Safe?

As far as I can tell, yes. The American Academy of Neuroscience says, “No serious adverse events with [weighted] blanket use” were found in its review of the literature on the topic. The main considerations involved in this weighted blanket competency training program are:

  • Do you have medical conditions that would be a concern?
  • Do you have claustrophobia?
  • Don’t walk around with it over your head.
  • Carry it in an ergonomic manner.
  • Do not use it as a restraint.

As far as weight recommendations, I had trouble finding an authority on the matter. A 30-lb weighted blanket was shown to be safe as measured by heart rate, blood pressure, and blood oxygenation. Manufacturers typically say their weighted blankets are safe only for adults, adolescents, and older children due to the risk of suffocation in young children. But overall, we can be confident that weighted blankets are safe when used appropriately.

Should You Sleep with a Weighted Blanket for Sensory Processing Disorder?

If using a weighted blanket to fall asleep feels good to you, I say go for it.

I get a little too hot when I sleep with a weighted blanket during the summer, so I tend to only use mine for that in the colder months. Part of why I find those studies so interesting is that they surprised me. Based on my own experience, I expected to find a consensus on their efficacy.

Turns out, I do the same thing those study participants did; I think of my sleep as being vastly improved by my weighted blanket. I even identify waking up fewer times a night as one of the most dramatic differences I notice!

Photo by Daniela Constantini on Pexels

Sleeping with a weighted blanket is a cozy, relaxing experience for many people. There’s something kind of special about using a weighted blanket. It’s like it elevates my sleeping experience from regular relaxing to extravagant relaxing.

Throughout the day, our senses are bombarded by stimuli. In my experience of sensory processing disorder, being tired makes my nervous system feel spring-loaded. My ability to handle sounds, lights, and movement declines as the day progresses. Making decisions gets harder, driving gets harder, and by the time I get to bedtime, it can be hard to decompress and fall asleep. Compounded by some of the medications I take and my tendency to think too much, my insomnia sometimes features a lot of restless tossing and turning. Fortunately, my weighted blanket is there to help me. Using a weighted blanket for sensory processing disorder can look like a lot of things, though — not just sleep.

Calming Overstimulation and Anxiety with Weighted Blankets

Where the literature is iffy on weighted blankets for sleep, it solidly supports the claim that weighted blankets are effective at reducing anxiety. Occupational therapists have used weighted blankets for sensory processing disorder and associated anxiety for decades, and there’s a good reason for that.

Photo by Nathan DeFiesta on Unsplash

Deep Pressure for SPD

In 1992, Temple Grandin published a study on the effects of her groundbreaking “hug machine.” The machine is designed to deliver deep-pressure stimulation using a set of pads that squeeze the user’s body. Dr. Grandin’s hug machine was found to have a calming effect on people with ASD, college students, and animals. Deep pressure stimulation has been further explored as a therapy for those with sensory processing disorder, even leading to the development of inflatable smart vests, pneumatic compression garments, and shape memory alloy spring garments.

Weighted blankets provide the same kind of deep pressure touch that a compression vest, Dr. Grandin’s hug machine, or a real hug from someone you trust does. It’s this consistent, firm pressure that can settle your senses and put you back in the moment.

Sensory Over-Responsivity, Sensory Defensiveness, and Anxiety

If you have sensory over-responsivity (SOR) as part of your sensory processing disorder, you know how quickly you can go from cool to completely overwhelmed. When your nervous system is highly activated, you might have trouble functioning in the way you usually do, whether it’s focusing, planning actions, or keeping your emotions regulated. SOR is also associated with sensory defensiveness, which means that you have strong negative reactions to stimuli that aren’t dangerous.

It’s incredibly draining to live with sensory defensiveness. I’m fortunate to have gotten treatment when I was young, which improved my symptoms in that arena. I remember being so terrified of getting water in my eyes as a kid that I screamed and sobbed if one tiny droplet rolled down my forehead during a bath. These days, my sensory defensiveness is much better, especially when I’m well rested.

There’s a complicated interplay between SOR and anxiety. When you have bad experiences with stimuli that are too much for you, it’s easy to get anxious about encountering them unexpectedly. Being prone to anxiety can mean your guard is always up, which sensitizes you to your environment. SOR and anxiety can feed into one another, and teasing apart the causative mechanisms is an individual process.

In general, we know that sensory over-responsivity (SOR) and anxiety often co-occur, and deep-pressure interventions are commonly used by occupational therapists to reduce discomfort and sensitivity. One such intervention is a weighted blanket.

How to Use a Weighted Blanket for Sensory Processing Disorder

(According to me, your well-read layperson.)

Firstly, if you don’t yet have one, it’s important to get one that you like. The main function is, of course, the weight, but as this article is about sensory processing disorder, I imagine you have concerns about a blanket’s other sensory features as well. When sifting through the options online, think about:

  • Weight (Super heavy? Just a tad weighty?)
  • Material (Softness, durability, how to wash, etc.)
  • Dimensions (I love my bed-size blanket, but I used to have a lap pad that was great.)
  • What’s inside the blanket? (Consider the tactile and auditory aspects of beads vs. sand, for example.)

One way I like to use my weighted blanket is to get into a seated position and wrap the blanket around me like a cape so that it drapes over my shoulders. Then, I take a moment to arrange the extra material on top of my legs, grab the edges of the blanket in each hand, and pull it closed in front of me so that I basically just look like a floating head. A really relaxed floating head.

I don’t think there’s a wrong way to use a weighted blanket, as long as you’re being safe. Sleep with it, sit with it, put it on your lap — whichever way you choose to use it is right.