My name is James. I’m 34. Today’s plan was coffee, cake and a bit of time out with Marie, my support worker. I was so looking forward to it.
So why, twenty minutes later, am I standing outside with my hands over my ears, refusing to go back in?
I wish you could feel what I feel
The coffee shop is busy.
I hear the coffee machine hissing, cups crashing onto saucers, a baby crying and music playing somewhere behind me. A chair scrapes across the floor. The door slams. Someone pushes past me.
I can smell coffee, perfume, hot food and something sweet.
There’s a queue behind us.
“James, what would you like?”
I knew before we came in.
“Your usual?”
Maybe.
“James, there’s a queue.”
I DON’T KNOW.
I can feel the people behind me. The coffee machine hisses again.
Marie orders for me and we sit down.
She smiles and asks about my day. I know she’s being kind. I’m trying to listen. I really am.
But the baby is still crying. Someone is stirring a drink. Clink. Clink. Clink. The grinder starts. Someone brushes against my chair.
“James, did you hear me?”
Yes.
“James, I’m talking to you.”
I KNOW.
But I can’t find her voice amongst all the other noise anymore.
So I get up and walk out.
To all the other customers, I’m sure I look rude and ungrateful.
To me, I’m escaping from a room that has become too loud to breathe in.
Please give me a minute
Marie follows me and starts asking questions.
“What’s wrong?”
“Do you want to go back in?”
“James, talk to me.”
I can’t. Not yet.
My heart is pounding and everything inside me still feels loud.
Stay close. Let me know you’re there. But please don’t make me explain my distress while I’m still in the middle of it.
And please don’t tell me I was fine last time.
I know I was.
Last time the coffee shop was quieter. I’d slept better. Today the bus was late and someone came to fix my boiler this morning.
Some days I have more capacity to cope than others and enjoying something doesn’t mean I can always cope with everything that comes with it.
Please don’t mistake “I can’t” for “I won’t”
Sometimes it happens at home too.
“James, get your coat. We’re leaving.”
It sounds simple.
But I’m doing something. I have to stop. Where’s my coat? Do I need my wallet? Which shoes? How long have I got?
It isn’t just putting on a coat. It’s stopping one thing, processing what needs to happen next and getting my brain to start.
“Come on, James.”
I’M TRYING.
Eventually my head stops working.
You see a grown man refusing to put his coat on.
I feel a grown man desperately trying to make his brain do something everyone else thinks should be easy.
From the outside, it can look like refusal. From the inside, it makes me feel like I can’t do anything “normal”, like I’m failing.
Sometimes I need you to slow down. Give me one thing at a time and let me process it.
Please don’t make me the problem
Afterwards, you could write:
“James became distressed in the community and refused to engage with staff.”
Or you could ask:
“What made the coffee shop so difficult for James today?”
What looks sudden to you has probably been building in me for hours, and that question changes everything.
Maybe next time we go when it’s quieter. Maybe we sit outside. Maybe you don’t ask me to choose while a queue is waiting behind me. Maybe we agree on a way I can tell you I’ve had enough before I reach breaking point.
I don’t need you to have all the answers.
I need you to be curious about what my behaviour is trying to tell you, and maybe next time, we can work it out together.
This Week’s Coleman Challenge
This week, think about someone you support whose behaviour can sometimes be difficult to understand.
Now imagine that person could tell you exactly what the situation felt like from their side.
What might they want you to know?
What might they wish you’d noticed sooner?
What might you be calling “behaviour” that, to them, feels like coping?
And instead of asking:
“How do we stop this happening again?”
try asking:
“What could we change so this feels easier next time?”
Because if I could ask the people who support me to remember just one thing, it would be this:
When I’m having my hardest moments, please don’t assume I’m trying to make your day difficult. I might just be trying desperately to get through mine.