When the Crash Out Comes Crashing In
I was diagnosed with Tourette’s when I was 24. It was a bit of a relief to finally have a name for the strange, twitchy chaos that had always simmered beneath the surface of my nervous system. But there was also that heavy realisation that, no, it wasn’t going away with age. And unlike some folks who can take medication and feel a bit more balanced, I can’t. My body doesn’t respond well to meds, so I had to figure out my own way through it.
These days, my main methods of managing Tourette’s include mindfulness, an anti-inflammatory diet*, and a heroic level of stubbornness. There’s also green tea. Lots of green tea. Sometimes I feel like I’m held together by matcha, sheer willpower, and the love of my chaotic little cat, Lulu. But as much as I work to keep myself grounded, sometimes the nervous system just short circuits. No warning. No mercy. Just: crash out.
My most recent crash out was triggered on a bus. Classic public transport drama. There was another passenger who, bless them, clearly had their own neurodivergent challenges but was not in any kind of regulation. The energy in the space was charged, unpredictable, and my nervous system started sounding the alarm bells. I got off that bus just in time, but the crash was already on its way. And once it starts? Buckle up, baby.
*For those who are curious, recent studies are starting to explore a possible link between Tourette’s and inflammation in the body. It’s not definitive yet, but it’s interesting to note how much better I feel when I’m actively managing inflammation through food and lifestyle.
Tourette’s & The Multiple Stages of Chaos
First came the rage. White hot, irrational, unfiltered rage. It doesn’t matter how long I’ve practised mindfulness or how many self-help books I’ve inhaled. When the crash starts with anger, it’s like the whole world becomes a personal attack. My shoulder started ticking, spasming without rhythm or reason. I tried to distract myself, but it was too late. My nervous system had entered fight-or-flight.
Next came the blankness. That eerie in-between stage where it feels like you’re floating just outside of your body. The ticks keep going, your brain is trying to reboot, and you’re emotionally numb, but also on edge. That’s when my bestie dropped by to grab something, and I ended up crying on his chest like a soggy hankee. Not cute. But also very necessary.
After he left, the anxiety started clawing its way to the surface. I couldn’t sit still, couldn’t breathe properly, couldn’t be in my home. I needed to move. So I shoved on my shoes and power-walked to Woolies, hoping the fresh air and fluorescent lights might zap some calm into my system. Spoiler: they didn’t. But something about the motion helped me keep going.
Snacks Save Lives
The next stage was what I call the Toy Tossing Phase. I was ready to throw all my toys out of the pram. Everyone was getting the chop. Every friend, every relationship, the entire human race. My inner chaos goblin was in full tantrum mode. I even considered posting something passive-aggressive on social media just to release the pressure. Thank the stars I didn’t.
Then, blessed be, I found salted crisps. The kind with just enough crunch and sodium to make your nervous system feel like maybe, just maybe, it won’t explode. I don’t know the full science of it, but salt can help stabilise an overstimulated system. I’ve noticed that when I’m in a crash out, my body craves it. And when I give in and let myself have that salty goodness? The edge starts to dull.
It didn’t make it all go away. I still had some tears and that looming sadness that hangs about like a raincloud. But it gave me a moment of peace. A window of calm. And that’s what I hold onto during a crash. Those tiny, glimmering moments of okayness. Because even if I don’t feel great, I can feel a little less horrible. And that’s something.
That night, though, things hit hard. I ended up ugly crying in the shower, the kind of cry where your whole body shakes and you start to question every life choice you’ve ever made. The depression was heavy and wrapped itself around me like a weighted blanket made of doom. I went to bed exhausted, both physically and emotionally, and hoped sleep would help hit reset.
The next day, the sadness still clung to me. It wasn’t as explosive, but it was there in the quiet moments. My appetite was completely gone, and the foods I normally turn to for comfort gave me the ick. My body was clearly still trying to find its balance again, like it was tiptoeing through broken glass just to feel halfway normal. It’s wild how much your nervous system can affect your whole body.
This is the part of Tourette’s people don’t see. The aftershocks. The way your body and brain keep buzzing even after the main storm has passed. There’s a recovery phase, and it’s just as important as the crash itself. You have to give yourself grace, rest, and space to come back home to yourself.
Some people ride emotional waves. I get swallowed by the tsunami, do a little backstroke, then crawl out clutching a packet of ready salted crinkle cut crisps.
The Aftermath and The Lesson
Once the wave passes, there’s often a strange kind of shame hangover. Like, was that all real? Was it as dramatic as it felt in my body? I try not to beat myself up about it. This isn’t a character flaw. It’s a neurological condition. It’s my brain and nervous system trying to protect me in the only way it knows how, even if that means hijacking my emotions for a few hours.
What’s changed for me lately is how I respond. In the past, I’d reach for wine. Wine was my escape hatch. But I’ve realised it only makes the crash outs worse in the long run. So this time, I stayed present. I let myself cry, rage, walk, and eat crisps. And I kept reminding myself: this isn’t permanent.
Here’s the thing people don’t always understand about Tourette’s: it’s not just a tic. It’s a full-bodied, all-systems-go neurological experience. Sure, the visible tics get the spotlight, but what’s happening beneath the surface is just as intense. Mood swings, sensory overload, panic, exhaustion – it’s the nervous system running riot and dragging you along for the ride.
If you love someone with Tourette’s, please understand that we’re not being dramatic or difficult. We’re just experiencing our nervous system in overdrive. It’s exhausting. It’s disorienting. And sometimes, it makes us feel like we’re falling apart. But your support, your hugs, your understanding, and yes, your crisps, mean more than you know.
So if we ever cancel plans last minute, or we seem to be cycling through a hundred emotions in one afternoon, please don’t take it personally. We’re just crash landing for a bit. We’ll be back soon, probably with crisps, possibly with a fresh wave of sass. And if you’re one of us navigating this rollercoaster from the inside, you’re not alone. Your nervous system might be loud, but so is your strength. Eat the crisps, forgive your body, and remind yourself it doesn’t know better – it’s just trying its best to keep you safe in the only way it knows how.
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