A few years ago, when life proved too overwhelming for me, the best I could do was try to visit my local park every day.

The park is built around a large body of water, lined with all kinds of trees and home to many species of birds. The bitter cold of winter had turned much of the water to sheets of ice, and the few ducks yet to leave for warmer climbs were pecking at it, bemused.

When I first started visiting the park, I didn't appreciate any of the sights and sounds of this place. My daily objective was to simply leave the house, stretch my legs and breathe in some fresh air.

The constant overwhelm of living life as an autistic person in a capitalist system led me to burnout. My burnout brings with it depression, among other physical symptoms like chronic pain.

The Embers of Autistic Burnout - by Ren Riley

Coming out of the other side, really fucking slowly. Plus, a realisation.

Depression to me feels like someone has cut up a pillow and stuffed it into my skull. There is no room for emotion, as my brain feels taken up with nothing at all, just big bits of pillow. There’s a pressure behind the eyes, a lack of concentration and a dearth of feeling. Days tick by. Other people make plans.

The park was my only constant during this time. If I could go once a day, every day, then that day was a day where I had lived.

I don’t really remember the first few times I visited the park. It’s a blur. Sunlight hitting the water. Old sludge that was once snow underfoot. A lot of dogs and dog walkers.

As I kept up the visits I began to notice the smaller details of the park.

A heron majestically perches on a rock, looking regal until it takes off for flight with an unsteady flap and looks like it hasn’t quite read through the manual of how its own wings work.

The geese and the gulls honk and squawk in each other’s direction as children throw bread and seeds at them.

A group of older people, some who wear visors and some sat on deck chairs, each play a part in a game of bowls, and look at once thoroughly invested in the outcome, whilst also peaceful in the knowledge that there would be another game in a short while.

A dachshund rolls around in the muddied grass, soaked after the rain. A child copies the dog. A parent despairs.

The wind shakes an oak tree awake, and a small crispy leaf lands on the head of a teenage lad, whose cheeks turn red as his girlfriend giggles at his new hat.

A fisherman lifts his eyes away from his newspaper in expectation, but it turns out to be a false alarm. He resets his equipment and picks up the paper once more.

Every day I would return home having observed a vignette full of life’s little quirks.

The park did not cure my depression, but it didn’t hinder my recovery. It gave me insight and gentle connection from afar, something I lacked when I was cooped up in my house. It provided novelty when the monotony of burnout was on the verge of succeeding in eating me alive.

Years on, with the worst of my depression behind me, I still make the effort to visit the park as often as I am able. Observing nature seems to help soften the edges.

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