Weight of Comfort

When I’m deep in focus, I forget I have a body. The sensory signals keep arriving — the hum of lights, the texture of clothes, the temperature shifts — but they don’t get processed. They don’t remain totally unnoticed either. Instead, they sort of queue up in the background, hang on to my poor nerves. Then I finish working, the focus releases, and everything that was “hanging” comes to the foreground of my already tired mind.

Sometimes, my nerves feel like a discharge lamp. Those old fluorescent tubes where you can see chaotic rays jumping and jumping inside the glass. And the more tired I get, the easier and heavier I overstimulate. Too wired to sleep, too depleted to function. Lying down feels like lying on static. The body wants rest; the skin keeps transmitting, the mind collects it all, no matter the cost. This can be predicted and prevented, but once I fall into this trap, the choices no longer have their classic power; the body takes over.

Luckily, I am not the first person with this kind of nervous system to search for solutions. Temple Grandin, the animal scientist, built herself a hugging machine decades ago — a device that applied firm pressure to her body when overstimulation became unbearable. I understand that impulse completely. When your system is this reactive, you need something that speaks its language. Not words, not willpower. Pressure. Weight. A physical signal heavy enough to override all the jumping rays and calm them.
This is what a weighted blanket does.

The concept is simple: a blanket filled with glass beads or pellets, heavy enough to apply even pressure across the body. The effect is called deep pressure stimulation. It activates the parasympathetic nervous system — the one responsible for rest. It increases serotonin. Decreases cortisol. Tells the body, in a language it actually understands: you can stop being on alert now.

For me, it works like a reset button. I climb under it after a day of running hot, and within minutes, the static begins to fade. The sparking slows. The accumulated noise drains out. Sleep becomes possible again.

It’s not a cure. It won’t make overstimulation stop happening. It won’t explain autism to anyone who doesn’t live with it. But it’s a genuine tool — a piece of equipment that helps a high-maintenance system cool down after the daily slight overheats that come with this particular brain.

And it’s not only for autists. Overstimulation is becoming a quiet epidemic. The modern pace of life — constant connectivity, notification floods, open-plan offices, the cult of productivity — pushes more and more nervous systems past their limits. You don’t need a diagnosis to end a day feeling like a fried circuit. The weighted blanket doesn’t ask for your paperwork. It just works.

I’d like to thank whoever invented it. Not because it’s groundbreaking. But because it makes some lives, mine included, a little easier to manage.