I Still Have Security Blanket (And So Can You)

I am thirty years old.

I’ve always struggled to care about things. Whether that was part of the autism or part of growing up in a family whose unofficial motto was “if it breaks, we’ll get a new one,” I can’t be sure, but the point remains: I don’t really care that much about things. A couch that’s been in my family for forty years? It’s old and saggy. A bullet casing from my grandpa’s (and grandma’s, maybe?) 21-gun salute? Lost it years ago.¹ A ratty, threadbare blanket I’ve had since childhood? DON’T YOU DARE TOUCH IT THAT’S MY BLANKIE!

Linus, from the Peanuts, and Linus’ Blanket, also from the Peanuts.

Ahem.

Okay. Outbursts aside, there is one “thing” that I care about: my security blanket—my many security blankets. I’m not sure what it is about these blankets in general (other types of bedding—sheets, quilts, throw pillows—can fuck right off), but these blankets exist as a sort of memory store for me. Each blanket (my theadbare baby one, my theadbare one from when my baby one was too small, my cream queen-sized one I got for Christmas because it reminded my parents of those first two, my slightly yellower cream queen-sized one I got for the next Christmas because they forgot they had gotten me one the previous year, and my blue one with the buffalo on it) exists like a PS2 memory card, stuffed to the weaves with feelings, memories (obviously), and good vibes. I’ll give you an example from one I sadly had to give up because it smelled really bad and was also falling apart to the point that I didn’t like touching it that much: my one from Yellowstone with a bear on it.

[Pretend I have a photo of it here]

[Pretend the caption says: RIP to a real one]

When I touched this blanket, I remembered. I remembered the trip we got it on—I was in high school. My mom was obsessed with camping for some reason but also afraid of dirt and animals. She booked us a “glamping” trip in Wyoming—my family in the wilderness.² I did not enjoy it. It lacked the adventure of camping yet retained the I’m-worried-this-canvas-covering-will-blow-off-in-the-thunderstorm-and-I-will-die-or-at-least-get-very-wetness of it, as I discovered on our second night, when a thunderstorm blew threw, whipping the canvas so bad I didn’t fall asleep for hours. Great times.

I remember walking through the geyser springs, having timed the eruptions of the geysers exactly wrong so that all we saw was lightly bubbling, extremely toxic water. We laughed about it the whole ride back.

I remember the adventure, the fun, the fear, the love.

I feel this with all my blankets (and two sweatshirts). It’s not just that they feel nice on a textural level, it’s that I’ve loaded them down with memories, with feelings, with comfort, so that when I feel scared or untethered in the way that modern life makes you feel all too often, I can wrap myself in goodness and feel okay for a little bit. Or at least better.

There’s a strong association of childishness and security blankets (or other security objects), right? We’ve all seen Linus dragging his blue rag around. I couldn’t tell you the times I had relatives or parents friends lightly interrogate early-teenage me when they learned I still had a blankie, as though emotional comfort was something to grow out of—or find another more adult source of like, I can only assume, abundant promiscuity,³ legal drug abuse,⁴ or, I guess, just fuckin’ winging it wholesale, mental stability be damned.

But look, life is hard enough as is, and that’s true for everyone, not just autistas. I get calling some behaviors childish—tantrums, pouting, whines (all things I, embarrassingly, did well into my teens)—but a kid having a blanket he liked to take on trips? That made him sleep better? Feel more comfortable in strange places? Calmed him down when he got stressed out by [take your pick]? That’s not childish, that’s a full blown, adult, healthy coping mechanism. Try it yourself if you’re anxious. You’re welcome.

The most content human being to ever do it.

And just to say it: a blankie doesn’t have to be a blanket. It can be a nice sweater, a type of tea, a chair with the cushion exactly deformed to hold you, a beanbag chair, a burrito, or even a person. Get a blankie, whatever it looks like. It makes life better.

1. Sorry, mom.

2. Wil-der-ness. noun. An area that is fenced off, protected from wildlife, and three feet up from the dirt on wooden platforms so sturdy they could support a two story house, with a full bed and two shitty little cots inside.

3. A perfectly valid solution for some people, I’m just not a fan

4. Did anyone else have a drug awareness lesson in high school where you learned sugar fulfills the scientific definition of a drug?