I had the first of two follow up sessions with my autism assessor. It had been a tough week, one that had tested my resolve to stay alive somewhat significantly. So much doubt, so many thoughts planted in my mind about whether I really knew what I was on about. Was I as wrong about things, as I had been told? Confidence so very low.
I parked. My husband met me, with coffee, which we drank while sitting on a low wall in the sunshine. We walked the 15 minutes or so to the arranged venue (different from where I went for the assessment, closer to home).
And there she was, the assessor. Same dress as before. Familiar. Room set up so I could escape if needed. Lights off, just the sunlight from the window. She made me a cup of tea and fetched my husband a glass of water. I took off my boots and folded my legs under me on the chair, gently rocking back and forth, chewing my fingers a bit.
We discussed the report. We went through the list of questions I’d sent her, one of which was particularly important to me. We discussed what had happened in the weeks since my diagnosis. We discussed the reactions of various people I’d told about my diagnosis – both the positive and the more challenging.
This is not the post for coherent detail – it is written on the evening of the follow up. I am feeling, for the first time this week, that it is worth staying on the planet, and that there might actually be a point to all this. I am relaxed, positive, and maybe even happy. I am not writing an academic essay right now, with proper structure or detail, just a brief account. Nearly one of those “maybe poems”, but not quite.
And, with a professional in front of me, I asked the other questions. Not the ones on the paper, the answers to which were so important to me in any case and really clarified things in my mind. But the other ones, the ones that have been swirling round my mind all week.
Because I had been told that I was wrong. I was told that my analysis of the situation was incorrect, and the implication was that I should listen to someone else, who believed they knew better than me, who believed that I didn’t know what I was talking about.
So I asked the professional. The person who has massive experience, and knows what the answers are to the questions. And she said I was right. My analysis of the situation and my needs was correct. I was not going crazy, and if anyone told me that I was wrong about these things then I should ignore them, because I did know, and I was right.
The sense of validation was huge. Maybe even more so than the day of my diagnosis.
We emerged from the appointment after an hour or so, having arranged to be in e-mail contact. Back into the sunshine and what had just become a considerably more lovely day. My husband bought me some cheese. We chatted for a while, about the positive experience and maybe some hopes for the future.
And he stayed in town to work, the work he has to do to sustain us. I drove home.
And didn’t consciously have to stay alive.
Because I am right, and I am validated.
In many many ways.