Reactivation

This blog,
Inactive for the longest time
Since it began.
Months and months
Without a post.
Comments unmoderated
And unanswered.

Apologies.
I will get to them
When I can.

So why now?
Why am I attempting a return?

The reason odd.
Makes me uneasy.
Because I am “joining in”
With something.
Or,
At least,
I’m going to
Attempt
To join in
With something.

I have generally,
Throughout my life,
Spent more time
On the edge of communities,
Observing,
Rather than actively participating.

Even when
I’ve thrown myself wholeheartedly
Into a community of any sort
I’ve usually withdrawn
To the edge
Or even departed completely
Pretty quickly.

Likewise with the autistic community,
I maintain a position
On the edge.
Observing.
Learning.

I do not know whether this is because
I find the whole notion
Of any “community”
So very very alien
To my way of being.

Or because
Everything is still so new
And I am so very very
Underqualified
To contribute.
A beginner,
Observing those
With way more confidence
Than I possess.

Maybe.

I don’t yet know
If I will have anything worthwhile
To contribute
Or what my energy levels
Will permit me to do.

To what extent can I “join” any project
As me?
To what extent will I have to mask
My true self
To participate?

The subject matter chosen by others,
The timings chosen by others
(If I even manage to stick to them)!

(Although I don’t discount
The possibility of posts
On other subjects too)!

But,
I feel it is time to try,
Time to return,
Tentatively,
To this blog.

My life
Still very much under review
As I try to figure out
What to do with
However many years
Comprise my future.

And how to live those years
As best I can
As an authentic autistic me.

How to survive in the world
And meet basic needs,
How to build some sort of life
That provides sufficient satisfaction
And is worth the effort,

And how to do this while
Spending as little energy as possible
Pretending,
Acting,
Masking.

Sheet Problems

Many of our sheets are
Still missing after the move
Many are old
And wearing out…

So I bought a new one.

I washed it
As I do with all new things
Because new things
Never feel right
Or smell right
Unless they have been
Washed in the usual stuff

(My mother once washed
My bedding
In a different sort
Of powder
When I was a child
And I couldn’t sleep
Because it smelled
So wrong).

I put the new sheet
Onto our bed
Yesterday.
I knew it was wrong
The instant I got into bed…

Scratch scratch scratch.

Scratch scratch scratch.

Scratch scratch scratch.

I feel now
As though I have spent the night
Sleeping on sandpaper.
I feel as though my skin
Must be red raw
From the experience.

I know it isn’t,
Logically.
And, as always,
Any outside observer
Would simply tell me
They couldn’t see anything
And not understand
The problem.

(My spouse has had
Years of me complaining
About wrinkles
In the sheets
And things not feeling
“Right”
While he is unable
To feel what is wrong).

So I am about to get up
Much earlier than usual
Because I cannot lie
On this sandpaper bed
Any longer.

And I will be changing the sheet
Again.
More energy used.
More washing.
Another failed thing
To add to the detritus
In our flat
Another waste of money
I don’t have.
Something else
I will struggle to throw away
Because I will feel sorry for it
And guilty that I didn’t love it.

Maybe the animals will enjoy it as bedding?

But, as my spouse said to me
At least we now know
There’s a reason that I
Complain about the sheets.

So that’s something.

But I still need a new sheet.

Which means shopping
In shops
Which is hard.
And the sheets are all in packets
So I can’t feel them first.

Or buying online
Where I also have to guess
Whether the sheet
Will be a good one.

(And, of course,
The good ones are more likely
To be the expensive ones
Which I can’t afford).

You’d think
That buying a new sheet
Would be something
Quite simple to do.

Not in my world it isn’t!

Being Autistic

Right now
Being autistic
Is giving me
Warm, fuzzy, lovely
Feelings.

It is so obvious
That it is who I am,
My identity,
My way of being.

Feels so right.
Lovely.
Like a big hug
Rocking
Happy
Autistic.

Loving that
I do not have to be
Part of society
In the usual way.
Happy inside my head
Just waggling my fingers
So lovely.
Nothing else matters.
For hours.

Smile smile smile.

One of my huge
Autistic traits
Is that my
Social imagination
Is very very poor.
(It scored me
Very high
On the ADOS).

That means
I cannot imagine
What it is like
For things to be different
From how they are
Right now.

I struggle to imagine
What it is like
To be someone else
(And, for the record,
I AM also an autistic
Without much
Natural empathy.
The empathy I have
I work hard
To achieve
Because I like the people
But I have to learn
And really work at it
(Unlike my spouse,
Who is a hyperempath)).

Anyway, I digress.

So, right now,
I struggle to imagine
What it is like
To be that other person,
That person who
Doesn’t want
To exist any more.

I remember that
There is a version of me
That wants to die
That finds life
Unbelievably hard
That constantly asks
“Why me?”
That hates the life
I am forced to lead.

A version of me
Who wishes I was
“Normal”
And could just chat
Could just be out in the world
Without sensory overload
Could just get up
And make a cup of tea
And go to work
Like so many
People can.

A version of me
Who is struggling
To come to terms
With being autistic
Because of the way
It limits my life.
And who is frustrated
Because they are unable to live
The life they had expected to.

A version who
Wishes they were
Less disabled.
And also wishes they
Fitted neatly
Into the gender binary
And didn’t
Cry and feel bad
At gendered toilets.

That version of me,
However,
Seems to be
Miles away
Right now.

That person has written things
I can hardly understand.
But that I will work hard
To process
Intellectually,
Academically,
And will publish here
From time to time.

But right now
The person who is here
Is content
To be
An autistic enby.
With a new identity,
A new name, even.

It’s all good.
Because it fits.
And it’s right.
And it’s me.

And at times like these
“Autistic”
Is the sweetest word
In the whole language.

Why did it take me
So long
To discover
How perfect
It is
For me?

On The Sofa

Legs rocking,
Foot hitting the sofa back
Over and over again.
As usual.

Moving my wine
From hand to hand
So I can flap each hand
Even numbers of times.
Ah. Flapping. Happy.

Flicking my fingers
And waggling them
Fast.
Flick flick flick.

Occasional noises.
Just sounds.
Tonight a
“Nya”
Sound.
For no reason.

Wrinkling my nose
Which is my newest stim
Only a week old.
I don’t know where it came from
But it is.
So I go with it.
Wrinkle. Wrinkle.
Feels good.

Twisting my hair.
Allowed.
Picking my scalp
No no no!
Trying to let it heal enough
To dye my hair.

I rub my face instead.
Distraction.

Rock, hit, flap
Flick, waggle, sound
Wrinkle, twist, rub.

Just a normal evening.

Stimming.

Variability

Today has been an OK day.
Not amazing,
Nothing much achieved,
Just clothes
And a bit of lunch,
But fine, OK
Perfectly contented
Just to be.

Yesterday was miserable.
I didn’t want
To exist
At all.
Really depressed,
Really low.
Not seeing any value
To my life
Nor any point
In staying alive.
Desolate.
Hopeless.

The day before was nice
I visited my best friend
Had coffee with my husband
Bit of shopping
Good stuff
Nice dinner.
Contented
Fine.

The day before was impressive
Coffee and breakfast
First thing
Cheese and mushroom toastie.
Two lots of shopping
Trousers, washing powder,
Bath foam, food.
All good stuff.
And then a 12K run.
Successful, good day.
If all days were like that
Life would be worth it
Totally.

The day before that
Tried to make tea
Couldn’t.
Drove to town, parked.
After three different coffee shops,
All too busy, frightening,
No words, even to ask for
A latte, which is what I always have.
No hope of buying food.
Returning home
In tears.
Fighting the urge
To damage myself.
Not able to eat.
Seeing no hope.
I’m a jobless, childless, useless
Person in their 40s
Who cannot even
Get a hot drink for myself.

This is the variability of my life.
This is the difference in capability
From day to day.

And I never know
How the new day will be.

And I struggle desperately
To imagine how life
Could be any different
From how it is
In that moment.

When it is good
I make plans
Based on the good persisting
And I imagine
Things will improve
Consistently
And I can achieve
So much.

When it is bad
I see no way
It is worth staying alive
And I have to fight the urge
To give up.
Sometimes
Taking it
One hour, minute, second,
At a time.

This is the variability
Of my life.

(And is also why
This blog
Is so unpredictable.)

Still Here

It’s OK
I keep telling myself.
People take holidays from things
All the time.
Maybe I haven’t failed
At this blog…

…I’ve just had a break.

There is so much still to say
And I need to respond,
STILL,
To messages and comments and so on.

But this last week or so
I have been a bit broken.
The price I pay
For doing things
That sap my energy
And require me
To be out in the world.

And there have been other stressors
Recently
I tried to list them yesterday
But couldn’t.
However,
I might manage today:

Washing machines
Our living situation
Bills and so on
More forms (triggering)
Childhood, children
Gender identity
Invalidation
Suicide awareness
And ideation
Further anniversaries
My biggest breakdown
(16 years ago today)
Starting to examine my childhood
(1 year ago today).

I have been low
And
I have been expecting too much.
Pushing too hard.

Accepting the limitations
On my life
Is not easy.

But I risk my recovery from burnout
If I don’t take things gently.
I have to keep reminding myself
That I am disabled
And that’s OK.

And it’s OK to take things gently.
And nobody will tell me off
If I don’t blog for nearly a fortnight.

I am still here
I still have many posts to write
But life has been a bit of a struggle recently
So I’ve been a bit absent.

But I’m still here.

A Silly Tale

My Executive is not functioning
Their suit is creased,
They cannot find their papers
And their briefcase
Is full of ash.

The ash is from my burnout
And it spills all over the office
In great clouds,
Covering everything
In a fine dust
That will take some time
To clean up.

In the meantime
My constant hand flapping
Is spreading the ash still further
And it reflects the light
Coming in from the windows
And makes stimmy patterns
In the air.

When the ash settles on the desk
I like to run my fingers through it
And make circles in it
And then wash my hands
Because it feels a bit weird
On my skin.
Sand is nicer to play with.

My Words keep going AWOL
But they never leave a forwarding address
They just disappear.
I think they go off for a holiday
Sometimes.
Or perhaps they’re just down the pub
Enjoying a few pints
And a pie and chips.

Maybe that’s why my Diagnosis
Was so late.
It was sitting in the pub
For 45 years
Eating pies and drinking beer
And because it has such
Severe
Time agnosia
It didn’t realise that it had missed
The last train.

Although it finds trains
Rather stressful anyway.
And leaving the pub
Would have meant change,
Doing something different.
So maybe
It just gave in to
The inertia.

And, of course
Because everybody has such poor
Communication skills
Nobody was able to tell anybody
Where it was.

And night after night
My Executive got home
And ate the same takeaway for dinner
Every night.
Because even before the burnout
They couldn’t function very well
And needed their friend Routine
Who liked to have the same thing
Every night for dinner anyway.
And keeping Routine happy
Was always good.

Mask bullied my Executive
And tried to make them function properly
And told Routine to stop being so stupid.

Mask was an annoying tit.
Irritating and itchy,
No matter how many labels I cut out of it.
It looked good though
Everybody told me so.

But it got too warm.
Overheated.
It kept trying to keep the Words
At home
But they kept slipping out
The back door
And vanishing.

Then things started to melt
At the edges
Senses went a bit haywire
And there were explosions
And people started to notice.

My Executive stopped coming home some nights
And stayed at the office
To keep cool
And avoid the bullying.
Routine gave up eating
And sat in the corner
Rocking hard and hitting themself and tearing their skin.

And then when the Words got home
After a night on the town
They told me that my Diagnosis
Had been seen in the pub
And that closing time
Was fast approaching.
Last orders had been declared.

When my Executive
Returned from the office the next evening
They found Routine crying in the garden,
Clutching a fidget cube and a furry tangle.
My Words explained what had happened
By typing into an iThing.

Mask had got too hot.
Way too hot.
Melting down had increased
No time to cool.
Mask had cracked in the heat and would no longer stay on.

Sparks, flames, and total burnout.
Explosions so loud that ear defenders were needed.
Piles of smouldering ash everywhere,
Which my Executive tried to put into their briefcase,
Though they didn’t help with functioning
And eventually made a mess in the office.

But just as all seemed lost,
My Diagnosis finally got back from the pub
With an official Report
(And a kebab).

Mask should never have been worn for that long
Masks when worn for long periods
Can overheat
And are a burnout risk.
Safety procedures had not been followed.

Report said that
Routine needed care and love,
My Words should be allowed to come and go as they liked.
My Executive needed an assistant to function
(And would also have to sweep up the burnout ash,
Which could take a while).

Diagnosis explained that communication was hard
For everybody
And that Report had said so.

And everybody finally understood
What had been going on
And jumped up and down to celebrate.

Diagnosis was a bit drunk by now
So they went on the Internet
And ordered loads of spinners and toys and pretty lights
And everybody settled down
Under their weighted blankets
To recover from the events.

And they ate kebabs every night for months.
Because they always ate kebabs.
Because Routine liked them.

Limitations

Advice often seems
To tell me
To consider
“The positives”
And to focus on
What I
CAN
Do.

If I’m honest
This strategy
Isn’t always
Terribly helpful.

I’m perfectly well aware
Of my strengths
And achievements.
They’ve been pointed out to me
Many times
Over the years
(Because people seem to like
This sort of
“Feel good”
Stuff,
I think).

I don’t need this information
Again and again.
I already have it.

What I am finding
MUCH
MORE
HELPFUL

MUCH
MORE
HELPFUL

(Twice,
And capitals,
For emphasis)

Is to learn
What my
LIMITATIONS
Are.

I have been told
All my life
About working hard
And succeeding.

But the things
That I
CAN’T do
Have rarely been
Considered

Or have been ignored
Or have been thought
To be the result
Of me being lazy
Or wilful.

So,

I have continued
To blame myself
For my failures.

I have struggled
To learn strategies
To compensate
For my difficulties

I have never learnt
How to ask
Other people
To help me.

(Because I have always been told
To focus on my abilities
And strengths
And how strong
I am).

If I’m honest (again)
Then allowing myself
To admit
What I CAN’T do
Is a sweet blessed relief.

To learn that I am disabled
Means that I’m not bad and lazy.
It’s Not. My. Fault.

To focus on my struggles
Means I can start
To work out
How to cope.

To drop the “strong” act
Means that I have permission
To ask for help.

(And it’s even OK
To admit
That there are things
I will give up
Even TRYING to do
Because they use
Too much energy
For me).

It is relief.
Really really big
Relief.

After 4 decades
Of trying
To live up
To the high expectations
That so many people
Have had.

Can I stop now?
Please?

Can I give up the quest
To be impressive,
High-achieving,
Sparkling,
Witty,
Attractive?

And just be me.

Not impressive.
Not special.

Just me.

And allow myself
To consider not my strengths
(Because I’ve done that
For too long
Because that’s what people
Have told me to do)
But the things I cannot do
The things I need support to do
The things I find difficult
And the problems I have.

Because I need to do that.
I need to learn
I need to discover
What I CAN’T do,
What I’ve been faking
All these years,
And where I have been
Pretending
To be capable
And where that pretending
Has damaged me.

I need this time.
I need this space.
I need to be allowed
To be weak
And to learn
How that is
For the first time in my life.

Because that is new to me

It was never part of my mask

Or my plan

Or any plan anybody else
Had for me.

I was never taught
How to give up
Or to let go
Or to rest
Or to relax

Or to accept
That there are things
I cannot do

And that it’s OK
To stop trying
To be strong.

I believe
That only
Once I have examined
My weaknesses,
Accepted them,
And worked out
What to do about them,

Will I know
What my true strengths
Really are.

Dark Thoughts

This post should, I think, be one that carries additional content warnings beyond those on the home page of this blog. As you might guess from the title, material that some might find triggering or distressing might well be included here, so please protect yourself if you’re vulnerable and only proceed if you feel able to cope or have safety strategies in place. I should also add that I’m not in any immediate danger, despite having regular thoughts about my own place on this planet, and I have my own strategies sorted for the time being.

I find myself in a slightly odd situation when writing about and publishing posts about the darker side of my mind. When I started this blog one of the things I wanted to do was to be as honest as possible about as much as I could as possible, partly because that is just the way I am, partly because one of my hopes is that by discussing the more difficult topics (such as suicidal ideation) I will, in some tiny way, contribute to destigmatising them, and partly because there might be others who, like me, will read that there is someone else out there experiencing these thoughts and feeling and will feel comforted by the knowledge that they are not alone (even though this usually raises the rather odd situation of “I’m glad it’s not just me,” hastily followed by “I don’t mean that I’m really glad you feel horrible and want to end your life, just that I’m reassured that I’m not alone”).

However, when I am at my worst, one of the things I struggle to do is write about it. And, even if I do manage to type any words (usually into my phone while curled up under a blanket), the chances of my having enough functionality actually to publish them on this blog are pretty much nil. So I’m always playing a sort of “catch up” with the dark thoughts!

I’ve had a pretty rough week this week. Regular readers of this blog will know that I was away from home and spent a LOT of time surrounded by people during the preceding week. I didn’t know whether I’d even manage to be there, and it was only because of quite a lot of people giving me quite a lot of support that I was able to manage at all. However, even WITH that huge level of support and acceptance, it took every ounce of energy I possessed just to cope with an absolute minimum level of activity, so this week I have, unsurprisingly, been utterly wrecked.

I’ve done a lot of thinking about the amount of effort put in, both by me and by others, and have been considering hard whether it’s worth pursuing some of the more difficult things that I keep trying to pursue. I’m clearly disabled enough that I need care and adaptions just to enable me to participate in many things. I haven’t yet managed to process all my thoughts about this, and certainly if you’d asked me on Monday, I’d have declared that I was never leaving the flat again, ever, and that there really was no point continuing with life. I managed to post a couple of blog posts in the better moments, but that was about it.

However, time and solitude have meant that (I think) the worst is now over, and I’m gently starting to resume life, and to start to think more sensibly about my future exploits in the outside world. But, looking back to Monday, I thought it was important at this stage to acknowledge that this process of autistic discovery is not all wonderful relief. The wonderful moments such as those described in The Magic Spot and Liberation! are part of the experience, yes, but there is also a bleaker side of an autistic discovery, particularly, perhaps, for those of us who have a lot of anger and sadness at the way our lives have turned out. I could, if I wanted, make this blog all about the wonderful bits, a great celebration of beautiful stimming and hand-flappingly joyous discoveries and solved mysteries and so on, but it would feel like lying, so I won’t.

The darkness of this week has in no way been comparable to that described in The Aftermath, although I have, once more, had to work seriously hard to persuade myself that it is worth staying alive for the time being. It’s all very well accepting myself as an “out and proud” autistic at home, but once I have to interact with people in the outside world I have to work out exactly how I do that – there’s a blog post fermenting in my head about it – and that causes me to ask a LOT of questions about my value to the world and my purpose in the world and so on. The immediate answers delivered by my head are not all that encouraging, and I have to do a lot of work to debate them.

And, it seems, I am not alone. This morning somebody shared an article on facebook. I haven’t checked its veracity so I am merely reporting something shared by a mainstream media outlet (I don’t have the spoons to go back to the primary source right now), but the report talked of “investigating concerns about suicide rates among autistic people” and “research shows that two thirds of adults newly diagnosed with the condition had contemplated suicide.” If this is the case, then I’m certainly part of that two thirds.

Research results such as these are no surprise to me. In fact, from my own personal experience, I’m amazed it’s not higher. I have been contemplating suicide for as long as I’ve known what suicide was. I sort of assumed that most people did, but that, like me, they just didn’t talk about it. My feelings were borne out last autumn when I read Philip Wylie’s Very Late Diagnosis of Asperger Syndrome (Autism Spectrum Disorder) in which he described a further suicide attempt after his own diagnosis at 51.

Having such thoughts and memories does, for me, prompt me to review my “progress” as far as my own process of discovery and diagnosis is concerned. After so long in the mental health system I’m also very attuned to mood monitoring, and I’m also continually trying to assess my state of recovery from burnout in order to try to work out what level of functionality I might eventually hope to achieve and what kind of goals and plans I might make for the future (probably my strongest motivators to keep living are to achieve goals, to learn “things”, and to “find out what happens next”)!

I wrote the words below back in February, three days before I received my diagnosis. At the time I considered them too dark to post, and, since I was diagnosed just days later, and then life changed again a few days after that, they were never published. I feel there’s sufficient distance to publish them now, and I’m very aware that there are others still going through the diagnostic procedure who might relate to some of them. Also, however dark life has been this week (and it has been quite dark), it hasn’t reached the stage it was at back then.

If they don’t diagnose me
I can’t see the point of going on living.

Because I hate my life so fucking much.

I have always hated life.
I don’t know why people care about it so much.

I do not belong in this vile place.

But I was told to behave.
I was told to smile.
I was told to work hard and be good.

So I did.

But everything still turned to shit.

And I smiled publicly through the shit.

And unlike the kids who got spotted and got shrinks and stuff
I used those fucking accursed bastard brains to compensate.
And destroyed my mental health in the process.
The smiles hiding a ticking time bomb
Of mental illness and desire to be dead.

They thought I was happy because I passed exams.
But the exams were the retreat from the misery of people.

And later I drank myself oblivious when alone.
And cried.
And tried to end this hell.

And still nobody has believed me

45 years.

Still fighting.
Still not knowing who I am.
Still being told that maybe I have brain injury.

Why why why.

How much fucking longer?

I’ve written quite a lot more dark words about dark thoughts this week too, more about how angry and frustrated I am at my inability to function in the world, about how long all this took to discover, and about how much I struggle with some aspects of life. I’ve also had cause over the last week or to consider the vast gulf between some of my abilities and some of my disabilities, and how that gulf makes life so very complicated and unpredictable. I’m still working on trying to formulate those thoughts into something coherent though, so I’ll stop for now as this post is already quite long enough and my writing ability is almost exhausted for now – I can feel the sentence structure is no longer flowing and easy and that I’m having to use large amounts of brain power to translate my thoughts into readable words, so it’s time to stop!

Leaky Head

I have been inattentive to this blog recently. My head has been so full that processing thoughts into words has not always happened. I have also been back to the place mentioned in The Discovery and, more recently, in Going Back, Doing My Best, and Packing.

I am still analysing the experience of returning. I am still recovering from being with so many people for so much time. My husband went away for a couple of nights an hour after my return and I have now not seen another human or spoken a word for over 40 hours and I am starting to regain a little equilibrium.

I am also trying to work out what any of it is for. And I spent a long time yesterday “persuading myself That I even want to [live]”, which is still not a foregone conclusion for me. In the end, I gave up trying to work out why I do anything at all, and simply reminded myself of Scott Jurek’s words: “Sometimes you just do things!” These words have served me well on many occasions over the last few years.

Better analysis will have to wait for a while. Pouring so much energy into things outside my normal routine has left me somewhat depleted and also very behind with blogging and “desk work”. There is much to catch up on, and it will take time. I am having to take things very very gently.

However, the last day I was away, the 20th August, was a significant anniversary for me – exactly six months since my formal diagnosis. And, at four in the morning, sitting in a tent in a field, I typed the words below into my phone. Just something to try to mark the occasion somehow.

They’re very unformed thoughts. I have not analysed them, nor edited them (beyond dealing with a couple of autocorrect fails), and my head’s not really in a place for discussing some of them yet. I suspect I’m also repeating things I’ve said before. Maybe this is the way my brain is doing the processing, still trying to work out what has happened in the last year and where to proceed from here.

Please don’t challenge me on the thoughts below. I’m not up to being challenged on them. They are my truth from where I am at the moment. I do not want positivity. I do not want reassurance. Those things are uncomfortable to me right now.

My head needs space to process the thoughts and I need to challenge any that might need challenging by myself, in my own time. I do not currently have the strength to debate them with others. I merely present them to you as they are.

My head is full of anniversaries.
The end of this summer’s music
Reminding me of how things ended
Last summer…

Then
I was just at the start
Of exploring
The “autism hypothesis”
As I called it.

Me? Autistic?
No.
I did not “suspect”
I had not “wondered for a while”
It hadn’t occurred to me
At all.

TBH I hardly even knew what autism was.
I sure as hell knew nothing about
Sensory issues
Executive functioning
Autistic inertia
Social imagination
Burnout
Masking
Stimming
And so on.

Except that I did.
I knew all these things
Really really well
Because they had been part of
My normal
All my life.

I just assumed the world was
The same
For everybody.
And that life was basically
A competition
To see who could cope
And be tough
And behave “properly”
Like they tried to teach me.

I knew I was weak
Because I couldn’t tolerate it well
And got so mentally ill
That I wished to be dead
Most days of my life
For as long
As I could remember.
I assumed this was normal.
Most folk wake up
Wishing they hadn’t,
Don’t they?

I knew I was bad
Because I was still naughty
Even when I was trying to be good.
And I was still lazy
Even when I was working my hardest.

And then I discovered I was not
“Normal”
After all.
And please don’t think
That telling me I AM normal
Is in any way helpful
Because it is not comforting
Nor reassuring.
It is invalidating,
Gaslighting.
And upsetting.

There is
A weird feeling of discovering
That most other people
Perceive the world
Differently.

Must be odd for them!

I wonder what it’s like.

But I’ll never know.

My head is full of anniversaries
The date on my calendar app
Reminding me of how things ended
Exactly six months ago…

Then
I was at the end of exploring
The “autism hypothesis”
Because it ceased to be a hypothesis
And became a formal diagnosis.

Six months of learning about
Autism
And
Sensory issues
Executive functioning
Autistic inertia
Social imagination
Burnout
Masking
Stimming
And so on.

And discovering that my normal life
Wasn’t so normal
After all.

And that most other people
Weren’t being tough
In the ways I thought they were.
The assessor was clear on that.
And absolutely totally clear
That I fulfilled all the diagnostic criteria
Even things I hadn’t discovered:
My gestures and expressions
Limited and atypical.
Things that should have been
Learned intuitively
I had instead
Learned cognitively.

My head is full of anniversaries
And I think I should be
Writing something more
Organised?
But life has been sapping my energy
And my mind still needs
More processing time.

The thoughts are just there
Undefined
Randomly swirling.
Logical arguments not yet formed

But the anniversaries are there.
Six months since diagnosis.
Half a year.
That should be significant?
Maybe?
Perhaps it is and that’s why I’m even writing this.
It feels significant.
Six months since liberation.
Six months since it became OK
To stop trying to be “normal”
To give up the old life
(Though I’m yet to work out
How to proceed from here)
To recognise how disabled I really am
And how much care I need
Though, perversely, I’d rather be independent.

Six months is a long time
A lot has changed.
Six months is a short time
There is still a long way to go.

I am still learning.
There is so much to learn.
I’m still new to this autism malarkey.
Both new to the whole idea of it
And the theories
And debates
And arguments.
And to how and where I fit
Into the whole neurodiversity thing.
Confusing complexities of language.
The triggering effects of so much exposure
To children and childhood and parenting discussion
An area of life I had cut myself away from because it is so alien and painful.

And while I have lived for decades with my “normal”
Redefining myself as autistic is odd.
I was colourful, eccentric, weird, something special and different.

Now I discover I was just a common or garden autistic all along.

I feel much less unique.
More bog standard.
But I also know now I’m not normal.

Paradox.
I’m odder and less odd than I thought
Simultaneously.

And I have to learn to live
Practically.
And keep persuading myself
That I even want to.

Now is not really the time
After a week of memories
Almost no sleep
Meltdown
Shutdown
Self-injury
Dissociation
People
Music
Trying to cope.

But today is the date
So I have allowed
Unformed thoughts
To escape from my head.

My head is full of anniversaries.
So full
That some thoughts
About them
Have leaked
Out of my finger
Onto your screen.