Still Complicated

After my autism diagnosis I was fortunate enough to be given two follow up appointments with the assessor, mainly, I think, to discuss how I felt about being diagnosed autistic once I’d had a little time to process it, and also to discuss the report and finalise paperwork and so on.

The first of those appointments was in April 2017, and I know that by that stage I’d already learnt quite a lot more than I’d known in February. Having a formal diagnosis finally gave me the confidence I needed to start interacting with other autistic people, and I was starting to discover that some of these people were more like me and some less like me. I slowly started to try to work out where I fitted into the autistic community and what role, if any, I might play in it in the future.

There were things that were obvious from the off. I’m not a computers sort of autistic, nor a gamer, nor do I seek particular solace in nature. Neither am I a hyperempath, nor particularly introverted, nor what most people would regard as shy! I can sometimes be quite extroverted, I have to work hard to try to interpret the feelings of others so as to try not to cause offence, I like engines and machines and cars and trucks and planes (and yes, trains too), but even syncing my phone to the computer or trying to do anything new with this blog can reduce me to tears.

But there were other things too. And, as we started to unpick all the features of me that were clearly related to me being autistic, we started to notice that there were quite a few things that weren’t explained by autism. And as I read more about neurodiversity in general and started to interact with people who were neurodivergent in many different ways and not necessarily autistic, something else started to emerge as a possible contender for consideration.

It was as though somebody had laid a whole load of objects on a table, each object representing a trait (this trait might be a “skill” or it might be a “difficulty”). As I’ve steadily been diagnosed with different conditions over the decades, these objects have been removed from the table and put into a bag labelled with the name of that diagnosis. When I was diagnosed with anxiety and depression a couple of decades back a few objects were removed from the table, put into a bag, and taken off to be given an antidepressant pill and some CBT. But there were still rather a lot of things there. The bipolar disorder diagnosis nearly a decade ago removed quite a lot more objects from the table and quite a lot more of my life was explained, but again there were still an awful lot of my “eccentric” traits left behind.

Then autism arrived. And a HUGE number of objects were put into a brand new bag with “autism” written on it. I took the bag and started to work through the contents and to try to deal with them as appropriate (e.g. there was an object that told me fluorescent lights made me ill, so I wore sunglasses and I now ask people to turn off lights when I can). Learning to understand all these traits, sticking them all together in the “autism bag” was revelatory and changed my life massively.

However, there were still things on the table. And once the autism traits had all been removed, it was clear that there was another outstanding diagnosis that would explain quite a lot more of my behaviour as both a child and during adulthood. It seemed unlikely that I really was a highly spontaneous autistic who just randomly did things out of routine sometimes or that the times when I missed details and struggled with mundane repetitive tasks were down to autism – and these traits were having a significant and often detrimental effect on my life. Chatting to other autistics online it became obvious that the mixture of traits I had were the same as those who were identified or diagnosed as being autistic but ALSO having ADHD.

I mentioned this to the autism assessor at my first follow up in April. She said that she was unable to diagnose ADHD because it fell outside her remit. She was absolutely totally certain that ADHD was not an alternative to the autism diagnosis because she was so totally certain that I was autistic, but she didn’t rule out ADHD as an additional condition that would be worth exploring elsewhere.

So we made an appointment with my GP, which, owing to terribly long waiting lists and difficulty booking appointments, entailed a 6-week wait. We used the precious GP appointment to briefly outline the results of the autism assessment and to broach the idea of ADHD. My GP referred us back to the mental health services, who were the people who were the ones to do ADHD assessments. And we settled down to wait, again.

Forms arrived a month or so later. I was away at the time so we didn’t manage to complete them straight away, however, eventually, in September, we completed Formageddon Round 3 – another set of questionnaires for me, a set for my spouse, and a set for my mother. I might write the process up in more detail at some point, but not today.

And so, at the start of October, I was given an appointment at the mental health services for what we believed would be a relatively straightforward ADHD assessment.

It turned out a bit differently from what we expected. I’m not going to go into details right now, because my head is still doing a lot of processing, but suffice to say, things changed from what we were expecting (the time and personnel of the appointment were both changed just beforehand). It turned out that I was seeing my old psychiatrist from many years back, and, of course (though I already knew this) it was in the mental health centre I’d left many years ago and had been to rather a lot at a not very happy time of my life.

The triggering effect of being back in the place, with the person, coupled with the fact that I was, on this occasion, again deemed “too complicated” (warning for picture of self-injury if you click the link), was nearly disastrous. This time, however, unlike the occasion in November 2016, my spouse spotted the signs and suggested I take a break. I spent most of the appointment outside, rocking on the pavement and communing with a pot plant with a small white flower.

When I went back in for the last few minutes of the appointment my spouse had clearly explained a lot, and my autism report, which my GP had sent with the referral, had finally been read. It had also become obvious that there was something of a vacuum as far as finding anybody who understood both neurodiversity and mental health issues, and the ways in which they interacted, well enough to give me (an autistic person with bipolar disorder) an ADHD assessment. My psychiatrist, however, did think that there was someone who could be asked to help and that it was worth a try.

I’m not sure I was wildly optimistic at this stage. It seemed like the process of finding people who could actually work out what was going on in my head and help me put the objects from the table into bags and then deal with the contents of those bags, was just an uphill struggle. I pondered whether to just give up and go home and drink stronger drink, but in the end I was curious enough to wait to see what happened next.

Advertisements

Wild Idea?

A year ago today I posted the following status on my facebook wall:

What a day. Along with flu jab and asthma review, a very successful meeting with the doc who listened to a whole load of my waffling and has put in a referral to the sort of docs who will try to fathom what’s going on between my ears!*

Feels like a huge relief and real progress.

*good luck with that then folks!

Since, at the time, I wasn’t telling very many people about the “autism hypothesis”, I didn’t elaborate further on my visit to the doctor. It was easy just to talk vaguely about what might or might not have been going on between my ears and also to refer, as I did in another post, to “head stuff” because it had been well known for years that I had considerable mental health problems and I was already totally open about them, so, for most people that probably covered it.

What I didn’t mention at the time was that we’d purposely made a double appointment with my GP, and that I took my husband and about a dozen pages of notes with me. We’d made the notes while out on a walk a few days earlier (“Starting to examine my childhood”, from Still Here), taking 25 kilometres and six hours and several cups of coffee to persuade my brain to start thinking back to my childhood, and to pause every so often while my husband wrote my rambling thoughts down in a notebook he was carrying. I think very much better while on the move – in the car, walking, running – so it seemed like a good way to approach things. It had been a strange process, forcing myself to think back and to remember things I hadn’t thought about for decades – as far as I was concerned, the “real childhood memories” file had been closed long ago and I just remembered the sanitized version as part of my life narrative. I certainly hadn’t tried to remember the difficult bits, the painful bits, the bits that were needed for an autism diagnosis.

We’d already been at the surgery for some time before the appointment with my GP because it was also time for asthma reviews and flu jabs, so we’d seen the asthma nurse and discussed inhalers and so on first. By the time we were in the waiting area for the doctor I was ready to go home. I regretted that the only way of getting to the surgery was by car and so I couldn’t even have a drink to try to calm myself down. We sat and stimmed in the waiting room (although we still didn’t refer to it as stimming at that point as we’d only seen the word a few times and weren’t quite sure what it actually meant), and I was determined not to bottle it and give up.

I didn’t even know, back then, what “self-diagnosis” was. It didn’t occur to me that, having found something that might be “wrong” with me, my first course of action wouldn’t be to go and see a doctor, not because I had any notion of being “fixed” but because I believed that, as with bipolar disorder, with which I had considerable experience, autism was something the medical profession might help me manage (that turned out to be somewhat optimistic on my part)! I also, even at that early stage, needed official permission to “be autistic” and the thought of telling anybody that I was without an official piece of paper seemed far too wild to even consider. My thoughts on official diagnosis were developed further as time went on, and I examined some of them in Why Bother?

Once we’d been called in for the appointment, the conversation ran something like this:

Me: Hi Doc, this is going to sound well random and well weird and you’ll probably think I’ve gone even more bonkers than I usually am, but I had a bit of a strange summer and my head went a bit wrong and a bunch of folk said they thought I might be autistic or something so I read a couple of books and we made some notes about all sorts of stuff and, er, here we are, and, yes, I know it’s a bit barmy and a seriously wild idea and stuff and… but anyway… erm… well…

(all the time, jiggling my leg, flapping my fingers, and staring fixedly at a bit of badly done paintwork in the corner of the room)

I then looked hopefully at my husband because I’d run out of what to say next.

The doctor saved both of us having to say anything.

Doc: Oh of COURSE! It’s so absolutely obvious now you mention it. So sorry for not knowing earlier, but with only short appointments and so much to get through and so little time to spend with you…

(then, the doc paused, as if a thought had just come out of the blue)

Doc: Didn’t you have an incident at the swimming pool a few years ago? And they called us here and said you were violent and aggressive and you came in and said you weren’t violent at all but you were scared and distressed and they’d got it all wrong…

(there followed discussions of meltdowns, of how these episodes had been happening all my life, and of various other things, and by this time I was rocking hard in the chair and the pennies were dropping fast in the doc’s head, just as they had in mine a couple of weeks earlier)

The referral for formal assessment was being started before we were even out of the door. My GP had needed no convincing whatsoever. I didn’t know then that that had been the easy bit, and that finding somebody who could actually diagnose me as autistic would take a whole load more work, and that “letting the medics take it from here and look after me” wasn’t an option, and that I’d have to do my own research, fill in forms seemingly infinitely (that’s what it felt like at the time), and that I was only at the beginning of a very long journey, but that journey was underway.

I left the surgery and went round to my best mate’s house for tea. I told him that yes, the doc thought I was autistic too. He already knew what was going on and was totally cool with the whole idea and thought it made absolute sense. I then went off to a rehearsal that evening, and then away for the weekend to play music, still very fragile and broken after the summer, still reeling from the discovery, but starting, already, to accept myself as an autistic person, even at that stage. I still hadn’t actually said that I WAS autistic at that point – every time I mentioned it to anybody it was “it’s been suggested that I might be autistic” taking the label (or diagnosis, or whatever you want to call it) for myself without anyone giving me permission to seemed to be terribly presumptious at that stage, so I stuck to “might” and “a possibility” and so on.

The fact that my GP believed it made a huge amount of difference though, and something that had been “just an idea being pondered by me and a few mates” became something a little bit official. We’d told someone “proper”, who hadn’t dismissed the idea, and had, in fact, confirmed it.

I regained a little bit of confidence. Maybe I wasn’t totally crazy after all. Maybe this wasn’t some sort of “weird thing that happened over the summer but now we’re back to normal life everything just goes back to how it was and the “holiday romance” is over!”

It still felt really odd. Two months earlier I’d had absolutely no inkling that I might be autistic at all. I wasn’t one of those people who’d “suspected for a while” because I didn’t have enough knowledge of anything to suspect. I’d only started taking the idea seriously and investigating it properly myself about three weeks earlier. The whole of life felt so very peculiar and weird and like it had all gone a bit crazy somehow. My mental state was still fragile, and was, in fact, although I didn’t know it at the time, getting worse. Things felt wrong…

…but things also, suddenly, after over 4 decades of a different sort of wrong, felt right.

Summer School

One of the most striking things that happens to so many of us who are diagnosed or identified as autistic late or very late on in life is that as we learn about autism and what it actually means and how it affects our lives, there is this constant stream of “lightbulb moments” where events from the past suddenly make sense and can thus be reinterpreted very differently. Those of us who grew up oblivious to the fact we were autistic but just knew that life was very very difficult (and assumed, since it was all we knew, that that was the case for everyone but that they somehow coped with the difficulties better than we did) have a lot of reframing of our past to do and a lot of moments that we can now perceive completely differently as a result of knowing we’re autistic.

A couple of days ago I was looking through my “on this day” feature on facebook, as I do most morning, and this status from two years ago appeared:

It is so nice to be alone. Away from all the other people and “group work” (i.e. HELL). Just me, York Bowen viola music on the laptop, a bottle of wine, and a box of maltesers.

I was instantly struck by my relief at being alone and my assertion that group work was hell. I decided to have a look at some of the comments I’d made on the status and they made for further interesting reading:

I’m at Open University Summer School. There are people everywhere. They’re lovely people, but I’m just not good with lots of people all at once. They all have social skills that I just can’t do. The work itself is no probs, but then we’re told to “discuss this with the people sitting around you” and “work in groups” and all I hear is noise. I don’t have the filters for it. Everyone else chats and laughs and I feel lonely and isolated. I drove off campus this evening and found a Tesco to buy stuff then just drove, with music, on my own. It was the most soothing bit of the day.

I limit parties and things because I know they use so much energy and I often need a lot of time to recover. If I was an animal in the wild I’d be a polar bear or something that lived a largely solitary life.

Interacting with people all day is just exhausting. The maths is easy, and the people are nice, but there are so many of them, and it’s so tiring having to smile and pretend to be normal all day.

This is going to be a very very long week. People keep telling me I’ll love it. I’m not loving it. I arrived and broke down in tears and collapsed. If there was a way I could get out of it I would. I hate it.

All the above remarks in italics were written over a year before I knew I was autistic. As far as I knew at that time I just had mental health problems and, at the time I believed the only current issue I had was what I believed to be “normal” levels of anxiety. The disability officer from the course had even called me the previous week to check that I was OK (having read on my student record that I was listed as having bipolar disorder) and I’d assured him that I was between episodes and that everything was absolutely fine and I didn’t need any accommodations but thank you for asking etc etc. The only thing I did check was that I would have a bedroom on my own – I have known all my life that sharing sleeping space with anyone other than people close to me and selected by me is absolute anathema and on the occasions where I’ve been forced into that situation I’ve spent the night anxious and sleepless, desperately waiting for morning.

So I set off to Summer School without any adaptions in place. And I struggled from the outset. I arrived at registration in tears, desperate already to go home, but knowing that this was a compulsory course and I’d fail the degree without it. I sat through a lecture about group work and about how we were being assessed on our interactions with the other students (all of whom were complete strangers to me) and that we had to be actively participating and not looking at the ceiling or staring out of the window because we would otherwise be marked down. The fear started to rise. My anxiety levels started to skyrocket. I remember being desperate to get out and to go home. No degree was worth this amount of torture, surely?

And, as we moved into the group work session and I sat with three complete strangers trying to design some sort of mathematical modeling experiment, trying to look into these strangers’ eyes and to “look interested” and to do all the things we’d been told to do in the lecture, the tears started to roll down my face and then the crushing panic as the noise got louder and louder and the voices of the people around me started to blur into this horrendous and incomprehensible sound and then it felt like the walls of the lecture theatre were going to crush me to death, and the inevitable meltdown happened.

I sat in the corridor outside the lecture theatre rocking and crying until someone eventually found me. I can’t remember exactly what happened next, but it became obvious that I wasn’t going to cope with being a “normal” student. Some adaptions were made for me – I was moved to a different overall group with fewer people, and it was agreed that I would always have a seat near the door or on the end of a row, not in the middle of the room.

It helped a bit, but after a couple of days I was finished. I’d also pretty much stopped eating by this stage (the dining hall was another source of noisy clattering fear and social interaction, and any acquisition of food that required any input from me was impossible for me – I stood in front of a toasting machine one morning at breakfast and cried because I just couldn’t work out how to get toast – I would have gone hungry that morning had another student not made some toast for me and put it in front of me).

I was in touch, as usual, with friends and my husband via facebook. My husband offered to drop everything and come up on the train to see whether he could sort me out and calm me down and get me eating again. The course directors were initially reluctant – I wasn’t registered as needing a carer, and they were also suspicious that my husband would arrive and simply take me home. However, it was fast becoming obvious that I wasn’t going to last much longer on my own anyway so my husband was allowed to join me and he arrived and brought my “safe” foods and got me eating again and somewhat back on track and I managed to stay for the rest of the course.

I remained very stressed for the rest of the week, but as the end approached things did improve. I self-medicated heavily with alcohol and caffeine in order to cope, and landed up in a group with some very good people who helped me through the group work and seemed fine about having to sit near the door in every room (I’m still facebook friends with them, two years on). Perversely, one of the parts of the course that many people were worried about was the presentation to a room full of tutors and other students – for me it was the easiest and least stressful part of the whole experience! This seems to be the story of my life – I find things that others find so easy that they don’t even think about them really really challenging, and things that others find challenging I often find unproblematic!

And, it’s only now, two years after the event and eleven months after starting seriously to investigate the possibility that I might be autistic and what that even meant, that I can now understand just WHY Summer School was so difficult for me, and just how disabled I am and how much support I need at times in order simply to survive. Back then I didn’t have a clue about “sensory spoons” or that not having the ability to cope with multiple conversations in a room was the result of the way my brain was wired rather than me just being hopeless. I’d never heard the phrase “executive functioning” and couldn’t work out why an unfamiliar toaster might make me cry and I simply wouldn’t be able to work out how to use it. I didn’t know just how much energy I was using coping with eating whatever food they provided rather than my own routine “safe” foods that I usually had at home. I didn’t know why the lecture on group work made me so terrified, and I couldn’t begin to comprehend how the other students could spend all day in lectures and group work and chatting at coffee breaks and then go to the bar in the evening and STILL cope without crying and breaking and sobbing and rocking in the corridor – I just assumed they were geniuses of some sort with unlimited energy and resources and that I was broken and pathetic. I never even found the bar!

Now it’s all explained. And now I have to work out what to do when I go away from home on my own in the future. I still don’t have it worked out. I’m supposed to be going away in a few weeks’ time and I need to work out what accommodations might be possible and what I will need in order to get through the week. Then I need to communicate it to the people concerned, which is even harder. I’m struggling with it, even with the knowledge I now have, and when the confirmation e-mail arrived in my inbox the other day I went into a state of abject terror and nearly cancelled. I’m still trying to work out what to do so I don’t end up with a repeat of the Summer School scenario.

And although I now know why all these things have gone wrong, I’m still less than a year into the whole “knowing I’m autistic” thing. I have no problems with being autistic – it’s simply the way that I am – but asking for help has never been something I’ve found easy, and I’m still trying to work out exactly what “help” would actually be helpful, which is another huge job on its own! And after 4 decades of believing that when I couldn’t cope it was my fault and I just had to deal with it, the change in perspective is absolutely massive.

This is still, I keep reminding myself, a process. And, as I keep hearing from those who’ve been through the same process, it will take time.

I hope I’ll be able to work it out eventually!

An Event

I sit at the back, in the corner,
Quietly rolling the ball on my fidget cube
While my leg moves, involuntarily,
Hardly noticed by me.
Maybe I rock?
I can’t remember.
Since I stopped actively preventing what feels so natural
I am not always conscious of it,
Just like I do not always observe my breathing.

The parquet floor reminds me of years
Spent in public buildings.
I adore this pattern and its pleasing geometry.
It calms me.

They read poems, the poets, proper poets.
The theme of the evening – mental health.
Bipolar disorder all over the place.
I almost wonder if anyone in the room has not experienced
That wild fluctuations in mood and behaviour
That so many of us do.

My own system is on high alert.
It has been for hours.
I nearly didn’t make it.
Mid afternoon I felt so anxious, so unable to cope,
That I thought my entire being would shatter into a million pieces from the strain…
Like the glass panel in our sitting room did, ending up like crazy paving.
But 15 minutes beating my head against a cushion
Helped.

I sit, my legs now folded up beneath me, playing with my hair.
Machinery from the coffee shop behind me a persistent aural backdrop.
Traffic noise, horns, bicycle bells, the sound of footsteps in the street below.
British history books in my line of vision.

And words. Surrounded by words
(Not just the ones in the books,
But the loud ones, in the air).
I know I have to listen and make pictures from these words
Because there are no subtitles at a live poetry reading.
Maybe I should have acquired books of the poems at the start.
Never thought of that.

They speak well.
This is all good stuff. Mental health awareness.
Yes yes yes. It is. This is right.
So much of my own experience described.
These people know. They talk sense.
And it’s like they have been inside my crumbling head…
They have taken the same medications, felt those same effects.
I relate to what is said, even though I cannot say.
I would contribute, but my words are drying up.
There is open mic
(But no actual mic – so open air?
But we are indoors. Oh confusion!).
I stay silent. I am not a poet.
I leave the poeting to the poets
And the writing to the writers.
I am a foreigner in this world.

Afterwards, people chat.
I feel it, the heat, the familiar nearly nausea, as the sound of talking starts to overload my system.
The beads of sweat start to trickle down my back, just like they do every time I go shopping.
I retreat round the corner
And focus on the Russian history books.
Ivan the Terrible, Catherine the Great, Peter the Great.
Romanovs, Rasputin.
Trotsky, Lenin, Stalin.
Gorbachev, Putin, Litvinenko.
I am bizarrely fascinated by Russia
So this is a good place to be.
I covet a thick volume on Rasputin.

My husband finds where I am hidden.
I hug the poets, friends of mine, known online for years, some only just met in person.
All I can tell them is “Yes, all the things, yes…”
Or something like that.
I hope they understood what I meant.

As we get into the car I speculate that folk didn’t seem to mind me being there.
He makes some comment about me being the person in the dark glasses.
I had totally forgotten I was even wearing them.
I’m so used to that part now!

By the time we get home making words is difficult.
Exhaustion engulfs me.

But I did it.
Gradually working out
How to be in the world again.

But in this new life I am going out there as myself,
No longer pretending to be someone else. The act is gone.
It is all new.

Takes time
To adjust.

Evolving Understanding

Now that I come to see it written down, that title seems really really strange. But I can’t think of a better one, so it’ll have to do. What I’m trying to say is really something along the lines of “I want to write about how my diagnoses (particularly with regard to mental health and neurology) and my understanding of those diagnoses and ability to discuss them has evolved over time” but that’s way too long for a blog title!

In addition to being autistic, I also have bipolar disorder (bipolar II to be precise – which means that my manic episodes are actually called hypomanic episodes and are somewhat more moderate than the full mania of bipolar I, but that my depressive episodes are generally longer and more extreme than the depressive episodes usually associated with bipolar I (there are also other forms of bipolar disorder, including cyclothymia (often called rapid-cycling) and, I believe, something about mixed states or not specified – my knowledge on current bipolar disorder designations is a bit rusty as I’ve not done much work on it recently and I don’t have the time to do a research project on it today)).

I was formally diagnosed with bipolar disorder in 2010, although I had evidently been self-diagnosed for some time before that. I briefly wrote about my experiences back in July 2009, and I was clearly already comfortable with the self-attributed label at that time, so I suspect I had been self-diagnosed for some while before then – I really can’t remember. I have openly and comfortably spoken to anyone who cares to listen about bipolar disorder, depression, and anxiety for many years now, and I’m currently learning to do the same regarding autism. As it’s bipolar day today I had wondered whether simply to share my previous writing about my experiences with bipolar disorder, but when I looked up those writings my rough style and my evident lack of knowledge were just a bit too grating, so I decided to write this post instead.

And so we come to the notion of evolving understanding. It is clear from my 2009 writing that my own understanding of my mental health and neurology has evolved massively in the last 8 years. It is also clear that the understanding of autism in general has evolved massively over the last 8 years. And it is also clear that some of the issues in my life that I attributed to bipolar disorder back in 2009 were obviously related to my being autistic, as this quote, from 2009, shows:

“Every so often I get stressed, sometimes for no apparent reason. And sometimes, as happened when the treadmill broke recently (it was really just the last straw), I go over the edge. I cry uncontrollably, I am unable to focus on anything and incapable of making even simple decisions. Work becomes impossible. I feel terribly guilty. Eating normally becomes impossible. My senses go haywire. I shake uncontrollably. My legs HURT. And the world becomes a very frightening place, full of bright lights and loud noises, where even little old ladies with sticks seem to move at the speed of light. It is worse in the mornings. And, as I am now discovering, rather hard to write down in a way that makes any sense.”

Bipolar disorder, particularly bipolar II, and particularly in those who are AFAB (Assigned Female At Birth), has traditionally been a common misdiagnosis in the days when the understanding of autism was poorer than it is today. I did wonder, when I received my autism diagnosis, whether my bipolar disorder diagnosis would be removed, because so many of the ways the two conditions present and interact can be similar. However, bipolar disorder is also a common comorbid condition with autism, and the prevalence of bipolar disorder in the autistic population is far higher than in the population as a whole. During my assessment there was a long discussion about my mental health and about how bipolar disorder and autism interacted in my life, and I’ve also mentioned this interaction in the post about Different Language. The conclusion was reached that bipolar disorder is, for me, a comorbid condition alongside autism, and the two have to be considered together.

It’s also obvious now, from the quote above, just how many of the characteristics I ascribed entirely to bipolar disorder in 2009 were actually part of my being autistic (“My senses go haywire” and the subsequent descriptions of sensory problems associated with light and sound are obviously autistic characteristics, in hindsight). For the best part of a decade, bipolar disorder was blamed for pretty much everything that was “wrong” with me, and for a decade or so before that it was simply “anxiety and depression”. As life has progressed I’ve steadily acquired more diagnoses (and more “labels”), which might be seen as bad in some ways, but is actually providing me with much greater understanding of how my head works, and I hope, eventually, how to control it sufficiently to live a life of reasonable quality.

Perhaps, when I’m a bit more able to focus than I am currently, I’ll write a bit more about bipolar disorder and how it affects me and how it fits into my life. I’ve spent most of the last decade becoming reasonably competent at managing the condition, through a combination of medication, various talking therapies, mindfulness, and, possibly most important of all, keeping a daily mood diary (which I did for years until summer 2016 when the “autism hypothesis” was formed and things went completely crazy – once I am a bit more settled I shall set up a monitoring system that takes both bipolar disorder and anxiety and autism into account). Although some of these treatments were not totally suitable for me because they exacerbated issues caused by undiagnosed autism, they did, on the whole, work for management of my bipolar disorder – what I need to do now is to adapt them so that they’re working WITH my neurology to improve my mental health, not against it.

And my understanding of mental health issues and neurology continues to evolve, as, I hope do the understandings of others. Part of the reason I write this blog is to try to understand things myself (it is well-known in teaching circles that explaining things to other people is a good way to test understanding) and also to try to help others understand the complicated world inside some of our heads!

I do, however, fear that I’ll look back on that last paragraph (and possibly most of the rest of this blog) in 8 years’ time and think that my “rough style and my evident lack of knowledge were just a bit too grating”, just as with the 2009 writing, so maybe it’s time to stop here.

Euthymic bipolar day to you all!

Special Days

I’ve never really been a person who makes a big deal out of “special days”. I’m the one who never sends Christmas cards, the one who sends birthday cards to everyone at the same time about once every five years, the one who never bothered with bonfire night or Halloween or sending valentines or waiting until Easter day to eat chocolate or marking nearly any other sort of “occasion”. I should imagine that greetings card retailers would very soon go out of business if everyone was like me. The only days that have been an exception have been New Year’s Day, when I’ve tried to set goals for the coming year, pancake day, when we have pancakes for supper, and our wedding anniversary, when we have potted meat for breakfast!

Since the advent of the internet, however, these “special days” seem to get rather shoved in my face. And many of them are really ones I’d rather not think about. This time of year seems to be awash with “days”, and I’m not really enjoying the whole “day” experience very much right now.

On Sunday it was Mother’s Day (or Mothering Sunday, depending on your preference). As an infertile childless person, Mother’s Day really really doesn’t work for me. It’s a reminder, every year, of something big and painful and missing in my life. I know I’m not the only one who feels this way about it, for a variety of reasons. This year I tried to spend most of the day staying off facebook, but that was also, in its own way really tough – I now have very little life that isn’t online, and cutting myself off from my only real social life can feel really lonely at the moment because I’m not well enough to do anything else that would otherwise distract me for the day. I had been coping, just about, with life until then, but that really was the last straw, and I’ve really been struggling since.

Then, of course, next weekend, we have April Fool’s Day. Another day when I’ve tried, by and large, to stay away from any sort of internet or TV until midday. I have never understood the premise of April Fool’s – it seems to me to run thus: tell a lie, then when someone believes your lie, tell them they’re stupid! And some people, for some reason, find this funny. I KNOW I don’t get this sort of humour – I never have, and my memories of the day as a child were that people constantly told these lies, then told me I was stupid, and the whole thing is an exercise in embarrassment and humiliation. I got to the stage where I simply didn’t believe ANYTHING anyone said on April the 1st in order to save everyone the trouble. I’m quite happy to declare, these days, at the outset, that I know I’m an idiot, I know I can’t tell if it’s a joke if you don’t put a winky face by it, and please don’t complicate social interaction further by deliberately saying stuff that’s false (the same applies, by the way, to the internet “jokes” where someone then “catches” you and sends you a message telling you that you “fell for it”).

And now, to add to the pain of Mother’s Day, and the humiliation of April Fool’s day, there are two “new” days to add into this time of year. It is, apparently, World Bipolar Day on April 30th and Autism Awareness/Acceptance Day on May 2nd.

So here am I, an autistic person with bipolar disorder, sitting here wondering what I should do about this. Because here am I, supposedly articulate intelligent blogger with insider knowledge of both bipolar disorder and autism, and I should really really be doing something about these “days”.

But I am stuck. I cannot “perform to order”. My husband writes a weekly “column” for an online magazine, and has to produce this thing week in week out, whatever the weather, however many meltdowns his wife had that week, and however many times he was required to go to the shop that day because the only damn thing she’d eat was milkshake and cheese and we’d run out of milkshake and didn’t have the right sort of cheese. He performs wonderfully – he is a skilled enough writer that even when his spoons are running low he can still write, just as even when mine are low I can drive a car and play an orchestral viola part without much difficulty. However, I am NOT a skilled writer. What might or might not be apparent from this blog is that, although I might post the posts on consecutive days, I often write three or more in one sitting but then don’t post them all at once. I have days when I can barely even write a facebook status – so the thought of having to produce something particular for a particular day throws me into a horrified paralysis where I can’t produce anything at all.

So I feel guilty, because I should be doing something spectacular for these days. I should be making memes and posting them on the facebook group. I should be explaining bipolar disorder and autism to everyone I meet in the street. I should be helping others with both conditions (conditions was the best word I could think of here) to understand and to feel less alone and more loved and all sorts of other lovely positive feely helpful stuff. And I really can’t do all that just at the moment, because I don’t have the spoons. In recent months I’ve spent a lot of time on groups with autistic people – I’m becoming aware of the vast variability in people’s experiences of autism, I’m learning how offensive many autistic people find the “puzzle piece” to be and how it’s tied up with all sorts of harmful and damaging therapies that attempt to make autistic people “look normal” from the outside, while breaking them inside (one of the advantages of not being diagnosed as a child is that nobody actively tried to “cure” me, although the exterior pressure to conform and to behave “normally” did damage me very badly anyway – I looked great in my early 20s, and if I’d been known to be autistic as, say, a 23-year old, then I’d have been held up as a model of “success” and my graduation photos would, doubtless, have been turned into memes and plastered all over facebook if it had existed, but the damage was being done inside to such an extent that by the time I reached my late 20s it was a totally different story – they wouldn’t have been making memes about my life at 29, which largely consisted of breakdown, burnout, spending night after night banging my head against the wall, and downing bottles of whisky and boxes of pills in an attempt not to wake up the next day or ever again).

And I should be telling this tale. And I should be learning all the politics and finding out which organizations are listening to autistic people and which are not. I feel like I should be going online and telling parents to let their autistic children flap their hands and jump up and down and communicate in ways other than by speech and eat soft food and wear comfortable clothes and so on and so on and so on. And, as an autistic person who can communicate by writing, I should be advocating for all autistics to be able to be themselves because none of us should have to mask or pretend or to be abused or to damage ourselves in order to “fit in” with a world that is difficult enough to cope with anyway.

But I’m still struggling with my own issues right now. I’ve had my diagnosis for only just over 5 weeks. I didn’t even have a clue I WAS autistic until just over 7 months ago. I’m still adjusting. I look at the people who have written much better blogs than this and had books published and all sorts and I feel like I should be doing the same (I was brought up to be a high achiever – the fault of the exam results discussed in Expectations Gone) but then I remember I’m really very very new to all this. I’m also coming to terms with my own childhood whilst being exposed to parenting issues in a way that is really tough as I’d largely withdrawn from anything to do with childhood or children prior to autism stuff entering my life. And I’m in the midst of the menopause and getting used to the idea that my father has terminal cancer and trying to navigate the stresses of applying for benefits so we don’t end up bankrupt. So my head is rather full.

I lay in bed this morning wishing I’d never met my husband – because he is the one who has kept me alive and if I’d never met him I’d be dead by now and all this malarkey would never have happened. I’d have cosily committed suicide some years ago and my affairs would all be long since dealt with. (This sentence did, of course, prompt me to think that there must be a “suicide day” too, so I googled it and discovered that it’s not until September, so I don’t have to worry about that one for the time being, which is a relief). But that’s how low my spoon drawer is right now. (I KNOW this place, I’ve been there many times, and I’m not in immediate danger so don’t worry about sending the cavalry – my executive functioning is too poor to do anything drastic right now in any case and my autistic adherence to routine is keeping me going in a bizarre sort of a way). I’m better than I was earlier today, but in order to start to feel better my speech had to vanish – I have spent most of the day today completely nonverbal from a speech point of view (I often feel very very ill and extremely bad just prior to my speech disintegrating, and when the words go it is usually a big relief). Fortunately I didn’t have to be anywhere today or make any telephone calls!

And so, for now, I come to the conclusion that the best I can do is point people to this blog, which is the place that, so far, I have best managed to explain the many many thoughts that are in my head, and where I have translated more thoughts into words than, possibly, I ever have before. Of course, I’m not very GOOD at pointing people to the blog (although I’m trying), because I’m possibly one of the worst publicists in the history of publicity, but it’s here, and it is what it is. For myself I need to practise enough self-care to get through all this. I need to try to eat and drink regularly. I need to continue to use this blog as something to help me, rather than something to stress me (I’m not, after all, being paid to write it, and nobody asked me to write it – I sometimes wonder if anybody’s even reading it, although indications are that a few people are glancing through it from time to time).

Maybe I’ll see something on facebook that will trigger a blog post relevant to one of the “days”, or maybe it won’t. Maybe I’ll be more equipped to talk about awareness or acceptance or whatever next year, and I need to cut myself a bit of slack for now – I can’t answer every question on facebook or call out every mistaken post or fight with everyone who posits some crazy idea – I just don’t have the energy. I’m very much having to choose my battles right now!

FKM Officially!

73-2016-12-15-16-23-48I’m still reeling from the events of Monday. My thoughts are still not totally working coherently, and I have a whole bunch of feelings that I can’t identify and am still trying to work out. Both my husband and I are still also massively worn out after months of strain.

Five hours of talking to anyone about anything is something I find exhausting under any circumstances, and when a lot of that talk is to two new people, and the outcome of the process is really important, and a lot of the subject matter centres around my childhood, difficulties I’ve had through life, and the poor state of my mental health, it becomes even more exhausting. I even came home with a sore throat, simply because I’m not used to that much talking!

Yesterday I didn’t even have the energy to open the laptop to turn my jottings into a blog post, though I did complete One Day After, ready to post when I could. The evening of the assessment itself I managed to put up the Announcement (along with a visual fanfare for the picture), and jotted down the following, which never made it any further than a jotting:

Knackered
Shocked
Did all that really happen
Me
Autistic
Officially
Diagnosed

Thirsty from talking
Relief relief relief
They were amused when I said 2002 symmetrical

They asked me what happy felt like
I didn’t know
Perhaps this is happy

There are still so many things to discuss, and to work out, and to sort. Still lots of big feelings that haven’t quite worked out what they are yet. I can’t describe them because I can’t make the words happen properly yet, but I know they’re good. But very big. It’s almost 48 hours since I was diagnosed as I type these words, and it still feels very brand new and different.

There’s something significant about discovering I am autistic after 45 years of a life that kept going wrong in so many ways for so long, and working out why. And the whole notion of what I’d regarded as my normal being something that turned out to be the result of a different sort of brain. And how odd it is to type autism into search bars and find a whole load of other people who are the same as me, having spent my life with other people telling me that life wasn’t like this, it was like that, but for me it was like this, and apparently that’s because I’m autistic and it’s like this for other autistic people too. That’s really strange in so many ways.

And it’s all going to take a lot of working out, but I can start to do that properly now. The confirmation from the people I saw on Monday is a huge step to working it all out, partly because they UNDERSTOOD. They actually knew what I meant, and they made the assessment in a way that got the things that might cause problems and worked out how to deal with them before they happened. I’ll write it all up properly sometime, when my head’s processed it all.

And after a childhood working like crazy to try to fit in to the world, and a teenage accepting that I never would and taking refuge in music and study because they were the only things I really understood, and a quarter of a century of adulthood plagued by mental illness and the desire to be dead, some people finally got what it was and gave me an official label to explain why it had all been like that, and, when autism is added to bipolar disorder (that diagnosis still stands, as a comorbid condition), things make sense.

After so long living a life that didn’t work, to find people who believed what I said, and understood, and could finally officially say what was going on, was such a relief. And, interestingly, I even learnt a whole load more about another of my autistic traits, as it became obvious that there was something else I hadn’t even considered, that is clearly a result of autism (I’ll blog about it sometime, but not enough words now).

This assessment could not have been more different from the first. Totally different experience. To those who are out there still in the position I was in last week – keep going, keep asking, because there are people who can do it right and it is worth it.

I know that all my “problems” are not solved simply by being officially diagnosed. I know that there is a lot still to process. I know that there will still be dark times – being an autistic with bipolar disorder and anxiety probably means that my life will not ever be totally easy and smooth. I know that having a diagnosis isn’t some sort of magic spell that will cure everything, and that it’s a starting point for trying to work out how I can best function in the world and best live my life. But I now have that starting point, and it’s straight in my head, and I have the best chance now of official help or necessary adaptations or whatever.

Just a couple of weeks ago I wrote something on my phone (it was another started poem that never went anywhere) about my doubts, and how I wondered if I was just going mad. Going through a 5 hour assessment with people who clearly understood and knew what they were doing, and being told straight away that I clearly fulfilled the criteria for a diagnosis of Autism Spectrum Disorder (for that is its official title these days) has cleared those doubts.

The people will now write a report. I’m impatient to see it already, but my husband reminds me that I must be patient. Then they will give me a follow up appointment in about 4 weeks time, so I can gather questions and so on to ask them and they will point me in the right direction.

It’s the start of a new phase of life. I would be crying with happiness, but that point hasn’t yet been reached. Those sort of emotional reactions take quite a lot of days to happen for me, and the feelings are still buried under a whole load of surreality and slight dreamlikeness.

But it’s good. Properly good. Finally knowing me – officially.