I *think* I’ve told my dx story. I explained it again for someone on twitter recently. Nothing big or dark or horrible.
My head says to me that I didn’t explain the way in which things unraveled after diagnosis. I think I felt changed by the diagnosis. Lost.
At points accepting I had something wrong with me was hard. A points I didn’t genuinely didn’t want to think through the diagnosis.
Denial, I suppose. I had thought myself ‘normal’ and had to unthink that. Forcing myself to be ‘normal’ everyday, controlling myself.
Pushing down the anxiety and doubt. An iron mask of sorts.
I had to unravel my past and by doing that my decisions and actions made more sense through having Aspergers or being Autistic.
It was all out of the box.
I sort of had to follow where it led. Reading about others. Sometimes in tears as I realised that someone else’s quotes fitted me.
I had found a rather large set of quotes from people’s experiences collated by Strathclyde university and it gave me a creeping realisation of what I did and the meltdowns and crash outs and the communication and the social pillars and my whole uselessness st it all.
I got through the quotes and took notes. I looked at the materials given by the autism unit in their after class too.
There’s a comfort knowing others feel the same and are equally confused at people and life.
There is also a fear. Being different, incurable and alone.
The diagnosis process took its time, I got the paper, the answer the DSM code or whatever. It didn’t answer anything else.
I vaguely promised myself that I’d let go and ‘be me’ – even today I still don’t know how I do that and where and when I’ll be able to.
The brakes and controls learned and developed to get me through life stop me from that. The anxiety and fear of people stop me reaching out.
A need for control, a need for some sort of order and a need to be like that pull me back.
An illusion of an answer. I have responsibilities, kids, job.
I let go and I might feel better, but lose what I have. Give in to the tiredness and the hurt and pain and confusion.
I don’t have a safety net to fall back on. A question of a support network.
It’s a curiosity and I’ve met others that don’t have to think like I do and can be themselves and I do envy that. It must be easier.
I have an imperfect situation. A need to keep continuing as I am to keep ‘normality’, but a need to lose the fear and anxiety and free myself of controls I have created.
To be ruder perhaps, to be open, honest, clear and direct. To know what I want. To please myself.
It’s a long road. A thought of release whilst living in that neurotypical world and trying to fit.
As ever, I rely on the quotes of others to make sense of myself, sometimes it comforts, sometimes it confuses.
I write for myself. It’s my outlet. Maybe it helps me express myself or think through the fog in my head.
I doubt I have an autobiography or a take on my life that I could write in a cathartic way. I think recollection is painful and my truth isn’t necessarily good for others in my life.
I think that leads toward a cod psychology lecture of sorts. My writing might be toward a theme that only I know and what the inner goal or need of that, will change with me and move with mood and mindset and day and time.
So, I’m somewhere beyond discovering I’m autistic and some way away from the assured writings that can self analyse and define the condition.