June 1st 2017

When your entire perspective changes: Why I abandoned my previous "diary", and what happened when I found out I have ASD. in People suck. Cats are awesome. Dogs are alright.

•  June 1, 2017, 10:34 p.m.
 
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• Public

When I found out that I’m autistic, a lot happened to me, very quickly. Like submerging something that’s been caked in dried mud for years. All of that caked on, hardened, dirt starts to come off as soon as the object touches the water, and even without scrubbing, just sitting there in the water, the layers will continue to come away, and dissolve.

I had built a complicated set of pretenses and lies that I told myself, my mother, and everyone that I spent any time with. Even my online diary, which is why it had to go, to be replaced by this one.

That person was entirely, (or at least 90%), fake. Layered up, caked on, interwoven coping mechanisms, that I thought were “me”.

I thought that everybody had to fake everything, all the time, just like I did; because I’d never heard any different.

Everywhere that I ever worked, went to school, every circle of “friends” that I ever had, most boyfriends, and countless strangers, even; constantly telling me, in a thousand ways, (some big, some small), that I was lazy, stupid, unacceptable, unaccomplished, forgetful, exasperating, unreliable, temperamental, not good enough, etc etc and so on and so forth. EVERY WEEK OF MY LIFE, at least once, from someone.

So I did the only thing that I could and covered nearly every aspect of myself in fakery, trying to become something that I wasn’t; and honestly thinking that it must be what everyone does.

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When I lost my last job, for not multitasking fast enough, and not getting along with my coworkers, (mostly the last one. It always is). - I’ve lost EIGHTEEN jobs. I am a hard worker. I am dependable. Like most of my aspie brethren, I follow rules to the point of perfectionism. I do a job right. - And I can tell you that no matter what any employer says, NONE of that matters half as much as your ability to socialize and play the “gossip game” effectively. - But after I lost my last job, I started doing some serious research into various psychological problems. I read about depression, social anxiety, dysthymia, narcissism, borderline personality disorder, bipolar disorder, and eventually I came to Asperger’s Syndrome. Several online tests, and a visit to a psychologist whose familiar with autism spectrum disorders later; and oh yes; I’m autistic.

Autism. (Ominous music.)

What image does that word conjure? Rain Man was the first picture in my head, quickly followed by a few intellectually challenged people I’ve met over the years. This was not a word that I wanted attached to me. I’m not stupid. Hell, I’ve run my own business. Been a night supervisor in a deli. I’ve got an Associates degree.

In the popular media, “autism” equals “retarded”, and that is not what I am. (Charities like Autism Speaks intentionally portray it as being as pitiful as possible, to get more donations; which they then spend the vast majority of on their own officials.)

So I prefer the defunct term of Asperger’s, despite the fact that it’s no longer in the Diagnostic Criteria Manual. If I say I have Asperger’s, people are more likely to not know what it is at all, and that’s better than them thinking I have something in common with a drooling, diaper wearer. (No offense to people who wear diapers. I now know that that doesn’t necessarily mean you’re intellectually challenged, either.)

I’ve spent a considerable amount of time watching every video that I could find on the subject, and reading and commenting on the Asperger’s subreddit. My initial goal was to figure out how much of me is “me” and how much is Asperger’s.

I’ve accomplished that. It was hard, and depressing, and extremely mentally taxing, and I’m still doing it, really. Going over every decision that I’ve ever made, or was made for me, and looking at it through the lens of this new knowledge.

I’ve been screwed over, more or less, dozens of times; because nobody knew that I couldn’t help the way I was. Over and over and over, relatives, family members, and “friends” just assumed I was a lazy, careless asshole; never seeing how hard I was working just to leave the house and try. The end result being that I’m now also diagnosed with PTSD, which manifests as antisocial traits.

In short, I can define myself as an exceptionally grumpy, antisocial, misanthropic, aspie. Aspies come in every flavor, just like everyone else. My “flavor” is the charred, black, heart of Satan.

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In terms of real life changes, I’ve made a lot:

I have my own rooms now, separate from the husband. His messiness and his snoring drove me to meltdowns. Now that I know they’re meltdowns, I’ve just permanently moved my bed to another room. Screw that. (Obviously, that doesn’t mean that we never do anything. I just don’t sleep with him anymore, or take responsibility for his garbage, ashtrays, and disheveled stuff.)

I have my own “art” room, with my coffee maker and a toaster, and a lot of pretty things, and my art supplies and projects, obviously. And that’s where I spend the vast majority of my time. I have eight cats, three of which presently have free run of the main part of the house, and cleaning up after them is stressful. So I only go out there for a couple hours a day to do that. (We’re supposed to get new furniture some time this year. After that they’ll be sequestered in the husband’s room most of the time.)

I’m on propranolol for the shakes that I thought were because of a blood sugar issue. - After blood tests and a visit with a neurologist, no, it’s part of this perpetually on-edge mental state that I’ve developed from ignoring it every time I was overwhelmed, and trying to keep a job and survive on my own for forty three f!@#ing years. It’s an autism thing. For which I have an MRI scheduled Tuesday.

I carry ear plugs and a headset everywhere, and I use them. Before I just forced myself to endure overwhelming stimuli, because I thought I was just a p!ssy. I would shake, and literally bite my lip, and think that my blood sugar was low, because it didn’t make any sense to me that I could be shaking from being irritated by people. - Well, it makes sense if you’re genuinely less able to tolerate certain kinds of noise. (And I did that for at least two f!cking decades, not knowing what it was!!!)

I take no sh!t from the husband. I gave him a new rule. “You are not allowed to get mad at me for things that I cannot help”. And I stuck to it. There were arguments, but he’s been pretty good for the last six months or so. Presumably because he knows that I would actually leave him, if he proved himself incapable of living up to that agreement. (I am not like other women. A view a relationship as a contract. If you can’t uphold it, after a few chances, I’m outta here.)

The way I talk to my mother has changed. That woman owes me, not the other way around.

I’ve embraced my weirdness. I sit on the floor more than I do in chairs, because it’s more comfortable. I hung string lights all around my rooms. I started collecting furbies. I let myself rock, if I feel like it. I stay up all night working on the art, or typing at my Internet friend. I quit telling myself that I need to be better, or do more, or prove something to someone. I’ve proved enough.

And I filed for SSI. I’m presently on my second appeal, waiting to see the administrative law judge. - My half brother, the delusional bipolar, took years to get his SSI; and my cousin, with ankylosing spondylitis, took years to get hers. So I have faith I’ll get there too, eventually.

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And slowly, the way I view the term “autistic” has changed. I’ve “chatted” with several high functioning autistic people, and exchanged comments with a lot of aspies. (The one having some intellectual and/or speech impairment, the other not.)

I think I can call myself a “militant autistic”.

Once upon a time I considered myself pagan. I rarely used the word “witch” because it conjures the immediate mental image of a green, old, lady on a broom; kidnapping children to eat. When I was in college I gave a few talks on how movies, books, and t.v. shows had created a negative stereotype of witches that was nothing at all like reality.

And when I met the husband, a mutual friend said he was “a bit militant”. As in, he used the word “witch”, and actively tried to dispel those stereotypes. People’s definitions of a word don’t change without education.

So if I don’t want people to think of Rain Man when they hear the word “autistic”, then I’m going to have to try to show them that the reality doesn’t fit with the fiction.

I may be rude, inconsiderate, unfeeling, strange, weird, oblivious, sometimes flaky, and even borderline sociopathic; but one thing I am not is stupid. Nor am I any good at counting cards, or doing molecular physics.