#i’ve also never been Formally diagnosed with autism and i’m scared i’ll have to like defend it

[petyou]

i have to talk to a psychiatrist friday and im so nervous……..

[autisticsuperpower]

What Is Autism? Why Is It Important To Me? #4/2

What is Autism?

Well, first, Autism is a lot of things:

Not the greatest eye contact.

Not always understanding social cues.

Difficulties with learning.

Sensory overloads.

Difficulty expressing feelings and communication.

Second, Autism can sometimes be misinterpreted.

Like we don’t care about people other than ourselves.

Like we prefer to be by ourselves all the time.

Like we can’t go to college and earn degrees.

Like we can’t hold down a job and live on our own.

Like we can’t find love.

Third, Autism is a part of me. 

Almost 25 years ago, I was formally diagnosed as Autistic, and I surpassed the doctors expectations.

8 years ago, I publicly revealed my Autism to the world, and I surpassed my own obstacles.

The obstacle of being true and authentic with myself.

Besides being my birth month, April also is Autism Acceptable Month.

Every April growing up seems like a new beginning every year.

Like a metamorphosis or a reincarnation.

It is the reason why I continue to wake up every morning and live.

But getting here was never easy.

Anyone who has followed or read this blog knows that it took a village to get where I am. 

The journey was beyond agonizing, stressful, and I’m not going to lie, depressing at times.

But getting to this moment every year, I don’t regret being Autistic.

In fact, being Autistic is one of the biggest accomplishments I’ll ever have in life.

To those of you that may be struggling with being Autistic or are scared of what people may say about you being Autistic:

I’ve been in your shoes.

I’ve walked my school campuses trying to be someone that I knew I could never pull off.

I felt ashamed, I felt isolated, I felt like no one could understand me.

But I guarantee you:

Regardless of where you come from, or what you look like, inside and out, we are a community that embraces being different.

And we will be there for you every step of the way.

Happy Autism Acceptance Day. 💙

Happy Autism Acceptance Month. 🧩

[syntaxeme]

When I was very young, I had trouble getting my homework done. I should say SINCE I was very young. Not necessarily in an "I don't understand this" kind of way, but more in an inexplicable "I don't know why I just didn't do it" kind of way. That probably read as laziness.

"You're smart," I would be told. "But you have to TRY." That, often. "You have to put forth some EFFORT." As if I were just lying on the floor letting my mind go completely blank all day every day. Even reading, something I have always enjoyed, was difficult to accomplish. Was. Is.

As I got older, I continued to have issues with homework. Projects. Essays. And some teachers disliked me for it. Assumed I was being lazy or I didn't care. I cared. Some teachers liked me (usually Language Arts teachers) because the work I did turn in was good. And they would continually tell me, "I know you can do this. I know you understand it. You just have to DO it." And I would feel horrible and guilty and cry and say "I know, I know, I'm sorry, I'll try."

And then there was college. Where the teachers didn't care if I showed up for class. They didn't notice, didn't know me, and wouldn't say anything to me about it. That made it so much easier to just...not go sometimes. I memorized how many absences each class would allow before taking points off my final grade. I figured out exactly how long it took me to get to each class and just how late I could leave and still get there...mostly on time. (Unless it was one of Christine McDermott's classes, in which case I learned very quickly to always be on time.)

It was easier to produce work for classes I liked, I'll admit. Easier to attend a workshop than the History course I'd skipped earlier in the day. Easier, but never easy. It took me five and a half years to graduate with my BFA. There were classes I failed. There were classes I dropped. Some semesters I took 18 hours. Others I wound up with only 9.

In 2013, while I was living in Huntsville, an hour-ish from home, I started feeling less and less motivated. I slept through alarms. I slept through classes. I fucked up my personal life. I had a bit of an identity crisis. I kind of wanted to die sometimes. I remember thinking about how most of my time was spent feeling miserable and hating myself, with only a few brief spots of happiness--usually on the weekends when I was with Jean. I just. Hurt. And I wanted to stay on the couch, that brown couch my cat tore to shreds, and watch YouTube videos or. Just sleep. I won't go into more detail, but I felt like my life was not worth living. Much of the reason I continued to do so (something that still sticks in my mind when I start thinking) was the idea that my family and girlfriend would've been fucked up if I had died. I also thought sometimes, "my dad's money (for my tuition) would be wasted." That's part of why I couldn't give up on college.

So I didn't die. I expressed these feelings to my mom, my sister, hoping they would care and tell me how I could fix it. My sister suggested moving back home, to be around people who cared about me, to not be SO alone all the damn time. I didn't want to. I liked being closer to Jean. Able to get to her in an hour if I needed to (and I did more than once). But I couldn't standing living by myself for...the years it would take me to finish school.

I moved back to Lufkin to live with my sister. She often talked about me getting a job. So did my dad. They always have. They're very alike in many ways. And, you know, I'd look. It was hard. My sister would help me look. So did Jean (often). Eventually, I found something and took it if for no other reason than so they would stop thinking I was worthless and lazy (not that they necessarily thought that)(not that I could blame them if they had).

I did the job. There were coworkers who liked me and others who didn't. I wasn't especially good at it. I was good at organizing and alphabetizing, accurate and efficient. I've always been good at that. But other things, not so much. Interacting with customers was a challenge. I would forget steps in the checkout process. I would charge too much or the wrong way. You name it, and I probably fucked it up. I did end up leaving, but that was by choice. It wasn't a good place anyway....

I started taking medication around that time. For what I had decided/realized was depression. The first one was bad. I was constantly manic, unable to stop moving, full of energy. The total opposite of who I usually am. For the first week or so, that seemed good. I was productive. I cleaned my sister's entire kitchen. Why? Because I needed to DO something. But the longer I took it, the more my bouncy energy turned into jittery, nervous stress and discomfort. I remember writing journals that said I was "vibrating apart," dissolving, desperate to bite my tongue off because I was so AWARE of everything and it was KILLING me.

I didn't die that time either. I changed to a different medication. I'm still taking that one (along with a couple of others), and while it's far from perfect, it's so much better. At least on the depression front.

I made it out of college. Graduated. Spent six months fruitlessly searching for a job (sometimes), lying around feeling miserable, hating myself for being such a burden on my wife but somehow unable to do anything about it.

"You can do it," she would tell me. "You just have to...DO it."

"Oh right, easy," I would reply sarcastically, because I felt like she didn't...get it. She would say, "I know it's harder for you," and I would say, "No, you don't. You don't have this *kind* of difficulty."

She would say, "I feel scared and have trouble starting things too."

And I would say "IT'S NOT THE SAME."

There's a thing called executive dysfunction. The way I understand it is that one's brain has difficulty breaking down a simple act--like "make some tea"--into each of its individual components. And I don't even mean components like "boil water, add tea bags, add sugar." I mean, "move your legs to the side of the bed. Take off the covers. Sit upright. Stand. Walk into the kitchen. With your legs. Raise your hands to pick up the coffee pot. Fill it with water. Also with your hands." And so on and so forth. Because there's so much involved, it becomes a huge, jumbled ordeal in your mind, and it's so overwhelming that you can't even start. Can't execute the tasks. Executive dysfunction.

When I found out about this thing, it was mind-blowing for me. "You mean there's a name for that?? It's an actual thing??? You mean...it's possible that I'm not just a lazy and worthless piece of shit?"

But you know. I've never been formally diagnosed. With anything. As far as my medical records are concerned, I'm taking medication, but who knows if I'm actually sick...? I know. My point is that it's not something I can show people. If I tell someone, "no look, I couldn't do that thing you asked me to do because it was too daunting a task for my brain to decipher," they'll think I'm stupid or lying. Or both. I can't say, "no really, it's an autism thing," because hey, I haven't been diagnosed with that either.

This all comes back to me not doing my homework as a child. I want to believe--I DO believe--that this has been the problem all along. That my mental health has been, surprise, an actual genuine disability to me my entire life. It still is. More than people realize, because I've learned how to hide it so well that it's practically automatic. Because I'm good at expressing myself and coming off as neurotypical, so it'svery easy to overlook all my other symptoms (and there are many).

And you're welcome to scoff at that if you want. You're welcome to think I'm just making excuses. That I'm picking labels because I wanted to be "a Special Snowflake." I don't care. But for me? This is a big fucking deal. Knowing why I can never focus? Knowing why I can try SO HARD or want SO MUCH to do something and still just...fall completely flat?

There's something at least mildly comforting in knowing why. In being able to say, "I am trying, damn it. I am putting forth a fucking effort. I don't have the same starting point as you, but that doesn't mean I'm not moving forward." It's HARD. Everything, all the time. There are days or moments where it's easier. But it's never easy. I don't know why I went to the trouble of writing all this out. I needed to have it recorded. I needed to express it to someone other than myself.

Why does anyone write anything?

It's something to keep telling myself. Something to keep working on. Hope that some people will understand and try to work with me. Maybe I'm hoping for sympathy. Maybe I'm just tired of being quiet about it. I'm not stupid. I'm not lazy. I am trying. Don't assume my brain works the same way as yours. Don't assume everyone's does. Consider other possibilities. Try to be understanding.