The Verdict

Yesterday, I returned a call I missed from Dr. Neuropsychologist. While I was driving to work, he diagnosed me with Asperger’s.

So there it is. Asperger’s. A non-surprise, but a shock all the time.

I called work to tell people there I could not come in because I was just diagnosed, and was pretty much shaking uncontrollably and hyperventilating. I mean, it is a relief, but when it’s real, it’s real. I couldn’t tell you how I felt, it seemed like I felt everything. Feelings are hard to verbalize.

Then my sister took off work to hang out with me and to figure out things, like if I lost my employment, the future, etc. This is because the whole reason I ended up with this diagnosis was because I couldn’t do my job in some basic ways: being socially aware, writing too long of notes, being unclear, etc. etc. etc. I am still bitter than I have been receiving such harsh treatment over the past 5 months, with negative feedback cloaked in “constructive feedback” every week. No mention of anything “right” that I did. No mention that I created hard drive space, created informational spreadsheets, helped with tech-related issues (“How do I get this to work?” every single day), make their printer work again by figuring out the network cable, none of that. It is no wonder I got depressed and demoralized.

I told the Disability Director that I was diagnosed, and she spammed me, really wanted to meet with me. I was scared because what else is going to happen? So my sister and I both went to meet her, and my sister is a Type A personality who is an account executive which means she interacts (er, kindly bullies in a persuasive way) with people for a living. If you want anyone in your corner, it’s my sister with her claws out and her brain-mouth firing at full speed. She is a force of nature with both words and voice. One does not piss off my sister and expect to escape unscathed.

So I got a new job. A creative, techy, learn-on-the-fly job.

After I went home, I learned that my ex-manager at my ex-job just up and fired the office manager but said that person had chosen to go somewhere else. No probationary period, no warnings. They fired her for “not doing a good job”, which of course, can be twisted up into paperwork if you’re looking hard enough for mistakes. Which is what happened to me. Then I was told that this has happened a lot in the past, where this workplace will “cleanse” the practice “of undesirables” suddenly, sneakily, underhandedly. It makes me sick that people can do this to other people.

So what seems like a “great” job ended up being a nightmare. I’m glad now I don’t have to go back, but I’m scared about my future. I’m scared to not be able to support myself. For my whole life, I felt like I was wrong for the world. Now I know why but that does not make it hurt less. But I promised myself after graduating from my second college with a second degree that all my “shenanigans” will stop and I will grow up and be an adult.

So now what? I don’t know.

It’s an ending.

It’s a beginning.

It’s Different in Girls

I just navigated to this article by Scientific American. Even though I am not diagnosed as autistic, it still strikes a chord with me, especially these paragraphs:

But inside, it was very different. Social life did not come at all naturally to her. She used her formidable intelligence to become an excellent mimic and actress, and the effort this took often exhausted her. From the time she started reading at three and throughout her childhood in gifted programs, O’Toole studied people the way others might study math. And then, she copied them—learning what most folks absorb naturally on the playground only through voracious novel reading and the aftermath of embarrassing gaffes.

I feel like this kind of thinking started when I was 13. Even as an adult, I studied other people to try to learn how they acted so I could figure out how to act.

Also, unlike in boys, the difference between typical and autistic development in girls may lie less in the nature of their interests than in its level of intensity. These girls may refuse to talk about anything else or take expected conversational turns. “The words used to describe women on the spectrum come down to the word ‘too,’” O’Toole says. “Too much, too intense, too sensitive, too this, too that.”

My parents also described me as “too sensitive” or “too naive” or “too much”.

She describes how both her sensory differences—she can be overwhelmed by crowds and is bothered by loud noise and certain textures—and her social awkwardness made her stand out. Her life was dominated by anxiety. Speaking broadly of people on the spectrum, O’Toole says, “There is really not a time when we’re not feeling some level of anxiety, generally stemming from either sensory or social issues.”

Story of my life, here.

Closer to Fine

On my way to work this morning, my favorite radio station played Indigo Girls’ “Closer to Fine”. It really resonated with me.

I’m trying to tell you something about my life
Maybe give me insight between black and white
The best thing you’ve ever done for me
Is to help me take my life less seriously, it’s only life after all
Well darkness has a hunger that’s insatiable
And lightness has a call that’s hard to hear
I wrap my fear around me like a blanket
I sailed my ship of safety till I sank it, I’m crawling on your shore.

[chorus]I went to the doctor, I went to the mountains
I looked to the children, I drank from the fountain
There’s more than one answer to these questions
pointing me in crooked line
The less I seek my source for some definitive
The closer I am to fine.

I went to see the doctor of philosophy
With a poster of Rasputin and a beard down to his knee
He never did marry or see a B-grade movie
He graded my performance, he said he could see through me
I spent four years prostrate to the higher mind, got my paper
And I was free.

chorus

I stopped by the bar at 3 a.m.
To seek solace in a bottle or possibly a friend
I woke up with a headache like my head against a board
Twice as cloudy as I’d been the night before
I went in seeking clarity.

chorus

We go to the bible, we go through the workout
We read up on revival and we stand up for the lookout
There’s more than one answer to these questions
pointing me in a crooked line
The less I seek my source for some definitive
The closer I am to fine

I always did well on tests

I’ve had blogs in some format since 1997. I taught myself HTML (not that big a feat) and hand-coded my first one in 1997. Then I will stop interneting after awhile, because either my life gets crazy, novelty wears off, or I suddenly have ants in my pants and move to where I’m really busy (or just chaotic). Or, I just lose interest in writing, and go onto the next thing. I call my method of hobby-jumping “cycles”. My mom does it, so it’s normal, right? Everyone obsesses over one thing for months at a time then quits cold turkey and finds something else sparkly to play with for a few months, right? Eventually I loop back. Eventually.

I’m going to try to be anonymous, unless you’re family and specifically invited here to read my esoteric ramblings and run-ons. Hi, family.