On Being ‘An Aspie’…
On September 19th, 2013 I walked into a neuropsychologist’s office a folder full of data and one main question: “What is wrong with me?”. An hour later, I walked out with an answer: Asperger’s Syndrome.
The doctor reviewed the adult & childhood histories I’d provided, with many notes and explanations neatly denoted in the margins, and asked me questions about what I had written. She asked me if I’d gone to any counselors, and I told her about the psychologist I’d seen but who told me I already knew everything she did, then about the psychiatrist that I only claim as my ‘primary provider’ because I have to check in with him every so often to maintain my anti-depressant prescription, even though he is not helpful to me in any real way. She asked me for detailed information about some of the issues I’d listed as concerning, and she asked me to tell her what I think my problem is. I stated, “I scare people. I make them afraid, and they get angry at me when they are afraid. I guess the one thing I can say about myself, that has been constant in my life, is that people are afraid of me.”
She asked me why people become afraid and I told her the truth, “I tell people things they don’t want to hear. Nobody wants to hear anything that’s not – isn’t – superficial. They don’t want depth. That depth frightens them. I try to help people by showing them there is another way to view the situation, a different way to cope… but they become afraid because the ideas I present would require them to leave the comfort of their misery. They are afraid because I see their fears and vulnerabilities and insecurities and point them out. I don’t do it purposefully, I’m just trying to let them know that there’s another way they can live – I try to help, but they are afraid because I know them at such an intimate level even though they haven’t told me the truth.”
She asked me when I developed my closed off, aloof, demeanor and I told her, “When I was about two, when I realized that the ‘evil ones’ and ‘witches’ that were being talked about in church – they were describing me.” She asked me how I knew they were describing me. I misunderstood and said, “Well, I have had a very good grasp of the English language since I was very small.” So she clarified, “No, what was it they said that caused you to think you were bad?” I told her, “They were talking about knowing things ‘only God should know’ – knowing what is in the hearts of others. (ex: They spoke of witches as people who know things without instruction because that information was ‘whispered by demons’. They were talking about people who knew of spirits and of the secrets of the earth.) They were talking about people who could see things that nobody else could. They were talking about me. So, I started pretending to be ‘normal’ because I did not want them to know about it.”
She asked me why I didn’t want people to know about my true nature and I said, “My family isn’t accepting of other people outside of their range of belief. I grew up in a family of very religious people, the religion was so strict – you had to follow all the rules. Their religion…” And then I started weeping. Yes, the same me who rarely ever cries, weeping in the office of a stranger. I couldn’t talk while I was crying, and she went and got me some tissues and waited until I was able to gain control.
She went on as if I hadn’t been crying and stated, “So that’s what you meant about compromising yourself…” I answered, “Yes, people always tell me there’s something wrong with me, that I’m weird or annoying or stupid. People call me names all the time (disgusting, a piece of crap, idiot, asshole, I think I’m better than them, etc.), but in my mind I’m just trying to be helpful or trying to talk to them normally.” She asked me what I thought of myself and I said, “I think I’m a piece of crap because I do things that hurt other people, and I don’t even realize they hurt other people because I’m trying to help them by doing what I think they want me to do. So, there’s no point in saying what I really think or feel. So, I just pretend.” She nodded and said, “You get punished for being yourself.”
She asked me about abuses I’d endured and I told her the truth: all types. She asked about suicidal thoughts and I said that I am not ‘suicidal’, per se, but I think about dying a lot. I told her, laughing, “My thoughts are more along the lines of death by proxy, like, what can I do that would get me killed? It’s worse in late April / early May and late August / early September, I don’t know maybe I have Seasonal Affective Disorder or something. For example, maybe two weeks ago [early Sept], I was thinking about walking down the middle of the street with my eyes closed just to see what would happen.” She just looked at me, then wrote something in my file.
She asked me why I thought I had autism, and if I had any more information to share, so I showed her the information I’d brought in – various assessment tests and charts that I’d found while researching Asperger’s in females. I told her about my experiences as a mental health nurse – how I always identified with the autistic people and knew what they wanted or needed even when they were non-verbal and how I could get some of them to talk to me. I told her about a researcher I’d been following who specializes in autistic females (Tania Marshall) and how the information on Tania’s blog was astounding to me because it was so accurate and real. I then told her that I was very certain that my mother is autistic and handed her a copy of an email my mother had sent to me to give me details about my childhood and outlined issues she [my mother] had as a child. After reading through that document, the doctor took some more notes and asked if she could keep it. I agreed that she could.
Time was almost up, so she organized her papers and I put my information away, and she said, “What do you want out of the testing and diagnosis?” And I said, “I want to know if I have autism.” So she said, “I can tell you right now, just from your history and experiences that you have autism, but it’s not High Functioning Autism because you do have the language skills. I don’t need to do any more diagnostics on you. You’d identify more with Asperger’s, your experiences are very common types of experiences for those with autism. I can tell you that you’re not weird, you just think you’re weird because of how other people react to you. The one thing common to all autistic people I’ve met is that they think they’re weird. They’re not weird. You’re just different.”
I’m just different.
I’ve been struggling this past week to come to terms with that. I’ve told people about this diagnosis, and some of them are supportive, telling me to be myself and that I’ll find my way eventually. Others, specifically family members, have said things like, “IDGAF if you’re autistic… your comments aren’t helpful.” or (sneeringly, after a series of corrected misunderstandings), “You’re autistic; you don’t understand the full impact of what you say. Or at least that’s what you make your illness out to be.”
I recognize that things will never change for me with those people who already have a prejudice against me. I have always known this, which is why I distance myself or completely cut off people who have the tendency to degrade me.
It still hurts, though.
It hurts A LOT.
I’m trying my best to muddle through, to make it all make sense, but it’s very difficult. I feel lost and confused and so very sad. I don’t know how to make it “okay” that I’ve lived this long without any help, and I feel awful that I’ve made such an unintentional mess of things.
I’m struggling to understand that it’s not my fault, even though this is what everyone has always told me – arguments are my fault, rifts between people are my fault, their anger is my fault. I don’t know how to reconcile the fact that I know my own heart – that I feel loving and caring for everyone – with the fact that my actions tend to have the exact opposite affect: other people end up angry and feeling hate toward me.
I don’t know that things will ever make sense to me. I still feel like a piece of crap. I still feel like a loser. I still feel like an idiot. I still feel like everybody would be better off if I were dead.
But, there’s one tiny little shred of hope there: I feel a little less Alone. I know now that I’m not the only one who has lived this kind of life. I know there are other people I can find who can help me to understand the world and to understand myself outside of the definitions of “Jane” that other people have always given me. I know there is a way to get out of this self-hate and to find my true self.
Hello, I am Jane. I am an Aspie.
I love you. I want the best for you in your life, and even though I may not always say things in the right way, I will do what I can to help you have a happy life. Please have patience with me. Please accept it when I misunderstand you and recognize that I’m answering truthfully, not rudely. Please accept it that it takes me awhile to form the words I want to say in a way that won’t anger you. Please accept it when I come back to you hours or days or months or years later and tell you what I was really trying to say. Please accept my apologies and understand that I didn’t meant to hurt you. Please accept me.
Please, accept me.