Growing up in the 1980’s and 1990’s, knowledge of neurodivergencies was next to nothing. Anything we knew about ADHD or autism was the most basic, stereotyped and misinformed qualities. It wasn’t until my 30’s when I felt I had a better understanding of it, which is sad to say considering I went through two degrees of high education in learning to be a teacher. But even still, all I learned was mostly the most obvious signs that someone might have ADHD or autism. And certainly these descriptions and qualities never felt representative of my brand of unusual.
So imagine my surprise when I started taking diagnostic tests and realizing how much I related to the questions asked. It started with my firstborn asking these questions aloud to me kind of as a joke, and I was blown away. I remember I kept saying to them, “But that’s normal, isn’t it??” I couldn’t believe that I had made it to age 40 without knowing this about myself. I took all the diagnostic tests I could find, assuming eventually I’d find the error. I even took some tests more than once months apart to make sure I wasn’t just having an off day.
Every single test came back with the result of: “highly likely autistic” Every. Single. One.
To be officially diagnosed as an adult is very difficult. Not only because you need to seek out a professional trained in identifying and evaluating adults since most are trained (and tests are created) for children, but not all health insurances will cover the testing, which means potentially thousands of dollars out of pocket. I’m perfectly fine never having a psychiatrist hand me my “autism diploma”. I’ve made it this far with this brain; I think I’ll be good to go from here with my greater awareness.
This greater awareness, while being overwhelming at first, has allowed me to see myself for the first time in four decades as normal. Not normal in the sense that I’m like everyone else, but normal in that all of these things I thought were uniquely wrong or weird about me aren’t unique or wrong or weird after all! It’s given me the opening to explore some feelings I’ve held onto for a very long time and to see myself with deeper compassion.
For my entire life, I have struggled with human relationships. Sure, I’ve had friends–some I’ve had for decades–but it was never easy for me to make them or keep them. I always felt like I was playing Simon Says and sometimes getting it right, but oftentimes not. Always looking around at what others were doing, needing to learn and adapt, but never feeling completely at home in myself around other people. Knowing I was different, but couldn’t figure out why or how to fix it.
Two very obvious (at least now) examples stick out to me. I have always felt things deeply, and that includes my friendships, even if it’s not always obvious to others. And there were times that the people I considered my best friends would get new friends that I didn’t know and didn’t hang out with. Most other people wouldn’t bat an eye at that. But my mind immediately started thinking I was being replaced. Clearly I wasn’t good enough. I did something and now they’ve decided someone else is better. Because in the back of my mind, I always knew that I was faking it to some extent. That I was playing a role, and if they found another friend, it was because I hadn’t played it well enough. Of course those friendships didn’t end just because they gained another friend. And I too, obviously, had more than the one friend myself, so why I felt so scared of being abandoned is still beyond me.
Of course I have had friendships that ended in adulthood, many of which ended because of change in life circumstances–college ended, switched jobs, etc. And even still some of those friendship ends haunt me in a way. I still wonder what went wrong. The logical part of me says nothing other than those obvious changes in jobs, life events, etc.; but, the part of me that will always struggle socially worries about what I did wrong and why I wasn’t good enough to keep around.
With these big social feelings came my selective mutism. Mind you, I had no idea that’s what it was in my childhood when it was most obvious, but I know now. In distress–most often when I was out of routine and sleeping at a friend’s house–I would go mute and nothing and no one could get me to talk. I couldn’t explain what I was feeling inside. Shit, I didn’t understand it myself. I had chosen to sleepover my friend’s house. So why was I all of a sudden panicking? As much as I wanted to explain, I just couldn’t. And the more this happened, the worse I felt about it to the point where I just learned to be silent about just about anything that upset me. I could always sense that my feelings were found unusual, and I wanted to be anything but unusual. And the thought of trying to explain this was too much.
Even now, when I’m overwhelmingly upset about something, I shut down. And when I wish I could tell someone some hard truths about why I’m upset, I don’t because if I come across as blowing things out of proportion, I’ll feel even worse. So I just assume I misread our relationship, which does make me feel shitty, but at least I can make this assumption without the other person reiterating that and making me feel like a spectacle. There are several people whom I thought I was friends with (at least casually) from my previous yoga studio who I barely spoke to after I left. And honestly, it’s incredibly embarrassing to realize how wrong I was about my importance to them.
And it’s this that has me reconsidering how much energy and effort I’ve put in to make others happy. How many times I’ve done things not for my greatest good, but because I felt they were expected of me and I didn’t want to let others down. Opening my studio was a very eye-opening experience because many of the people who said they’d come support me never did. I genuinely believed I was making something for them. A place where they could continue to feel supported by classes they loved outside of an environment that was false. Of course I too wanted to be in an environment that was positive and authentic, but I could have just walked away from that studio and took some space from the changes that were happening. But I created a space for these people who I believed needed it. And come to find out, they didn’t. They didn’t need me after all.
Is that heartbreaking? Yes, in a lot of ways it is. Did I ever approach them about it? No, because even I know that’s not something that is socially acceptable. Like, what would I do, ask, “Hey, why didn’t you ever come to my studio? I thought we were friends”? Ugh, no thank you. My skin crawls just thinking of how awkward that would be.
No, instead, I’ve learned a lot about myself. I’ve transformed that heartache into a stronger sense of boundaries and communication. I’m working on prioritizing my true desires and needs above others’. There are people I know without a doubt will always be there for me, supporting me, loving me, cheering me on. I know who those people are. I keep them close. And now that I have learned that not all friendships are as they appear to be or how I interpret them to be, it has given me the freedom to focus more on what I truly want. How I need to live my life. What’s best for my well-being. I don’t need to be all things to all people. I can be an acquired taste and be ok with that. I don’t need to be the perpetual fixer or giver.
It’s a sense of freedom that is equal parts exciting and scary. I have to learn how to be more me. I have to learn to distinguish my thoughts as my own versus what I think others want. And I have to really dedicate myself to expending energy only where it’s best received. But with that comes the promise of a life that feels more real. The possibility of feeling truly appreciated and supported. And the prospect of choosing myself first. If my choices make situations that help others, then great. But no longer will I make myself be what others need if it’s not what I need first. And I’m ready for this.