Mental health

This isn’t an autism memoir

~ gypsy116toast2001 ~ Leave a comment

My sleep has been restless. I fall asleep, mind clear, but clearly my subconscious is obsessed with my writing a memoir. It seems that until I know the details of what I’m writing, the theme, the structure, my mind will not stop trying to figure that out.

Originally, I though I wanted to write an autism memoir. I’m not so sure that I do. Every memoir that I’ve read on autism is information heavy. You know, diagnostic criteria, facts and statistics and what not. I don’t think that’s the book I’m writing.

I’ve always imagined my book to be more, hmm, emotional. I’ve lived many lives. Most spent grappling with my own internal experience. I feel like that’s my book.

I’m not sure exactly and that’s the problem, it seems. Any memoir that I write will be an autism memoir. There are no stories that belong to me that are without autism. There is no me without autism. It’s not like some parts of myself that are singular in their existence in my life. It is my brain. Autism is the whole of me, but… I don’t think this is an “autism memoir”. If not that, if I don’t have that structure to hold onto, then what?

Confessional

~ gypsy116toast2001 ~ Leave a comment

I have a confession to make. I love my son, like more than I could ever possibly describe. He is my everything, but… Right now…I do not want to Mom, like, at all. And that my dear friends, is causing me to feel like a massive piece of shit human.

Here’s the deal, my recent life circumstances made it impossible for me to care for him in the way that I normally would. Thank everything holy, his dad was able to step in and fill the role that is and has been since my son’s birth, mine. The role of primary parent.

The part of me that feels like a massive piece of shit human wants to tell you that I got used to having less responsibility and I don’t want to give it up. The part of me that loves to beat myself up for everything, even the things out of my control, wants to hang it’s (my…our?) head and wallow in shame, calling myself selfish, self centered, lazy, uncaring, heartless, bad bad bad… Bad mom. The truth, I think, is more complicated.

I have, since my son was born, as is my tendency, given too much of myself. I, mostly on my own and chronically ill, attachment/gentle parent an autistic, PDA child. If you don’t understand what that means, I took the hard road without near enough support, in a broken body, with a child who is “extra”.

Looking back, I would not change the decisions that I made in my choices of how to parent but…I was burnt the fuck out before life just knocked me on my ass. *Sigh*. On top of that, the ass kicking that the universe just bestowed upon me, made a couple of things very clear to me. If I want to heal, I have to put myself first. I have to engage in the activities that bring me joy, peace, and help me to process. I have to invest time in my healing. I don’t get to just half ass try and fit healing tools in on the sly when I steal a moment alone. I HAVE TO. If not, my son won’t have a mom at all.

I wrote recently about how I healed the first time that I had a run in with chronic illness. On my own, in a safe space for the first time in my life, I spent my time learning what I needed (that’s key, what I actually needed) and immersing myself in those routines/activities. This is how I became regulated. This is how I healed.

I’m in a tough spot right now. My son’s father will be returning to work soon. I will have to go back to full time primary parent. And this is where I feel like a selfish asshole. I don’t want to. I feel resentful about it. I think that that actually makes sense though and it definitely doesn’t mean that I am a horrible person or mom. It means that I need to focus on healing and I an unsure of how to navigate this. How is it possible to find balance? It means that I’m scared, terrified really. What if I lose the gains that I’ve made? What if I’m unable to heal I’m this circumstance? What if, and I think this is my biggest fear, what if I don’t make it? And by that, I mean, I either become fully incapacitated or I lose my life and… The part of that that kicks me in the teeth, rips my guts out, stabs me straight through the fucking heart..my son doesn’t have his mom.

I feel like I need to be selfish temporarily,in order to ever truly be what he needs. Pray for me. Send me love. All the good things that might help me to figure out this balance. Or advice? Leave a comment below.

One Step at a Time

~ gypsy116toast2001 ~ 2 Comments

I have something interesting (read strange) going on.

When I sleep, upon waking, in that space between consciousness and unconsciousness, I find myself writing. That is, I find my mind filled with lines as if they are being set to page. The tone is clear, voice strong. Only problem is that the stories are not stories that I have lived. I’m currently reading, Mary Karr’s The Art of Memoir. I appear to writing a memoir but it is not mine.

Sometimes, if I read a lot, right before bed, I have something similar happen. I will wake up reading. I continue reading the book, in the style of the writer, (making it up as go, apparently) in my sleep. This only happens when I’ve been reading for a long time before going to sleep. My assumption is then, that reading The Art of Memoir has my brain working overtime thinking about writing my memoir.

I have thought about writing a memoir (or three… I’ve lived many lives) for years. I’ve been told by countless people that I need to write one. I’ve assumed that some day I would write one but… Every time that I’ve thought about it I’ve become so overwhelmed that I just put that thought right away…some day.

The prospect of writing a book is intimidating, for anyone, I assume, but my overwhelm has been paralyzing. Where would I start? How would I know what parts of my life to include? Would I be able to remember enough detail? Should I reread all of my journals? And on and on. There is another reason though (or reasons, kinda).

I saw this on Facebook recently…

This trips me up… The other people part. A memoir is about the writer, your stories, what you’ve learned but… We do not live in a vacuum and those stories often include others.

There are many others throughout my life that would not come off the best. There are many ways that I wouldn’t either but that’s fine. I own my past fully but… Those others. I have a tendency to avoid talking about people in my past, other then with those closest to me, because it’s complicated. Things are never black and white and I don’t want anyone to come off as a villain. There are no villains in this story, only wounded people. I feel the need to protect those people, though they did not feel that same need towards me. *sigh*

There’s also the issue of my mother. I’ve always felt terrified at the prospect of my mom reading any book that I might write. She is one of those that I feel the need to protect and, well, even though I live with her, she really knows nothing about my life. I think I’d prefer to keep it that way. I don’t want to hurt her and I’m not a fan of drama. My guess is that she wouldn’t even read it and if she did happen to, she would just sweep the whole thing under the rug. Never happened. That is her go to.

When I was in my early twenties, I had her come to a therapy session with me. I had gotten a tattoo and had been hiding it from her….

The session did not go well. There was no drama, but there was no honesty on her part either(other than her telling me, directly after said appointment, that my therapist was not to be trusted because… She was gay… You have got to be kidding me). The anger I felt over the dishonesty prompted a conversation (more just me crying and rambling and admitting all of what I thought would have been my failings in her eyes). You see, up until that point, I believed that my mom didn’t love me, or that any love that she had for me was dependant upon me living up to the image that she held of me. The actual me could not be further from her held image. What I learned was that my mom loves me to the best of her ability. That ability does not include changing that image. She can hear it and continue to love me but she can’t hold it. Denial is her survival. It’s the only thing she knows and she is not self aware enough to know more.

I am though. I am self aware enough to see that all of this, while valid, is also an excuse so that I can self sabotage. I am called to write a book. Maybe several. I have been for basically my entire life. I think I’m finally finding my footing. Maybe I can finally do what’s right for me, regardless of my desire to protect those around me. Maybe I can finally put myself first. Admittedly, even writing that, put myself first, feels icky. I’m getting there though. One foot in front of the other. One step at a time.

Autistic… Just a traumatized INFJ?…No

~ gypsy116toast2001 ~ 1 Comment

Last night, while watching videos on YouTube, I watched a video by Irene at The Thought Spot. Irene shared a comment that she received. The comment read “Hey just wondering how autism shows up for you? You seem very articulate and self aware and have deep empathy. I’m wondering if you perhaps have the INFJ HSP CPTSD COMBO that can look and feel a bit like autism and or ADHD but when we get our nervous system regulated AND our attachment traumas healed we would not qualify for an autism diagnosis ❤️”

Ok, so Irene does a full assessment of the comment, line by line, in her video. You can watch that here. Since she does such a thorough job, I’m not even going to get into the implication that if you are autistic, you can’t be articulate, self aware or have deep empathy (🙄). I only want to touch on my reaction, my internal response to hearing this comment.

I’ve written before that I no longer question whether or not I am autistic. I know that I am. I’ve done enough research, I’ve had my autismness validated by an autistic therapist and I just know, man… My life finally makes sense. I am autistic.

At first, for a long time, I experienced an almost panicky sense of imposter syndrome. Even though I knew…I needed outside validation. What if I was wrong? I can’t claim something this huge and be wrong. That is why I am on a two year waiting list to have an official assessment. Even though I no longer question it and I no longer feel like I need that outside validation, I intend on going through with the assessment so that I will (hopefully…) come up against less backlash from the outside.

Even though I KNOW, and I do know, this comment threw me for a bit of a loop. Imposter syndrome and fear of being wrong struck me hard, briefly. I am an INFJ. Once upon a time, I identified as an HSP, and Lord knows I am highly sensitive. C- PTSD…check. I also know that my nervous system is dysregulated, that is why I’m doing Primal Trust (I do think that most, if not all autistic people would benefit from nervous system regulation work. We the in and process so much information, it serves that better regulation of our nervous systems would help with “symptoms” of autism but autism is not the “symptoms” it is a difference in brain structure). Attachment traumas….again…. check.

After breathing through a bit of panic, I started thinking about it. Irene mentions, in her video, that she was actually at her healthiest when she was diagnosed with autism. Thinking about myself…same. I am most definitely not at my physically healthiest but mental health wise, yeah, I am. I may still have work to do on my attachment wounds (and yes, definitely my nervous system) but I’ve already done a lot of work. Irene says that she believes that if she had sought an autism diagnosis when she was less mentally healthy, she would have been misdiagnosed with OCD and BPD. That is what happened to me. My official diagnosis, back in the day, back when I was very unstable, was Borderline Personality Disorder with Avoidant and Obsessive Compulsive Personality Disorder traits. Healthier does not equal no autism.

The more I thought, the more irritated I felt. My personality type and my trauma has nothing to do with autism traits that have present since my childhood. Especially, if they were present before enough trauma to cause C- PTSD, like the fact that I started speaking abnormally early (first word four months, sentences before one year). My personality type and trauma also has nothing to do with my father (my dad is an INTP) or the much of his family that, now that I know what I’m looking for, seem clearly autistic to me.

Then there is my son. My personality type and trauma does not account for his hand flapping and other very obvious physical stims that have been present his whole life. It does not account for his damn near all encompassing demand avoidance, or his use of echolalia, his food sensitivities, his tendency to hit himself when frustrated, or constant vocal stimming…

It’s funny, this comment, which was meant to be invalidating of Irene’s experience, diagnosis…life, actually ended up reinforcing what I already know that I know. Which is that I an autistic, as is my son. It also highlights just how important autism awareness is, like awareness spread by those who are actually autistic. The misinformation is…*sigh*…it just is….

I will continue to do my part and speak about my experiences. If you are able, I ask I that you do the same.

Art, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder

~ gypsy116toast2001 ~ Leave a comment

The other day, I wrote of feeling creatively stifled. I wrote about how a situation in my life feels too sensitive to speak about publicly at this point, too raw, too vulnerable (which, by the way, I’ve decided that that situation will go in my book. I’ve planned on writing a memoir for like ever but I get too overwhelmed whenever I think about it. Ideas are coalescing. It will happen.) Anyway, this got me thinking about another way that I feel stifled in the creativity department.

I used to make, what I can only call, selfie art. I would edit selfies in a way that transmuted emotion. In the same way that I use drawing to process and purge myself of emotion, I edited my photos in way that enhanced the emotional experience of said photo.

Like any public art form, I had my fans and of course, my haters. I received criticism for using selfies as an art form. Apparently they can’t be art (bitch, anything can be art. Art, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder). For posing provocatively (it’s my body, I’ll do with it as I please. Don’t like it, don’t look), and, among other things, being too thin (why people think it’s ok to comment on other bodies is beyond me).

Along with the criticisms of my weight came one comment from a woman who was in her words “fat”. Her claim was that I only shared my photos for attention. That I was only able to do so because of the shape of my body and that I would not do it if I were overweight.

Like all criticism that comes from a place of complete misunderstanding of my intentions, the comment irritated me. My photos, for me, encompassed a wide range of emotion. Some were joyous , and some sensual but the overwhelming majority were expressing the so called “negative” emotions…anger, sadness, abject despair.

Did I feel good about myself in some of my photos? Hell yes, and I don’t see anything wrong with that. I spent years hating myself, that self love was hard fought and well earned (and why is it so horrible for someone to like the way that look? Again, I don’t get it). Again, though, most were a purge of the darkness inside of me. Most were edited in a way that highlighted my flaws. They were intended to make me look “ugly”. The insinuation that I was only sharing for the sake of vanity felt so completely off the mark and I felt, like most of my life, wholly misunderstood.

Here’s the thing, she wasn’t completely wrong. I do not make selfie art anymore. The reason is because I am not currently a fan of my body. Pregnancy + mold toxicity has equalled a lot of weight gain. That said, I didn’t stop making them because I can no longer solicit a response that appeals to my vanity (there is shame around my weight but that’s a whole nother issue). I stopped making selfie art because, for me, “fat” doesn’t translate into the emotions that I need to process and express. What does? Bones. I was very thin at the time I made those photos (underweight actually. Again, illness related. I don’t choose which way it throws me.. under…over…. It’s all illness), and my body was my perfect canvas.

I miss creating selfie art. I am a huge fan of emotional photography. I often see images in life around me and wish I could capture what my eyes see, but nothing works for me in the way that my body did. It just doesn’t.

That said, I did create a few photos of my son the other day. I don’t usually share him in a public forum but I’m making an exception.

Manic Pixie Dream Life

~ gypsy116toast2001 ~ Leave a comment

I saw this meme on Facebook the other day and it got me thinking.

Looking at this through the lens of my life has brought up some things for me. Throughout my life, I have struggled with my ability to connect with others. This is a varied and complex subject, I only want to go into one facet of that currently.

I have always found it easiest to connect to those that I have been in intimate relationship with, i.e. those I’m having sex with. Other than the handful of people that I have been close to for various other reasons…No sex = no connection…

I’ve always assumed that this stemmed from issues relating to early childhood sexual abuse and, you know what? It probably does to some degree but… I’m thinking there’s more to it than that.

I’m thinking at least part of this is related to a form of safety that I felt in these types of relationships. Men were often smitten with me for the very traits that caused most others to actively dislike me…To talk behind my back (and sometimes in front of me, like I was not even there) about how weird I am, how annoying, creepy, odd..unlikeable I am, often leaving me feeling ostracized and isolated even while in the presence of others. With the men that I was “sleeping” with, I felt able to be myself. No need to mask, my strangeness was celebrated. No wonder I felt a connection, right?

There are many articles (like this one here) about the manic pixie dream girl trope and how it is harmful to autistic women and romanticizes the infantilization of autistic traits. As it’s been well written about, I don’t want to go into detail about that here but… I wonder, was this what was happening in my life? While I felt some semblance of safety in being able to express myself more authentically, was the attraction to me actually more of a reduction of my essence into a harmful stereotype? God knows those relationships did not turn out to be healthy for me. What do you think? Is this meme contributing to that stereotype?

Regardless of how I may have felt, I’m not sure I was actually seen in any of those relationships, other than for what I could do for the other, how I made them feel about themselves… I’m curious, is this a common experience for autistic women (especially undiagnosed)? Or is this just me? I’d love to hear your thoughts, your stories.

Ring Theory – comfort in, dump out

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Once upon a time, a long, long time ago… Not really but I can’t remember exactly when so… I heard of this thing called ring theory. I can’t remember how or where, I may have read about it or watched something that was talking about it. I don’t know. What I do know is that when I heard about it, I thought, yes!!!! This is exactly what I’ve been trying to explain to those around me, all summed up in a neat and tidy, easily understandable package.

I’m just gonna quote this article here, rather then try and explain it myself.

“Susan Silk, a clinical psychologist, and her friend Barry Goldman came up with the concept of Ring Theory, after Susan’s experience with breast cancer. Susan noticed that during her journey with breast cancer, people close to her (as well as, complete strangers), though often well-intentioned, would vent or in an attempt to “fix her situation” by giving their opinions to her. However, what Susan needed most when she was suffering was not their emotions about her experience, but rather their comfort. Hence, the idea of Ring Theory was born. Ring Theory is essentially the idea that a person experiencing trauma and grief needs a specific kind of support during their time of crisis….

The rules of Ring Theory are pretty simple and can be explained in four words, “Comfort In. Dump Out.” Here is how it works. Whoever is in the centermost of the rings gets to whine, complain, cry and vent as much as they want and need to. As Silk states, “That’s the one payoff for being in the center ring.”

The people in the other rings can also express their feelings and concerns. However, the one distinction is with whom they can process those emotions. That is where the concept of “dumping out”, comes into play. The people surrounding the person in the innermost circle express their negative feelings and anxieties only to people in the larger rings. It’s not that you are not allowed to grieve or feel, it is just that venting about your pain to someone who is already feeling their pain deeply is not helpful to you or them.”

You would think that this would be common sense… Or at least I would think that… But apparently it is not. Living with chronic illness, it’s been a common experience for me, to have loved ones vent their fears and the things that suck, basically, about my having this illness, on me. Like WTF? Yes, I understand how my illness affects your life and that that is hard for you but hello… Do you not get how much harder this is for me. I’m the one who has to live with this illness. It feels completely unfair and inappropriate. Like I an being asked to hold others grief while simultaneously trying to process mine. Anyway you go about it, the message is clear. I am a problem, a burden, ruining other people’s lives.

Currently, I’m going through something that I’m not yet ready to talk about publicly. I’ll be fine but I’m in a constant state of stress… confusion, fear, grief, anxiety…trauma. I have been judged, shamed, yelled and screamed at… abandoned, by those who are supposed to love me. Again, I understand the affect on your life but… It isn’t ok to expect me to be able to hold it while I’m processing my own trauma.

I’m basically a walking meltdown at the moment. My tolerance level is beyond miniscule.

*Sigh* Try and remember, if you care about someone, and want to prevent traumatizing then further… comfort in, dump out. Comfort in. Dump out.

“That” pattern

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Someone that I know died recently. I know, not really the polite way to start this but I figure I might as well cut to the chase. I don’t want to talk about this person specifically. I didn’t know them well enough. They have family, loved ones, that story is theirs to tell, should they choose. What I want to talk about is the effect that this death is having on me.

Deaths occur in the periphery of our lives all of the time. Someone we knew from school. Someone we used to work with. People we knew from various places and various times throughout our lives. Deaths we hear about in the news. Even the deaths of celebrities. These deaths impact our lives in varying ways. At least, for me, I know this to be true. Some hit much harder than others. This one has me slayed.

The first place my mind goes, anytime that I hear of a death, is the family. I imagine the anguish they must be going through. This is particularly difficult for me if there are children involved. This death is no different. As intensely as I feel all of that, it isn’t what I want to talk about. While it hasn’t been said directly, it appears that this death was a suicide. I’m triggered by this.

I’m no stranger to suicide. Having spent more then half of my life mired in suicidal ideation, and knowing others who have completed suicide… family members… Others on the periphery…

A significant number of these people had reached out to me in some way. Some to ask directly for help, others asking for support but in ways that were more subtle. This person included. I helped in what ways I could within my own limitations. I’ve experienced guilt in each of these instances. If I hadn’t let my own issues, my own fear, social anxiety, my own whatever interfere, perhaps I could have been better able to help.

Sitting here today, I realize that I am also experiencing survivors guilt. Like I said, more of my life than not, has been spent in the agony of depression, despair, hopelessness and suicidality. I have a deep and visceral understanding of what it feels like to want to die. To not be able to see your way past the pain. To want freedom but have no means of escape other than ending you own life. I know what it feels like to attempt to end your own life.

I also know what it feels like to survive. I was fortunate enough that my attempt was only that, an attempt. I am fortunate enough to have lived to see the other side. I no longer live in a state of perpetual pain, not in that way anyway. My life is far from perfect. There is a lot of shit that I deal with, especially with my physical health. That said, I have healed and thus know that healing is possible, in many ways.

I am feeling guilty for this. Why do I get to live, while these others do not? Why was I able to move past all of that? Why was I able to release myself from that hell? There’s nothing special about me. These people deserve healing, freedom, as much as I do. Why me? Why not them?

I was able to survive. Does that mean that I have some special knowledge that I could have imparted? Could I have helped? Did my own selfish focus on my problems prevent that?

I know that you cannot save another person. I do know this, but I’m feeling guilty for not trying. But what do I think I was going to do? Be such a good friend that they would no longer want to die? That’s absurd. No, more likely I would’ve given of myself to an unhealthy degree trying to ensure that they could not kill themselves. That is my pattern, isn’t it? Trying to save others, no matter the cost to myself? That is where my focus should be. Healing that is the only way that I can ever affect any real positive change. The only way that I can truly help anyone.

Progress Report

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I am aware that I dropped my mom’s being in the ICU here and then disappeared. For anyone who may have read that post and/or may be concerned, I wanted to let you know that as of yesterday, she is home. Her hospital stay was one complication followed by another and I have had and still do have my reservations about her being sent home. I’m of the opinion that she would have been better served by being admitted to a rehab facility temporarily before coming home. To say that it’s been stressful is more than an understatement. As of right now though, she does seem to be doing alright. She is weepy, in an exhausted, I’ve barely slept in two weeks but grateful kind of way, but she’s doing fairly well.

Since I’ve been up, she’s told, through tears, how grateful she is for me. She’s done the same with my partner and says when she talks to my sister, she’ll tell her the same. I bristle, unsure how to react, every time she does this. I’m not used to praise or any kind of positive acknowledgement of my existence coming from my mom. I’m used to something more akin to criticism, disapproval, judgement. I want to encourage this positive development but it’s uncomfortable and you know, I don’t trust it. We don’t have that kind of relationship. I don’t know how to respond.

I’m not doing great, in general. It’s hard to explain. COVID-19 has once again left it’s mark. I feel the same way that I did after I had it the last time, only not as intense. Last time, I couldn’t move, everyone had to help me. This time, I technically can do things for myself, so I do. I don’t think I actually should. I think my body needs far more rest then it’s getting. The people around me aren’t jumping to help me. They see me up and moving about and assume I’m fine. The problem though, really, is me. If I can technically do something, I do it. There isn’t enough energy to go around. I won’t ask for help.

One last thing. Currently, I see two therapists weekly. Therapist number one for trauma. Therapist number two for autism related concerns. I cancelled my appointments with both of them the past two weeks. I’m contemplating cancelling again. I’m also contemplating telling therapist number two that I need to take a break for awhile.

I don’t know how to explain the effect that appointments have on me. My entire body becomes both tense and activated. That alone is exhausting. On top of that, sleep becomes almost impossible after a session. My mind wants to obsessively follow every thread of conversation that was had. I can’t stop or even slow the thoughts. I’m exhausted. I don’t know that two to three appointments a week is sustainable right now. I don’t have the freedom to rest enough to make it feel doable. I’m just so tired.

Ovulation Blues

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I’m feeling sad today, or no, more accurately, I’m feeling sad right now. Today I am feeling all kinds of emotional and my mood is all over the place because I’m ovulating and apparently, at least for this month, this is what it does to me.

I don’t really get it though. I’m ovulating. My body, my hormones obviously want me to have sex (oh, yes they do) because the whole idea is that I have an egg and biologically we want it fertilized (biologically only. I in no way, shape or form want more kids. I love my son but… I’m Good), right? So…. Why make me wanna curl up in a ball and sob? Doesn’t seem helpful. Hormones, what do you do?

Apparently, my grandpa died five years ago. I know because a poem I wrote at that time came up in my Facebook memories today. No need for condolences, it wasn’t that kind of death. My grandfather was a narcissist and a womanizer and a child molester. No, that’s not what is bringing up the sadness. What it does bring up is the confusion I felt at the time of his death.

The Patriarch

Confusion bleeds
As invisible as the wounds left
By your hands upon my skin
My sadness repulsive
Tears staining my face
Despite my own disgust
Your death
Inconvenient
Causing guilt
To stain my conscience
Saturated in filth I cannot cleanse
Unlike your hands
Washed clean
All of the ghosts you’ve disavowed
Buried in shallow graves
They haunt me
This scarred lineage your true legacy
And yet I am surrounded
By your false image
And all of this grief

I think maybe, a long with pain and trauma, confusion is one of the biggest legacies left behind by abuse of any form. I’m reflecting on that today. My whole life has been shrouded in confusion. Confusion in the wake of abuse. The confusion of a child. Confusion stemming from being if a different neurotype and not knowing it. The confusion of not understanding my place in this world.

I still don’t… understand my place… But I’m working on it… And I have more pieces of the picture that is me…. And maybe that’s all that really matters. And maybe for the moment, I just need to grieve for that little girl with none of those pieces. I just need to be sad.