Almost three months after getting the diagnosis that, yes, I am autistic, I will confidently say that that diagnosis, at the age of 51, is both a blessing and a curse.
Redefining what I thought were anxiety attacks as autistic meltdowns would be a win, you would think. But until you can get your head around to the recognition that (1) When you thought these were anxiety attacks, you managed them (2) So simply reframing them as autistic meltdowns shouldn’t change the fact that you have managed them in the past (3) Except you are terrified that this is burnout and skill regression which would mean an end to your life as you know it.
Communities and networks
There are damned few support groups for adult autistic women.
I don’t feel like I can participate in my old communities and networks, after having been an (unknowing) fraud all my life.
I can’t bear to look at LinkedIn with its allistic cheer parties for allistic professionals.
So – Instagram, and all the autistic content creators who so bravely share their hearts, souls, minds, thoughts, autistic traits and autistic lives. I found great neighbours there, but can I share my heart, soul, mind, thoughts, traits and life there? Not yet.
Head to Health
I turned to “Head To Health”, a federal government program offering eight free psychologist appointments. This was in a time of crisis before I knew I was autistic. I know now that that crisis was a meltdown from sensory overload.
Universities
I might have a fighting chance at university now, as a mature age student. With supports and accommodations in place, and gaining a better idea of my strengths, which have always been autistic; it’s about getting to the sympathetic resonance of them as autistic strengths.
My assignments so far at university have focused on mature-age students, and grief. Maybe, as I discover more and more of my authentic self, I can focus on the female autism phenotype and adult diagnosis. Maybe I can write about grief through the lens of autism. Maybe I can write about forgiving myself for not grieving like others do, because my grief is autistic. Maybe I can write about the validation, and then fresh grief, that I always felt that my late husband loved me more than I loved him, because I was an undiagnosed autistic woman, and our mirror neurons work differently, and there’s a thing called hyperempathy.
Yet, I still curse every physiotherapist, massage therapist, chiropractor and osteopath that didn’t twig that the hyperextension of my knees was hypermobility, and a flag for autism.
So, those eccentric cams with the unshed tears, maybe they need a deep clean.
Maybe the NDIS can help, if they could see the not-done housework that has been a point of self- castigation for my whole life; it’s not laziness, it’s an executive function issue.
May this prose illustrate just how shattered yet whole I feel – the 51-year-old widow with a fresh diagnosis of autism, in the melange of grief and hope and fear and bravery.
Footnote – au is gold, in the periodic table. Gold is ductile, malleable and versatile, with a melting point of over 1000°C.
Doesn’t that sound like every “high functioning” autistic person you know?
Doesn’t that sounds like me?
The Auld Skald's Fudgel 