I was so very angry last week. Angry about having no diagnosis, having to find out for myself. Angry because I was stuck with this stupid, executive dysfunctional mind. Angry because I didn’t know who I was. Angry because I was looking at another difficult few years ‘finding myself’ when I thought I’d done that bit six years ago.
I couldn’t even find anyone to be angry with. I know there are people out there, autistic, diagnosed and undiagnosed, who feel they’ve been brushed off by the medical profession, and maybe that will happen to me. People who’ve butted up against mental health services, been referred, received misdiagnosis. I’ve no-one to blame though. I can’t blame parents or teachers – in the 70s and 80s who even knew girls got autism? Who knew boys did if they weren’t non verbal with a learning disability alongside. I couldn’t expect them to notice. Nor uni, who put me on a Watch List (almost as ominous as it sounds) for the self harming, but tagged it to my Dad’s death when I was 19. Not the various A&E doctors who sewed me up when I cut myself, I don’t think they had mandatory mental health nurses in A&E then, or the time or knowledge. Who else could see? I waded through my twenties pretending to be capable career woman and nursing a serious drinking problem. When that exploded in my face with a suicide attempt and then detox, who could be expected to see beyond the implications of that explosion to the nuances underneath? Not my wonderful CBT Lady who helped enormously, but whose help stopped short of just quite getting there. Why would she see it? (I’ve bought her books, the poor sod, she might pick someone out in future).
It was odd being angry, but with no-one to target. That’s faded now. The anger. I think I find it difficult to sustain without a target.
It’s just a case now of continuing on.