Having a disability like mine means I understand my body well. My brain, however, is a different story.
A map was drawn in 2012. In 2011 everything collapsed. My disability diagnosis changed. My marriage and my work ended. My community disappeared. Debt followed. Drinking increased, a lot.
Then 2012 arrived.
Access changed and I barely saw the boys. Then my mum died. I pushed through her death and funeral, and my thirtieth birthday. My mind then cracked. I had a breakdown, was sectioned and was diagnosed with a Dependent Personality Disorder with Emotional Unstable Personality Disorder traits. It made sense at the time.
Life changed after that. I got sober, saw the boys regularly, had psychotherapy, went to AA, attended Personality Disorder groups, and stabilised. I learnt to live with these labels. While it explained some things, the diagnosis always felt half empty.
Fatherhood and Home educating the boys allowed me to see them up close. How they acted, behaved, and lived. Later, Will's assessments opened doors I did not expect. His ASD diagnosis showed familiar and recognisable traits. His obsessions, dependencies, emotional overwhelm, sensory needs, and handling of social situations. Then James began his journey six months ago. It took longer for him due to the school issues and his ability to mask. I was rewatching my childhood. Different things from each boy, but collectively it made me question myself and remember my childhood.
Growing up, I hated wearing jeans. I lived in soft joggers. Labels were cut out of everything. I hated shoes. I removed them at every opportunity. Getting a new pair was always a nightmare. I chewed my jumper sleeves until they were threadbare. I wore the same clothes again and again. Hair washing felt like needles on my scalp. I screamed so loudly that our neighbour, an ex-policeman, even checked what was happening. Strong tastes overwhelmed me. Food mixing bothered me. I was obsessive and pedantic over personal items and routines. If something was changed, moved or missing, I knew about it. My mum even washed and dried my pound puppy (my constant plush) while I was at school so I wouldn't notice. Otherwise, I wouldn't sleep without it.
This hasn’t changed much. I still separate certain food on my plate, if sauces touch the wrong thing I freak, and I avoid certain foods. I occasionally chew my t-shirt collar. I still hate wearing shoes and prefer wearing certain textures. I notice small changes. I love routines. I still drink my milk before bed and sleep with Doggy, my pound puppy. I just cope and manage better.
There were other signs. I had delayed development and walking. I was non verbal as a young child. Professionals blamed foster care and adoption trauma and environments. They even blamed my tonsils, removing them to help. Autism wasn’t mentioned. It was the eighties and nineties, so that’s not surprising. Everything was either missed or explained away.
I also began to see the traits that had always been there. Literal thinking. Interrupting because the thought arrives quickly and I don’t recognise the appropriate speaking space. Rotating friendships, not understanding why they ended, misreading situations and cues, or feeling out of place in groups. A need for fairness that feels like a rule written into my bones. Everything has to be equal. I couldn’t let injustice go. I still can’t. I really struggle with it and at times just don’t understand why it happens. A communication style that tries to prevent misunderstanding by sending too much detail, or I go the other way and struggle to explain myself. These were lifelong patterns, not reactions to trauma.
I understand why the original diagnoses were given. DPD and EUPD can look similar to ASD when someone is overwhelmed. Emotional intensity, fear of abandonment and change, difficulty regulating, dependency, and shutdowns appear in all three. My crisis years created a picture that fit those labels. It dismissed or framed things as rigidity within DPD, EUPD or black and white thinking linked to personality disorder traits.
It explained aspects from a mental health perspective, anxiety or dependency driven actions, self-seeking participation and fulfilment, rather than a neurodivergent brain trying to create clarity in a confusing world. Not once was any of this explored as a consistent pattern that had been present since childhood.
That picture only showed the storm, but these issues weren’t created by crisis. They were already there, just unmanaged and unknown.
I have reached a point where I cannot ignore it. I have spent years helping my boys understand themselves. I have fought for assessment and learnt their patterns, needs, strengths, and challenges, and found myself in all of it.
So I have asked for a reassessment. Not to erase the past or gain a new label. I want to understand myself. I want to know the truth of my own story, see the map clearly, and stop explaining myself through a lens that never quite fit.
It feels right, even if it feels strange to do this at 43.
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