I thought getting my diagnosis would be the end of the story. It felt overdue and strangely comforting. Autism explained parts of my life and early childhood and filled in the gaps left by the personality disorder diagnoses that never quite fit. When the assessment arrived, I felt relief. Not floods of tears, because that isn’t me, but the quiet version of emotion that makes me withdraw and process.
Fourteen years is a strange amount of time. It's long enough for life to move on, for children to grow, for whole chapters to begin and end. It’s also short enough that some memories still feel close. Seeing James, a tall, opinionated, and active fifteen year old reminds me every day that this feeling is a lie. Losing Mum sits in both spaces. It feels recent and distant at the same time, but life today often becomes an unwanted reality check.
