Anyone Order A Mental Breakdown?

I didn't, but it was delivered anyway.

Photo by Matthew Ball on Unsplash

I had what my oldest child refers to as a “menty-b”. How is he even old enough to know what one of those are? At any rate, I’m a fairly open book, and I don’t tend to censor my life here. Last year, I found out some pretty disturbing news.

For starters, while I was writing my Spooky Campfire Challenge (a prompt about a relative who dies), I got word that my uncle committed suicide. Never pleasant, especially since it was the second suicide in that particular house. Why my aunt won’t move out is beyond me.

Cue the avalanche. Just before I had gone home for the funeral, I was given an official diagnosis of autism. It explained a lot, but that’s not where I’m heading with this. I was talking to my cousins about it. See, I know better than to talk to my parents about it. But one of them, and I won’t name names (Samantha) told her mother, who told mine.

If it had stopped there, I probably would have managed to get through the rest of the year without an issue.

It did not stop there.

My mother told my father, of course, and the two of them ganged up on me. This is where the trigger for the mental breakdown comes into play. See, apparently, when I was a child, my pediatrician repeatedly told my parents that I met the criteria for autism.

I had significant issues developing non-verbal communication, like eye contact, and appropriate facial expressions. There weren’t a lot of pictures of me smiling. I didn’t play well socially; as in, I didn’t mimic the way others played enough to qualify as developmentally appropriate.

But perhaps the most notable were the stereotypical behaviors we think about with autism: The intense focus in one specific interest. The inflexible adherence to a routine. The rigidity and meltdowns when those routines are broken or changed. And issues with texture for clothes, food, and other items.

The disregard with which my parents treated those was bad enough. But to find out that they ignored those symptoms and wrote them off as my reaction to the harsh way they parented me… They ignored my symptoms because they thought they hit me too hard. That’s as nice as I can put it.

At this stage in my life, there’s nothing I can do but move forward. But learning about all of this as I near my 40’s really sent me spiraling. My therapist assures me that the response I had to this information was not abnormal, that anyone would have been shocked, hurt, and struggled to wrap their head around what they learned at baseline. Learning my parents knew and didn’t bother to treat or tell me about it, well, it basically ret-conned my entire existence.

I won’t take you through the details of the depression spiral I sank into. That’s boring for everyone but me, anyway. I will say I know I’m not alone, and I’m glad I had a few close friends to help me through all of it. Also, I can’t bring myself to apologize for taking the time I needed to sort through the emotional wasteland I tumbled into just before the major holiday season and busiest time of the school year.

Now that I’m back to a more reasonable norm, I should be posting again. In the meantime, I have missed reading everyone’s posts, and I will get back to doing that more often. I am sorry I couldn’t be there to support everyone and finish the Spooky Campfire Challenge. I owe Grace R. Colt an apology for bailing, and I will still post that story now that I’ve had some time and distance from the death of my Uncle.

Here’s to a new year with less surprises, less crises, and more joy and connection. Happy belated New Year, and happy writing. Love, light, and healing to all.

xx

Luce