” And all of a sudden…”

I was diagnosed with Asperger’s. That’s right, with all the other stuff, I’m on the Autistic Spectrum (ooo shiny neon).

The people at the Maudsley are smart. They give you a pre-printed letter of diagnosis with your particular type of Autism ringed and ticked, and notes about further tests written on the bottom. This is to by-pass some of the shit bureaucracy that happens in the NHS. It allows the person newly diagnosed to have proof (which helps claim benefits, convince parents and partners etc), and confirms everything for them. Many people who get the news are confused, or just uncomprehending, so the letter covers everything and has details of relevant charities etc. on the bottom.

So, apart from sending you away with a diagnostic letter, the Maudsley people are doubly clever: once they’ve decided you’re of interest, they sign you up for all sorts of tests. Hell, they even took blood. Now, the tests are optional – you are not made to have them. I have odd genetics and they want my blood and DNA – they can have it. As a female over 30 getting diagnosed, I’m quite rare – women are less diagnosed than men, and usually when young. Or that is the current case, but it’s looking like that is changing rapidly. In addition to a genetic abnormality (EDS) I also have other weird shit (random extra hole in the head that wasn’t there 10 years ago, anyone?). I’ve taken part in consultations about treatments for Scoliosis and Chronic Pain before, and am fine with helping research.

I went to this second appointment scared that I was wasting their time – that my Mum’s wish and urging for me to get checked out, and my following it through, would be bit wacky. That I’d be taking the place of someone who really needs the attention, and, if younger, could really benefit from their help – who are struggling physically and mentally, struggling to learn and survive. But I’m glad I went. Some of the questions I was asked really got me thinking properly about my situation.

So, that was Thursday.



Duck Date

So called because I really, really like the word ‘duck’.

Ah, fair readers, an update.

I am still not enjoying calligraphy: it exhausts me. But term is soon ending. My teacher is excellent, my class mates are jolly, it’s just me, being shit.

We have designed and ordered the wardrobes for the small bedroom. We have quotes for the floor of said room. Dad has to arrange to get it plastered before anything else can happen. He has not done this, but has nagged me constantly about all the things I have to do.

We have had a heatwave here in the UK. After 5 days of sweating like a biatch, and eventually stinking like a dunghill, the heat has lessened and I am left very, very sore. My joints hurt and I am a column of stiffness from the top of my head down. I am seizure-y. I am very, very stressed.

My Dad is nagging me about preparations for our holiday. Every day he mentions something I’m meant to be doing. He has driven me to hide in my bed. He never, ever remembers/ learns that stressing me out, nagging at me, makes me ill. It makes me spiral rapidly into a depressive hole. During the heat I was unable to do anything – my body just doesn’t function at high temps – and it is not my fault. But rather than acknowledge this, the man who spent those hot days sitting in a darkened room in his pants with a fan blowing cold air onto him, just treats my actions as if I choose not to do things. Yeah, I choose not to go out and see my friend’s art show, I choose to have joints that don’t work… fucking asshole.

I planted seeds about a month ago in our raised bed and they are doing very well. I fear I will miss their flowering by being absent. I will record their bounty for you all, because heck, I grew something. All the bought flowers and plants have perished – I should be miffed but I don’t really care. Shit happens, and if shit ain’t happening, you’re dead.

Time to listen to ‘I Claudius’ on BBC Radio. And practice Italic letters. Urgh.