Wednesday, July 6, 2016

A Mea Culpa, Graham Crackers, and Vera

Trigger/Content Warning (TW/CW): this blog post contains mentions of abuse, neglect, masturbation, dying, suicide, and homicide.  Reader discretion is advised.

I apologize for yesterday's disaster.  That was me, at 100%, flat-out angry and frustrated.

I was about to say, Vera; what the fuck?  Are you going to go to the spa resort?

Believe it or not, Dear Reader, I went to one of more luxurious spa resort places, if you will.  Hell, the emergency room psychiatrist wanted to admit me today.  Except their spa resort has about 20 reservations ahead of me, and (I shid you not) the psychiatrist said they felt comfortable with me going back home and just keep working on follow ups with specific organizations to find services best tailored to my needs.  The emergency room attending physician damn well near echoed the psychiatrist's sentiments, and even went with my idea: customizing my very own game plan of overall treatment.

They literally sent you home.

They literally sent me home.

WHAT THE HOLY FUCK?

If I am not dying, trying to kill myself, or trying to kill someone else, then the forecast for being admitted is about 100% chance of nope with a high of hell no and a low of get the fuck out of here.

DAMN, SON.

Yeah, tell me about it.

So, um, what's your game plan, Mixter Know-It-All?

Well, this is what I have been thinking.

Holy shit, they allow you to think?

Shut up and read, potlicker.

*snickers*

Before I get all hyped up about making plans to go see doctors and such, I first have to find out what my health insurance (a Medicare Part C, or Medicare Advantage) policy will give me to play with.  When I get all those pieces parts, then I can start assembling my version of an intangible empire; a team of people working with me to make sure I get the best treatment possible.

The missing element in all of this is blatant to me, but oblivious to everyone else around me; my autism.  Seriously.  How does a doctor execute a regimen for their patient if the doctor does not understand the patient's (dis)ablities?  That's what I am dealing with.  Everyone has been trying to treat the symptoms (DBT exercises, ESAs, etc.), but the core issue has not been recognized.

Until now.

The core issue is that because I lived a life of make-believe (pretending to be a "normal" or neurotypical person) as a way of survival; it's all I have ever known.  That's the borderline trait that is blaring.  However, the borderline trait, the PTSD triggers and flashbacks, and the mood shifts can not be controlled when 1) I am constantly living in a life of constant danger, even though I was taught specific techniques of how to overcome those obstacles because 2) the specific techniques taught to me were designed to help only trauma survivors with a neurotypical brain wiring infrastructure, and not for an autistic brain wiring infrastructure.

In layman's terms: the mental health team and I have been going around in circles going over each implementation when something goes wrong, and neither of us could figure out why a "proven" treatment "isn't working."

That make-believe life did more harm than good; it gave people the impression that I am "super high-functioning," doing things that "no other autistic person has ever done."  Thus, when not presenting the signs and symptoms of classic autism (autistic disorder, not Asperger's syndrome), I was not given proper treatment for the trauma I was experiencing for so many years.

The addiction portions of it (fast food, spending money with reckless abandon, and impulsive [or compulsive, or both?] fapping [if that counts]) are the tertiary layer in this case.  The addictions stem from the secondary layer, the mental illnesses (C-PTSD, depression, anxiety, adjustment disorder, etc.).  Want to take a guess at what the primary layer is?

It's autism.

Parent is told their child has autism. Parent goes into full blown denial and becomes a recluse. Parent tells child that "at one time" the child "had autism, but not anymore." Parent continues to abuse and neglect autistic child.  Child reaches out for services, but child doesn't know what they are experiencing or how to explain what help they need.  Wash, rinse, repeat from the age of 10 until age 33.  From age 33 until now, child reaches out for services, but no longer has to deal with going back home to a violent environment. Child can now explain what they are experiencing, but child still doesn't know how to explain what help they need.  Or worse, child tries to explain what they need, and is met with laughter, embarrassment, and dismissal.

IF THAT IS NOT AN EXAMPLE OF AUTISM, THEN SLAP ME SENSELESS AND CALL ME LATER.

When I got my second autism assessment and diagnosis back in December 2014 and January 2015, I felt something; as if it was supposedly a happy feeling.  Being in a classroom or in a speech therapy room, working one-on-one with a specialist, being able to put together puzzles, draw endless amounts of Christmas trees, maybe snack on a couple of small pieces of salted sculpting clay, taking no shit and giving no fucks with the greatest of ease.

This giddiness also came in play today while commiserating at the emergency room.  A doctor had to pull away a caregiver "for 90 seconds."  I asked for a can of diet ginger ale in exchange.  Well, let's just say the doctor went wayyyyyy over 90 seconds, and I called him out on it, but in a playful manner.  I told him that he owed me a cookie for taking so long.  The look on his face was priceless, as I began to chuckle.  He let out a goofy "DAMNIT" with a slight uptick on the left corner of his lips.  After a couple of minutes, he asked the nurses to "also provide this patient here some graham crackers."  I ended up having a giggle fit.  See, shit like that is fucking awesome.  And they also taste real good with either chocolate pudding or applesauce.

I was in my own world, where I was able to explore and discover, to communicate that didn't hurt my head or my body.  I felt free as fuck.

I don't know when exactly it was taken away from me, but when it was, it had to have been excruciatingly painful.

But who started the abuse?  Was it my mother?  My father?  My sister?  Or, dare I say, my grandmother?  I will never know.

I know I am on to something, damnit.  I didn't come this far to get fucked over.

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