And so I struggled along. Getting bashed about every day by obstacles no one else could see and that I didn’t understand. Dusting myself off and trying hard all over again the next day.
Except for when I couldn’t. Because I was exhausted.
Earlier this year, I had one of these episodes of exhaustion. My anxiety got so bad that I couldn’t manage all my responsibilities, and I was forced to hold my hands up and ask for help.
After a lot of searching and asking and requesting and pleading and complaining, eventually, finally, it led to my diagnosis. It turns out I am Autistic.
So what were the specific things that I struggled with, that led me here? And how do I plan to deal with them?
Social phobia
When I was a little kid, I was afraid whenever the phone rang. My stomach would churn, and I would feel physically sick.
What if it’s my best friend? I thought.
“Chel, it’s Lexi!” Mum would shout. And I’d slink to the phone, with a feeling in my stomach.
I was afraid because Lexi always made me call back, so my mum paid the call instead of hers. I knew this was unfair, but I didn’t know how to say so. Not with Lexi telling me not to be a wimp. And so, heart racing, I would press the button and dial her number surreptitiously, praying that my mum wouldn’t notice.
That’s my earliest memory of social anxiety, and it only got worse. By thirteen, I’d found alcohol to help me manage it, but I couldn’t be drunk the whole time. Mostly I had to go to school sober, and that was torture.
How could anyone concentrate on learning when there were people everywhere? I strode through corridors with my shoulders back, not making eye contact. Hiding in the middle of the pretty, popular girls, I prayed nobody would talk to me.
In French, I was so afraid of being picked on in class, that I stopped attending. Mme Bird refused to recognize my lack of eye contact or the way my face turned red. She kept picking on me, as though I were as capable as anyone else. Deep down, I knew I wasn’t, and it made me feel ashamed.
Eventually, I started to walk home before the lesson. The first time I realized there was nobody there to stop me, I felt such relief.
Alcohol abuse
University promised freedom, but was, in many ways, worse. Now I was surrounded by people I longed to talk to, but I could only interact with them if I was drunk. Then I was confident and funny and irreverent. Rebellious and humorous and fun. But university took place in the day, and so I had to do it sober. Many days I missed because I was hungover. Or because I didn’t have the strength to overcome my anxiety.
Around nineteen, I went to see the doctor.
“I think I have social phobia,” I told him, but he didn’t take me seriously.
“You just need to have more belief in yourself,” he said. “Healthy, confident women like you need a little more confidence!”
He said I could try anti-depressants, but it was uncertain if they would work, and so I wasn’t inspired to bother. Besides he was a doctor. Maybe I was overreacting as he thought. His pep talk gave me the self-belief I needed for about twenty minutes. Until the next time I had to be around people, to be precise. And then, yet again, I understood there was something wrong with me.
And so I continued with my avoidance strategies. I couldn’t go anywhere busy or with bright lights, which meant most of the indoor, daytime world was off-limits. By graduation I had accepted the sad fact that I’d never have an interesting job or find someone who loved me because I was some kind of alien freak. To take the edge off my failure, I drank.
Beer removed my troubles, and naturally, I worshipped it. But it only worked for so long. Then it made my problems worse. By 33, my issues had gotten so much more pronounced that I was forced to get sober. That helped a lot, and I was now at least heading in a good direction.
But still, something wasn’t right. I experimented with anxiety medication and anti-depressants and beta-blockers. I meditated and repeated affirmations and visited the doctor for the umpteenth time. I googled my symptoms and filled out an ADHD assessment.
And then, finally, last month, I got an answer.
Executive functioning
Wanting to help me, a friend introduced me to one of her friends: a Special Educational Needs teacher. She allowed me to send her a series of (pretty weird, on reflection) emails, explaining my specific issues.
Here they are, in case it helps:
