So, unlike most of blog posts that are entirely, or mostly, about my darling little daughter, this one is all about me, me, me.
I have recently started the process of unmasking my own neuro-spicy traits. This has been, to put it mildly, traumatic. Also has unveiled a few things that I until recently didn’t realise. On the top of the list is: I am, for reasons best left to my demented mind, unable to write anything in my own home. Seriously. I have tried the living room, dining room and my own bedroom. In previous homes, I have managed by having an office or office space but in our current home, despite being the biggest we have ever had, I do not have a space I can dedicate to writing.
So, for the last two years or more, I have been writing all my posts in coffee shops and soft-play venues while my daughter was with childminders or otherwise engaged. About 6 months ago, she started to become resistant to the idea of going to her childminder, and as of three months ago, it became apparent that – regardless of whether she wanted to go or not – she simply didn’t have the spoons to. So, I lost the time to write, that’s not a problem but it meant that I never found a good substitute for that time. Until now.
I have recently changed the gym I am a member of, and my new one has a wonderful members lounge that has wifi, coffee and tables. Also: an adult-only area where talking is frowned on, music is personal only and a log-burning fire is the only thing shown on the TV. It’s the closest thing to Arthur Conan Doyle’s “Diogenes club” that I have ever found. I am in heaven. So, normal service will be resuming, hopefully as soon as the Easter break is over.
Next: As an adult, I have been debating going through the process of being formally assessed for autism. Having completed the same diagnostic tests that were performed on my daughter (scored from 0-30 with anything over 20 being ASD) and being told my numbers were between 25 and 27, and thinking that explained so much, it occurred to me that this is something I should address: there is a strong probability that masking for years contributed to, if not caused, the nervous breakdown that ended my teaching career. On sharing these concerns that I may be neurodivergent with my closest and oldest friends, their precise reaction was “Well butter my bum and call me a biscuit”. To which I responded “No.” to peals of laughter and the word ‘exactly’ being uttered, which I took to mean they were not shocked by the announcement.
So, before considering reentering formal employment again, I thought I should see if some provision could prevent another one. So I contacted my GP, who informed me that waiting list for start the assessment – just to START it – was 10 years. 10 YEARS?! Apparently I’m not supposed to work. Seriously, how can it take that long? Then I was told if I wanted to go private it would be much quicker. Thank you, captain obvious. Here’s the thing: I don’t have £2,000 to spend on something I already know, and I resent having to spend that much money so that I can work: it seems counter-productive to me, when in fact I don’t actually need to right now. And in fact, I can’t go back to my original career, as there is no one who can look after my child full time.
So, I have joined the long list of others I know on “not formally diagnosed but should be and is now struggling to get help” but I am truly grateful that things have moved forward enough that I managed to secure the support my daughter needed.
Still, it takes at least 2 years for children to be assessed, which to me is also mad.
So, take home points of the meandering post:
sorry it’s been so long
adult ASD assessment is a stupid long time
I like cafes. Just don’t talk to me.
Raising the Modern Fae 