*I don’t expect you to read my mahoosive post, I just needed to get it out of my system. Blood relatives have been blocked from this post *
As you all know, the last 4 months for me have been rather intense, thanks to leaving my abusive, alcoholic husband in secret, and moving 400 miles with just a suitcase (and my 2 labradors who are currently holidaying at a friend’s). Because my life never has been easy, just a week after getting my freedom back….I lost it again to this pandemic. Because of several medical conditions, I was in the “shielding” category, but after an incident of self-harm, the first for many years, the psychologist whom I’ve been having weekly sessions with via Zoom recommended that my mental health had to be an equal priority as my physical health and to go out for walks as and when I needed to clear my head. Thankfully I was able to time those walks for either early morning, so my exposure to other people was incredibly minimal. Then, after roughly 6 weeks here, I discovered a suspicious lump. The GP had me in within an hour of me calling for an emergency appointment, had a grope, and referred me to the breast screening clinic at the hospital. Then, I had a very agonizing 6-week wait for the appointment to come through. Unfortunately, due to the current pandemic situation, that was one of the “nonessential” clinics that got shut down. I had the appointment, had an ultrasound and a biopsy, and I’m now 4 weeks into the wait for the result. I’m hoping that no news is good news. I’ve also been told that if it comes back benign, I’ll be referred for genetic testing, to help me be prepared for anything that could crop up like this in the future. Once again, my sessions with my psychologist started delving into the abuse, rather than this current stress…..and then, last Wednesday happened. Every Wednesday someone from Women’s Aid comes out to do a flat check. Basically, to test the smoke and carbon monoxide alarms, make sure your gas and electric meters are in credit, and that you are keeping the place clean and tidy. They also bring you a bag of random food items that have been collected from local supermarkets, cafes, restaurants etc….food with short dates. In last week’s bag, I had “chicken sausages”. I immediately had an extreme reaction to these sausages, in that to me, every single thing about them was “wrong”. They looked wrong, they smelled wrong…but with much encouragement from some very close friends, I managed to get them cooked. With a LOT of encouragement, I eventually braved trying a bite. The very second this tiny bite of the sausage was in my mouth, I projectile vomited. No warning, no time to get to the bathroom……lets just say I’m thankful I have a waste paper bin by my sofa, for bits of yarn to go in as I’m crocheting. It has been a long time since I’ve had a reaction to food this strong, but I remembered something similar happening as a child….with mushrooms. To this day I can’t stomach them. After a long conversation with a friend who has an autistic son, amid much laughter, I came to the conclusion that I likely had some “autistic traits”. Fast forward to this past Tuesday, 7/7/2020 and my most recent counselling session with “K”. Because she has the week off work next week, she didn’t want to be going into anything too traumatic, seeing as it would be 2 weeks before I get to talk to her next, so I told her about the now-infamous “Sausage Situation”. Again there was much laughter, but at the same time, she took me seriously and asked me more about possible autistic “traits”. I told her about the fact that within my “family”, every time they meet someone close to me, they delight in telling them about how I was a horrid, demon child who had massive “tantrums” which I never grew out of. “Tantrums” that I couldn’t calm myself down from, that would go on for hours until I exhausted myself and fell asleep. I told her about the fact that when I was “upset” as a child, I would go and hide in my dark, enclosed built-in wardrobe, and that I still do the same now when I need to feel “safe”. I told her about how every bedroom I’ve ever had has had twinkle lights, and that as a child, I was obsessed with lava lamps, bubble tubes, fibre optic lights etc. She thought that was enough to go through what amounts to a “could you be autistic” test, and is what is used to find out if you need a referral to the in my case, adult autism place. So she asked me the questions, I answered and gave examples….she added up the “points”, and her immediate response was “Oh WOW!! I’ve never had anyone get 10/10 before!” I got a text the very next morning saying that the referral had been sent. She also gave me a couple of places to start me off researching. I then obsessively watched this channel she recommended, and I had so many “lightbulb” moments. For the first time EVER, I realised that there is likely a reason why I have to cut all labels out of my clothes, and why I can’t stand socks. Why certain textures freak me out etc. I’ve spent a lot of time over the last couple of days thinking about this realisation, and whilst I’m looking forward to learning everything I can, I’m mostly overwhelmed with the thought that NO ONE noticed. How did I make it to 33.5, and not one medical professional or family member thought to find out how or why I behaved this way. Instead of finding out WHY I had such epic “tantrums” that I exhausted myself from, WHY I had such strong reactions to certain textures, sounds etc. All I can think about is the fact that not one person in my life (family and medical professionals) right up until the last few months, thought I was anything but a weirdo and a freak. That is what I was told my entire life, every time I did something “differently”. Today, after a series of cock-ups, I ended up the closest I’ve been to having a public meltdown for a very long time. Why? It was hot but also pouring with rain when I had to go out to pick up my emergency prescription, so I had to wear a short sleeve top under my coat, to stop me from passing out from the heat, and I can NOT stand the feel of polyester coat lining touching my bare skin. That was the final straw after a lot of overstimulation build-up the last few days. Thankfully I managed to get home before I lost it. As I type this, I’ve just noticed that even subconsciously, I chose a sensory water bottle.
The Broken Butterfly 