Long time readers have picked up on my diagnosis story from posts I’ve written over the years. The same readers are surely aware of my disdain for self-diagnosis. However, newer readers may not be as familiar with these facts and concepts. What follows is a fairly lengthy post giving a brief background of myself and the work that my therapist and I have conducted. I also mention briefly a warning for those considering self-diagnosis. Stay awhile and listen, you might learn something.
This is the final post of my backstory. See the preceding five posts for the rest of the story.
In the first post of this series I mentioned the inescapable genetic depression that I had inherited. I mentioned that I had considered the ultimate option for treating such: electroconvulsive therapy. I finished the post by saying that I could have never imagined where the conclusion of that treatment would take me. That was, and still is, true.
… My marriage to my ex-husband was one that was devoid of love and respect. I never was particularly fond of the man, only what he represented.
We had met in college. He was a student that I tutored. We hit it off well, the intimacy was appreciated and we quickly became inseparable. I valued the companionship and the intimacy, but I never particularly felt close to him. At his urging, I entered therapy briefly to discuss my relative lack of feelings and was briefly misdiagnosed with Asperger’s.
College was a time of great liberty but little self-growth. I was on my own two feet and could do as I pleased, but I learned very little about myself – only the world around me.
Those days were fascinating. I got to meet many types of people. Gay. Straight. Religious. Atheist. Bohemian. Traditional. So many types of people. Meeting such people greatly expanded my ability to pick up on the characteristics and mindsets of many. I did not realize it at the time, but such was essential to learning the functions of the neurotypical.
I was stealing by age six, shooting neighborhood animals with BB guns by age ten, and vandalizing by age 15. I don’t want to imply that these were behaviors that I was always engaged in, but they were present.
I was the smart and golden child in an area blighted by poverty. Most people growing up in that area would go on to be drug addicts and poverty-stricken adults. For many growing up around those parts, this was fate. There was no future that their parents did not already live.