Adult Autism in the over-50's Population

There isn't a lot out there for us. Most Autism resources are geared toward children and teens, with a few addressing the growing population that has aged out of school and is learning independence.

I never got that. 

And I'm sure most neuro-divergent people over the age of 30 have had the same problem - no one wants to hear that there's an issue, they mostly just want us to fit into their idea of "grown-up".

I grew up very fast when I had my first child. I was a single mom at the age of 21 and I had to struggle to find and keep a job while finding daycare and emotional support. I managed, mostly, but with a lot of help from my oldest brother and my younger brother and his wife/girlfriend. When I met my ex-husband, I was living on my brother's couch and the baby's crib was in the living room next to me.

I also had people my age at church that didn't care if I was a single mom. Older folk, not so much. But I survived.

But between raising kids, being married and all the learning I had to do in order to function, it was quite the curve. It was a miracle that, without understanding the reason, my ex and I decided that being a stay-at-home mom was the best thing. And looking back, despite financial issues and finally the end of my marriage, I believe it was the right thing to do.

So I raised my kids, eventually pulling them out of public school and homeschooling them, not only for the sake of their education but because I also had trouble understanding the social cues of being a "PTA parent". I also couldn't understand the lack of proper education in the public school system, but that's another beef for another time.

I've mentioned before (long ago in another post) that I loved homeschooling. It was fun for me to organize everything, and fun to learn along with my kids. It wasn't fun that I had trouble recognizing my own neuro-diversity in my children. But homeschooling, in a way, celebrated that. Teaching to the individual instead of the group, something I wish I'd had in my childhood.

Unfortunately, after my divorce, I ended up putting my two youngest into public school, a decision I wish I hadn't had to make due to having to go back to work full-time to support them. My thought is that, of all my kids, my youngest would have thrived if he'd been able to continue to work independently. And my youngest daughter, it was very hard for her to adjust after only being homeschooled.

I wish I could have helped more. I made some very bad decisions during this time, both financially and socially, although everyone graduated high school on time, and I'm very proud of all my kids.

The point here is not me apologizing for everything I could have done better, but stating something that should have been obvious from the beginning: I am neuro-diverse and despite a long line of therapists and psychiatrists, it's only now that I'm discovering that.

And as I've said before, after 62 years, I've developed scripts, strategies and coping mechanisms in order to function in a society that says they support diversity but don't really mean it. That my neuro-diversity has finally been addressed is a validation of everything that went on before.

BTW, I checked into getting an "official" diagnosis - the least costly for an adult Autism diagnosis is $4500. Outrageous. So I stick with what my therapist and doctor have told me, take my meds as directed and try to get on with my life.

But the resources available are limited because I'm not a child, I survived my teens and twenties, went on to raise a family. People see that surface and don't believe anything other than I'm crazy (or that I don't have enough faith in God).

I'm not crazy. I'm not lazy. I'm not stupid. I do have enough faith in God (mustard seed quote here). But I see the world differently than you, react to it differently than you, get overwhelmed more easily than you, need down time more often than you.

I might look like you and have learned to act like you some of the time, but I'm not you. I have lived a generally good life, despite my own errors and being neuro-diverse. I hope someone who reads this might realize how wonderful they are in God's eyes even if they aren't 'normal'.

Isaiah 54:10: God's unconditional love is a promise to you of His compassion. For the mountains may depart and the hills be removed, but my steadfast love shall not depart from you, and my covenant of peace shall not be removed,” says the Lord, who has compassion on you.

Invisible

Neuro-divergency is often ignored by both the person who is neuro-divergent and/or the people around that person. I've spoken before about how different people in my life have treated me over the years and how separate I've always felt.

In the interests of (fairly) full disclosure, I had to take several months off from work because of stress-related issues, and discovered several things about myself.

One, I was re-diagnosed yet again, and this time it actually makes sense. The diagnosis is, of course, ADHD and Autism. I think I already knew that, but it's nice to have it validated by a diagnosis. One of the diagnosis criteria tests scored me as 199 out of 163. That's a big number

Of course, being almost 62, I have spent years creating strategies and habits in order to present normal to the world; however, not a lot of people are willing to believe I'm not like them. They believe I just need to pull out of myself and get it together. 

Nope.

Here's a blog post from an adult on the spectrum about the true meaning of "high-functioning". She got it spot-on.

https://autisticempath.com/dont-call-me-high-functioning/

This is partly why going back to church has been so hard for me to do. The expectations of the other sinners can become both obnoxious and frightening. Having to sit outside the sanctuary just to be able to concentrate on the sermon, well that looks anti-social. 

The Church, especially Evangelicals, expect everyone to participate and don't understand the one person out of a hundred who can't do crowds, is sensitive to loud noise and needs something to keep their hands busy in order to listen better. My mother drew pictures, I crochet.

My Christianity has always, and will continue to be, about service. It's just that the older I get, the less I want to get stuck in any ministry that will wear me out emotionally. Lately, that's basically everything.

Anyhow, back to self-discovery.

Two, I spent a lot of time in both group and individual therapy. It is there that I realized that I don't actually have to live up to everyone else's expectations. I have been a people-pleaser all my life, going all the way back to trying to get my mother to actually love me.

And there's the rub - my mother, from going through my own issues and memory lane, was probably neuro-divergent. I can see that she probably never had the opportunity to learn some of the tools I have, and had a difficult time "fitting in" the same way I do. 

However, this doesn't mean she shouldn't have tried a little harder. 

That sounds petty, but the fact is, I was still the birth-control pill she forgot one morning. I was still "nervous jervis". I was still like my crazy grandmother. My brother and I were still the extra kids she never should have had.

I tried so very hard not to treat my children the way I was treated. I was not a perfect mother, I had my moments, as I'm sure my children will tell you. But I made a very conscious effort to love my children unconditionally. And none of them were mistakes - any mistakes were my own.

Three, I am creative, passionate and loving. A neuro-divergent diagnosis does not negate these qualities; they are a large part of who I am as a whole person. I am also abrupt, bossy, highly sensitive and a small-picture person. That is also me.

I y'am what I y'am, and that's all that I y'am.

Four, my neuro-divergence isn't an excuse, but it's also not an apology. I'm done people-pleasing, especially at work, now that I'm back.

I have put a lot of myself into my job, and even though I don't react the same way to situations as someone else might, it doesn't mean I don't care about my work, care that it's done accurately and to the best of my ability. I care about our population, I care that we have the resources to serve that community.

But my job is not your job, and I'm done doing your job for you. I'm done being the office mom (except when it comes to wiping down the front counter and changing the date stamp - that's the OCD)

I'm done.

Five, my children still love me. My daughters especially have been my support for the past 5 months. And I hope my sons know how much I love them, will always love all of them until my dying day.

That's pretty much all. I'm still struggling to make ends meet after being on extended disability, which barely covered the bills for a couple of months. But God is faithful, even when I'm hiding out at home on a Sunday morning.

Here's a verse to ponder:

2 Timothy 2:13

If we are unfaithful, He remains faithful, for He cannot deny who he is.

God will always love me and take care of me.

Ten Years Ago Today

It's ten years ago today that David died.

I miss him. It's been ten whole years, but really it's only been ten years. 

I don't grieve him the way I did in the beginning but that doesn't mean I'm not still grieving. He was the light in my life for such a short time, but also forever. 

Oi! To The World

It's Christmastime again, almost two full years since I last posted here. COVID came and we all hunkered down, except my job doesn't allow me to work from home.

My job has me dealing with a demographic that can't find real jobs, needs me to hold their hands (or other appendages) through the process; basically they don't respect themselves so they don't respect anyone else. That includes me. 

I could use a vacation about now.

So yeah, the past two years have been a bit stressful. And the past two months have been worse than that.

I read through a couple of my previous posts just now, speaking of my mental illness and the consequences of allowing circumstances to dictate my reactions. It's not easy, but the emotional energy I've had to expend lately is really pulling me down.

No, I haven't been to church in almost two years. It started because of COVID and not having a car, but it has turned into just not wanting to put myself out there anymore.

The older I get, the less nonsense I can tolerate, even from myself. Church, in general, isn't nonsense, but the past few years of Evangelicalism being co-opted by a blatant anti-Christian occupant in the White House and his sycophant followers has me wishing more and more for the Rapture.

I sit here, listening to Bing Crosby ('tis the season after all) and wish I could just go to church and worship.

I grew up knowing that being part of the Body of Christ means service, so I try to do that wherever I end up. It used to be music and Children's ministries, but the last time I was teaching Sunday School, it just didn't click anymore.

I used to be the church choir director, too, but the passion for that went away after David died. He was a musician too, and not being able to share that with him meant that I couldn't share it with anyone else. I grieved for two years after he passed, had a minor breakdown and it's taken me six more years to even out into a (mostly) mature woman.

At this point in my life, most Protestant so-called worship is too selfish and too self-centered instead of God-centered, and way too loud. The current worship leader at the church where I was going thinks he's Jon Bon Jovi. Basically, it doesn't lead me to worship, it leads me to turn off the sound on the YouTube broadcast until the Pastor gets up.

For awhile, back when David was alive, I went around the corner to the local Catholic church. My very Protestant upbringing kept me from even walking into a Catholic church for years and years. When I finally went, it was an experience I didn't know I would love until I did it.

Actually, I disagree strongly with several Catholic doctrines, including worshiping the Virgin Mary, purgatory and praying to saints. Scripture clearly says that 'THOU SHALT HAVE NO OTHER GODS BEFORE ME', that to be absent in the Body is to be present with the Lord, and that Jesus is our High Priest.

But I love the Catholic Liturgy, the cadence of Mass and the absolute faith in God that, to me, permeates every part of the service.

I'm not a Catholic so I can't take Communion at Mass, but that doesn't bother me. God knows my heart, and when I do go to a Protestant church I take Communion when offered, confessing my sins before partaking, as we all should.

Sitting, kneeling and standing during Mass, though - the cadence and repetitiveness of the prayers speaks to me like nothing else. Repetitiveness isn't quite the right word - it's something more along the lines of having the words ready to speak rather than fumbling for something to say to God when I don't know what to say.

So . . . lately I've been considering going back to Mass on Sundays. I'm not talking about "converting", whatever that means since Catholics are not cultists like Mormons or JW or Scientology. In any case, it's not about that.

It's about allowing myself to sink into a worshipful atmosphere where I don't have to worry about the next step because it's all planned out already. It's about allowing the Holy Spirit to come down and speak peace into my soul. It's about hearing the Word of God relative to the season and how it's new every time.

It's about forgetting myself and remembering that God the Holy Spirit is in me, God the Father knows all and loves me unconditionally and God the Son, Jesus Christ suffered, died and rose again in order that I might live for Him.

I need to remember all that every day, but somehow, for me, going to Mass makes that happen more. No one expects me to help out in the Nursery, no one actually cares that I'm not taking Communion (at least not so far) and no one has any great expectations of me except to be a part of the whole, lifting my eyes and heart to God.

God Bless us, everyone.

More Stories from Behind

My son said at one point he was interested in hearing more stories from when I was a kid. Here are a couple of them.

Childhood story: 

My sixth grade teacher was Miss Joseph. She was probably a lesbian, she was in her 50's and very athletic. I don't care. She loved the Cincinnati Reds and let us listen to the World Series that year on a radio in the classroom. She made us use the word "lavatory" instead of bathroom when we needed a pee break.

There was a little twerp in my class, I think his name was Jeffy or something. Anyhow, he used to sit next to me and whisper abuse in my ear, "You're ugly, you're stupid, everyone hates you." One of the good things my mother taught me was to ignore people like that because they just want attention and I could choose not to give it to them. (Sometimes I wish I'd been able to do that with her, but alas every hurtful word made its way directly into my heart)

One day, it had been going on for awhile, Miss Joseph walked past and finally heard him. She hauled him out of his chair and asked me why I hadn't said anything to her about it. I looked at her and told her what my mother said. She asked my deskmate why he never said anything and he told her I didn't say anything, why should he? 

Then she grabbed Jeffy's arms and pinned them behind him and said to me, "Go ahead, hit him."

. . .

I said no, of course. Even at the age of 11, I knew right from wrong and was appalled by an adult's behavior. She moved him to an isolated desk at the back of the classroom and probably, although I don't know for sure, made his life hell for him the rest of the year. And I know she never favored me after that, getting on my case for crossing the double yellow line on the playground that separated us from the little kids and yelling at me at the 6th grade picnic when I stated how disappointed I was with the chinzy little prize I got. 

We moved that summer, so I didn't go to Jr High and High School with those classmates. I never saw Jeffy again, at least I don't think so. And I got bullied far worse in Jr High and High school than whatever he could come up with.

Not  a happy ending. It's just a story that sticks in my mind. 

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

High School Hijinks

When I was a freshman in high school, my English teacher's name was Mr. Wergeland. He was a kick! When he was in college, he worked at a mental hospital . I don't remember any of his stories, but it helped shape my perception of him that I knew he was teaching English to high school students after dealing with mentally ill folk. He also had a banana in a jar. It was pure brown liquid, because it had been in the jar for several years. 

Freshman English was the last class of the day and I'm sure Mr. Wergeland was just happy to be almost done by the time we all trooped in. The people in my class, and you know who you are DK! were a bunch of wild and silly people, mostly boys. I remember one day during a spelling test, one of them piped up with, "How do you spell that again?"

Mr. Wergeland sighed and proceeded to spell it out for us. Then he spelled the next word. And the next. About 10 words in, he looked at us and said, "Was I spelling those?" We cracked up, and so did he.

Another time, he was trying to tell us something about his Argumentation and Persuasion elective that we could take the next year. He gave us a topic, asked us to defend, then proceeded to rip apart all the arguments. 

Then he got to me. 

I made my statement, then he went off like he had with the others. In the middle, I interrupted him and said something like, "You're off topic, that doesn't have anything to do with what we were talking about." The rest of the class just stared. He smiled and said, "That's right, and you were right to interrupt me." I was the only one who dared argue back. 

I'm thinking my anti-authoritarian tendencies probably date from that moment.

One other thing I wanted to say about Mr. Wergeland's Freshman English class was that a bunch of the guys in there got together and invented a fake person. His name was Alan Hobbs. Alan Hobbs checked books out from the book room and library, was blamed for several incidents of mischief and his sister even dated my friend DK just to make one of my other friends jealous. Alan Hobbs almost graduated with us, I'm pretty sure. 

Next class reunion, DK, let's hold up a sign that says, "Alan Hobbs, where are you?"

On the Edge of Normal

I haven't posted here for awhile. Normal is just beyond my reach most of the time and when I get to where I think I'm able to put down some words, normal scoots away again and I'm stuck with nothing to say.

Or too much to say.

I was laid off in December, and believe me, that is no easy thing for a woman in her 50's. Four months before that I had to give my car back to the bank because the job I had paid poverty wages and I could barely pay my rent. A few months before that I ended a toxic relationship that was sucking me dry emotionally and is only just resolving itself this month. Not a good year for me.

My mental illness keeps me from seeing things the way normal people see them. Which can be a good thing a lot of the time. The problem is that normal people run the world, want me to pay my bills, want me to work for a living, want me to say and do the normal things. I struggle to find activities that allow me to do the normal stuff while still being me. 

Daunting. Scary. Infuriating. 

My dream for a long time has been to open a daycare. I like kids. I'm good with kids. They don't care that I'd rather watch cartoons with them than sit behind a computer doing soul-sucking busy work. They're happy with glue and glitter, the same way I am. They like to eat macaroni out of a box and don't care if we play all day instead of doing something the world deems productive. They're easy.

I know some of you are horrified. Children? Easy? Yes. They don't judge, they just get on with it. I love 2-5 year olds. They delight me. 

So, is working from home doing the things I love the great lie we've been told by Facebook? 

The normal people want me to pay them money so I can do what I love. I want to do what I love and get paid for it. I don't want to make a million bucks, I just want to pay all my bills on time every month. And I want to love on babies. I'm a good grandma because I love being grandma so much. That makes me happy, it fills my soul with joy and helps me face the normal world. I have a t-shirt that says, "I used to be a people person, then people ruined it." That doesn't mean children. They make it worthwhile. 

For those of you who love me, agápē, I am honored. For those of you who know me from way back when or from church or other places now, please be patient with me. For those of you who know me only through this blog, I say welcome to my world but don't get lost. 

For everyone else, well, is there anyone else out there who feels like they're on the edge of normal?

Throws glitter

Life and Death and Life Again

The death of my mother two days before Christmas has left me with much to say but no real way to say it. I meant what I said when I said I wasn't going to grieve much when she went. It was time for her to go and we knew it was coming.

Still, the circumstances contrived to make it just that much more ... I don't know. Stupid is the wrong word but I can't really think of a different one. It was a Saturday and I was getting ready to blog about how it was exactly four years ago that day that David died. And then my sister called.

And I couldn't write one single word.

Two days later at Christmas dinner, the consensus among my brothers and me was that we were surprised she didn't die on Christmas Day, therefore ruining one last Christmas for us. She used to do that, pull some dramatic trick just to make sure no one was happy on the happiest day of the year. She used to have the Christmas tree down and all the decorations put away by noon, too.

You're shocked, I know. In some ways, it was a great relief to know she was finally gone, finally unable to affect us negatively in person. Unfortunately, her legacy is that she negatively affects us even in death, by the way she raised us and how we had to deal with her nonsense over the years.

Now we have no parents. My dad died 11 years ago January, and frankly, while not a perfect father in any sense, I miss him more than I'll ever miss my mother. 

But dealing with the death of my mother isn't a good thing. In my head, or rather, in other people's heads, I'm supposed to be heart-broken at the loss of a parent and apparently unable to be happy ever again. 

At least, that's what one church lady was telling me. This church lady is sweet and sincere. I didn't have the heart to tell her how relieved I was I never had to deal with my mother again. 

Here's my mother's legacy to me: I was the birth control pill she forgot one morning. I was going to be fat just like her when I got older. She pitied the man I married. When I got pregnant with my oldest, she wanted to know why I did that to her. She wrote a scathing letter before my wedding, telling me how awful I was and that I was only getting married to have a father for my child. And then she showed up at the wedding.

Yeah.

And the ultimate legacy, she passed down her mental illness to me. Not just to me, to all of us. We have all dealt with it as best as we could, hopefully better than she did. 

Here's the thing, though: I have no doubt in my mind that she's with the Lord. Despite her emotional abuse, her attitude of victimhood, her absolute certainty that nothing was ever her fault; she loved God. And He loved her.

Just as He loves me. 

I just wish I could remember some of the good things and describe them here.