Back in the Habit

If you missed Part 1, you can read it here first!

Throwing Some Other Things Into the Mix

Around the time I was coming to a renewed understanding of my sexuality, I had also been diagnosed with ADHD and was exploring a major shift in how I viewed my personal development and professional life. I had been thinking if I hustled hard enough, got all my ducks in a row, and learned enough about myself, I could cut away at myself to fit into a stable life. ADHD started to show me why no amount of hard work, intelligence, personal development, or maturity could magically take away the struggles I faced every day. Another day, another shadow tapping me on my shoulder.

I wish I could tell you that that diagnosis magically tied everything up in a bow, but alas, it did not. Something was still missing. I had obvious disabilities and sensitivities that were dramatically affecting my life, and the older I got the clearer it became that it was not only something I could not outgrow, but it was something that would compound if neglected. I finished my degree with a focus on social justice and social sciences. Tap, tap, tap. I learned more about developmental disabilities. Tap, tap, tap. I tried multiple ADHD medications and other medications with no success. Tap, tap, tap.

Finally, after serious consideration, I once again consulted my council members (Max and Jennie). “I’ve been doing some research and heavily considering I may be autistic… is that absurd? Here is my laundry list of evidence from across my entire life.”

Jennie, my bosom buddy of over 25 years, said, “Anna, I know you - that sounds very right.”

Max, my dear angel and domestic partner of nearly 15 years, said, “Bitch, you might just be autistic.”

Nah, Probably Not Autism

Heaven forbid a bachelor’s degree, many months of research, a lifetime of lived experience, and validation from two of the people who knew me best in the world might allow me to immediately lean into this curiosity. I quickly shone a flashlight on the shadow and then, scared I might draw attention, I turned it off just as quickly. I spent more than two years squirreling away learnings, feeding my shadow crumbs, and occasionally naming this curiosity to someone close to me in passing conversation.

Like a child desperately trying to get their parent’s attention, the persistent tapping may turn into a howl if left unattended for too long. In my case, it released a deafening screech to the heavens. Years of intense and unstable work, overexertion, constant masking, insufficient support, and attempts at barreling through my needs caused my shadow to engulf me in an unavoidable darkness.

For months I tried to continue feeling my way through the void, losing more and more sleep. I would briefly see a flash of light, only to realize that I was being flung deeper. I started contacting a barrage of professionals (who I affectionately referred to as “my team”) in an attempt to fix myself. Still, the void screamed, open and cavernous. The noise kept me awake for hours each night, losing my grip on sanity even more with each appointment, each workday, each meal prep, each workout.

Excuse Me, Waitress? She’s Spiralling Again

In our first session last summer, my new therapist asked, “Why haven’t you taken a leave from work yet? It feels more than overdue.”

But how could I? Sure, this cavernous void was filled with isolation and darkness, but I was the only thing holding it up. How could I let the rickety walls of stone crash in on me? Surely, I would die?

One day, the walls started to fall on me anyways. It turns out that stone walls were not meant to be held up by one sleepless woman’s sheer strength of will. It turns out that a human is not supposed to be alone and engulfed in darkness while they plaster a smile on their face and paint a hope for a happier future that would surely, somehow, be found just around the corner.

On the first day of the schoolyear last year, I arrived at my job as a student advisor in what can only be described as shambles. I was shaking and overwhelmed, unable to stop the tears from streaming down my face. My colleagues immediately jumped in to ask how they could help. With their help, I was able to push through the setup of our orientation day and the delivery of my session. I spoke with my manager that afternoon to tell her how much I was struggling and let her know that I was going to be seeking formal workplace accommodations for at least ADHD. I had made appointments with my doctor and my therapist the next day to discuss.

*A beautiful day to bare your soul, no?*

The next morning, I woke up to find I had become the shadow. I could not go to work. I had gotten to a point where I could barely sleep, bathe myself, feed myself, and even speak. Max would catch me staring unblinkingly into a void. I couldn’t find the words I needed for basic communication. My body felt weak and broken. When I spoke with my doctor and therapist, they said, “Honey, accommodations are too late. First, you need to take a leave.” I submitted the paperwork the next day.

Coming Out… as Autistic

I went for lunch with my mom on a patio the next Monday. Sun blaring down on me, dissociated to the high heavens, I told her that I suspected I was autistic. She was shocked, and while extremely kind, I could read from her response that she didn’t know how to react. I didn’t fit her understanding of autism; I was often loud and boisterous, and able to make friends.

Baring this newly understood part of me felt like telling her, the person I felt closest to in the world, that I wasn’t who she thought I was. Again. I was suddenly back to being 14, exposing myself as queer and deviant. Guilt coursed through me for shaking up our lives like that. Lauded for my intelligence and spirit from a young age, adulthood had brought me to confront my aberrations in ways that were unavoidable if I wanted to survive. The scariest thing I could imagine had to happen – allowing myself to be seen without controlling the outcome.

My mom and stepdad are nothing if not progressive and supportive. My mom taught me about civil rights movements, lauded equal rights, explained the different ways for people to love, critiqued the criminal justice system. They had close friends of different religions, cultures, and sexualities. I, in turn, was the same, and have had many friends throughout my life either come out to me or tell me that I was an early representation of queerness in their lives.

*Pre-spawning as the devil, but we should have seen the signs*

Still, the fear of living my truth felt raw as fresh skin from an open wound. Unveiling it to my mom felt like I was searing tender in the hot sun. I didn’t think it would be possible to feel like a teen again, but at 34 it was like the last two decades had ceased to exist. It’s an incredible feat of mental gymnastics to not be able to apply one’s personal moral compass to our own needs and differences, and yet we so often manage to stick that ill-fated landing.

My mom treated me with care and curiosity. During my leave from work, we continued seeing each other on an almost weekly basis, and I openly shared my learnings, my challenges, my pain, and my fears. She would come to my home, often untidy, and bring me lunch while we sat on the couch together cuddling my dog and constant companion, Darla.

I read her the lists I had put together of unexplained life-long experiences I had had that aligned with the symptoms for autism. She nodded fervently as I described my decades of struggles with transitions, extreme sensitivities to temperature and textures, penchant for meltdowns, frequent burnouts, and constant needs for alone time. I told her what it felt like for me to navigate eye contact, social interactions, and new experiences. I bared my soul to her, and she agreed.

I asked if she remembered the time I had a meltdown and couldn’t go down an escalator after a day full of escalators. She did. I asked her if she remembered the time we went on a hike through some sand dunes and I became a demon spawn of hell dropped right on this here earth. She absolutely did. She told me how she always knew I needed serious decompression time after social events as a kid. We covered this and so much more. All these things, as well as my ADHD symptoms, were just Anna to her. She was right, they were essential to me, and she saw me fully.

After several months of leave and hard work with my team of various healthcare practitioners, I received an official autism diagnosis from a wonderful psychologist in Kingston. I had told all my friends that I was pursuing the diagnosis, and how I had been struggling. I posted a silly photo with an autism reveal cake to celebrate the amount of deep personal work and vulnerability it had taken to get to that moment, and continued taking steps closer to creating a life that would support my needs. Each of these revelations required a baring of my soul, a light on the shadow, holding the mirror aloft. Every time, I felt the exposure of new flesh to the searing sun. You’d think I would develop a tan by now, but I’m actually very pale.

The Grand Finale

A few weeks ago, I decided it was time for me to have one more conversation with my mom that had been weighing on me for years. My wounds were all open anyways, there was nowhere else to go but forward from there. While we were cuddled up on my couch with Darla, I asked her if she remembered the conversation we had after she found out I was dating a girl. She said she did vaguely, but I explained to her that it had been incredibly hard for me, and that her response to my coming out had been hurtful.

It was hard to tell her this because I knew it would be painful. She has been nothing except open and supportive my entire life, my biggest champion and ally in every corner. I owed the candor and vulnerability of our relationship my honesty about this conversation, though. As expected, she was deeply regretful and apologetic. The surprise, though, was that she hadn’t even realized I still identified as queer.

I guffawed at the realization and we laughed. My face felt flush with fragility. I told her that I had decided years ago to just stop hiding my sexuality. She said that because we hadn’t addressed it again, and because I had been with Max for my entire adult life, she assumed my relationship with a girl had been part of my teenage experimentation. Meanwhile, I had been sharing posts about being queer and bisexual on my Instagram, which she followed diligently. I had shown her a charm bracelet gifted by my friends, where each charm was chosen specifically for me and one included a rainbow. I had told her about the rainbow-patterned, heart-shaped Christmas ornament Max had bought me, emblazoned with the word “QUEER” from a local shop. I had gone on excitedly about a novel I was planning to write that was part romance, part late-in-life, queer coming of age story, explaining that it was an exciting way for me to explore alternate versions of my life through fiction.

After all of this, she thought I had just been an incredible ally. A true champion for the queer community. The punchline was that in having this tough conversation, I was accidentally coming out yet again. I should be used to this by now.

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Coming Out (Again and Again): Part Two