Three Christmases ago now, I broke. I thought I was going crazy. My eating was getting more restricted and I diagnosed myself with a re-emergence of my past eating disorder. At Christmas, this isn’t much fun. All the good food….I couldn’t touch it and I was desperately trying to hide this from my children.

​

It also didn’t help that this was the first Christmas my family of origin had not spent Christmas with us, and neither had my family in law. I had this ideology of Christmas being a family time. Laughter, food, alcohol. That year brought tears and restricted eating for this dry alcoholic. 

For the first time in 20 years, I felt like I needed help. I ended up contacting the local hospital and was admitted as an outpatient in the eating disorders clinic. This started a roller coaster of medicated chaos. I was put in anti-psychotics and re-diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD) on top of an eating disorder. This diagnosis is full of mental health stigma and I was quickly booted out to cope in the public health care system the best I could.

​

I researched everything I could about BPD. I felt like a lost cause but I was going to fight to cure myself and not affect my children. As a survivor of childhood trauma there was absolutely no way I was going to damage my children and I had a goal – the buck stopped with me.

I fought hard. I agreed to be compliant with medication after 20 years off it. 20 years ago I had been an emaciated Anorexic in and out of hospital. Now I felt like a failure who was masquerading as a Teacher in Yoga and natural therapies with a dirty secret. I was on medication and a loser.

​

Again my research skills came in handy. I looked for a psychologist to help me out of this mess. I found someone and started weekly sessions. I found a Dialectical Behavioural Therapy Group (DBT). This was proposed as the ‘cure all’ for DBT. It didn’t work.

On my very first session I mucked up my timing. I arrive, online, half an hour late. This was Covid time and group sessions were online. Chat messages were flying back and forth and I couldn’t read and keep up with the session. Some cameras were on, some were off. All people were local. I asked if the chat could stop. All hell broke loose and I was accused of not being a team player. I really didn’t understand what I had done wrong.

​

In the end I got kicked out of the group. They even refunded my money. This broke me further. I didn’t understand the rules and if I couldn’t be helped from the one form of therapy that helped cure BPD what hope did I have?

​

My Therapist suggested I get assessed for Autism. What a joke. I had just come to grips with a BPD diagnosis now I was to be assessed for a disability? No way. My mother was a Maternal & Child Health Nurse. Surely she would have picked it up?

In true Autistic fashion I needed to know now. I researched, once again, and contacted every therapist I could to do an assessment on a middle aged female. After 4 sessions it was confirmed. I was Autistic. How Autistic though was another thing. I was assessed between level 1 and 2.

This didn’t work for me. I was either Level 1 or Level 2. Which one was it? I continued to see my Therapist who helped me work through my Imposter Syndrome, anger and disbelief. So I had a disability. Now what?

​

Things weren’t right. In all my research I recognised traits of Autism in all of my three children. I read. I documented. I presented this information to my husband. Nope. No way. He had a wife who had BPD, now Autism and now I was trying to diagnosed my three children as well?

​

Turns out I was right. All four of us are Autistic. But I still needed to know what level I was. In between doesn’t suit my brain. I was re-assessed by a different therapist. The verdict- Level 2 alongside Post Traumatic Stress Disorder from late diagnosis, an eating disorder and Premenstrual Dysphoric Disorder (PMDD) which is basically PMT on steroids.

​

What was the crux that broke the camel’s back? Complete denial by my family. I was blamed. I was the black sheep. It was easier to blame my need for approval and lack of social understanding on my mental health. Except I wasn’t crazy. I was normal, just a different normal. For over 43 years now I had tried my hardest to behave like a good girl. I had tried to talk. My Dad was probably undiagnosed Autistic. His meltdowns when I was growing up were targeted at me.

​

Constant conflict with my mother didn’t help. I had meltdowns but they were ignored. As a teenager I would go into my parents closet and pull everything out. No one said anything. My extended family turned their back saying I was a naughty little girl.

I just didn’t fit. When I found my husband I was delighted to be part of a new family. Except somehow, a few years later, my husband’s family and my family became friendly and forgot to include me. The lies, the betrayal, the mistrust, I just couldn’t understand. I tried to talk but was called calculating and cold. But I was so careful in my communication.

​

After 43 years I broke down. The last 2 Christmases have been hell. Last year at the last minute the family bailed because they were still upset with me. From 2 years ago. My kids were crying. This year, I broke even further. My carefully planned Christmas was to be in a hotel with just my immediate family. Before this, we visited extended family. Big, huge mistake. After 3 days of solid interaction my kids needed a break. When I dared to speak up I was attacked. Autism was apparently my excuse for bad behaviour.

​​

Autism is not bad behaviour. My Autistic meltdowns looked like bad behaviour. I was loud. I was expressive. This was, apparently, confronting to people but I didn’t recognize it and I didn’t have control. I actually thought I was communicating really well.

 

My diagnosis of Autism helped me to respect myself. I was no longer at the mercy of family judgement. Instead, I concentrated on learning strategies to cope with meltdowns, and even better yet, ways to recognize when I was getting triggered before a meltdown.

 

I learned that it is actually acceptable to like my own company and not have a huge amount of friends. Being diagnosed with Autism challenged thinking patterns of how I had to be. I recognized that I hated eye contact and my communication is often calculated and pre-planned.

 

Autism has helped me let go of the mask of pretense. Timely, because I cant hold the mask up anymore. As I got older, it became harder. I have not lost my special interest in people watching. Instead I have become more hyperfocused and now study psychology. I read research papers and try so hard to let go of the pain of being misunderstood for so long.

 

I am still on a journey. After years of trauma I have moved from grief to anger to complete disbelief. I found a therapy team to help me work through this. And the support of a great husband who sees me for me and will patiently reassure me that yes, I do have Autism, I am not making it all up.

 

Most importantly, I learned that Christmas for my immediate family will now be downtime. Slower pace. Less activity. Reduced stimulation. And you know what, I am fine with this.