WHEN FAMILY DOESN'T UNDERSTAND.

One thing that I'm not proud of, in my life, was that for seven months, in my early thirties, I didn't communicate with my family. I am closer to it now, but I would like to really put my story out as to why it was that way.

Like some autistics (I didn't know I was autistic, at this point), I experienced mental health concerns. Now, is where I would like to talk about the path that got me to seek help.

It was in the winter of 2002, and it was a Saturday night. I woke, startled, "Did I yell out?" The streetlight shone dimly through the window of the unit where I was living, through the vertical blinds that brought London Bridge to mind. One of many bullying incidents from school, now eleven years behind, had been playing in my mind. I lay back on my side and tried to go back to sleep.

So began nights of sleep dominated by recurring nightmares.

Fast forward three years and I was in a different place, the nightmares had not ceased. Again, it was winter. I called Lifeline, knowing I needed to talk. One of the difficulties with counselling is that it's the luck of the draw as to whether or not you find one you connect with. Some counsellors have no idea of why for some, decisions are so hard. This counsellor told me that it was my subconscious telling me that I needed to deal with it. I rang my GP, and she had an appointment that afternoon. I took it. So began the task of talking about twelve years of bullying. And an unsupportive mother.

Why didn't I contact my family later? Well, part of my search for meaning was to find where I belonged. A friend had taken me to church at eighteen. My mother thought that could be my niche. Some churches are okay, some are not. At thirty-two, I thought I could find my niche there, again. So, when I met someone committed to that, I hoped I could find my way in. This person, however, was someone who attended church, but was a dishonest person, who told me a pack of lies.

But further to the point, there was a woman who lived near us, who walked a lot, and she was very thin and looked like she might have had an eating disorder. My mother had taken to nicknaming her Ana (as in anorexic) and she had even been dismissive of my battle with PTSD. She said, when I talked of flashbacks, that I shouldn't tell anyone else or they'd laugh at me! So, I didn't feel any support, and felt I had to make it on my own.

I struggled. Finally, being diagnosed with autism at thirty-five meant that there was a reason as to why I was different. I didn't belong to a certain world. My view of the neuro-typical world has negatively coloured by put downs, so I thought, "Why do I want to be like them?" My mother still doesn't get it (or doesn't want to).

Tonight, I had the experience of going to my local Woolworths, and meeting up with a girl I went to school with. We have now connected on social media. She recognised that I'd had a hard time, but said I'd done well in life.

I'm still here. I'm still breathing. I'm proudly autistic. I don't need to be made into something else.