The grief and relief I found in a late diagnosis of Autism and ADHD
I was diagnosed with both Autism and ADHD two years ago when I was 38 years old. Along with both my kids, and a large proportion of my extended family, I was actually AuDHD. For years I had not let myself consider the possibility. I was the functional one (kind of) and I only kept ending up in burnout again and again because I just needed to try harder. I just needed to get through today...this week...this month...this year. Then things would get easier. I objectively had a lot on my plate. I had spent so long ignoring my own needs in order to do what I thought was necessary to be liked or loved, that I genuinely didn't know what my actual needs were.
I struggled my whole life, more than most people around me realised. More than I had allowed myself to consider. If the harm was only happening to me and I was able to limit the impact it had on those around me, was there really true harm occurring? It's a question a lot of high-masking Autistic women wonder. In a world that frequently discounts our views, trauma, pain and lived experience, it's understandable that this can become a coping mechanism. We are rewarded for when we absorb the pain and discomfort and those around us don't have to consider our inconvenient needs. It's a disability because it's disabling, but this is something that can take years to unpack. I'm still working through what this means for me. I can see the need for supports in those around me, but in my own case my first reaction is that I just need to try harder.
When I finally received my Autism and ADHD diagnosis there was a profound shift in my view of my life and myself. I started to recognise the degree of anxiety I had about the people around me finding out how dysfunctional I really was, how hard I really had to work and how faulty as a human I felt inside. I became aware of how much it had impacted my life, my relationships, my understanding of myself and my understanding of the world.
My late diagnosis of Autism and ADHD for me was a bizarre mix of grief and relief.
Grief when I realised that no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t transform myself into a neurotypical person. I could mask - and I masked hard - but eventually that mask would slip when the exhaustion of maintaining it overwhelmed me.
There was relief too. I felt like a weight had been lifted off my shoulders. I had spent a lifetime trying to turn myself into a human pretzel to please the people around me. It was painful and I wasn’t successful. With a diagnosis and the grief-filled realisation that ‘just trying harder’ would never make me neurotypical, came the relief of recognising that many of the neurotypicals I had tried so hard to get to like me my whole life, most of them would never like me. They had only a small window of what was acceptable to them, what was palatable, and I would never be it. It didn’t matter how hard I tried (and I tried so very hard) or what I did or achieved - who I was innately was the problem. And for the chronic people-pleaser that I was (still am. Well recovering), there was sadness there. But also freedom.
I could now accept they were just not my people, and I was not theirs. And while rejection sensitivity dysmorphia still occasionally kicks my butt - I don’t tie myself into a human pretzel for these people anymore.
It’s incredibly freeing.
I can spend my time seeking out, fostering and maintaining the meaningful connections in my life with people who do like me. While this is still limited at times by health and life circumstances, it has lead to more authentic connections. My diagnosis has had a profound impact on my relationships, but most importantly with how I relate to myself.
This is my most recent painting. It's a brain made of flowers and I drew it to represent the experience of discovering and learning about my brain again at 38 years old. It's an ongoing process, and a beautiful one.