I have struggled with a problem for a long while now. I have blogged about how the parts of my brain that perceive space are wired differently, or maybe not wired at all.
I’m never sure if I have said too much or not enough.
How many people really discuss problems? If they don’t isn’t there a good reason for that? My problems are atypical. They aren’t easily defined or put into categories.
Hell, the biggie, the mother ship for all the rest doesn’t even have a name.
If I have been defensive in my fearlessness, it’s solely because my life has been one of many uncertainties. When I was 36, I felt as if I were breaking down.
I wasn’t hypomanic. I never went on wild spending sprees or thought I could do impossible things. Quite the opposite. I was hyper and walked the streets constantly so I wouldn’t think about all my bad qualities.
When I was diagnosed with massive learning disorders, I fought the psychologist.
He told me that I shouldn’t have been able to accomplish everything I had done. I had. I should have trusted in that. But how do you find trust in your own accomplishments when you now feel that you used smoke and mirrors to fool people into thinking that you were smart?
And you had always felt like a fraud?
I exist; therefore I’m defensive.
I’m also fearless in some areas. It’s a weird combination. A defensive fearless person.
I wish that I had never had that testing. It only served to make me question everything good about myself.
Nothing I did to combat the feeling that I must really be inferior helped. Finish grad school with a 3.84 cum and outstanding field placement evaluation. Not good enough. It should have been a 4.0. I don’t know what to think about the “outstanding” as there’s nothing higher. I did get a few “5”s. They all should have been “6”s. Each attribute and skill was ranked “0” to “6.”
In college I had been ecstatic to get “B”s in anything but my major. I held myself to much less lofty standards. Just because I had managed some huge projects, and did two years at SSI so I could tell stories about the bad old Bronx, was older, and was still out to prove the psychologist wrong, I screwed myself.
I didn’t realize why I was doing what I was doing. I knew I had something to prove but couldn’t figure out what as everybody I knew thought me smart, successful, funny, and the like.
I felt like even more of a fraud when I finished grad school because I could have gone on to become a full fledged therapist but therapy had always made things worse for me.
It wasn’t that I was resistant. I desperately wanted to understand. My problems are outside the scope of therapy today. I was seeing two other therapists when I got the learning disabilities diagnosis. Neither therapist could help with what he didn’t understand.
Nobody could point me on the royal road to help, because nobody knew who could help.
i forgot about the Asperger’s diagnosis because I didn’t want to search for help that wasn’t there, and because there were so many buts:
“You’re atypical because you have excellent social skills, know boundaries, have excellent judgment, are intuitive, love people not animals….” I do have the clumsiness, motor skill problems and awkwardness, but I long ago learned how to make most of that work for me. Not the motor skill problems. I bless the inventors of digital cameras.
Searching has been a theme of my life. I have searched for my birth mother, am thinking of searching for my birth father’s family and am searching for the answers to problems.
I’m tired of searching. It feels that as long as I keep searching I won’t feel settled. I want to. I deserve to. It does amaze me that I continued having a life during all this.
When I began to blog I made the mistake of writing about not being a linear thinker before I knew many people. Fortunately many people came to my defense when I was bombarded with personal nasty comments.
I found it unbelievable that people would say such rude things. Yet didn’t I deserve it? That’s not a conscious feeling nor is it one that I want to feel.
Yes I was defensive. It would have been impossible for me not to be given my history.