After the Diagnosis, posts about being an autistic woman
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January 2023: two years ago and the period in which I received the official diagnosis of autism. The stresses that led to the referral, assessment, evaluation and diagnosis (a ten month journey in the Dutch health care system that involved nearly a dozen experts on autism) were because of a family based trauma that was making me physically ill. Click for more.
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I never wanted to be Jane Eyre. I wanted to be Jane Eyre. Was I Jane Eyre? Couldn’t be possible, could it? Writing this post, I immediately contradict myself as I try to remember what I felt when I was a young teenager and reading the Brontë sisters. Click for more.
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A love poem. The call was for a love poem. This was more than ten years ago and I don’t write love poems or, more specifically, poems about lovers. I remember I pulled out a few lines I had written in conjunction with a specific plumbing tool, the name to which had engendered some fascination in me. Click for more.
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“When will this stop?” I was exasperated.
My therapist at the Hersencentrum in Amsterdam looked at me.
“You said you did not want medication. Do you want to talk about medication?” Click for more.
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I would really like to go mudlarking. I daydream about this possibility. Wait, hold up – such a funny word daydreaming. As opposed to night dreaming. I don’t think I have ever dreamt about mudlarking at night. At least I have never woken up thinking that I almost took hold of a miniscule and wafer thin rose farthing only to watch it gently slip out of my grasp by the force of a passing wave as a seagull squawked overhead. (Pan camera angle to grey sky.) Click for more.
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Sitting in a chair in a room, I took in the news. The room had high ceilings and big windows. There wasn’t a screen or a buzz or any electronic distraction. The mood was not modern, as in a modern life vibe. A plant stood in the corner.
“You have the option,” I heard her say after announcing the diagnosis, “to join a group for learning about managing as an autistic person.” Click for more.
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I was cleaning up dried out cat puke under the piano. I hadn’t noticed it before because I rarely go to the piano. Standing in front of the keyboard, I felt a vague inclination to lift the cover and sit down. This is the first time in three years, or since the beginning of the crisis that led to autism diagnosis, that I have actually almost wanted to play the piano. Click for more.
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It’s one of my favorite buildings in Amsterdam and it happens to be called a palace. But the building was not designed to be a palace. Magnificent, Amsterdam’s City Hall was the first Republic building of its sort in Europe. Napoleon, after invading the country, transformed the city hall into a palace and, to this day, the building is retained as a royal residence. Click for more.
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“Italian.”
I was surprised. No one had ever asked me to cook Italian food for them.
For thirteen years, before my divorce, I lived in Gouda. During that period I happily made quite a few friends and remain in contact with people. But for professional and private reasons I became closer to one family with whom I still regularly meet up to share stories and home cooking. Click for more.
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She was a professional and trying to find something to engage me. Something to do with autism that maybe I could elaborate on since I had, in the midst of the ongoing family trauma, indicated to my doctor my suspicion that I could possibly be autistic. Click for more.
