I was a scapegoat from birth until I moved out... literally.
Soon after the excitement at my birth faded, I was labeled a "difficult child" because I never slept through the night, cried constantly, and didn't "cuddle" much.
During my pre-school years, I was hyperactive and strong-willed, and my mother began comparing me to my sister, who is two and a half years younger than I, and neurotypical. I was labeled "the problem child" because I was insensitive to my mother's grief at my father's death, which occurred when I was two. (My mother claims that I did not understand that he had died; my memories--two "snapshot" memories of the time--seem to indicate that I understood death quite well, but perhaps I didn't respond to my own or my mother's grief in an expected way.)
By the time I was nine, and my mom married my first stepfather, I had already been called "unmanageable"; I hated to be washed, hated having my hair brushed, refused to wash dishes or have anything to do with slimy, sticky, or smelly substances while cleaning, and didn't like wearing clothes. I was driven crazy by inconsistencies in my environment, especially when it came to discipline--my mother's discipline was often mood-dependent. Enduring disappointment was impossible. During this time, my temper tantrums peaked; any of the aforementioned things could set them off.
When I was nine, my family endured a six-month marriage to a terminally ill bipolar man. I got my first taste of true abuse and extreme inconsistency, and my mother was convinced, by this man, that I was the family problem. After he died, I was taken to counseling for my bad behavior; I disclosed the abuse, but nothing was really done to help me or my mother and sister. By this time, I was clinically depressed--which, of course, resulted in more bad behavior.
By age twelve, when my mother married another man (who was also abusive), I was desperately trying to enforce order in my world. I would write up "family contracts" which included rules that everyone would live by, chores assigned in a predictable manner, a weekly family council to resolve disputes. These requests were ignored; I was after all just the "problem child", not to be listened to. I still threw temper tantrums, especially when my parents were inconsistent or lied to me.
During my teen years, I spent a lot of time reading, immersed in one interest or another. I would probably not have gotten through those years if it were not for my intense fascination with physics.
A small respite from the direct abuse from my stepfather came when he was arrested for counterfeiting money. I stole the evidence my mother would have burned, blockaded myself in my bedroom, and called the police. My stepfather got probation. I told the police that I had been beaten by my stepfather, but as there were (at the time) no marks to show for it, nothing was done. My mother blamed me for causing the family more trouble.
As an adolescent, I did none of the classical "rebellious" things: I never drank, used drugs, left the house without permission (day or night), skipped school, or got a grade lower than an A-minus. I ran away from home only once, after a death threat from my stepfather, and returned late the next day. And yet I was labeled "rebellious"--I still hated touching dirty, wet things; I still longed for predictability; I still didn't see the point of hygiene; and I still had temper tantrums.
College changed a lot of that: After a year, I was bathing regularly; and doing my own dishes became a necessity--a choice between the smell of cold food and the touch of dishwater. My meltdowns decreased to near-zero, replaced in secreet by self-harm. After three years, I even had friends, for the first time in my life.
But a surprising problem occurred: At college, I was, for the first time, safe from abuse, mistreatment, bullying, and ridicule. All my life before then had been geared towards surviving those things; and now I had no idea how to cope.
My grades dropped to failing; I was hospitalized after a major self-injury episode that required a few stitches (five, I think) because I'd been too clumsy with the razor blade. I was kicked out of school twice, first for mental-health reasons; then because my grades were too low.
It was a year before I could find the courage to tell my mother about my self-injury; six months after that, I was diagnosed with Asperger Syndrome, and a lot of my "difficult child" behaviors fell into place.
My mother, who always meant well, still doesn't quite believe her "stubborn, defiant genius child" has a "pervasive developmental disorder". She seems to prefer to believe that I am just strong-willed and needed consistency.
Currently I am teaching myself how to cope in a world where you don't have to fight for survival and sanity. I'm taking antidepressants, though I really hope I won't have to take them forever, and learning a lot of strategies when it comes to studying--both to deal with the executive dysfunction that comes with AS, the distractability I believe stems from either depression or undiagnosed ADHD, the Aspie preoccupation with special interests that distracts me from schoolwork, and the lack of motivation that comes with depression. My main philosophy is to stop trying to "just do it", and instead to find creative ways around those problems that are stopping me from doing what I know I'm capable of doing. Smashing my way through college by sheer willpower hasn't worked so far; it doesn't make sense to keep trying to do it that way.
Before college, I had just always depended on a good memory: Hearing something once, or reading it once, was enough to pass the test--I even wowed Sunday school teachers by learning a Bible verse after one reading. But during college, especially with a physics major, I needed to learn to study--something I had never learned as a child because I simply didn't need that skill.
So now the focus is on learning how to study, learning how to work, learning how to live... all while trying to keep from drowning in enough debt to buy my creditors a rather expensive house.
28 Sep 2006, 1:08 pm
