June 3rd, 2016.

It seems as though one of my greatest hobbies is making appointments I don’t keep—whether that be professional appointment or a social outing. I am the Queen of Cancellation.

Though I have a long and monogamous love affair with being socially uncomfortable, I have always been very secure in exactly who I am, what I stand for and who I let inside—even if some of those people were unfortunate mistakes and grossly unworthy. The last time I underwent “therapy” was over a decade ago in a tiny office above a health food store. I was diagnosed with chronic depression as well as manic depression, otherwise known as bipolar disorder. I was to be written a prescription for Lithium and Xanax. These are apparently the tools you hand to a girl who is trying to tell you that she has never felt normal—never felt like she has ever fit in—and never felt more alone. “You’re depressed.” “You’re anxious.” “You’re manic.” It’s so easy to write it off as such, I suppose.

The truth is, I was depressed. I was anxious. I was manic—but I was misdiagnosed. I knew it. When I left that office, prescription in hand, I knew I wasn’t going to take what was prescribed to me, and I knew I was never going back. I became comfortable in knowing that even a “professional” didn’t understand me.

Fast forward to June 3rd, 2016. The photo that accompanies this post was taken in the waiting room of a place I found while doing gratuitous research on autism. Yes, autism. It wasn’t until college that I realized that my “depression” and “anxiety” may have roots in something much greater than I ever imagined. As a Psychology major, autism was something that was touched on throughout my studies, and something that started really resonating with me over time. Despite being able to relate to the case studies I read about, I always denied the possibility that I was, in fact, autistic.

Today, after nearly thirty-three years of life, I was diagnosed with Asperger’s Syndrome. I was diagnosed as such—without hesitation—by the leading expert on autism in my geographical area. A diagnosis doesn’t necessarily make things easier, per se, but I consider this being told what is right for once, rather than what is wrong.

And thus begins a new chapter.

Tell me more?

I’ve been lying on the floor for an hour. Probably longer. 

I can feel bits of carpet fibers underneath my fingernails from clawing the carpet while I was thinking of you. The loneliness I feel is crippling. Motivation turns to stagnancy. I told myself to get up several minutes ago but the weight of my thoughts won’t allow me to move.

I just want you to touch me and mean it. Everything feels so far away. Sometimes I think I made you up. Like you’re part of a dream that I never forgot. I tell myself that I should forget because one day you will. 

“This is for right now.” Isn’t it?