The last few weeks has been a bit of a whirlwind in my head. I’ve had so many thoughts and realisations, and done quite a bit of reading. I’ve been wanting to put metaphorical pen to paper, or more accurately “fingers to keys” about so many different things that I’ve managed to write nothing.
Really though, that’s so utterly typical of my life that it’s almost laughable. Especially when you add in a rather unhealthy dose of perfectionism, and my ever present imposter syndrome.
Worse, I feel like I ought to start at the beginning, that starting where I am is somehow offering an incomplete or inaccurate view of myself. The trouble is that right now I don’t really know where the beginning is. I can begin at birth and tell mangled stories my mother told me, but that doesn’t really feel like the right beginning. Do I begin last October when my daughter’s seventh psychologist softly told me “I think she might be Autistic.” I was amused. She’s not Autistic. She’s just like me. She’s my mini me. She’s not Autistic. Ohhhhh. Or do I start with last Tuesday, August 13th, when the Clinical Psychologist who has specialised in ASD diagnosis for over 30 years handed me a report and told me I was clearly Autistic.
Somehow I feel like that is where I ought to begin because somehow that is where I, elahluna, begin. But will that make any sense without my history? I’ve managed to tie myself up in knots over such a simple thing. Which is sort of my thing, I guess.