Great. So you’ve got an ADHD or autism diagnosis. Now what?

There’s a part of diagnosis that seems magical.

All these years, you’ve been searching for answers, and NOW you finally have one.

Certainly, the neurotypical view of a diagnosis is that you have it now, and you’re cured, right?

We do it too. We tend to put very unreasonable expectations on the weight of a diagnosis, and what it actually means for us.

If you’ve been looking for meds, then a diagnosis is essential.

But even without medication, for a lot of us, that diagnosis is seen as validating. “Here,” you think. “Finally I know what’s wrong with me.”

Yeah. So....about that.

After many years of doing my best to ignore my health, I had a personal come to Jesus talk with myself, and we agreed to start making ourself a priority.

In December, I started EMDR therapy. I got a trauma coach. Also on the list for this year: Hellerwork sessions, an integrative physician, maybe a walk or two. Don’t wanna overdo it.

I also started thinking about looking for a dentist. I have not yet made progress.

My teeth...are a real problem.

When I was 12, I was sexually assaulted by my orthodontist. Then, as is so common for survivors, I suffered a secondary trauma when no one believed that it happened.

The core memory I have of this whole encounter is not actually the assault. I remember, but it’s not what haunts me. It’s the look on my father’s face as he screamed that I was a liar. The way he turned purple, the spit raining down on my face as he got closer and closer. The way that vein popped out in his forehead, and that I could see his pulse in it.

I’ve hung my entire sense of self-worth on that moment for decades now. That I was not worthy of being believed.

That belief has colored years of experiences with medical professionals, both in my unwillingness to see them, or advocate for myself when necessary.

I have not seen a dentist in almost 25 years.

My teeth are not in terrible shape I don’t think. Obviously, I’m just guessing. My gums, on the other hand. Well.

I knew that going to the dentist would involve a lot of work for me. The least of which is actually finding a dentist.

The real problem is coming to terms with myself.

Because somewhere in this whole process of getting right with myself, it’s come to my attention that I am probably autistic. So in addition to all that other stuff up there, I am now working on getting myself yet another formal diagnosis.

I cannot tell a lie, this is a real record scratch moment for me.

My daughter was diagnosed 15 years ago. Surely somewhere along the way, I should have seen something and said...”huh. That’s interesting.”

(Narrator: She did not, in fact, notice anything about herself. Said it was her husband’s genes allllll those years.)

I’ll be honest, the fact that I’ve been oblivious this entire time is a dead fucking giveaway. 

And yet, here we are.

So many of the things that I’ve believed about myself for so many years have started to unravel.

The unraveling is not pretty.

It requires an infinite amount of grace for myself—that I AM, in fact, worthy.

You see, I’ve been playing the diagnosis dance for more than 25 years now. I was 14 when I was diagnosed as Bipolar I with rapid cycling. I was deep in mania at the time, which is a state of mind that is difficult to describe to people who haven’t experienced it. But it is quite delightful. I believed I could do whatever I wanted, and so I did. I never slept, I rarely ate, and I felt like a hummingbird.

My father just called it “out of control, and needs to be fixed.”

So I started with Lithium, which made me suicidal (they no longer prescribe this to teenagers at all). Being suicidal was, of course, also my fault.

That’s when the lectures started. Hours of being forced into an overstuffed floral chair in the living room while my father and stepmother proceeded to tell me everything that was wrong with me. I can still tell you exactly what those flowers looked like.

Then I moved on to a delightful cocktail of Wellbutrin, Xanax, Zoloft. They used to hand out mind-altering drugs like candy. And they did indeed make me a mindless zombie. Even my father was alarmed.

But you can’t just quit those kinds of drugs cold turkey, so as I weaned off of them, I got a little piece of myself back.

And then I started running away from home.

My tragic flaw here (and I look back on this now and say, OF COURSE YOU’RE AUTISTIC, DUH) is that I kept going back to school.

Y’all, I had fucking plans. I was going to go to the Naval Academy at Annapolis. I had already secured my congressional recommendation letter by knocking on hundreds of doors for Mark Udall’s House campaign.

I did all that while also swimming competitively, working the costuming department in the theatre, and maintaining an A average in honors classes. When I tell you mania is amazing, I mean it.

So I would run away, stay with a friend, and then eventually, the truancy officer at school would take me home.

And that’s when the physical abuse started. Mostly, it was my stepmom, but I was pretty mouthy, according to my father.

That was also my fault.

So my father declared me “beyond control of parent,” and sent me to live in a group home for six months.

I begged the court for emancipation.

And I was denied, based on my “questionable mental health status and need for oversight.”

Because, once again, I was probably lying, and not doing anything about it was easier.

And just like that, everything was over. I was unable to take my finals, so my grades tanked. All my plans, even if they were insane, were gone in a second.

After that was Depakote, which caused me to gain a ridiculous amount of weight in a short period of time.

And when I returned home, fat and docile was also my fault, because just look at how expensive the grocery bill is getting. I don’t believe my two preteen brothers ever heard about the increase in costs, though.

When I was 17, I was able to make my escape. My mom was finally out of prison (that’s a story for another time, y’all) and I could leave my father’s supervision. He was more than happy to be rid of me.

I went to a different psychiatrist, who was deeply unhappy about my med history to date, and prescribed me a low dose of Seroquel.

Ten hours of sleep a night made me a different person.

But it still didn’t solve my problems.

Because around this same time, I started waking up every morning and vomiting. I’d throw up once, sometimes twice, and then be fine for the day.

I can’t tell you how many pregnancy tests I took, despite the fact that I was not sexually active. (As an adult, I know this is just procedure. But then, it felt like still more people telling me that I was lying.)

Doctor after doctor insisted there was nothing wrong with me, and it must all be in my head.

In the end, more than three years later, after it turned out that I was finally pregnant, I got a diagnosis of Generalized Anxiety Disorder.

A lot of you took our Sensory Survey. (If you didn’t, you can find it here. I’m not going anywhere.) Almost 80% of you said that you were diagnosed with or had self-diagnosed anxiety. If I had to guess, I’d say at least another 10% of you waffled about whether to check the box or not.

More than anything else, it’s probably our anxiety that brings us together.

And here’s where we get back to worthiness.

Because what else is anxiety but doubt in our own self-worth? Our ability to make decisions for ourselves? To know, with a high degree of certainty, that we can handle whatever life is throwing at us?

To believe that I have value. That the work I do has value.

For so many people, these things come easily.

But if you are neurodiverse, with or without a diagnosis, with parenting from terrible to just misunderstood, worthiness has a profound weight to it, because we so rarely have felt it.

Instead, we mostly walk around feeling like we’re missing something.

And that it’s our fault.

This means that when it comes to defining worthiness, we have to do it for ourselves.

Because in every way that matters, neurodiversity is the anchor of my life.

It is who I am.

It is how I earn a living.

For me, it has become a gift.

But it’s one I’ve spent most of my life learning how to integrate.

And, as it turns out, it will continue to be the work of a lifetime. Mine and yours.

I will never have this all figured out, apparently. 

Every time I think I do, there’s a new wrench in the works.

Partially that’s because worthiness doesn’t have any pat answers.

Do you deserve it? Do I? According to whom? Does a god or gods or the universe have anything to do with it? Is worth inherent, or is it earned?

That’s not even touching its potential relationships with love, money, sex, children, race, gender, and an infinite number of other places where the concept of worthiness intersects.

And these are heavy fucking questions.

What I can tell you is that worthiness doesn’t exist in a vacuum.

We can and should work on telling ourselves that we’re worthy (and believing it). But beyond that, having someone validate your experience and say, “yes, that’s how this works,” will completely change your life.

That’s just one of the things people love about working with me.

I don’t have the answers. All I have is a deep certainty in the worthiness of us all.

What I know for sure is that YOU have those answers to these questions about yourself.

You always have.

All those things that you’ve always thought were wrong, or broken about you, that’s where your magic is.

Neurodiversity is not just a broad definition that encompasses ADHD, autism, and lifelong mental illness. It’s literally a difference in the way your neurons fire. It’s right there in the name.

Your brain makes connections that a neurotypical brain does not.

Sees things that an NT brain does not.

FEELS things that an NT brain does not.

And it’d be a fucking shame for that vision to go to waste.

But the first thing you have to do is reprogram your beliefs around how you think, and what you are worthy of.

Some of us are better at certain things than others.

That’s why I am so insistent about nurturing your village.

Because one thing you are worthy of is help.

You CAN ask for help.

And if you build it correctly, your village will become one of the foundations for everything you do in your life.

And, just in case you needed a reminder, I build foundations.

Whether it’s habits like sleep, rest, or diet, to working with your neurochemistry, to finally getting some fucking discipline and planning shit, to building your village, I help you figure out what YOUR foundations are.

When you work with me, you’ll identify where your foundations need work, and what you need to do to actually fix the problem.

I’ll teach you ways to focus on your priorities, so that you’re actually paying attention to what matters, and letting go of everything else.

You’ll also learn how to work with your differences in a way that honors them, so that you can finally stop hiding, and be the person you really want to be.

Because I see you.

And you ARE worthy.

You are worthy of doing this work. And I promise you, it’ll change your life.

Listen, this newsletter was a lot, and I am not a licensed professional. If you need help discussing sexual assault, start with RAINN, at 800-656-4673. Need help leaving domestic violence? Start with the National Domestic Violence Hotline, at 800-799-7233. International resources can be found here and here. If you’re feeling suicidal, please contact the Suicide Prevention Lifeline, at 800-273-8255. Finally, if you just need someone, anyone to talk to, reach out to the Crisis Text Line, by texting HOME to 741741.

Thank you for being here with me. It is my honor and privilege.