It was a mental health survey, 12 questions, and I gave the wrong answer to 11 of them. (I was still horny.)
And the doctor said, "Oh, honey, you have depression."
And so I began the journey through formal depression and formal prescriptions. It was '85, or so, and Prozac (flueoxetine) was very new, and I got my first prescription for depression.
And she said, "Oh! That's interesting."
She asked me to wait a minute, cuz she had a little survey she wanted me to fill out.
And she brought me this little questionnaire, twelve questions, and asked me to quickly fill it out.
So there I am, at the doctor's office (my goodness, she was a lovely woman), and you have to picture me, I'm maybe 25, 26, 27, it's unclear, but you have to picture me like a third grader.
I'm avoiding eye contact.
I'm digging my toe into the carpet.
I mumble, "Helen says I have to tell you I'm miserable all the time."
And bestie said, "Did you tell her you were miserable all the time?"
Of course I didn't tell my doctor I was miserable all the time. Don't be ridiculous.
But.
But, you know, I had just had a big fight in which I was in the wrong, so I couldn't really quite rationalize telling bestie to fuck off.
And we had a big argument.
I have no idea what it was about, no clue.
But I do know that I was in the wrong.
Sooooooo, fuck me, I went to her room, and crawled up the ladder to her loft bed, and apologized.
And I told her about this physical ailment, and my trips to the (seriously major hawt) doctor, and how we'd got *nuffin* so far.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, my ex- (and bff) had been away on walkabout after we did hospice for her mother.
And she was back, and she stayed in my spare bedroom.
I would play racquetball, badly, with my friend, and I'd come out all exhausted and sweaty, and he'd condescend and such like.
But then when I went to the van, and levered myself up in to the seat, my forearms would be thick deep owwie.
Somewhere around the age of 26 or so, I began to experience sharp and deep pain in the bones of my forearms.
I was rich then, so I went to the doctor.
She was DO, all of my best doctors have been DOs, and to be entirely transparent, she was *gorgeous*, and I had a huge crush on her.
And we did numerous tests, and we got nothing.
Aight, fine. It's only 10:30, and I have truly staggering amount of beer left, so I'll tell you a story.
Awww, shit. Someone faved and boosted a bunch of my posts and they were a bot.
I hate it when that happens.
To my neurodiverse associates, and to my neurotypical associates as well, I wish mostly that we could stop causing each other pain.
"Normal" isn't actually a thing.
In high-dimensional spaces, there really is no "average". That's mathematical, not polemical.
But it's polemical, too.
MORE SLACK. SEND MORE SLACK.
This life is hard as fuck, and everyone around you is doing the best they can to manage it.
I am what you'd call a "success", really.
But I am not well, and I never have been.
And I am most definitely not neurotypical.
I am *glad* for these labels, and *glad* for these diagnoses. I know how very much relief they give.
I am a traumatized empath.
I became the emotional adult of my family when I was just six years old.
When I *see* pain, I *feel* it, and I have to process it.
That is why I do not do encounters with more than four people, except pro forma, for my family encounters.
It has been an oddly lucrative trait, cuz when you are a coach, seeing pain is very very important.
I am, in fact, a world-class software development coach, with more actual field experience than all but a few.
I am.
*Definitely* I am.
I don't fit in any of the usual categories, tbh.
I am not autistic. I am not ADHD.
I have stripes of OCD, but they don't, like, they don't quite add up to a diagnosis.
Do you think you are neurodivergent?
This is not a question about diagnosis. If you think you are, the answer is yes.
As always, please boost.
@GeePawHill @Elizafox And, yet again, I can share this: https://circumstances.run/@agturcz/116715018661129147
Stunning take, and Anthony Jackson's entire bass line is legendary.
The O'Jays, "For the Love of Money"
Went to the country store for beer in my houseslippers.
So. Yeah. I guess I *would* say I was a renegade.
As I told another respondent, this was not a post about the US president.