Crazy is not a term therapists and clinicians want their clients to use. Yet that is the very term I used to describe myself and immediate family. The usual response went something like this "that is a negative term and we prefer not to use it". The utterance was not intended to be judgmental. It was used to describe a feeling and a behavior. As a child my mother would say "you're acting crazy!" when I had a meltdown. As a teen it was revised to "You are crazy!" Yes to the outside world crying, rocking and hitting yourself for 20-30 minutes is unacceptable no matter how filled with frustration and anxiety you are. And by the time the feeling of relief set in and the calm behavior returned it was too late, the crazy label was firmly in place!
At 22 I was a young alcoholic in deep depression with daily thoughts of suicide. A parent to a toddler who most certainly deserved me gone, still I sought recovery. It took courage to seek help as alcohol and prescription sedatives were the only thing that kept the fear and pain away. A chance for recovery presented itself, yet if that failed, death was still an available option. I was directed to a 12 step meeting not sure what to expect. I had created a very small world with few people in it. All that was about to change.
The room was full. Two seats away sat a woman who lived in my town. After the meeting was over, I held my breath walked over and said hello. That night she took me under her wing. Shaking and just a few days without anything in my system I became the new kid on the block. Many people, all of whom quoted phrases and asked questions, began giving instructions sometimes gently, others with military like authority. The first thing that was strongly recommended was an inpatient detox and rehab. That was not even an option. Not drinking and talking to these people seemed a fair start. Yet all said you "need" to go to rehab. Panic set in.
Throughout my 22 years I desperately wanted people to accept me. The thought that rejection was possible and I might be turned away seemed horrific. This was my last stop. Still I knew all to well how to be alone without hope and rejection was familiar. The anxiety surrounding being locked up was greater than the need for acceptance. I stated "Maybe you needed to go but I am not going!" Most assumed I was just a defiant alcoholic who was exercising a lack of willingness to go to any lengths for recovery. That was not so. It would take 24 more years to uncover the truth. An ASD diagnosis was waiting, but the journey would be long and much more difficult without that information.
The idea that my deep, dark, depression was due to alcohol gave me a sliver of hope. If that were true, and I doubted it, maybe life could be something better and perhaps my son would have the mother he deserved. I believed that I was a brand of crazy, once diagnosed, that would get locked up indefinitely. No team of therapists and psychologists would get that close a look. And never behind a facility door that quite possibly would remain shut. If that were to happen the alcohol, my only coping mechanism, would be too far out of reach. Dry and incurably mentally ill was a thought I could not live with.
Initial recovery was rocky. Daily anxiety along with frequent panic attacks were the norm. Sitting for more than 40 minutes in any setting was impossible. I felt as if I wanted to scream if I sat too long. I believed that I was an alcoholic without question but was certain the untreatable crazy diagnosis would eventually emerge and all hell would break loose. Maybe I could find out what it was and there would be a type of treatment someday. Not a cure, just a conditioning to minimize the thoughts and acting out. The quest took the form of different therapy groups including adult children of alcoholic support, anxiety groups, CBT among others. Maybe I was bi-polar or ADHD or slightly schizophrenic. Nothing really seemed to fit the psychiatric definition and exactly mimic the behaviors. I kept looking and attempting to do what was asked of me. Not as well as my counterparts but with dedication, conviction and as if my life depended on it. Which it did.
Post diagnosis I realized individuals with ASD are expected to work and seek support in the same way others do, and that was a recipe for failure. I understood, finally. Many times when asked or expected to participate I would have to say no. Then I was told "you can't say no". This reinforced feelings of defectiveness. Too much energy was used trying to do that which was easy for most and exhausting for people like myself. Emerging understanding of adults with ASD must include seeking the holes in therapy standards. A successful recovery will only occur when practitioners rethink analysis, approach, therapy goals and relapse prevention. I am finally cleared of the crazy label and can maintain my recovery as I see fit. Now I can tailor a successful path for my future and assist others on the spectrum in pursuit of a substance free life.
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