The past 18 months or so of my life have been a lot. Never mind any part that has anything to do with anything outside of my brain, body, and spirit. Reflecting on the me-ness of this past year and a half has been a lot.

I think my childhood was about avoiding diagnosis and feeling free to be an authentic unlabeled version of myself. My adulthood, or at least the past decade or two, has largely been about figuring out why I do the things I do and how I can live a life without constantly experiencing the feeling of jumping out of my skin when I encounter… well pretty much anyone.

A lot has been said about folks being diagnosed with neurodiversity later in life. I fall into the category of someone being assessed and diagnosed during perimenopause.

When I first started down this path of discovering why I am the way I am and exploring if there are things I can do to help calm my overactive nervous system I was very much aware that my brain chemistry had shifted in a significant way.

When I was a kid I always wondered what it was like to have a nervous breakdown in the literal sense. Well, I found out.

Working with a doctor, psychologist, and psychiatrist to figure out what really was going on with me was a full-time job that didn’t come with a paycheck or traditional benefits. So many words titles and theories have been thrown around. Work has been done. Medications have been adjusted. Added. Removed. And added. And removed. Names have been given to what, or what else, is “wrong” with me, by an amazing group of doctors who don’t use the word “wrong” in context to me.

Deep reflection continues.

Of all the titles and diagnoses that have been tossed around and decided upon Autism was one I never expected to hear.

It came as a huge shock and as I tried to sit with it my brain screamed and argued and insisted that no absolutely not. Because I totally would have known. And then I had the, I hear, the somewhat common experience, of telling some of my loved ones and having them say…

Well yeah.

After a couple of months of sitting with this, obsessing over this, meditating on this, rambling non-stop about this, and going down a million little rabbit holes headfirst, I think I’ve finally landed on my feet.

Metaphorically speaking.

It’s not like I’ve suddenly become a different person. Everyone changes as they grow and age but sticking a name to something I’ve already been my entire life isn’t going to change much except my own mental loops. And changes to those loops I find myself in are as constant as the moon.

But my partner asked the question last night, he asked does the name change anything for me?

I’ve been unkind to myself about the way my brain works for as long as I can remember. Through every year I’ve built up more ways to “deal with myself” and to get myself to function more acceptably.

“We” have tried to fix so many things. I have tried to fix so many things. To relax my mind. To focus my mind. To present a calm and unified front. To pretend things that bother me soooooo much that I want to scream don’t register in my countenance.

I’ve made so many masks to wear over the years and mirrored so many people that I saw as safe that I’m not sure I can recognize all the faces of me let alone expect anyone else to.

So yes. The name changes everything for me as I tear down my life and look at the way I’ve responded to the world around me, the way I’ve trained myself to behave, the way I’ve drowned out the feelings and noise of the world to survive. To sometimes thrive.

Yes, it has changed everything as I let go of years of shame and confusion.

But no. No it doesn’t change anything at all, does it?

Everything and absolutely nothing. Like every other stage of my life, I continue to be a work in progress.

Inspired by my wicked smart friend Kate, I’m giving audio versions of these posts a try. Let me know if you prefer listening to or reading blog posts…