Needing a tissue...
Posted by
18th Dec 2015

My cpn says she has a ďmathematicalĒ mind.
Iím not sure what sort of mind I have, I donít think anyone can categorise the human mind.
Weíre all different, unique, the sum total of our experiences and individual characteristics.
I suppose Iíve got the sort of mind that can find solutions to problems using a bit of common sense and creativity.
I only know Iím different.
For example, I like to go outside when itís raining. When no-oneís looking I like to dance in the rain.
In our society thatís seen as socially questionable. Not normal.
In Australia, where I was raised, when the tropical rain pours down after a drought itís a common occurrence. Maybe the Aussies are more accepting of the freedom to express the sheer joy of living.
Now, I sit outside on my balcony (1st floor flat) and enjoy the fresh smell, the chilled air. Sometimes on a frosty night I sit out there wrapped up and gaze up at the heavens and just marvel at the beauty of the stars and constellations.
Sometimes I sit out there and weep for the life I might have had but for being socially unacceptably different.
I wanted to work as a teacher of autistic youngsters, as a therapist and counsellor and I trained to do so.
With over 25 yearsí experience developing strategies and therapies to help my daughter because there was nothing available when she was diagnosed, I had lots to offer other parents of autistic people, and autistic people themselves.
I developed a therapy/teaching/counselling model because there was nothing in contemporary counselling, and still isnít, that could be adapted to help autistic survivors. I use it with my daughter as we still share ďtherapyĒ sessions. Though sheís my daughter, sheís an adult and my equal. I no longer have parental authority over her. I just help and advise and intervene if sheís in personal danger.
Maybe I could have earned a fortune.
Who knows?
But thatís a life lost because of being on antipsychotic meds.
I canít practise or teach. Iíve lost credibility.
But, though I weep at times, Iím an optimist. I think even if I can only sit with my broken body, shaking hands and fragile mind and crochet squares for blankets for someone cold in Africa, at least I can do SOMETHING.
And I look around me at my lovely new home. Not exactly luxurious, but warm and safe. Iíve got upturned cardboard boxes for furniture (to put lamps, cd player, Christmas tree etc, on) because
moving anything even moderately heavy makes my tremor 100 times worse and then I canít paint and draw or write or take photographs.
I think about my lovely children and take pride in all the years invested in teaching them, guiding them, enjoying the childhood I should have had through them and I smile and think, ďThatís a job well done, girl.Ē
I think of the gifts and talents I have and use to help others while I can.
And now the tears are beginning to fall. Not tears of despair, but tears of gratitude to have so much in life to enjoy that the pain and suffering caused by drugs, MH illness and the rest of it just pales into nothingness.
Maybe thereís a diagnosis for that, too.

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