Not sure if depressed or concussed.

Mac the Disordered Uncategorized ,

I have been dealing with a rough patch lately, but in the last week I’ve had more good days so things are looking hopeful.  But something happened yesterday that may or may not have set me back.

The day started off well; I got up before 11 am for the first time in a week and went for a run.  Context – my running routine consists of walking to the park/nature reserve a few streets away from my house, running through the bush for 45 minutes and warming down by walking home.

Being a Saturday in the school holidays, the park was crowded with picnickers and competitors in the local Frisbee golf tournament ( I have no idea either…) but I wasn’t paying attention to anyone.  I didn’t think I needed to.

Anyway, I completed my run and began walking back home, cut off from the world by my music and dark sunglasses.

Out nowhere I felt an almighty impact to the back of my head and my vision blacked out.  My limbs went slack and I dropped onto my side.  My hand started working again and automatically moved to the back of my head.  I opened my eyes and looked up incredulously.  What the hell was that?  There was no-one nearby, the picnic area was about half a kilometre away.  I figured a falling tree branch must have hit me.

While I was trying to look for the offending branch without moving my head, I heard yelling and running feet.  Suddenly I was looking up at a team of concerned Frisbee golfers.

I had been hit at the base of my skull by a Frisbee.  Not your standard lightweight Frisbee either, it was a dense plastic with narrow, sharp edges.  they explained that they had been practicing some way away.  The thrower was concerned about forcibly throwing a heavy Frisbee in a busy park, but they had assured her that “the only person around is that jogger way over there, and you’re not throwing at her anyway.”

So she hurled it with all her strength.  And it caught a freak breeze.  And rebounded off a tree and into the back of my head.  Lucky me.

I was still a bit groggy but fortunately one of the golfers was a doctor.  He started off asking me about my family to see if I was confused, but we ended up sitting on the path talking for about an hour.  By that point he was satisfied that I had no fractures or bleeds, and I convinced them that I was good to walk home, given that I live pretty much across the road.

Then as I was walking home, my housemate drove past and threw a water bottle at me because HILARITY.

I got home, showered, bandaged an ice pack to the back of my head, and sat in my darkened room to watch some tv.

And after about half an hour of this I realised that apart from a mild headache I was fine.

But I felt completely hopeless.

It’s important to rest physically and cognitively after a concussion but even though I was doing that, I couldn’t make myself do anything else like, say, paint my nails, clean my room, do my makeup.  My housemate was having a party and I found myself hiding in my room for the first half of it.  Being in the living room, with everyone talking was too much for me to handle.

Twenty four hours later I’m still feeling flat.  Not the same as the fogginess and dulled senses I’ve felt with concussions I’ve had before, and obviously I’m typing this onto a backlit screen without discomfort.  My motivation has been completely zapped.

It’s probably the unexpectedness of the incident which making me keen to stay withdrawn I guess.  Which is understandable but I hope it doesn’t stay around for too long.

But I still can’t tell the story without laughing so I’ll probably be ok.

Although I skipped the run today because…well…I don’t want to go outside.  There’s Frisbees out there.

Mac

 

I need to be reminded that my ass is attached to my body otherwise I might forget it :(

Mac the Disordered Uncategorized , , , , ,

It’s funny how counter movements tend to be escalatory in nature.

So recently the #womenaginstfeminism movement came to the attention of the internet, as a collection of statements from mainly women who feel threatened by or dismissive of feminism.

In response the folks behind feminist podcast Wait, Wut? are making #needthepatriachy a thing, as can be seen in this album on their facebook page.

Some of my favourites:

#needthepatriachy because “there’s a hole in my heart that can only be filled with unsolicited dick pictures” FUCKING. YES.

#Needthepatriachy because “Hoards of feminists break into my room and steal my bras for kindling. Shit’s expensive” Well who hasn’t been there.

#needthepatriachy because “feminism made me hate men and now I can’t stop punching my dad. WHY CAN’T I STOP PUNCHING MY DAD?” DADDY FORGIVE ME

Well, after perusing the album I got thinking. When was the last time I acknowledged everything the patriarchy does for me? Time for credit where credit’s due.

After much careful consideration I realised:

I #needthepatriachy because if I felt welcome on the weight floor of the gym, I’d embarrass myself by heading straight for the pretty pink weights.

I #needthepatriachy because if it weren’t for our education minister Christopher Pyne I’d have no idea what to study at uni.

I #needthepatriachy because if I didn’t have aged male politicians telling me how my reproductive system works, I could NEVER work it out on my own. Medical science degree notwithstanding.

I #needthepatriachy because if my looks weren’t worth 95% of my worth as a young woman I’d have to be really, really good at something to be worth talking to. Who has time for that?

I #needthepatriachy because if I wasn’t compelled to spend all that time shaving off my body hair I would go mad from the boredom.

I #needthepatriachy because having a baby is a stressful experience, and worrying about whether I have a job to go back to after I come off maternity leave is great practice.

I #needthepatriachy because my dastardly man–deceiving make up use must be kept in check. Of course it’s reasonable to assume that I look the same way all dolled up under night club lighting 24/7!

I #needthepatriachy because it’s so much simpler to assume everything a man does for me must be repaid in sexual favours.

I #needthepatriachy because if skimpy clothes aren’t a sign of being DTF, how else am I going to pick up?

I #needthepatriachy because ditto drinking too much! Feminists and their pussy blocking…

I #needthepatriachy because thinking that a man would ever want to be friends with my F cups would be thinking way too highly of myself.

I #needthepatriachy because dehumanising everyone who is obviously from a different culture or religion is crucial to our national identity –otherwise we might forget where we live.

I #needthepatriachy because everyone knows, a feminist can’t catch a man!

…

#fuckmysoul

 

How do YOU need the patriarchy in your life?

That wasn’t a rhetorical question. Comment below if you feel inclined. I’m sure yours will be funnier.

#getmeafuckingdrink

Oh by the way, a friend from uni once ran through the campus women’s collective meeting wearing a shirt that said “you can’t catch a man.” He found out that not only can they catch a man, they can kick him pretty hard too.

Mac

I’m screwed

Mac the Disordered Uncategorized

I’ve been lying in bed for a week.

I haven’t been going to work or class. I had an assignment due today. Can’t even care.

I possibly wouldn’t have eaten all week if I didn’t have my boyfriend and housemates feeding me.

I feel like I should be crying more but it’s happening in short bursts. I can lie here mulling over my devastation – nothing. Then burst into a violent sobbing fit while on the toilet, or in the shower, or while playing candy crush. It never lasts for more than a minute

I guess you have to feel in order to cry.

I was forced to feel a lot of things last week and it sucked balls. My brain has gone into survival mode and has suppressed all of my emotions. If I hide from the world then I won’t be made to feel out of turn. Foolproof.

I’m not fishing for sympathy or attention, there’s no spin on this. This is just reality as it’s happening. How emotional can you get over someone who just stares at the ceiling all day?

I will probably get up soon. I’m craving something. As soon as I figure out what food group it belongs to, I’ll be up searching.

At least I think it’s a food. You can’t eat love and validation, can you?

Didn’t think so.

Mac

I just broke up with twelve people

Mac the Disordered anxiety

Oh my lawd that was a tough decision. After all we had been through together.

I never meant to hurt anyone but it was time to face up to the fact that I had taken on a commitment I was incapable of seeing through.

I spent all day crying, shaking, questioning my decision, fearing their reaction. I considered sending a text message to get it out of the way, but no. That would be the coward’s way out. This is a conversation that has to happen face to face to give them the closure that they need.

I felt sick on the drive over to our usual meeting spot. My hands shake as I approach the group. It’s time.

I tried to soften the blow by saying “It’s not you, it’s me…” and I abruptly burst into tears.

Because what I actually meant was:

“Um, actually it is you. Mostly…yeah. Screw you guys, good luck finding another defenseman/back up goalie/anything else I did that the rest of you are too high-and-mighty to do.”

…

Oh I’m sorry, did you think I was in some kind of crazy polyamorous network? Nah. I was playing a contact sport at the representative level for a few years but somewhere along the way the relationship between my team and I became dysfunctional. I was hurting, losing sleep, losing motivation for life in general. Something had to give.

I was injured a lot during the season. I had gained weight during the summer and was trying to lose it slowly but in a contact sport like ours, weight gain without improved fitness has significant impact on your game and your ability to keep yourself safe. So I was getting hurt a lot.

I didn’t want to play injured. Fair enough, right? I’m paying to play, not playing to be paid. Those pro footballers you see get their faces smashed in then come back ten minutes later with stitched? They’re not trying to be heroic, they’re trying to keep their jobs!

Well not fair enough, was what I was told. I showed up to match to support my team after lacerating my fingers to the bone the night before, my tortured stitched fingers balled up in mittens and was told that a) I’m a disappointment because I won’t play injured (“So fucking what? I played with a broken hand!”) and b) to go away because my jumper was too gross to look at. Noice.

Naturally, I left those bitches to stew in their own juice. And lose.

The next day a post appeared on the team facebook group thanking another girl who was too inured to play who had kept score for the game (which she did REALLY BADLY. I don’t think the correct score was up during any point of the game.) The post ended with something like “it’s nice to see that some people show dedication to their team even though they’re injured.”

FUCK. THAT. SHIT. If you want my dedication, don’t insult my taste in knitwear!

So, you want to talk dedication? Ok teammies, where was your dedication when we needed a goalie and you all refused, yes you looked Coach in the eye and REFUSED! to step up. I, with all my co-ordination problems, was left to pick up the slack. When our regular goalie came back, you thought our problems were over. Except, we didn’t have a back up. There was no other goalie in the entire state that could fill in for her if she got hurt. So I kept up with my goalie training because I knew a back up would be needed at some point. How many of you have been joining me at goalie class so you could step up when it was needed, ah that’s right…NONE OF YOU.

Luckily she never missed a game and I stuck to playing defence. Wait, how did I come to do that again? There was this one game were we needed someone to drop to defence. Coach asked all of you forwards that were there…and what did you do?

Oh yeah…YOU REFUSED.

When he asked me, what did I do?

I fucking stepped up that’s what. I don’t mind trying new things, I don’t think I’m so bloody fantastic that the world will stop turning if I’m seen doing something I’m not good at. Actually I became rather competent at it, but more on that later.

A dedicated player is dedicated to being game ready outside training as well. As I said, this is something I dropped the ball on during off season. But I tried to regain game fitness and when the men’s team coach offered to take us for conditioning as well, I jumped at the chance.

It was a fantastic experience but it was a bit of a sausage fest…why weren’t all the other women there too?

Oh yeah…stop me if this is getting repetitive…YOU REFUSED.

I’m too busy (but not for women’s training) I’m too injured (but not for women’s training) I’m too cold (but not for women’s training.) All of these things said by my teammates.

I felt like the question of “but what have you REALLY done for this team?” was hanging over my head a lot this season, bit explicitly and implicitly. I kind of get it – I’m easily one of the weakest players on the team. How can I possibly doing so much hard work if a) no-one’s around to see it and b) my production during the game isn’t the greatest?

It was painfully obvious because of the contrast in skill level on our team. Because we were low on numbers, some national rep players came down to play with us. They came, did wonderful things in game, and everyone was so excited, because of their production we were coming first, we were just so lucky to have them.

We were so lucky. We were reminded often, in case we forgot. In case we started entertaining the idea that because we were wearing the same colours that we were actually equal. These girls were on our team, but they aren’t our teammates. They only passed to each other. They would score, I’d go up to congratulate them and get ignored while they stood there in their exclusive little huddle. Eventually I gave up. Our team scored, I put my head down and moved back into position as it if were an own goal.

They talked only amongst themselves and the girls on our team who had played with them previously, but were willing to make an exception for any of the rest of us plebs willing to fawn over them. I can’t say I’m the fawning type so I went ignored. Screaming for passes, constantly ignored, just conditioning when I should have been playing.

So I settled into a stay at home defenseman role. I got rather good at it, if I say so myself. While our national players got too ambitious, went up too high, when the game turned around I stayed back to take on breakaways as they frantically scampered to fall back. But no one noticed. I shouldn’t care, I know. But no one noticed. Even experienced athletes never give thoughts to what defence is doing unless they score goals, and I didn’t score goals.

I didn’t get player of the match once all season. Not once. I even started voting for myself because there were a few games where I FUCKING DESERVED IT. I don’t care if that makes me look conceited, it’s still true. But yeah. I don’t score goals.

There was this one girl that got it twice. And she’s terrible. She’s been playing for a few years with no improvement. Yeah, I’m terrible too. And yet I’ve never scored a hat trick of own goals. She is the only player I’ve seen do that at any level for God’s sake. And then was prancing about the locker room boasting about how she, like, totally knocked the other team’s star forward over. She couldn’t do her job and actually fucking stop her, hell she way as well be on her line for all she was helping her score, but at least she put her on her arse that one time. What an idiot.

Ok, so she didn’t win the player of the match that day but that’s beside the point! She’s useless. She’s the same ‘dedicated’ player who will score keep when she’s injured even though she can’t score keep.

I felt unappreciated. Because I didn’t only do my work out in the open, where everyone could see me. It did what I could in my own time as well as in team training. I didn’t just cheerlead my team on Facebook where everyone could see me doing it. I can’t say what I don’t mean. If someone was doing remarkably well I told them privately. If I was worried about someone I asked them if they were ok privately.

It shouldn’t matter to me that no one appreciates that. I know I’ve done the right thing. Character is defined by what you do when people aren’t around, after all. I guess my wishing that people were paying attention means that mine still needs work.

But I wasn’t just unappreciated, I wasn’t accepted. Tolerated, but not accepted. I was being pointed to other members of the team. Why aren’t you like her, she volunteers at junior games. Why aren’t you like her, she helps out with coaching. Why aren’t you like her, she never criticises anyone.

I can’t be someone I’m not. I can’t give time I don’t have. I can’t force myself into a role I’m not capable of fulfilling just for approval (already far too common in our sport) and I just can’t bullshit people. I can’t conform to this image of female niceness, which as far as I can tell consists of smiling and lying to someone’s face, telling them that they’re right then bitching furiously behind their backs once they leave.

Being on the spectrum in a women’s locker room is hard. I would much rather sit with a team of men than a team of women. It felt like me and the rest of them. And I am an educated, intelligent – articulate, outspoken (ok, abrupt) female. Let’s face it. Competitive sport isn’t dominated by intelligent, educated, articulate, assertive females, neurotypical or not. I was never going to fit in totally.

There are intelligent girls on my team but they dumb themselves down, present a convincing tough as nails, rough as sandpaper façade to fit in. I feel like that’s what they want and while I want you to think that I won’t be like that, the truth is that I can’t.

Well, if a partner puts you down, belittles you, tries to change you, doesn’t appreciate you, refuses to accept your shortcomings, what do you do? You cut your losses and you leave.

So that’s what I did.

As I drove to practice to confront my coach I was incensed, fuelled by the vitriol I’ve been spewing above. I’m leaving and I’m telling their dopey asses exactly what I think of them when I do!

And yet, I got there. I asked to speak with him, he stood there expectantly with his clipboard with the miniature field drawn on it. And my script went blank.

“I’m done…my season…it’s done.”

He looked sad, asked me if it was the team and my anger evaporated. I burst into tears.

“It’s not them, it’s me.”

He wasn’t angry. He was disappointed. No, shocked he said. But he understood that I had to look after myself.

I agreed to talk again in a few days for closure. Because we were both getting upset, and the parents of the juniors were circling closer and closer, drawn in by the pungent scent of juicy club gossip.

I thanked him and left, flicking tears over my shoulder theatrically as I raced to my car. My anger was gone. It’s still gone. I’m second guessing myself. Because even after everything that happened, it wasn’t them. It really, truly wasn’t.

It was me.

Sure all those incidents were unpleasant but the main reason that I opted out of the rest of the season wasn’t to avoid my team mates, it was my anxiety.

Anxiety driven by a lot of things. Fear of getting injured yet again, fear of being put down by my teammates, fear of trying so hard and going unnoticed yet again None of those things happened in a vacuum but there will always be shitty politics in sport. It you really want to be there you will suck it up and get on with it.

I couldn’t suck it up. Not this time. I would sit on the bench at games, trembling, stomach clenching, one thought on repeat in my head – I DON’T WANT TO BE HERE. I couldn’t concentrate on the game in that state of mind obviously, so I would get in a bad spot and get hurt again. I was losing sleep. I was self-medicating with food and alcohol. I would go to training praying to get injured just so I didn’t have to play. Just thinking about the upcoming game in two weeks was driving me to tears.

I feel like a failure by admitting defeat but I’ve been on teams where people who didn’t want to be there kept forcing themselves, or were being forced to come. There’s a couple on my team now, apart from me. Those people brought the whole team down. I know I’ve been doing that and I don’t want to be that person any more.

I thought I was at peace with my decision until I called BF. He asked me where I was playing this summer, and got an anguished wail down the phone as a response. Thinking about other teams is just too painful!

I need to get over this team before I find a new one. Or we might reconcile next season, I don’t know yet. It’s all still so raw.

And I was just reminded by Facebook that I agreed to go out drinking with them next week! I’d better start preparing my outfit…just to show them what they’re missing out on.

Or will they just drown me in questions? Probably. Ugggggggghhhhh!

I can’t deal. I’m heartbroken.

Excuse me while I go look though team pictures while listening to All Saints’ ‘Never Ever’ on repeat.

Mac

Overheard At the UMAT Test Centre

Mac the Disordered Uncategorized , ,

I sat the UMAT a few weeks ago.

…yeah. I’m still not ready to talk about it.

I am ready to talk about the conversations I overheard though.

When you get thousands of gifted people sitting a very difficult aptitude test which is the first obstacle that has to be passed in order to enter undergraduate medical school here in Australia…you get thousands of very nervous people. Nervous people say the darndest things.

It starts with false bravado. The UMAT is essentially a good old fashioned IQ test, there is not a whole lot that you can do to prepare that will increase your chances of passing. You either have the goods to pass or you don’t. This thought can be a depressing or a positive one, depending on what spin you put on it. The people who deal in false bravado sell the idea that you’ve done all you can do. However, no one takes them seriously, not even themselves.

 

For example:

A: hey guys.

B: Ya ready for the big test?

A: Ha!…All over it

Everyone including A: *hysterical laughter*

 

But there’s always one pessimist/realist in the group who attempts to keeping everyone grounded, probably as a result of their own anxiety. Although they ususally end up freaking themselves out and deciding that a bit of false bravado isn’t so bad after all:

 

A: We ARE all over it.

B: Yep, so many people do it every year, how bad can it be. How many people could possibly fail?

C: um, well 99 percent of us?

B:…What?

C: Considering that thousands of people sit this test to fill a couple of hundred medical school spots nationwide…

B: oh COME ON. Way to build our confidence!

A: Yeah! There’s a line, you know! You didn’t just cross it, you ran to the edge, jumped over, and kept running!

C: oh whatEVER! I’m ready, I was smashing the fish oil last night.

 

Many people who get into medical school have had to apply for a few years straight before getting in. There are several frequent flyers at any UMAT venue, and they seem to manage their anxiety by giving advice to rookies.

 

A: There’s the line, it goes all around the hall. It will take them nearly an hour to check in everyone so don’t go in just yet. Wait for it to get smaller. I checked in first last time and I had to sit in the hall for an hour. No talking, no reading, nothing to do in there.

 

I endorse the above advice wholeheartedly by the way.

By the time we’re in line everyone is getting rather fidgety. To distract themselves, for some reason they swap anecdotes about when things go wrong.

 

A: you know Amy’s mum forgot to register her.

B: WHAT. I. Would. Be. FILTHY!

A: it sucks but that was kind of avoidable you know?

B: yeah true. Who leaves something this important to someone else?

A: *adopts bogan accent* “muuuuum register me for UMAT ‘kay thanks!”

 

And then there was this:

A: how easy would it be to submit a false ID?

B: I don’t know, but there was one year where they caught this guy trying to pass for his wife.

A: um…why?

B: Obviously, she wanted to be a doctor but he was a lot smarter…and far too rugged

 

After the test though, whether it’s sheer exhaustion from three hours of mental exertion or the relief of finishing something which looms over the heads of medical school hopefuls like a storm cloud, people sound a lot more genuine. As we leave the exam hall the people around me seem to be analysing their performance with renewed perspective.

 

A: How was that?

B: ah…*shrugs*

A: well, we can’t know yet. it’s less important how you did, more important how everyone else did.

B: Yep, personal achievement doesn’t matter as much here…I need to remember that.

 

But some people, particularly the aforementioned frequent flyers, like to compare exam techniques, probably trying to convince themselves that they did the right thing.

 

A: I did all section three questions first, did you? Then I did section two, and section one.

B: I did section two first. Did you think they were easier this year?

A:…um, maybe.

 

This advice I do NOT agree with, and I’ll do another post later explaining why. There aren’t actually different sections, what these girls are referring to are three question types that are found in the UMAT – understanding people, scientific analysis and pattern sequencing. The questions are mixed up at random.

When faced with stressful circumstances, some people like to distract themselves by talking. A lot. Much to the delight of people like me, who like to distract themselves by people watching.

God I hope I make it to the interview stage…

Mac

All About That Oxymoron

Mac the Disordered Uncategorized , , , ,

So this…

‘Cos every inch of you is perfect from the bottom to the top.

Unless you have a small booty.

Sigh…

Look, words are not chemical reactions. A body shaming statement followed by a body positive one does not cancel out the shameful one. Even body positivity is present in higher concentrations.

If we, as larger women, can’t express positive self image without telling ‘skinny bitches’ that they can’t twerk with us, clearly our self image needs work.

Why is it so hard to create an empowering body confidence anthem for big women without alienating smaller ones?

Gah…no, don’t answer that, I know why. It makes me sad.

It makes me sadder that I probably will be dancing to this song next Friday. In public.

And trying to recreate all of her outfits. Even the one that looks like a green figure skating dress.

And looking for tutorials for that make-up and hair on Youtube.

Because damn, every inch of Meaghan Trainor is perfect from the bottom to the top. I just wish she could believe it.

Autisitic…or Person With Autism?

Mac the Disordered Asperger Syndrome , , , , , ,

Who is insisting on that distinction and why?

PC terminology is a big deal these days.  Many terms can inadvertently cause offence it seems. It’s not necessarily a bad thing – people are finally starting to accept that using certain terms that have previously been acceptable jargon can be triggering to the minority group they are describing. Most people are decent enough to decide that they don’t want to causes unnecessary distress.

Certain people are becoming more insistent that people with a disability are addressed differently that what was previously accepted. For example, those of us on the spectrum are no longer autistic. We are people with autism.

When I say certain people, what I mean are parents of people with autism (yes, I’m prepared to play along.)  I have never head anyone on the spectrum describe themselves this way, and I know quite a few.

I have a lot of gripes with how parents talk about their children on the spectrum. For example, if I hear or read anyone describe aspergers as a “not a disability but a wonderful ability” ONE MORE TIME I’LL…probably write a whole blog post explaining why I find that distasteful.

Ahem.  Where was I?

Oh yeah, PC autism talk.

I won’t be too quick to dismiss this latest jargon trend emerging amongst the mummy bloggers, but I’m still wrestling with whether I’m prepared to hop on the band wagon.

I’m not easily outraged. Sure I don’t understand social cues on an interpersonal level, but I’ve spent a lot of time people watching to try understand them better. I like to think that as a result, I’ve developed a decent understanding of people’s motivations in a broader sense.

Intent is very important to me. I’m not easily outraged by sketchy terminology because that kind of reaction best reserved for those who are being intentionally dismissive or derogatory.  Being overly sensitive about terminology regardless of intention is really quite precious.

Do you really think that those describing people on the spectrum as autistic are intending to be derogatory? Really?

The reason why hate terms are being phased out is because they existed to isolate and discriminate the people they are used against.  The word autism simply doesn’t have those connotations for me.  It’s in a completely different category to other words that have been thrown around to describe the socially challenged.  These are words that have been rightfully stigmatised.

For example.  Do you think that calling someone autistic is on par with calling them a retard?

UGH!  What a horrible word that is.  That’s triggering. That’s a word that caused me serious distress, and causes me to cringe whenever I hear it. No-one who uses that word is interested in being understanding, insightful, tolerant. Thankfully, these days it’s largely recognised as a hate term, and using it is a grave social faux pas.

You might argue that as a person with aspergers as opposed to high functioning autism, I have no more right to assume the thoughts of people with autism on the matter than the family members observing from the outside, but with the elimination of aspergers from the DSM V we’ve all been lumped in together. Now, all of us on the spectrum are people with autism. I think of myself as a person with autism..

Am I offended by being described as autistic? No. I don’t appreciate anyone jumping down my throat for using the term though I am open to being educated. I get that insensitive terminology wouldn’t just be offensive to people with autism, it hurts everyone close to them

Describing someone as autistic can be seen as defining someone with their condition.  And some people on the spectrum are actually in favour of that.  If a person with cancer beats their cancer, or a person with epilepsy stops having seizures, they, they personality and thought processes which define that, are not changed.  Not so with the person with autism.  Remove the aspergers and I’d be looking at the world in an entirely different way.

I still don’t consider myself totally defined by aspergers, but when people find out that I have it, suddenly everything I do is an ‘aspergers thing.’ And it irks me beyond belief.  But I know that the problem is their ignorance, not me.

Maybe, just maybe, the reason that I feel apathy towards that term ‘people with autism’ is that I feel secure in my diversity as a person. I know I’m more than just a diagnosis.  Maybe the reason that others on the spectrum want to be referred to as autistic is because they’ve also come to terms with their autism as just one part, albeit a significant one, of a colourful personality

Maybe, just maybe, the reason that parents of people on the spectrum are bothered by the terminology masks a fear of a life defined by limits rather than potential.  That the diagnosis will end up defining a life time of social panic, struggles to stay in gainful employment and maintain relationships. At the more severe end of the spectrum it defines carers fatigue and an inability to live independently.

Austism parenting can be challenging and heartbreaking at its worst. I realise that word throws your child’s limitations in your face, and focussing on limitations isn’t helping anyone get the most out of life.

While you can refer to me as autistic all you want, I don’t want to be that person who throws your child’s limits in your face. That’s rather rude.

Prejudiced people regrettably tend to be more vocal but I’ve found that most people do want to be supportive and are happy to be educated. So If they accidently cause offense, be patient. Be kind. Chances are, that’s the courtesy they are more than willing to give you.

I’m still not a hard core advocate of the terminology but I don’t want to hurt anyone when they’re just trying to be as positive about life as possible.

I may be blunt, I may be critical, but I implore you all to consider my intent.

My intend is to be your ally. To be your friend.

After all, that’s what people advocating for a change in terminology are trying to be for me and others like me.

Peace, yo.

 

 

Jessica Marais’ Bipolar Disorder is Not About You

Mac the Disordered bipolar disorder , , , , , , ,

I’ve always been interested in how the topic of mental health is handled by those in the public eye.  While celebrities might live lives far removed from our own, their take on complicated matters like a bipolar diagnosis tends to be both influential and reflective of the views of society as a whole.  Every now and then you see a story about a celebrity coming out of the ‘mental health closet, and I’m always all over those like a rash.

So when I saw the story about Jessica Marais’ interview with Woman’s Day appear on my news feed, I fell down the rabbit hole exploring every facet of it.

Here’s the news.com.au story, which summarises the Woman’s Day one:

Click here

And here’s one published on Mamamia, which goes a bit more in depth and takes opinions from other people living with bipolar disorder

Click here

If you can’t be bothered clicking, here’s the abridged version:

Jessica Marais, 29 year old mum of one, has struggled with bipolar episodes from age 12

She has a family history of the disease

She chooses not to be medicated and feels that her condition is controlled well

She has done cognitive behavioural therapy and says it was beneficial

she feels her toddler can “pull (her) out of” depression

The author of the Mamamia post reached out to the Black Dog institute for comment.  They supplied an overview of bipolar disorder but refused to comment on the specifics of Marais’ case.

There was an undercurrent of uncertainty in the Mamamia article because the author wasn’t sure how to feel about Marais’ revelation, because some of the things she said do seem to be controversial on the surface.  They ended the article with a selection of comments from bipolar suffering readers, which ranged from congratulating her on her bravery for coming forward to condemning her irresponsibility for (apparently) suggesting that all bipolar can be controlled without meds.

I don’t love the way this story has been approached.  Bipolar disorder is only discussed on an in dividual level, rather than acknowledging sufferers as the diverse population that we are.  All commenters used their own experiences as a measure of how well Marais was managing her condition, and were critical of her when they found that her experiences and management strategies were different to theirs.  Which is wrong.

Because guys?  Jessica Marais’ bipolar is not your bipolar.  It is not my bipolar.  We have a disease that presents on a spectrum that varied widely in presentation.

I suspect that the reason the folks at Black Dog didn’t want to comment on Marais case was because they didn’t want to present her as a single embodiment of all bipolar sufferers.  She isn’t, and I can’t find any point where she claimed to be.

I have bipolar disorder.  Like Marais, it appeared around age twelve and has been a major feature of my life ever since.  My experiences are widely different than what she represents hers as, but I don’t think that’s due to any lies or irresponsibility with management on her part.  Since I was properly diagnosed at age 20, I’ve read up extensively to educate myself on the disease as a whole, not just what it means for me.  So with that in mind, I’ll be offering my perspective on the story.

I find it interesting that she mentions her family history.  It’s been proven that there is a genetic link for the disease.  I know my family has enough problematic mental health genes to supply material for a whole psychiatric conference, but the only person apart from me who has been diagnosed with bipolar is my paternal grandmother.  I remember my dad talking at length with my doctor when she broke the news about my diagnosis to him at my request.  After he was done, he put down the phone, turned to me and said sadly “I supposed I should have expected it in one of you”  I think anyone who has been recently diagnosed should do a little digging in the family closet.

The major issue people have with her interview was where she claimed that she doesn’t need meds because she’s done CBT.  I have to admit, when I first read that I groaned out loud.  I know when I skip meds even for a few days it’s a pretty rapid descent into cray-cray town.  I can understand why it garnered such a negative reaction from the public because remember the last Australian public figure with bipolar who claimed he could handle himself off his meds?

Because I do:

465883-matthew-newton

via http://www.news.com.au

…yeah.  Sure hope he’s changed his mind.

But in the midst of my not-another-Matthew-Newton despair, my wise mind kicked in and I remembered what I’ve learnt about bipolar as a spectrum.  Her bipolar could well be more manageable than mine, I just don’t know.  A lot of bipolar people I was in hospital with were involved in group therapy for CBT, DBT and interpersonal therapy and responded well to it.  Jessica would have learnt about distress tolerance, self talk, diversion tactics amongst other things which once she’d practiced enough to make it second nature, could help take the edge off when she’s having an episode.

She also talks about self awareness which makes me think that she is actually controlling it without meds, or is well on the way to at least.  If you’re experiencing mania or depression, recognising those episodes for what they are will help you be more proactive in overcoming them.

There are bipolar people like me who will likely rely on meds for the rest of their lives but many people with a mental illness diagnosis won’t.  They may need them to be on and off to overcome rough patches but with the right kind of support and therapy they may cope just fine off them.  Once again – bipolar disorder is a spectrum.  For some it’s heavily debilitating, others are towards the lighter end of the scale.  Marais is likely one of those people.

She doesn’t say that meds are unnecessary for all bipolar patients, she was simply stating what works for her.  And quite frankly, there just isn’t enough talk about what a huge fucking difference behavioural therapies can do for people with mood and personality disorders.  Many people who need it don’t get it because they’re suspicious of and there needs to be more people who’ve done it publically talking about how it helped them.  So for singing the much deserved praises of behavioural therapies Jessica, THANK YOU.

The last point which I found interesting was where she says that her kid has been beneficial for her depression.  Now I don’t think she’s saying that to cure depression you should up and start reproducing, but it was a surprise to me because I’d assume that someone with a bipolar diagnosis would be a heavy risk for PND.  Then again, I’ve had more than a few friends who’d struggled with depression tell me that they actually saw improvement when they started a family.

Why is that, I wonder?  If I were to guess, I’d say a kid is a sure fire way to keep you busy.  My hospital psychologist was fond of saying that the best cure for depression was to do the opposite of what you feel – lying in bed doing nothing, not stimulating your brain is perpetuating the imbalance in your brain.  I’d imagine that finding motivation to get out of bed and face life is much easier when you have a little human screaming at you to do so.

If you could take anything away from this article, it’s that I ‘d rather you not look at a mental illness diagnosis as a one size fits all profile.  No treatment plan is going to be perfect for everyone and if someone is happy and healthy we should trust their ability to do right by themselves, even if we don’t agree with their methods.  This is why I love celebrity mental health stories – the more different experiences that we see, the more we will come to understand that the mentally ill community is one of diversity, and different experiences should accepted, not condemned.

Rock on, Jessica Marais.  You’re not obliged to share your personal life, but I’m glad you did.