But I Can and No One Will Stop Me!

       I got off of the bus one afternoon during my middle school years to see an elaborately decorated yellow car sitting in my driveway. I wasn't too surprised by the fact that there was a different car sitting in our driveway given that my mom had been running her own business from our basement since I was 6 years old. What did surprise me were the decorations and graphics displayed on the car as if it had been pulled right from the movie Daddy Daycare. I quietly entered the house, skipping the normal race down the stairs to say good afternoon to my mother, where she usually asked me how my day was. I knew she was in a meeting. 

      Instead of interrupting my mother's meeting, I took my shoes off, hung up my backpack and made my way to the toy room. The toy room was the hub for all toys, games, and a mini television that my brother and I used often. The end of the day was always used to decompress. As I entered the toy room, there sat a grown man right in the middle of the room playing with my brothers hot wheel cars. To say I was shocked, was an understatement. Who was this man and why was he sitting in my playroom playing with my toys? I left the room immediately to yell down the stairs to my mother, knowing that she would probably have an explanation for what I had seen. It turns out, the client my mother was working with ran an Adult Training Facility for adults who had Intellectual and Developmental Disabilities. The owner just so happened to have a brother who had Down syndrome. While I was only in middle school, I was well aware of what Down Syndrome was. I grew up going to a daycare where my brother's best friend had a sister with Down syndrome: Dayna. I had also gone to grade school with a girl who had Down syndrome as well: Tanya. 

     When I entered high school, it was required that I complete at least 20 hours of community service per year. Given that I had a disability myself and I had an interest in working with individuals who had disabilities, I filled out the paperwork and got all the medical testing and immunizations done so that I could begin volunteering at Sunny Days Adult Daily Living Center. Unfortunately, by the time I began volunteering at Sunny Days, Terry, the man with Down syndrome who sat in the middle of my toy room had passed away. The first day that I spent at Sunny Days, I fell in love. The staff were friendly, the people were amazing, and they had two cats. What more could I ask for. 

     When I turned eighteen, I landed my self a part-time job at Sunny Days. I began working 25 hours a week over the course of 5 days. Shortly after starting, we realized that 25 hours was too much. It would be extremely beneficial for me to work Monday-Thursday and taken Friday off. This ended up working great, but it brought up the question of what I would be capable of managing in the future. Would I be capable of managing and house and a full-time job? We didn't know. 

     Once I began college, I was able to manage a full load of classes with no problem. That being said, I had down time between classes and I had the flexibility to take naps in the afternoon or stay up late at night to study. A year and a half into my college career, I was accepted into the Occupational Therapy program. The first two semester of the program weren't bad. The third semester hit and everything went to hell in a hand basket. My parents and I began questioning my ability to function in the world again. I did great in class and on tests, but group project and application of what I learned was a nightmare. Would I be able to hand the go, go, go of a typical job? In the end we determined that I would leave the Occupational Therapy program and earn my Bachelor's in Applied Technology. This would only require one extra semester of courses and I'd be out of there. 

     Fast forward to today. I'm currently working full-time, going to Grad School part-time, taking piano lessons, I have joined a Life Group, and I'm working on my BCBA supervision hours. There have been so many times that we didn't know I'd be able to do something. When I was young, my parents didn't know if I would ever live on my own. The future didn't look very bright. An Autism diagnosis landed me in a category with an 80% unemployment rate. What would my social and communication skills affect on the job? Right now, I am in my third year of full-time employment. I have my struggles, but I have so many positives to look at. The very fact that I have managed full-time employment for three years is absolutely beautiful. This summer I plan on working 2 part-time jobs, and continuing my journey through a Master's program. I will go, and I will not stop. I can do it!! There are statistics that tell me I can't, but those statistics are just numbers. The determination I have and the places I've gone, show me that numbers are faulty. Only God knows where I will go. The sky is the limit!!! 

     

She's Moving!

       It was a beautiful fall evening in 2007. I had just gotten done playing on the playground while my brother was at his soccer practice when my mom's phone rang. It was some lady/nurse at the doctor's office where I would go the next day to meet with a Psychiatrist, someone we thought would provide me with talk therapy and if needed provide me with medication that my family physician predicted I would eventually need given a diagnosis of Nonverbal Learning Disability, hormones, and the ever fluctuating emotions that come with adolescents. She wanted to confirm the appointment with my mother and make sure her records were correct. I sat there, listening to the conversation, wondering what my future would look like. I had just spent the past 11 years of my 14 year life taking medication for Epilepsy, in the hopes of one day being medication free. 

     The following day I got called to the office during gym class for an early dismissal. My parents were there to pick me up for the appointment with the Psychiatrist. I remember leaving gym class that day, telling my classmates I had a dr. appointment, but not wanting to divulge too much information given the sensitivity and stigma that surrounds mental health. I was only 9th grade at a school of 120 kids in grades 9-12, still trying to figure out who I was. Going to see a Psychiatrist was the last thing I wanted to do. 

    We arrived at the Dr.s office right on time, if not a few minutes late. We entered the office on the bottom floor of the building to sign in. The receptionist signed me in and just as we were about to head upstairs to the children and family clinic, the receptionists phone rang. On the other line was my Psychiatrist wondering where we were, having never met us before and not knowing our ability to be somewhat prompt. The receptionist got off the phone to inform us that we better head on upstairs because the Psychiatrist was looking for us and seemed to be not so patiently waiting for our arrival. I felt somewhat intimated at first, my mother just having referred to the doctor as having a hairy eyeball. This was a phrase that I was unfamiliar with and took quite literally given the black and white thinking I had that is common in people with Autism Spectrum Disorders. Upon entering the Psychiatrists office he was much friendlier and ready to help us. 

     Heading into the appointment with the Psychiatrist we had absolutely no intention to put me on medication. From our understanding based on what my family physician had said, was that this Dr. would provide talk therapy and medication if necessary, thus decreasing the amount of Dr's I would need to see in the future. What we soon found out was that Psychiatrists don't do talk therapy. They just prescribe medication. During that first Psychiatric appointment at 14 years old, I was prescribed an antidepressant for anxiety and given a pamphlet of information about the risks of taking such a medication and the possibility of developing suicidal thoughts, as if I didn't already have enough difficulty with mood and emotional stability to begin with. That was the whole reason I was there. 

      Before I left that appointment and began taking the antidepressant for a suspected anxiety disorder, my Psychiatrist recommended a new Psychologist who had just joined the practice. The new therapist just so happened to specialize in treating Autism Spectrum Disorder's and was trained in Cognitive Behavior Therapy (CBT). My doctor explained that while I didn't have Autism and given the fact that I had a brain injury (from birth), that CBT might not work, but he suggested we meet with her. 

      At the end of my appointment we knocked on her door to see if she was available to speak with. She had just moved to the area and didn't have any clients yet so she took a few minutes to talk with us. That evening I sat on her couch as she listened to my mother talk about my history and present concerns. The therapist began asking questions about routines and rigidity. Having undiagnosed Asperger's syndrome at the time and perseverating on that very condition, I questioned why she even bothered asking about routines and sameness when I wasn't diagnosed with an Autism Spectrum Disorder. Besides that, she seemed incredibly friendly and ready to help us, so we scheduled a follow up appointment with her.  

     During our follow up appointment, she got to know me a little better. We both learned a little about each other. She had just moved to the area because her husband had landed a tenure-track job with Penn State. I am always able to get a feel for someone the first time I meet them. I fell in love with this therapist, the first time I met her. I knew she would be the right match for me, probably based the multitude of horrible therapist experiences I had, had in the past. I panicked at the idea that given that her husband had moved here for work, she could technically move at any time for work again. Over the years she regularly reassured me of her stability in her current community and the there were no plans to move. That was until fall/winter of 2009. 

     In the fall of 2009, my mom got an email from my therapist on a Friday afternoon. She wanted my mother and I to come to her office Saturday morning. This had never happened before and all I could think of was the worst. Is she leaving? Is she moving? I knew something was up. When we arrived at the Dr.'s office to meet with her, my mother completely bypassed the downstairs offices where we typically check in and headed right for my therapist's office. I knew it couldn't be good. As I walked in, panicking on the inside and showing my emotions across my face, the therapist told me there was nothing to worry about; everything would be okay. We all sat down and she broke the news to me. She was leaving that mental health practice for a mental health practice two hours away. My heart sank. 

    During that unscheduled appointment with my therapist, she explained where she was going and what she would be doing. She gave me time to process and was fully supportive of my feelings. She made a list of possible referrals she could make to other therapists and support groups and sent us on our way. Less than a year later, I was back in her office at a satellite location of the mental health practice she was working for. No one understood me like she did. I have since discontinued therapy with her, graduated high school, been a sponsored success story for Dickinson Mental Health Center,  earned my Bachelor's degree, maintained a full-time job, spoken at Soaring Heights Schools and I'm currently working on my Master's Degree. 

     The story sounds finished, but it's not. Three weeks ago, my mother reached out to this therapist for something and was informed that she was moving. This time she isn't moving just a couple hours away. She is moving half way across the country to Nebraska. She'll no longer live 15 minutes from me, or work 2 hours away from me. I'll probably never see her again and that hurts. I've taken the last three weeks to process everything, to come to a point where I could write this well and not sob the whole way through. She has done a lot for me and we will stay in touch. I am her success story. With the internet, the work is at our fingertips. 

      This may not sound like a big deal, but I want to conclude with what was accomplished when I was under her care. First of all, she looked at me holistically. She didn't just ask me about how I felt or what I was trying to say. She looked at family dynamics, took my interests into account (including some rousing games of Othello, and walking laps outside the clinic), and she did what worked for us. After a couple years of therapy and concerns raised by my parents, she was the one who finally diagnosed me with Asperger's after being continuously misdiagnosed with a whole slew of other labels. She gave my parents and I hope for the future. She told me I could when other's told me "no way". She is who advocated for me and helped provide me with the skills to advocate for myself and tools to cope. If it wasn't for her, I don't know if I would have even attended college, much less Grade School. 

     I sat in my current therapists "office" (my hammock swing on my deck)  Thursday afternoon I explained to her that I had a friend moving and I was struggling. I sat in that hammock swing trying to keep my mouth shut about the fact that I was grieving the loss of a past therapist and how stupid it was. My current therapist kept asking, "who is this friend", "which friend is this?", until I finally broke the silence and told her. I was terrified to tell her, but you know what, she was amazing. She validated my feelings. She told me that I was experiencing ADULT feelings. She acknowledged the incredible loss I was going through as I questioned every emotion I had over this adult who I haven't even seen in person since 2019 when I spoke at our local Autism school. She was amazing. She told me that it wasn't stupid at all. She told me that there was a huge difference between someone living 15 minutes away and living half way across the country. It didn't matter who it was. 

      Back in college, I had another friend graduate before me and I was so sad to see her leave. I kept making statement's about needing to say goodbye. My friend would keep reminding me that it's not a good bye. She wasn't leaving, she was just moving on. She said, "don't say goodbye, it's see you later". I have held on to that every since and it has helped me so much. Right now I'm not in the process of saying goodbye, I'm in the process of saying, "keep in touch". Keep in touch dear friend!