When Rehabilitation Fails -- part one
One of the first articles I want to put on my blog for people like the "Supernanny" mom of an autistic to see is something on hope -- and hopes dashed.
I felt anger when I heard people commenting about the mother "she should do research on autism" because ironically that's something I practically never do by search engine -- I only collect information through people I know.
And of course if you already know a whole bunch of people you've already got a support system and rational hope.
When I looked inside to see why I felt such rage -- I realised I wasn't angry at the people who said that the mother should look. All my anger was at me, even after all of these years.
The nightmare began when I was 23. I was at my mother's house, doing laundry. I picked up the phone and on the other end was a college recruiter. My sister went to SUNY Potsdam, and she gave the disability dept my name as someone who could benefit from rehabilitation.
Rehabilitation from what? The usual, I suppose. "I don't understand why such a smart girl ---------" fill in the blank for the particular trouble at the particular time. My sister thought I got away with murder. I had an ADHD diagnosis, knew that I misread people's intentions all the time, holding a pencil was nearly impossible for any length of time (unless I was drawing, which made people really suspicious) and reading was horribly hard.In addition to that I knew that people told me that I was the nicest person anyone could know -- but "very, very weird". I was repeatedly called "the real Jessica Tate" (from Soap) and "the character Georgette (Mary TylerMoore) was based on".
I'm still odd. One of my son's friends has compared me to Willow (Buffy the Vampire Slayer).
The counselor on the phone was very enthusiastic that I could be rehabilitated and from there be able to do more of what I wanted to do.That was (still is) doing good in the world. At the time I was working with developmentally disabled people -- I liked them and they liked me. However, any advancement needed a degree -- something that by 23 I had realistically given up as out of reach. I thought that the counselor said that there was an opening that particular semester -- which was about to start. I got in my car, got the paperwork she asked for in order, and drove up to the campus ready to begin. She was surprised to see me. She didn't think she had invited me for that semester.
I reached into my sleeve, pulled out my trusty tape recorder, and played back the relevant parts of the conversation. I explained that many hearing amplification systems have recording devices in them, and New York is a one party state, so since I wan't able to take notes I just followed her oral directions.
This was 1983. The technology has only gotten better from there: http://www.thespystore.com/cellphonerecorders.htm
At that point I was in. The department thought I was motivated (my friends call this perseverative or hyperfocused) and that rehabilitation would be right for me. I drove back home, shut down my life, and drove back up to begin my new life as a SUNY Potsdam double major in biology and psychology, with a minor in dance because more than anything I wanted to be a dance therapist.
In the back of my mind I had hopes that maybe, just maybe, I could enter the medical field -- my stretch goal. Can any of you see your young high functioning person doing something that impulsive?
My mother was delighted because she thought my life lacked direction and I was much smarter than my sister, why was I working several jobs, and most in love with the lowest paid of them all?
I'm not sure what the disability department people knew about spectrum issues in 1983 but the college sure wasn't prepared for me -- and the situation was mutual.
JulieB
One of the first articles I want to put on my blog for people like the "Supernanny" mom of an autistic to see is something on hope -- and hopes dashed.
I felt anger when I heard people commenting about the mother "she should do research on autism" because ironically that's something I practically never do by search engine -- I only collect information through people I know.
And of course if you already know a whole bunch of people you've already got a support system and rational hope.
When I looked inside to see why I felt such rage -- I realised I wasn't angry at the people who said that the mother should look. All my anger was at me, even after all of these years.
The nightmare began when I was 23. I was at my mother's house, doing laundry. I picked up the phone and on the other end was a college recruiter. My sister went to SUNY Potsdam, and she gave the disability dept my name as someone who could benefit from rehabilitation.
Rehabilitation from what? The usual, I suppose. "I don't understand why such a smart girl ---------" fill in the blank for the particular trouble at the particular time. My sister thought I got away with murder. I had an ADHD diagnosis, knew that I misread people's intentions all the time, holding a pencil was nearly impossible for any length of time (unless I was drawing, which made people really suspicious) and reading was horribly hard.In addition to that I knew that people told me that I was the nicest person anyone could know -- but "very, very weird". I was repeatedly called "the real Jessica Tate" (from Soap) and "the character Georgette (Mary TylerMoore) was based on".
I'm still odd. One of my son's friends has compared me to Willow (Buffy the Vampire Slayer).
The counselor on the phone was very enthusiastic that I could be rehabilitated and from there be able to do more of what I wanted to do.That was (still is) doing good in the world. At the time I was working with developmentally disabled people -- I liked them and they liked me. However, any advancement needed a degree -- something that by 23 I had realistically given up as out of reach. I thought that the counselor said that there was an opening that particular semester -- which was about to start. I got in my car, got the paperwork she asked for in order, and drove up to the campus ready to begin. She was surprised to see me. She didn't think she had invited me for that semester.
I reached into my sleeve, pulled out my trusty tape recorder, and played back the relevant parts of the conversation. I explained that many hearing amplification systems have recording devices in them, and New York is a one party state, so since I wan't able to take notes I just followed her oral directions.
This was 1983. The technology has only gotten better from there: http://www.thespystore.com/cellphonerecorders.htm
At that point I was in. The department thought I was motivated (my friends call this perseverative or hyperfocused) and that rehabilitation would be right for me. I drove back home, shut down my life, and drove back up to begin my new life as a SUNY Potsdam double major in biology and psychology, with a minor in dance because more than anything I wanted to be a dance therapist.
In the back of my mind I had hopes that maybe, just maybe, I could enter the medical field -- my stretch goal. Can any of you see your young high functioning person doing something that impulsive?
My mother was delighted because she thought my life lacked direction and I was much smarter than my sister, why was I working several jobs, and most in love with the lowest paid of them all?
I'm not sure what the disability department people knew about spectrum issues in 1983 but the college sure wasn't prepared for me -- and the situation was mutual.
JulieB
posted by JulieB at
7:46 AM
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