From Mouse to Snowmonkey - the Early Years
The first part of a series of stories as I reflect back and explore my journey of trauma recovery.
Young girl lying on her stomach in a field of dandelions at sunrise blowing the seeds into the wind.
I spent my youth trying on masks, each one jarring with my inner child as she evolved and developed trying to make sense of the strange planet she landed on, bum first.
I cringed at terms like 'Use your common sense' - nothing made sense to me, 'common' was a sense I lacked utterly and completely.
Buffeted by so many conflicting beliefs I became a fragile adult, a woman who learned to ignore the inner-voice of her fledgling curious child - she did not fit. I observed, rehearsed scripts, and struggled with demands expected of me, consistently falling short.
My inner child shrank to mouse-size.
The ground beneath my feet uneven and shaky, at times it would register higher and higher on the Richter scale until depression ensued. Hard as I tried to blend with my environment, none of the beliefs behind these masks connected with the inner core of my being.
A deep sadness for my inner mouse would lead to years of therapy, the treatment goal, to heal inner pain by reprogramming my flawed internal dialogues of 'mind-reading’, ‘catastrophising' and 'over-responsible thinking!' Constant reliving of past trauma crippled my mental health - internalised self-criticism brought overwhelming anxiety and shame. Years of Cognitive Behaviour Therapy intensified this post-processing analysis. The burden of responsibility wholly on my shoulders, social anxiety increased, and shame was amplified rather than alleviated. I learned to suppress internal pain - fibromyalgia and chronic fatigue the inevitable outcome.
An instinct to hide my inner child began from the age of 8 years when I witnessed my father taken away to a scary place.
My loving and curious Irish-migrant father connected with the little mouse inside me on a deep level.
After several months he returned to our family cocoon from that scary place - a locked ward in a psychiatric facility called Larundel. He had a difficult time re-entering life. Terms like 'nervous breakdown' and 'manic depression' were whispered behind hands, sheltering ‘the baby' from life's harsh realities. But people in our world began to treat Da differently, this was the 1970's after all. There were so many conflicting emotions swirling around and within me. I began to learn words like pity, embarrassment, and shame – I registered pity on the faces of those around us, felt embarrassed when our Da couldn't seem to fit in or meet the demands of the world, feeding a deep shame from a sense of betrayal.
It felt disloyal to feel embarrassed by my eccentric, loving and curious Da.
It was a very confusing world for my young self to grow up in, though home remained a safe and loving haven and for me Da was at the centre of it.
Billy was a passionate visionary and inventor. The stories of his many projects were legendary. He built us billycarts from old crates and stilts from jam tins. He constructed solar heating for our swimming pool on the roof of the garage and designed, patented, and prototyped a Golfer's green-reading device.
Had shark-tank existed back then, Billy no doubt would have pitched his vision to them.
One afternoon a gusty wind collected a large perspex dome from the garage roof - the lid of Da’s solar heating construction. It flew over the backyard, careening into the hills-hoist and crashing to the ground beside my stunned older sister. Despite this dangerous iteration (another design was to line the entire roof with beer bottles) and many other failed inventions, he never let go of his passions and encouraged me to pursue my own. His persistence in the face of adversity and harsh judgement always inspired me. Billy was unlike any of my friend’s father's, an enigma. He could be so consumed by his projects, 'manic'. But when Billy got ‘manic’, Mum got scared. Maggie had to keep going when Da was taken away, to look for work and support our family, with 5 young children to feed. Though always stoic, loyal and loving to Billy, his precarious mental-health frightened her.
When the ground beneath my feet shook at difficult times in my life, I would fear my inner child could not be trusted, she might not be a safe way to be because she reminded me of Da. I kept her hidden, camouflaged.
At home when I let go and escaped into a magical world of spinning, making and doing, I connected with my Da who nurtured the curious child in me. But when I shared my magical world with new friends, excited to show them my ideas, some would look at me blankly, others might change the subject to fill an empty silence, unable to connect with the wonder and joy I felt.
Precious few friends seemed to get me - these I called 'kindred spirits' – a homage to my treasured Anne of Green Gable's series. But these friends were rare, and I held on to them tightly, almost possessively. I discovered it could be dangerous making new friends, kindred spirits were hard to find and the many who were not, could be cruel. I developed chronic anxiety - discerning between kindred spirits and snakes was a fraught exercise, seemingly natural for some, but not for me. I was forever on my guard.
Sometimes I might get carried away and so excited about a new interest – bet then I would remember Da, panic, and retreat internally. This was ‘manic’ behaviour, this might mean I was broken, damaged, crazy. I would shut-down, delude myself I was 'normal' - to be unwell like Da was terrifying.**
In recent years I discovered the term neurodivergence and I began to learn all I could about the neurodiversity movement and modern neuroscience. This learning manifested into a light-bulb moment, a revelation in April of 2022. Finally, a brain wiring difference explained why anxiety had crippled my life and the life of many in my family - including my colourful and loving late-father.
We were not deluded, crazy, unhinged or broken, we are neurodivergent!
I have had the privilege to have it confirmed.
I am Autistic - an AuDHDer!
I am from a multi-generational, multiply neurodivergent family, with some LGBTQIA+ rainbows thrown in to add colour. We are as we had organically evolved to be - part of the diversity of humanity with strengths and difficulties, more to offer than we have ever had the opportunity to share because this world is not built for us. Trauma from not fitting in has dominated and dictated our life trajectories.
Some days I might feel 10 feet tall, on other days I shrink to familiar mouse-size, my inner voice echoing in my head 'Who do you think you are? When I am absorbed in a passionate interest, it can be all-consuming as I wrap all eight tentacles of my monotropic octopus-brain around it.***
Journalling has become the laborious way I cognitively process emotional dysregulation and internal body symptoms. My laptop has become my brains external post-processing system, a tool I use to interpret emotions and help release physical body pain that accumulates. I write to resolve challenges, make decisions, absorb growth, and move through trauma in my life.
I was gas-lit to believe I was unstable, to seek forgiveness for failing to manage life - at times flagellating myself in heartfelt apologies - at others reacting with self-righteous indignation. I believed implicitly that my mental health was my responsibility alone.
Since discovering my neurology, learning of the Neurodiversity Paradigm and the social-model of disability, I can be kinder to all actors in my post-processing-theatre-study of past trauma. I can re-visit memories from a new perspective, consider the double empathy problem, re-watch the performance in my mind’s eye and see we all were human, and misunderstandings were shared, not one-sided.
I can now advocate for my needs with kindness and self-compassion.
I have become a practiced storyteller, driven by many things. Initially from exploring an interest in creative-writing and journalling for mental wellness and from the need to provide history and context to educators and mental health professionals supporting, diagnosing and guiding our family.
Writing has further been driven by a compulsion to advocate through letters and submissions calling for improvements to the appalling practices in education and health systems that have marred and traumatised our lived-experience journey. It is a tool I continue to harness for mental wellness, advocacy, peer mentorship and lived experience education.
“When life gets too much, Snowmonkeymumma craves a long bath soak. The moment of sinking into the steaming water, the thrilling release of held tension - the involuntary sigh that erupts from deep within is a sensation I am drawn to.
The pull is to escape from life’s demands - no matter what has been, no matter what is coming, in that moment as I sink into the water and sigh, I am at peace.”
This is how Snowmonkeymumma came to be.
Imagining myself as a snow monkey soaking in the hot springs of Japan feels calming.
Even when thoughts go to difficult and uncomfortable places, I feel safe. I can go to the hard places knowing that no matter what comes, the soothing water will ease the aches and pains away.
As I delve into my brain for calming and encouraging words, my mouse-sized stature grows to its actual 165 cm, and I am reminded of words from a former writing tutor*. ‘You may not be a literary author but there is an audience for all kinds of writing, it is just a matter of finding the right one’. I take courage from the echo of these words said many years ago. In sharing my story, I hope it might find a home and readership, to perhaps resonate with other late-diagnosed Autistics like me or with those they love and who love them back.
And just maybe they too might find their own way to evolve.
From Mouse to Snow Monkey.
*** A term learned from Reframing Autism’s course: Fostering Autistic Wellness in Families.
** I have since discovered terms like meerkat mode, monotropic spiral and monotropic split and these describe our behaviours far more accurately than ‘Manic’ ever did. I hope to explore these more deeply in future reflections on my story.
* Thank you Judy Bird for all your encouragement.
