The line above is from ‘Hell is round the corner’ a Tricky song from 1995. It popped into my mind today, an ear worm, the warning bell that the remainder of my September is going to be…well…hell.
I didn’t think I’d have to write about this again. The month in 2012 when my skull was drilled into and my brain was drained and my Self was drained and my energy was drained. But Tricky blasting on repeat on my internal jukebox and the fact I’m crying at the birds singing or at me dropping stuff on the floor or the adverts being too long on the tv means I’m currently in the territory of anniversary effect.
I used to write about this on an old blog I had, which focused on my recovery from near death and brain injury and really thought that this year I’d gotten away with it.
Not likely, the body remembers, the brain remembers, the essence remembers. Being an old hand at this makes it slightly easier, I’m aware of what is going on and know I have to buckle in and ride out the storm but that doesn’t stop it being painful and sad and exhausting.
This time of year is double edged for me, I love the early Autumn, the heavy, lazy sunshine, the slowing down yet aliveness of everything as it dies ready to lie fallow for the Winter to come. This metaphor is not lost on me, the Autumn also represents my heaviness and my time to die. I spent some of Autumn 2012 in a coma, in hospital – a liminal state you could say. This was also whilst I was moving countries, moving lives and starting again – a self imposed liminal state.
To wake up in a hospital bed hooked up to tubes with no idea of how you got there, whilst worried loved ones pace around is a surreal experience. To think about what I endured whilst unconscious is also a surreal experience. A film that played out, that starred me but I have no knowledge of what transpired during it.
September, a time of delicacy, being made of gossamer, feeling so sensitive to my own pain and everyone else’s. A time to move slowly, to honour my feelings and to become part of the earth once more. The Shadow beckons, the dark goddess, an old friend but one who will hold my toes to the fire once more.
I will emerge eventually, hair askew, face pale, forever changed, in ways I yet still don’t fully grasp but as sure as the leaves will wither and drop, I too become compost for the new growth to come.
The cave calls the hermit again and it’s time to enter.
I’ve not written anything for a good long while, I’ve been sitting on something that I wanted to write about before anything else but it just wouldn’t come out. It wasn’t ready. After brewing for a few months today is the day! I have no idea how this will be structured so I’m just going to write and let it tell it’s own story.
Last year my sister sent me a book for my birthday (or Yule, I’m not too sure). It was called ‘The electricity of every living thing’ by Katherine May. I found it to be a lovely but confronting book about Katherine’s plan to walk the South West Coast Path in England and as the journey progressed it intertwined with her realisation and acceptance of a self diagnosis of Autism Spectrum Condition (ASC). The book brought forward for me something that had been quietly chiming in the back of my mind for many years and it brought it forward rather loudly.
I always wondered why I felt like an alien, why my mum always jokingly said I was ‘an oddball’. Why I just struggled with a lot of things. I was drained by people, places, noise, light and chaos. Why I was never able to maintain friendships and why work always made me depressed and anxious and I could never stick at it.
The next domino that fell was due to another book, ‘Unmasking Autism’ by Dr Devon Price. I bought this one out of curiosity, ‘just to see’. Well I did ‘just see’, I bloody well ‘just saw’ myself. I was finally able to affirm to myself that yes I am Autistic (informed self diagnosis is valid within the community and often the only avenue available to people due to the difficulties around diagnosis).
At this stage, I had to think about whether I wanted to pursue a medical diagnosis. For me, I wanted to be sure, I didn’t want to be self diagnosing and becoming part of the community if what I thought wasn’t true, I had a big case of imposter syndrome and didn’t fully trust my own conclusion even though this has been something I have questioned for a long time. But I was bounced around so many therapists and psychologists as an adult and given 5 runs of CBT which never worked, there is an emerging school of thought that CBT is less effective for Autistic people (CBT is thrown at most things and I was craving something more targeted and personalised, I never truly felt that the root of my issue was being looked at). I remember saying to this myriad of professionals that something was being missed, that there was something deep down that needed addressing and not one of them considered Autism. Who was I to argue? I wasn’t the one with degrees in Psychology right? and that then gaslit me into thinking that I was just inextricably broken and there was no solution.
It’s easy to see why my diagnosis was missed, I was female and born in the 70’s (in fact, I read somewhere that Gen X are considered the missing generation regarding neurodivergence diagnosis). Apparently, because girls are socialised differently due to cultural gender norms we are better at ‘hiding’ our Autism, we’re dead good at being quiet and polite and compliant (more patriarchal bullshit). Also, the diagnostic tools used are somewhat outdated, initially Autism was considered a thing that middle class white boys had, so all efforts were put into diagnosing that group, and women, people of colour, trans people and anyone who doesn’t fit into that group were (and still are) sidelined.
I was nervous approaching my GP about getting diagnosed, partially due to the above but also because I’m 46, what the heck am I thinking? Is it too late? But I knew I needed to know. So I psyched myself up for two weeks to make the phone call for an appointment and when I went the Dr had the look of a rabbit in the headlights, I don’t think he really knew what to do with me. After a convoluted series of events that involved being referred, then getting a letter that they needed more info, a form sent to me by the GP meant for him but he sent to me to fill in (I had no idea how to do this, it sent me into a panic, don’t do this to Autistics please), I was finally accepted but the wait was three years.
This is where the privilege of diagnosis comes in, the NHS is a wonderful thing but the mismanagement of it has led to life altering waits for services. There are some people who don’t even get through the first hurdle to get on the list and then those who do have to wait, all the while their heads swirling with anxiety and impatience and frustration. If you do finally get to the top of the list you then endure a fairly bizarre outdated diagnosis process aimed at young boys. Not ideal.
So I went searching, I joined a forum for Autistic people and asked about diagnosis. They pointed me towards the Adult Autism Practice who use a Neuro affirmative approach to diagnosing adults. This is a service you pay for (again a privilege, if you have the funds) I paid in instalments which was a little easier. Was it expensive? For me? Yes. Was it worth it? Absolutely. My sessions were compassionate, affirming and informative.
I was officially diagnosed in August this year, when I was told that “yes, you are Autistic” I burst into tears. I finally knew who I was. The itch in the recesses of my brain had been scratched. Everything made so much sense to me. My childhood, my struggles as an adult. It was so freeing for me.
Diagnosis brings with it many feelings, I was happy, sad, angry and these feelings still continue as I work through years and years of struggle and masking. If only I’d known who I was when I was younger maybe I would have made different decisions and been more comfortable in my own skin. I am aware of the stigma involved in diagnosis, I am Autistic, I have always been Autistic and will be Autistic forever. This will travel with me throughout the rest of my life and will be met with varying reactions as people have their own stereotypes around what an Autistic person looks like and how they behave.
Autism for me isn’t something I’m ashamed of, I know from my brain injury that I’m dis-abled by society. I know now I always have been. That brings up great sadness for me. Put into a box and silenced before I even truly got going. I take comfort in knowing I can now tell the young me, the little girl who couldn’t understand the world, that she was beautiful and valid as she was. That the world wasn’t ready for her but she made it through anyway.
My name is Lauren, I am Autistic and I am now finally ready to claim my space.
Where have I been? I last wrote something in April this year, I was on a roll getting ideas and generally enjoying writing again and then I disappeared. Did An Mórrígan claim me when I went into Her cave never to return to the apparent world?
Unfortunately, no, nothing that exciting I’m afraid, I flatlined, energetically, physchologically and emotionally. I’ve spent the past few months feeling prone, prostrate and deflated with no inspiration to speak of. There has also been something bubbling along that has taken most of my mental capacity these past months that I won’t talk about right now but may explain soon.
I did however get my visit to Uaibh na gCat, the cave of the cats, the home of An Mórrígan. On the morning of the visit I was jangly, nervous and jittery, my nerves tap dancing in my brain and body. I’ve no idea why I was so strung out by the thought of the day ahead but there we go, the body does what it wants.
I enjoyed the tour of Rathcroghan given by the visitors centre https://www.rathcroghan.ie/ but I was there for the main event, a trip to the Otherworld. It was my pilgrimage for the year. I’ve been dying to go to Oweynagat for a long time but was never well enough to make the journey.
As we approached the cave all my jingle-jangle from earlier just dissolved away
I looked into the womb-like entrance and could not wait to enter. As I sat there waiting, there was a voice from somewhere deep in that cave, urging me to ‘come in, come in’. An affirmation of finally doing this at the right time, in the right headspace.
In small groups of 4 or 5 we began our descent into the home of An Mórrígan, some people turned back at the entrance, not yet ready to descend. I had an offering in my pocket of a small dram of whiskey (it would be rude to visit without a gift) and soon it was my turn to slide into the entrance. The floor was wet and thick with mud and the walls were glistening with moisture, it had that deep earthy smell that appears after a rainstorm. It got darker and darker as we descended and I got more and more comfortable in the dark, all enveloping environment.
The metaphor of the cave is not lost on me, it reminded me of my transformation after trauma. I used to be scared of caves, the darkness in them always different to the dark of night. It is more solid and heavy somehow, more likely to have things creeping out of it to touch you on the shoulder. This time however, I had no fear, I have seen true darkness and spent my own recovery in the Hermit’s cave. I have sat in that darkness and embraced it, which enabled me to contain it within. It no longer scares me.
We reached the end (a rock fall prevented us going deeper) and stood in the cool darkness of the entrance to the Irish Otherworld.
This was the time for us all to turn off our torches. There we were for a minute or so, silent, bathed in that deep darkness. I tipped out my whiskey for An Mórrígan and ensured She knew how grateful I was and what a privilege it was to be in Her home.
Did I have a big revelation? Was I spoken to by An Mórrígan? Not that I’m consciously aware of. There was no Great Queen emerging from the darkness, no mystery breeze that blew through the cave. But as always with these things, they work away in the background, they slip through your subconscious and mould into something. Only months later when change has occurred in your life are you able to track it back to a ritual or a pilgrimage or that scrappy bit of throwaway magic you did off the cuff.
What I realise now is that my visit to the cave put me into hibernation again, to prepare me for what is to come. I am just rising again after months of waking sleep. My practice has evolved and become more tangible and consistent, I am getting ready for…something.
I’m 45, not old but not young. A weird in-between place made even weirder by trauma and near death. I’ve spent the past 10 years since my accident, pulling the threads of myself and trying to weave them into some sort of coherent cloth. A cloth that serves to honour who I am now but also allows me to be ‘out there’ in the world.
Have I been successful? Well that depends on when you ask me. I may have found myself and learnt to love and respect myself but the bit about functioning in the world is not something I think I’ve figured out yet. Or maybe I have and most others are doing it wrong?
Just when I’d righted the ship and learnt to have balance in amongst the turmoil of heavy grief and post traumatic stress I am once again being thrown into the initiation of change with Perimenopause.
I’m suddenly lost in the woods again.
The feelings that are getting unearthed are a throwback to those early days of trauma, a mixture of feeling aimless, hopeless and alone. I’m not sure I’m ready for another rite of passage through the fire. The last one was so hard and so hollowing. Am I full enough to be emptied again?
There are moments of clarity where I know that this is another transition from one state to another, an induction to my elderhood and like all initiations it will not be easy. I would like to walk this path without treating it like a disease to be medicated and bypassed, instead letting it power through me and take me to those corners of myself that still need revealing.
Things feel so full of paradox right now, I find I’m craving community, to talk with wiser souls than mine about what is to come but I’m also longing for solitude, for the cave walls to shut me in and free me when I’m ready to unfold. I know myself yet so unsure of who I am at the same time. Happy standing still but yearning to move forward to something.
The pull of The Hermit making me root down and the call of Cailleach pushing me to shed another skin and inhabit the body of the wise woman who I still can’t quite find.
So here I go again, becoming an edgewalker once more. Neither here nor there. Setting off through the trees, the Fools journey, tentative, unknowing and vulnerable.
The Hermits Grove 