Personal Narrative: Aspergers, Anxiety, Depression

Aspergers, Anxiety, Depression

In first, second and third grade, I never had a friend. I was loud, single minded, obnoxious, and unable to interact with children my age without making them feel extremely off-put. Once I started getting into fights with the kids who were bullying me, I was diagnosed with Asperger’s.

Asperger’s is a mental disorder in the autism family. Most people with asperger’s have trouble reading nonverbal cues, reacting appropriately to social situations, and meeting new people. I was put into solo and group therapy from third until fifth grade. I was taught social skills like most people were taught math or science, and while I was now able to make friends and interact with other kids and adults properly, it would be a

I overslept because I had gotten off late the night before, and had arrived expecting a lecture. We were doing a group project, and the look my professor gave me sent ice through my heart. I sat down with a group of girls whose names I didn’t know but were always nice to me, and kept my head down and covered the entire time, filled with a fear I had never experienced. When everyone got up to leave class, the sudden movement was too much for me, and I bolted from class, hyperventilating all the way to my car. I don’t know how long I cried, but I called into work, saying I had thrown up. When I got home I googled what had happened and realized I’d had a panic attack.

I had them every week or two on the clock for a month or so before my mom convinced me to seek therapy and medication. I saw the same therapist who had diagnosed me with Asperger’s weekly for about 7 months before I saw any improvement. Beside panic attacks, I had increased alertness and sensitivity to sudden sounds and movement, trouble sleeping and nightmares when I did, and a feeling of hopelessness, self loathing, and apathy. I would wake up and stay in bed on occasion, afraid of being afraid, or too empty inside to

I still attended therapy, and eventually faced my nasty habit of internalizing my stress and punishing myself for things I couldn’t control. I stopped looking at the scissors and exacto knives in my craft supplies filled with temptation to put them on my skin before opting for markers, because I was terrified of having scars on my arms. I started working again, and sang while I organized shelves and cut fruit at Kroger. I started telling people when they were treating me unfairly or in a way I couldn’t process easily. “Please don’t get angry with me for something I have already forgotten about, process my mistakes immediately and calmly so I can recognize where I went wrong and take a different approach.” “Did you mean to hurt my feelings? Because your statement showed a lack of empathy, instead of a shortcoming on my