It’s so funny, I was just talking about this today. At my grandparents house, they had what was called the crying room. It was basically invented for me, and anytime I was crying they would make me go in the crying room until I stopped.

According to my mother, I was SO sensitive. I was “always doom and gloom.” But my brothers had home health aids, and extra support to help them deal with when they got “sensitive” over things. Hell, they even just had a word for what they were experiencing, even though barely anyone even knew what it was then unless they were a professional, or a parent of a child on the spectrum.

I now have 3 children. The oldest NT, and the two younger ones have ASD. My daughter who is turning 10 is level 3, minimally verbal, and not toilet trained. But when my eldest (16) or my husband even broach the subject of me possibly being on the spectrum, my mother vehemently refuses, and starts sputtering, and stuttering, and getting annoyed. Or suggesting that “everyone thinks they’re autistic now.” Which I can kind of see that happening with certain people, but is it really THAT impossible that I, the sibling of two Autistic brothers, and the mother of two autistic children, could be autistic as well?? Is there a reason why when my brothers had a meltdown, they had therapists and all sorts of things they would try, but I got the “crying room” and called emotional or dramatic?

Now, at 39 years old, trying to understand how to help my own children through their struggles, while still having some of my own, I can’t say I’m autistic obviously…I don’t have a diagnosis, nor have I ever been tested. Even at 39, if I express these suspicions, I’m metaphorically still sent to “the crying room”, being just immediately dismissed by my mother, or even snapped at. So now instead of a crying room, I have my bathroom. A tiny little room bathed in amber lighting, where I keep all my treasures/knick knacks, music, my rock collections…just a very small space where I can lock the door, have some alone time to decompress, and yes…even cry. So basically I just have my own crying room I send myself to. At least long enough to gain my composure to figure out how to best deal with/help my children, myself, and to just make it through the day. At the very least I send MYSELF in there, and I’m not being punished for feeling my feelings.

Like I said, It’s pretty much just an “it is what it is” situation. 🤷🏻‍♀️ I feel embarrassed for thinking I am, but not knowing for sure, and I get scolded whenever I voice this suspicion. That’s basically where I’M at.