OT And Me: How Occupational Therapy Saved My Life

At the age of 28, I walked into my Occupational Therapist's office for the first time. I walked in, an utterly broken and defeated human being.

For 28 years, I had lived my life as an Autistic person who didn't know I was Autistic. 28 years of trying to fit in. 28 years of trying to be "normal", when I didn't know what was "wrong" with me in the first place. 28 years of hearing that I was the problem. 28 years of believing everyone hated me. 28 years of hating myself. 28 years of being used. 28 years of feeling defective. My entire working life, through multiple jobs, of being told, through words and actions, that I was basically both useless and worthless.

As my first assignment, my OT asked me to list three things that I liked about myself.

I couldn't do it.

Believe me when I am telling you, that I sat there in her office, struggling to find something that I liked and appreciated myself for, and literally could not think of a thing. It had been hammered into my head for so long, that I was good at nothing, and good FOR nothing, that I wholeheartedly and sincerely believed it.

Finally, with a little prompting, I came up with one thing: "I'm good at being nice to people."

Yes, I was good at being nice to people. Partly because I didn't EVER want anyone to feel the way I felt, but also because the fawn response in the face of trauma, being overly nice and pleasant and friendly and submissive and people-pleasing, was the only thing that had kept me safe.

Gently, very gently, my OT reminded me of something else; I cared enough about myself, to reach out for help. Because I knew that if I didn't, I would very likely end up in a mental hospital... or as a statistic. And I didn't want to end up as a statistic. There was still a part of me, no matter how many nights I prayed to die in my sleep, and dreaded waking up the next morning, that wanted to live. There was still a part of me that believed I was worth fighting for. Which is why I chose one morning to walk into a Mental Health Walk-In Clinic.

It was the bottom of the barrel for me. I ended up on Social Assistance shortly after, not because I was "lazy" or "didn't want to work", as most people say about people on government assistance... but because if one more person told me I was useless, I would die.

And I didn't want to die. I wanted to live.

 

Six months later, with my OT's support, I got my Autism diagnosis, along with a diagnosis of Other/Unspecified Trauma Disorder, which has now been confirmed as meeting and exceeding all the criteria for PTSD.

And slowly, very slowly, with the patient help of my OT, I began the process of recovery and healing. Of learning to love myself. Of learning to understand my brain. Of learning to, for the first time in my life, both identify and meet my sensory and social and emotional needs. Of learning that it's OKAY to have needs. Of learning it's okay to ask for support. Of learning how to build my own support network.

Slowly, we began to pick apart the tangled threads of the rat's nest that was my mind, and wind them up into neat and organized piles. There's the sensory overwhelm. There's the low self-esteem. There's the anxiety. There's the demand avoidance. There's the physical issues like gastrointestinal problems, hypermobility, and proprioceptive dysfunction. There's the religious trauma. There's the trauma from being bullied at work. There's the overwhelming need to fawn and people-please. There's the SIBs (Self-Injurious Behaviours, different from Self-Harm) like biting, hitting, or pinching myself.

And bit by bit, we started the process of building me back up.

Fast forward to now, at age 34. I still live independently, but now with confidence and pride in my home. I'm a musician who has performed in various venues. I have a job I feel fully supported in, where I am now an asset instead of a problem. I have a small, close-knit circle of friends whom I adore, and who I know have my back just as I have theirs. I have found healing and joy in my nature-based spiritual path.

When I first began seeing my OT, she had, admittedly, not really worked with any Autistic individuals before. Helping me was a learning curve for her too. A challenge, but an opportunity for her to grow her practice as she helped me.

As of today, six years later, she is one of the few, if not the only, Occupational Therapist specializing in helping Autistic individuals in this area. She is a strong advocate for Occupational services for Autistic adults on a provincial level. And she is using me (with my permission, of course) as a case study and an example of how Occupational Therapy services can save lives. It's incredible for me, knowing that my story is helping to pave the way for other Autistic adults to get the support and services that they need.

Just a few short weeks ago, I hugged my OT goodbye as we both shed tears. She's starting her new journey now... the journey of being a Mom. And she is going to be absolutely incredible at it.

As for me, I will take the tools and strategies she taught me, share them with others as much as I can, and keep on living my best life.

Thanks, Sam. We did it. 

 

 

Eighteen

 

I recently stumbled upon some old photos of myself when I was 18 years old. I had to stare at them for a while, trying to remember exactly who I was back then. So, let me tell you a little bit about 18-year-old Hannah.

Image description: A selfie of Hannah, a white teenager with long red hair,
wearing a pink and blue cap and glasses that came out of the 1800s.
She has her head tilted and a faint smile. The background is of pine trees
and a beach. End of image description.

18-year-old Hannah was an idealistic little thing... and I do mean little. (I got called, "Skinny Minnie" and "Broomstick" more times than I can count.) As you can see, I was a hippie/boho chick even then. (But what the HECK is up with those glasses? I look like a 90-year-old grandmother.)

18-year-old Hannah was... well, I won't say she didn't have trauma, but she was in a safe and caring environment where she felt free to let her awkward, geeky, weird little bookworm self shine through. She was, at that time, completely unscarred by bullying. Maybe that's one of the things I miss about her the most... 18-year-old Hannah knew no enemies. Only friends. She adored the world, and let it be known freely and joyfully. She loved fiercely, fearlessly, adopting all who knew her into her immediate family. She had countless brothers, sisters, aunties, uncles.. the list goes on.

18-year-old Hannah had the gift of seeing people's true selves, but more than that... finding the good in everyone. She couldn't imagine a world where people were mean on purpose, so she freely gave second chances... and third chances... and fourth, and fifth, and sixth.

18-year-old Hannah splashed bubbles of joy on everyone she met. She had this throaty little awkward giggle that endeared her to everyone, and it was SO EASY to make her smile. Just make her feel welcomed or included, that was all she ever wanted. Her deepest desire was to love people, and have them love her back. She wanted to fit in, to belong to someone.

18-year-old Hannah was wildly in tune with her emotions. She flared with anger, she sobbed when her feelings were hurt, she was brokenhearted when her friends moved away, and her high-pitched laughter would shatter glass when she was joyful... which was most of the time.

18-year-old Hannah was shy. She was so quiet, that people at times forgot she was there.. but it was when she was invisible, that she saw and heard the most. 18-year-old Hannah had already been grown up for a long, long time... but she was still to remain a child far into the future.

18-year-old Hannah loved to lie on the grass, arms outflung, breathing in the scent of the grass and the trees and the wind. She was never ashamed of going barefoot, dancing in the rain, splashing through puddles, exploring and finding wonder in every fuzzy moth and flower petal. She loved to play tag, and hide-and-seek, and never gave up trying to be coordinated enough to play sports.

Image description: Hannah, a white teenager with long red hair,
sitting on a wooden bench at the beach. She is wearing a pale pink 
sleeveless top, darker pink plaid shorts, and she is swinging her
bare feet which are covered with wet sand. She is squinting at the
camera with a wide grin because the sun is in her eyes. 
End image description. 

Did I tell you she was awkward? Oh, 18-year-old Hannah could never quite figure out where all the bumps and bruises came from, or how she managed to trip over her own shadow, bump into doorways, fall out of chairs, and bang her head multiple times a week. Sometimes her words wouldn't come out right, and she froze when she was asked a question.

18-year-old Hannah was already starting to build a shell around her sensitive little heart to protect her from the pain of being left again, and again, and again... but there was still so much tenderness, innocent wonder, and trust there too. 18-year-old Hannah always took people at face value, believed that they meant what they said, and trusted that they'd follow through on their promises.

18-year-old Hannah, knowing what she knew about people, also understood herself. She knew she was not like everyone else, but she was carefree enough not to let it bother her too much just yet. Somehow, when she peered too far into the future, she could see her own pain there... and while it scared her, she resolved to never cause pain to anyone else. For, you see, 18-year-old Hannah poured out onto a broken world all the love she had in her heart, without ever saving any for herself. She loved the world as ferociously as she despised herself for her weaknesses and flaws and shortcomings... all the reasons she sought to love others, for the unlovable-ness she saw in her own self.

18-year-old Hannah was incredibly strong. But also incredibly fragile, because she believed she was not worth protecting. She opened her heart wide, and when people threw darts through her wide-open defenses, she gritted her teeth and opened her heart wider, believing that to defend herself meant to harm others.

18-year-old Hannah was Autistic.

But she didn't have a diagnosis of Autism.

Or a diagnosis of C-PTSD.

Those came much later, when a much older, much more tired, and much more jaded Hannah decided that she was going to be selfish for the first time in her life; she was going to block out the world. She was going to pour her love on her own battered heart. She was going to face herself with wonder and curiosity. She was going to give to herself the adoration that she'd given to others for so long.

She was going to heal.

And she is still healing... slowly, with many mistakes and back-steps and slips and slides and tumbles and more bruised knees and a bruised heart. But she is healing. And she is healing in honor of 18-year-old Hannah, who still pushes me forward, and tells me, "Just keep going."

I'm not doing it for me.

I'm doing it for her.

Because she's still in there, somewhere.

And she deserves to have the life she always wanted.

Image Description: Hannah, a white teenager with waist-length red hair, stands shin-deep in a
lake with her pink plaid shorts rolled up so as not to get them wet. She is looking
at the camera with a toothy smile and behind her are floating buoys making the edge of
the safe swimming area. End image description.