I don't like this prompt. my diagnosis story is a terrible mix of boring and shitty. the facts are thus:
- at the age of 7, I was diagnosed as dyspraxic
- within about 2 weeks, mum found a gym club for "special" kids just over half an hour's drive from our house
- the gym met twice a week. mum saw it was likely to be helpful, and brought us to every meeting no matter what.
- there were 2 sessions per evening. sessions were an hour long, but families could sign up to a double session if they wanted. well, it's hardly worth going for a single session, right? with a single session, we'd spend as much time travelling as we spent there.
- there were venue issues. the group started meeting 3 times a week.
- at some point, the group started running a swimming club.
(so, in case anyone is struggling to keep track, that's 3 hours [30 min drive, 2 hour double session, 30 minute drive home] 3 nights a week after school, plus 1 1/2 hours [30 min drive, 30 min swim, 30 min drive home] on a 4th night, for a total of 10 1/2 hours of activities outside school that I couldn't opt out of, whatever happened. I also went to brownies.)
- some friendship issues happened in year 6 that I handled extremely badly. because of the stress of my schedule, this made me suicidal.
- I was sent to a psychiatric nurse.
- the nurse said some stuff about bottles and anger that I pretended to understand.
- I didn't understand. because I'd never seen anyone show anger in a way that I would be allowed to, so my options were pretend to be fine or be punished.
- her colleague ran some tests
- ages afterwards, mum told me the reason I was angry was because I had something a bit like mild autism, but it was OK because I only just met the diagnostic criteria.
- I managed to say 2 things. first, that the diagnosis didn't change me. I'd had this thing forever, it was just a diagnosis. second, that I didn't want my younger brother to know.
- mum assumed the first thing meant I was happy about the diagnosis, and completely ignored the second.
years later, my brother yelled that there was something wrong with my brain during a fight. I assumed he meant dyspraxia, so laughed & said he did too. no. he didn't mean dyspraxia.
mum still thinks telling him was justified because [word salad about good intentions]. whenever I remember that, I'm still angry.