Borderline Personality Disorder – A response

About a week ago I ran into this article online. The title of the article caught my attention quickly because it’s a stance I’ve taken on borderline personality disorder (BPD) years before even getting my psychology degree.

That title?

We need to treat borderline personality disorder for what it really is – a response to trauma

You see, a therapist tried to diagnose me with BPD in my 20’s. As an avid learner who looks into everything with child like curiosity and the vigor of a research scientist, I dug into this subject until I felt I knew at least 4 different perspectives and read at least that many “definitions” of the disorder, including the DSM-4. After all my research and digging, I came to the conclusion that BPD is simply the result of a traumatic childhood and bad parenting. But this isn’t the reason I rejected that diagnosis. I rejected it because there’s a certain trait that all patients with BPD have, and I don’t have it.

What’s that trait?

It’s hard to put into words, honestly. I can pick up on it in a person with great ease, but to verbalize it requires that I understand your perception of the words I choose. As an autistic, I’ve always found that difficult to do. I prefer the dictionary definition of words and most people attach a lot of emotions and personal meanings to words. This makes it very difficult to communicate my understanding of things and how they work. So, I will leave you with the understanding that I am being very technical in my word choice and to please refrain from emoting on my description:

The trait that defines BPD for me is that they are spastic in temperment, impulsive in speech, and draining in interaction. All of these traits must blend together into one trait that I cannot seem to describe any better than breaking it down into its parts.

For this reason, I cannot identify with BPD, so I have refused the diagnosis each time it’s brought up. Yes, I have compulsive behaviors… I’m autistic. Yes, I am socially awkward… I’m autistic. Yes, I can be draining in interaction… believe me, I’m only draining because I’m drained. This is the point where it’s best to just let me go home. Thanks. I’m also inappropriately loud at times… again, I’m autistic. The difference is, I’m not frantic; I’m not craving approval so much that it’s disordered. And yes, I love approval. Most people do. But in order to fit in with the BPD definition, you have to be disordered in your need for approval.

So, when I read this article, I immediately said “YES!” and simultaneously, “in your face [insert teacher name here]!” You see, as I mentioned, I’ve been saying this for years. I’ve even been arguing with psych teachers about this. Their argument is always based on the DSM and the idea that a disorder cannot be learned. These same teachers don’t even understand the baseline difference between a sociopath and a psychopath. And no, it’s not intelligence and impulse control. Psychopaths are born, sociopaths are made. It’s that simple. You can have an intelligent sociopath, though they’re rare. You can have a psychopath with poor impulse control, even more rare. But the main difference is the neurological connections in the brain. Psychopaths are born with the way they interpret the world. Sociopaths require consistent marked trauma and an early onset of survival instincts. Survival instincts play a big part of BPD too. Let’s get back to that.

From the article…

The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM-V) does not mention trauma as a diagnostic factor in BPD, despite the inextricable link between BPD and trauma. This adds to viewing BPD as what its name suggests it is – a personality disorder.

This needs to change. The fact that these children were abused–and are later showing signs of that abuse–isn’t being considered because they’re no longer children. They’re adults… so they should suck it up… or some such shit as that. The thing that constantly gets ignored is the fact that every one of these people with BPD have had abusive and neglectful caretakers (they’re not always parents). They need to acknowledge the trauma.

Now the article goes on to explain the difference between Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (C-PTSD) and BPD. If you understand both, you can understand why so many therapists tried to diagnose me with BPD. I have C-PTSD. I will not deny that. Is it an easier disorder to deal with? Meh. Is it different than BPD? Slightly. See, my issue wasn’t with the stigma attached to BPD. My issue was with the frantic, spastic personality trait that’s like a beacon for people with BPD. I am more calm, less clingy and I definitely am more self aware than a person with BPD. Those being the main differences between the two. Compound my C-PTSD with autism of the high functioning flavor and you have a cocktail that an inexperienced psychologist or therapist would mistaken for BPD.

For this reason, I agree with the summation that BPD needs a name change. Especially considering it’s just C-PTSD with a little extra flavor, maybe call it C-PTSD 2. Or C-PTSD the sequel. Or C-PTSD with extra flavor crystals. Whatever the name they choose, it should be voted on by sufferers of the condition. People with BPD should have a say in the renaming just like autistics should always have a say in their care.

Honestly, there’s such an overlap between C-PTSD, BPD and autism that we should just start calling them all the same thing. Let’s see… Social Neurodivergent-genetic (aka autism), Social Neurodivergent-learned (C-PTSD), and Social Neurodivergent-warrior (BPD). There, that should fix it. And everyone gets their diginities back.

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Stages of Grief

When I first heard the news of my son dying, it was a phone call from his dad at the hospital and we heard the news at the same time as the doctor came out to explain what happened. Later we’d find out that he’d been gone since 2:55 am and nothing could have been done. His pacemaker was steadily going and would later tell us what happened. His heart sped up then stopped. Just stopped. In his sleep. Those words his dad said before he dropped the phone echo in my mind like a bad song or a radio jingle. “He’s gone.” Then silence. Then screaming. Then my son’s uncle giving his condolences and telling me to call him when I’m ready to talk. At that point, I didn’t know how the stages of grief would play out. My world had ended and I only knew that my heart was broken.

It’s been 13 days. We’ve had a funeral and 2 memorials. I’ve driven from Washington, where I live, to California, where my son lived with his father, and back since then. I’ve had a memorial service for him for family that couldn’t make it to California for the funeral. I’ve also had said family not show up to the memorial because of previous plans, namely a birthday camping trip that could have waited until morning. But I digress. 13 days later and I’m not sure how I’m supposed to feel. I just know that the things you’re supposed to do to help everyone else with closure is done. What’s next?

They say the stages of grief are denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. I’ve also heard it said that these stages are fluid and not linear at all. You can jump from stage 3 to 1 to 4 to 5 and back again. You can even skip stages altogether, never experiencing them at all. Everyone grieves differently and this is the account of my grieving process thus far.

When the news first hit me, I was anguished. Is that a stage? Where would that fit?

Bargaining and anger seemed to mingle as I looked for a reason for this. I wanted to blame something. Something other than his faulty heart. I thought the pacemaker stopped working or the kid had taken something–committing suicide. My son was not suicidal, so that made no sense, but my brain was going anywhere it could to find a reason for this. Not that his heart simply gave up the 15 year 4 month 2 week 49 minute fight. No. It couldn’t have been the Ebstein’s. We fixed that when he was 10. He had a pacemaker put in at 12. He was fine. It had to be something else.

Then I felt the warm blanket of depression. That has yet to subside, even for a minute, for another stage to take over. It colors everything I do, everything I think, everything. I struggle with making food, though I will eat if you bring me something. I’ve taken up smoking half a pack a day. I started during a move the weekend before all this happened, but picked up on my frequency after it happened. Showers. What are those again? Brushing teeth. Meh. I’m on automatic mode when anything actually gets done. And I have to move into my new apartment next weekend. It’ll happen. It’ll go smoothly and quickly. But that warm blanket will be calling me the entire time. They have a new name for this: functional depression. I’ve been doing it for years for other reasons, but nothing this heavy. Nothing this hard.

Anger hit, over and over, until his rhythm specialist told us what the pacemaker said. I wanted to sue the pacemaker company for a minute, then I wanted to sue his cardiologist for cutting the nerve in surgery–nevermind that I had signed a waiver for such things–then, after I found out he was drinking Kickstart energy drinks without his parents knowledge, knowing that he wasn’t supposed to drink those due to his heart, I wanted to sue the liquor store that was selling a 15 yo boy energy drinks. Someone had to be blamed. I wanted to hold someone accountable, but could find no one. None of these thoughts were reasonable. As if anger ever is.

Bargaining was the most disturbing to me. I thought of saving tissue for cloning, saving sperm for grandkids (this one fucked with me the most), keeping his pacemaker, taking his ashes home… if you notice they get less and less disturbing as I went on. This is actually the main reason I wrote this essay; The very disturbing thoughts of bargaining that can happen when you lose a loved one too soon. I want others to understand that grief can make you think things that don’t seem normal. It can bring you to the point of irrational thought, but it’s not disordered. It’s okay to think these things. Reason and rational will win out in the end, but grief is never reasonable or rational, so never fault yourself for these thoughts. Never give yourself over to them either. Let them play out in your head and allow them space. They will eventually be exposed for the frauds that they are and you’ll come out in the end with a better perspective. Fighting these thoughts and shaming yourself or others for them will actually make it worse. Allow the unreasonable thoughts room and space to work themselves out. Your brain will find its balance naturally. If you continue to have these thoughts after years and try to take action on them, please seek help. Therapy isn’t something to be ashamed of either.

Denial, though labeled stage 1, didn’t hit me until later. I actually went all conspiracy theorist about it. I had an idea play out in my head that they were faking all of this to keep me from my son. Seriously. After I let the thought play out, I realized it’d make a great short story or even a book, but that’s as far as I allow these irrational thoughts to go. I still get a tinge of denial here and there, even after seeing him in his casket. I still fight with myself that this is real. I want to wake up so bad, crying and sweating in my bed, to be held by my partner and find none of this ever happened. I know that’ll never happen, but it doesn’t keep me from wanting it with every ounce of my being.

Acceptance comes and goes as well, usually after a ridiculous denial story my brain made up to make me feel better. All of this is to make you feel better and your brain will try anything. Mine has resorted to a blank mind. I can do things, talk and interact just fine, but there are no pre-thoughts. Surprisingly, I’m less awkward and more in tuned with the people in my environment due to the complete lack or over analyzing and anxious thought. It’s just quiet in there and that’s weird for my overworked, constantly running, unquiet mind.

It’s ok to miss them when they’re gone. It’s ok to cry, be sad, skip a few meals, eat only cake for a week, and even take up smoking for a time. It’s not ok to allow it to rule you. If you find yourself not carrying on after grief, please seek help. Your loved one would be devastated to find out you’re allowing yourself to waste away. My son loved school and played the cello, piano and guitar. He loved learning and loved life. It’s now my job to honor him by carrying on that spirit. That spirit that I bestowed upon him in the first place. Will it be hard for the coming months? Fuck yeah, it will. No parent should lose a child. But missing him will never keep me from my goals. He would hate me for allowing it to.

Here are some national helplines to help you with your grief.

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline   1-800-273-8255

United Way Helpline   1-800-233-HELP (1-800-233-4357)

Youth America Hotline   1-877-YOUTHLINE (1-877-968-8454)

IMAlive online chat help   http://hopeline.com/online/

Crisis Chat   http://www.crisischat.org/

Turn the page

For 8 years I saw myself with no one else. He was the one I planned to spend the rest of my life with. I loved him after all, even with all his rough edges and insecurities. I loved the way he could make me feel like the only woman alive and how we got along like the best of friends. I loved even the rough spots despite how they affected me. No matter how rough it got, I could see myself with no one else. That’s what love does to you. But just because you’ve loved once doesn’t mean you can’t love again. And there in lies the problem…

It’s been 4 years since I realized that his intentions for me weren’t pure, weren’t love and definitely had my worst interests in mind. I wasn’t willing to give up even then, but I knew I had to.  It was difficult. Love is a spiteful mistress, hanging on and boiling rabbits as it goes. I spent the next few years reclaiming who I was. I had lost myself and if there’s any tragedy in this, it’s not a love lost, it’s a loss of self. He required it. I thank him for the lesson.

I have since learned to be uncompromising, direct and deliberate. I have since learned that my ability to withstand abuse doesn’t need to be tested, over and over. I have learned what my limits are and they’re deeper than I’d ever realized. Finding myself was the best gift he could have ever given me. And I accept his role in that openly and willingly. I’ve come to the point in my healing that the toast burning isn’t his fault. It’s easy to blame an abusive ex for everything and anything you can muster, you’re angry after all. You have every right to be so. But there’s no room in a healed heart for old anger and resentment. It clouds the current anger and resentment–custody issues always bring. So, being able to withstand a lot isn’t the true test here, it’s the ability to come out of the wreckage strong and smiling.

I have discovered that smiling despite the wrenching pain of grief helps you get through the day to day doldrums.  It’s almost required in order to stay sober, focused and reserved. That smile is what brings your support network closer. They see your strength and they want to lift you up even more. Ever hear about how, in marketing, you want to make it look like you don’t need their money and people will scramble to give it to you? Well, strength, among other things, works the same way. I love my friends and I love that I don’t have to burden them with my pain to know that they’re there for me. It’s the best feeling in the world.

It’s important to mention, love isn’t lost on this girl. She’s empowered and ready. Full of love to give and ready to receive. I guess you can say I’m finally ready to accept that my life, my grief, my pain won’t bring someone else down.

See, I’ve refused to date because I couldn’t bare the thought of getting someone involved in this mess. I didn’t want to allow someone to care about me because, if they cared, they would feel my pain the same as I do. I wouldn’t put that on someone. I don’t think it’s fair to them to put them through that. I almost liken it to abuse, almost. I was trampled in court and by the GAL about my inability to find a mate. I’ve been single most of my life. It takes longer to recover from love lost than it is from lust lost. Chad had lust lost. He never loved me. Not sure he knows how to, but that’s not my problem. I haven’t moved on because of how much I care about other people. And I honestly expected to be alone for the rest of my life. Then I met a boy.

I see myself with him and that’s so different for me that I’m not sure what to do about it. I’m not sure where this is going from here, but I can accept that for the first time in 4 years I can see myself with someone. Even if we remain friends, this step is a good sign towards healing. I’m ready for that next chapter.

Happy Father’s Day!

My dad bailed when I was 3. I saw him off and on until I was 9, then my mom and step-dad moved us to California and I didn’t see my dad nor hear from him until I was 15–a few months after he quit drinking. I spent less than 2 months with him before he shipped me back to my mom because I couldn’t get along with his secretly alcoholic and abundantly abusive girlfriend. She was the controlling sort and ended up tearing him down to almost nothing before he left her. Or at least I blamed her for years. I no longer feel this way.

I thought it was timing that made this mouse of a man hard to deal with when he divorced her a year after marrying her. He avoided his family and didn’t even tell my sister or I about his marriage. We both found out about it after the divorce and it was too soon to confront him about his absence, I told myself. Give him time, he’ll recover. Except he never did. He wasn’t going to because there wasn’t anything to recover from. It would be a couple more years, after my sister killed herself, before he’d start making a consistent effort. I was 23 when she died and for 15 years I’ve been building a relationship with this man whom I called dad. I thought that he was ready to be a dad, finally. That he’d embrace his role as a parent to a self-sufficient adult-child like gangbusters. No such luck.

I embraced him. Forgave him even.

Five years ago I started bugging him about moving over here where he can be closer to his grand-kids. I was pregnant with my third child and I wanted my children to know their whole family, including my dad. I explained how easy it’d be for him to sell his house and find property over here. I let him know that I would be there for him and support him through it. I’d even let him stay with me while he worked out the buying end over here. It would have been easy for anybody else who had also built 2 houses and bought and sold 2 houses by this point in his life. The man he pretended to be on the phone never indicated he was incapable of this “small” but complicated task. The issue would reveal itself after only a few short months of living together.

This man-child was fully incapable of taking care of himself. He subsisted on donuts, cookies, chips, Coke, cigarettes and coffee, and maybe the random sandwich. I was floored by his bad habits but was willing to overlook the eating issues just to have my dad nearby for my kids to get to know. I found out the issues exceeded executive functioning and bled profusely over into daily decision making. So much so I thought he was coming down with dementia. I was reassured by his doctor that he shows no signs of dementia. I even attended an appointment with him and realized the helplessness he expressed to me was an act. He expressed concern for being able to ask the doctor questions and retain the information given. When I spoke with the doctor privately about the possibility of dementia and observed my dad interacting with the doctor, nurse and other people in the office, that he had absolutely no issues with handling this level of self care unlike he had expressed just the day before. I had skipped a very important class to attend this appointment to find that the issues he was expressing was a manipulation tactic to get more attention. He could only take care of himself if I removed myself from the equation, otherwise he would lean heavily on me for all his care.

When someone is broken, and I mean completely broken, sometimes it’s best to just let them be.

I wasn’t the only one who noticed his behaviors were hedonistic and based solely on feeling. My 18 year old son saw it too. He eventually started getting irritated with grandpas “inability to be a man, about anything.” And my son isn’t the type to show stress. He’d make a wonderful nurse or pediatric something or other. Anyhow, in the past couple months he and I have been arguing more. He reminded me just the other day that grandpas behavior was affecting him too. He’s so even keel all the time (read as superman), I forget he’s human too sometimes. And I forget how observant he is. It must be all those times he pretends to not notice anything.

It really wasn’t until this week that I realized that my father had not changed one iota from when I was a child. His hedonistic behaviors were claiming his health and he didn’t care. The clearest indicator was when his recent and first colonoscopy revealed that he had precancerous polyps and will need a colonoscopy every 2 years for the rest of his life. The ping pong ball sized lump I found in my breast last year was enough to change how I deal with life–it wasn’t cancer, but scary enough. One would assume these polyps would be just as scary. They’re precancerous for fucks sake! The doctor indicated that his eating habits caused the polyps. He responded by continuing to eat exactly the way he was before the news. (Have I explained how I’m a health nut and know more about liver function and nutrition than any civilian should know?) Nothing scared him and that’s when it hit me, he had given up on life. His behavior was that of a 14 year old kid whose parents went on vacation and left the kitchen fully stocked with the only food they can get him to eat. Except my dad is 64. One would think he’d have learned a thing or two by now.

Over the past couple months I’ve watched this man attempt running away over trivial issues multiple times. Each time I’d call him out and remind him, again, of how that behavior isn’t serving him. I’ve been telling him this for 15 years. I’ve felt like a therapist with him, and I thought I was actually having an affect. I’d teach him little tricks for regaining his lost confidence while I was learning to regain mine after leaving a domestic violence situation. He’d talk a big game on the phone, but I quickly saw once he moved in that he wasn’t doing anything he said he was doing. He was running away at every turn even when he was still physically present. Most of the time was wasted chatting on the phone with people for hours every day. And I mean 4 hours minimum spent on the phone every, single, day.

It wouldn’t be long before my son and I would notice that everything he did was about puffing himself up. I felt like I was living with my ex again. It was a nightmare. He’d yell at me when I didn’t understand what he was saying, but would gaslight and excuse himself if he wasn’t being clear. If I talked to him about a conversation I had with someone that was bothering me, he’d threaten to punch the other person in the face. I eventually stopped confiding in him because I had to explain to a 64 year old man that punching people in the face isn’t the answer to every conflict. His ego was in the way of our relationship just like with my ex. He bought a motorcycle when he already owned one. He would talk about how he loved how people would look at his new bike and admitted that it was purely for ego. Yet complained when spending that money came round and bit him in the ass.

If you haven’t been reading my blog, you won’t know that I have autism, late diagnosis. We’re slowly getting used to what that means, but one thing I know it means is I will not be apologetic about who I am. With that said, I will not tolerate a few things. I will not be told to learn something my neurological condition prevents me from learning, nor will I be apologetic for it. I will not be cursed at no matter how upset you are. I also will not live with someone who uses the silent treatment to get their way and then get even more pissed when I don’t concede to the silent treatment. Finally, I will not be subjected to someone who is completely unwilling to discuss issues and address complaints like an adult. My autism makes it hard for people who are unwilling to understand the condition. If you’re willing to understand how it works, it will be much easier to communicate with me. I’m exceedingly reasonable and scored as savant in logic on my cognitive assessment. In contrast, I also get overwhelmed by seemingly innocuous stimuli and get emotionally drained very quickly with hyper-needy/clingy people, like my dad and my ex. I need lots of alone time or chill time cuddling with my girls. That’s how I recharge in order to deal with the day to day demands of life. When someone interrupts that with expectations, pretense and excessive demands, I shut down and function on needs-only basis.

It seems obvious now that I eventually had to stop coming to him with complaints¹ because they were always met with aggression, martyrdom and the silent treatment. I eventually didn’t want to be in my own home. I eventually resented every moment he was here. I couldn’t communicate with him, I could reason with him eventually but it took days of hard work to do it, and I couldn’t get him to understand that his inaction and expectation for me to take care of him will not work with my being a pre-med student. I have a certain level of responsibility to manage and without support I will struggle, even more so than the average person. And even if I don’t get into med school in 2017, I sure as hell will have tried my best and let nothing but my very sweet, very small little girls get in my way. No one else is worth it to me. Not that, not my future.

So what did my dad give himself for Father’s Day? He bailed and this time without consulting me. I assume he overheard my son and I talking about our difficulties with him last night, so he gathered his shit together today and bailed. Not a word. Didn’t even say goodbye to my darling girls before I took them to see their dad this morning. I am a little concerned, but not surprised at all. I feel like I’ve been beat to shit over the past 5 months and, honestly, quite relieved to be starting summer quarter with an empty house. My sympathy? Oh, yeah, that went out the window when I realized the person who came over here was not the person he pretended to be on the phone. He’ll never realize what he did wrong and I will give zero fucks about it until he does. Someday I’ll make up for whatever imagined slight² he came up with, but until then I’ll continue my life as if nothing happened.

That’s it. That’s my Father’s Day. Lesson learned? Live alone, definitely don’t live with family, stop helping people who refuse to help themselves, and work on better communication. Yup, I’ve got work to do. Gotta get that empowered me going. I know she’s in there somewhere.

¹ The most common one was “please ask where something goes if you don’t know. There’s two people here to ask. Guessing where something goes and putting it away wrong just frustrates everyone in the house.”

² For some reason he was convinced that we would live together and was butthurt when I showed him my plans for a tiny house (future goal) that included a building off to the side for him. The “compound” has three buildings total. I never said we’d live together except for that long off goal. I said he could stay with me for up to 6 months while he looked for a new place or buy property. He never looked. I got tired of waiting.

It’s a remix

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I found this on facebook and wanted to do a remix. I identified with so much, but not everything. I love cynicism. I hate dogs. I have no patience for pity parties and public suicide attempts (left that last one out of the remix). So, I figured I’d rewrite it, but give credit to the original author, Jose Teixeira. Here it is:

I no longer have patience for certain things, not because I’ve become arrogant, but simply because I reached a point in my life where I do not want to waste more time with what displeases me or hurts me. I have no patience for willfull ignorance, pity parties (even my own) and inaction. I lost the will to please those who don’t like me, to love those who do not love me and to smile at those who expect them no matter the pretense. I no longer spend a single minute on those who lie or want to manipulate. I decided not to coexist anymore with pretense, hypocrisy, dishonesty and cheap praise. I do not tolerate selective erudition nor academic arrogance. I do not adjust either to popular gossiping (unlearning this one from my family has been hard, I’m mostly there though). I hate conflict, competition and comparisons. I believe in a world of opposites and that’s why I avoid people with rigid and inflexible personalities. In friendship, I dislike betrayal and an utter lack of loyalty. I do not get along with those who do not know how to adjust temporarily for others idiosyncrasies. Exaggerations are how I communicate and dog lovers bore me. I have difficulty accepting those who do not understand science. And on top of everything, I have no patience for anyone who does not deserve my patience (luckily that’s only a handful of people).

Original by Jose Micard Teixeira, remix by Lindsay H.

Spelling isn’t always a skill, sometimes you need help

I was reviewing some comments I made on Facebook this morning when I noticed I spelled breathe wrong AGAIN! So, I figured I’d share with the world a list of words I commonly have issues with. The list below are the words I couldn’t spell right without that red squiggly line or an open tab to google or a mnemonic. My favorite mnemonics are princi-PAL to spell both principle and principal right, and B-E-A-utiful (from Bruce Almighty) to spell beautiful right. I before E except after C is a fallacy which I discovered very early in life, so never depended on it. Mostly I depend on sheer repetition mixed with a little phonics and an understanding of most of English to help me with my spelling, but for times when that fails, I love that little red line. And, as you can see, a couple of these words are actually spelled right, but for the wrong context, so easily missed.

Plus, I make up words all the time. Some of these words I don’t have trouble with every time, because I slow down and actively spell the word instead of relying on my muscle memory (typing). Words with two C’s in them seem to give me the most trouble. What words do you have trouble with?

My misspelling (correct spelling):

breath (breathe)
ocassional (occasional)
beutiful (beautiful) <– Bruce Almighty helps with this one
restaraunt (restaurant) <– I say “re-staaar-ant” to get this one right
eek (eke) <– two different meanings
discluded (excluded)
principal (principle) <– when I see the “pal” I remember the Simpsons skit
acommodate (accommodate)
theif (thief) <– and most other -ief words.
ryme (rhyme)
rythem (rhythm)
liscense (license)
ocurrance (occurrence)
fliar (flier or flyer)
greatful (grateful) <– I think cheese grater
innoculate (inoculate)
noticable (noticeable) <– I say “notice able” to get this one right
judgement (judgment) <– American vs English spelling
ocassionally (occasionally)
priviledge (privilege) <– I used to spell this privledge, but I started saying privy while typing it, still trying to drop that D
vaccum (vacuum) <– I have to say vac-yooooom when I actually get this one right the first time or I just won’t

BOOK REVIEW: “CAN I TELL YOU ABOUT PATHOLOGICAL DEMAND AVOIDANCE”

Just found out about this and it seems to fit why some things are different about my aspiness than other aspies. It’s exactly the things listed on this site (http://www.autism.org.uk/about-autism/autism-an-introduction/what-is-pathological-demand-avoidance.aspx) that fit where a straight ASD diagnosis with SPD doesn’t. Go ahead, click the link. Subscribe to her blog. It’s all interesting.

BOOK REVIEW: “CAN I TELL YOU ABOUT PATHOLOGICAL DEMAND AVOIDANCE”.