Is This Autistic Burnout or Have I Hit Rock Bottom?

Finally learning the words for this emotional meltdown.

Writing is my outlet. I don’t write on Medium to pay my mortgage. I write here because it’s the modern-day version of the green diary I furiously scribbled in as a teenager.

When I don’t have the motivation to write, there’s a problem. I have dozens of barely-started articles in my draft folder. Finishing them feels insurmountable, especially when I typically crank out my writing in a single sitting.

I had the best of intentions at the beginning of summer. I worked on a glow-up. I tried so fucking hard to push through the dense scary forest of emotional burden so that I could finally feel freedom on the other side. I beat the Depression Monster lurking in me; not enough to murder him but to sufficiently lock him a the bottom of my psyche’s abyss.

It began unraveling and then it snowballed. This past week I’ve barely gotten out of bed by doing just enough to make work Zoom appearances and getting my kids to school. Otherwise, I’m in bed sleeping or aimlessly messing around on my phone.

I stayed in bed this morning until 11:30 a.m. when I had to pick my kids up from school. I made them lunch and then crawled back into bed until dinnertime. Mother of the year over here. I’m depressed from only having my kids half their lives and when I do have them, I waste it being in bed.

While on my phone, I went down the rabbit hole of researching depression (like I don’t already have a PhD on the subject when it comes to my mental health) and discovered the term Autistic Burnout.

From Western Tidewater:

Autistic burnout is the “intense physical, mental, or emotional exhaustion” that many autistic individuals experience at some point. It can often be accompanied by a temporary loss of skills. That means that something the person could do fine before might now be difficult or impossible for them to do. This loss of skills often lasts for as long as the burnout does. Many autistic people say burnout is the result of having to navigate a world that is designed for neurotypical people.

The more I research, the more I learn the key difference is a lack of executive functioning. It’s one thing to be depressed and not willing to clean the house. It’s another thing when it feels like I don’t know how. It’s taken me three days to complete the simple step of putting clothes in the washing machine and then transferring them to the dryer.

I watched a video and a woman was crying while discussing it. She said she was tired of “feeling broken”. Girl, you and me both. It feels like everyone’s having fun playing a team sport while I’m pretending to be okay playing solitaire in the bleachers.

I don’t know if getting diagnosed as a kid would have helped. Part of me is angry that I felt different from others without knowing that autism didn’t always mean Dustin Hoffman’s rendition in Rain Man. Finding out I had a chromosome disorder and autism because of my son’s diagnosis opened my eyes.

For context, I’m on my bed sobbing hysterically. I haven’t worked out in two weeks. I haven’t showered in two days. I’ve got a raging yeast infection for the first time in two years. I’m a mushy hot mess.

My autistic son had his own series of meltdowns last week. One day he insisted that in high school he’d kill himself because he couldn’t figure out math. After we worked through homework (best believe I contacted the school’s IEP team to address his schoolwork), I tried to gently talk about those feelings.

It’s hard to navigate caring parenting when you lacked the role models of your parents who behaved like robotic drill sergeants.

I told my son that while I know he was venting about homework, if he ever feels like he’s truly at a point of wanting to hurt himself to talk to me first. I tried expressing that he isn’t alone and that whatever he’s feeling, we can navigate that together.

Did it register or was he nodding his head to get out of the conversation? No idea.

Cue the part where readers write to me about therapy. Yes, I’m aware that I could do therapy. I can’t afford the copays and even the affordable Better Help turned out to be a bust after months of trying to find a therapist. It’s also very draining to start fresh and explain four decades of emotional trauma to someone who might not be a good fit.

Mostly it’s the financial struggle. My home insurance went up seven hundred dollars because insurance companies are bailing out of California.

I’m on anti-depressants. I could tell my doctor that we need to try something else but I’ve done the rigmarole of trying different pills. Turning your body into a guinea pig is a whole other mind fuck. I have kids and a job (that I’m barely keeping at this point). I’ve tried at least six or seven different anti-depressants over my life. The last one left me dizzy with my heart racing; I was out somewhere with my kids and I rushed in a panic to get us home before my brain got too loopy to drive. I’ll stick with Wellbutrin.

I considered trying Transcranial Magnetic Stimulation (TMS) again. It’s extremely time-consuming and my prior effort was cut short thanks to Covid. But I have new health insurance and the copays are higher. It’s out of my budget.

They say “comparison is the thief of joy” but that’s referencing other people. I tend to think of where I am relative to the year before. This month one year ago I was with Jeremy and in absolute bliss. We went to San Diego and stayed in a posh hotel. I was busy planning the ultimate distraction day for his ex-wife’s upcoming wedding.

I had hope. I’m jealous of One Year Ago Me. The odds are low in my age bracket that I’ll find someone who checked all the boxes like he did.

It doesn’t deter me from dating, but being with men who only check some of the boxes is depressing. The missing elements are glaring black holes of emotional dissatisfaction.

All the things I want to do to get out of this mindset cost money, like taking new classes or taking on a project. Inflation has me regretting my divorce (specifically, the dual income). I spoke to my loan agent about buying a home near my kids’ future high school and the end plan is simple: work a second full-time job since I work from home.

Yes, it’s unethical. And risky. But it’s better than sucking dicks under a bridge for money on weekends.

I could call my friends but I’ve let many friendships fall to the side. It’s hard to make plans around my custody schedule and their family obligations (I don’t have a spouse as default childcare and I’m not ever getting a babysitter when I barely see my kids as it is). I also don’t care to have the incessant conversations about who I’m dating as the token Divorced Woman.

Plus, seeing my friends means going out. Going out means spending money. While I do my best to keep costs low, like eating dinner at home, it only makes me feel worse when I’m panicking about money instead of focusing on my friends.

I considered volunteering but my areas of interest require a minimum time commitment. I feel burdened imagining juggling another responsibility on top of my alternating custody schedule.

Something has to change. But it feels like an enormous amount of effort to get a few days of relief before it all goes to hell again. The return on emotional investment is low.

I got an invite from the girls’ golf group I follow about a full-game beginner clinic. It’ll be $140. I’ve been wanting to attend a session for months but between custody and finances, that’s never been an option. I could change my 401k deductions for a paycheck but that’s a slippery slope, I’ve already done that twice this year and this is a frivolous reason.

Or is it? I can justify medical help but “splurging” on mental health activities, especially this pricey, isn’t something I can wrap my head around. And then what…how would I afford golfing later? It’s not like you can golf for free.

I used to be Little Miss Popular. For my son’s first birthday, I held a “We Survived a Year!” party that was geared towards adults; more people attended than my wedding. I had dozens of different friend groups. Since my divorce, I’ve let those relationships fizzle out. They didn’t abandon me, I abandoned them.

Now it feels like the only people who would be utterly devastated if I died are my kids. Sure, some people would cry, but no one’s life would be that impacted without me. My kids are the only thing that’s keeping me from living in a tent hooked on…uhh…Oxy? Meth? My drug vernacular is lacking.

It’s a horrible feeling, knowing that you have all the significance of a gnat in the world.