The Girl He Used to Know (Page 36)
34
Annika
CHICAGO
SEPTEMBER 2001
I’m meeting with Tina today to tell her about the results of my evaluation. I took Jonathan’s advice about getting tested and when I told Tina I’d finally decided to do it, she referred me to a neuropsychologist named Dr. Sorenson. Tina said autism is a developmental disorder and not a mental illness, and diagnosing autism-spectrum disorders is something neuropsychologists specialize in. When I called to make my appointment, I learned that testing would take four or five hours but that they would split it up over two sessions. They would also mail me a multipage questionnaire that I would fill out in advance and bring to my appointment.
Dr. Sorenson’s office was nothing like Tina’s. The furniture was stiff, the lights were bright, and there was a lot of chrome and glass. I kept catching my reflection on the shiny surfaces, and every single time I’d startle, wondering who the other woman was. Finally, I just looked down at my hands, which were folded in my lap, and tried not to flick my fingertips.
The tests were grueling and they exhausted me, but I felt good afterward. Like I’d finally confronted an issue that had plagued me my whole life. When I speculated about the results of my evaluation, my nervousness returned. What if the fears I shared with Jonathan were about to come true? What if there was nothing wrong with me and I really was just a weird girl whose childhood tormentors had been right on the money?
When I returned for my follow-up appointment to hear my diagnosis, Dr. Sorenson sat down behind his desk and opened a folder. “The testing shows that you fit the criteria for someone who has an autism-spectrum disorder. You’re very high functioning and likely employ a number of coping strategies and work-arounds, but there are things we can do to make it easier to manage your everyday life. I believe you’re also suffering from a generalized anxiety disorder and that it’s causing more difficulty for you than being on the spectrum.”
“I have an anxiety disorder too?”
“They often go hand in hand. My point is that you don’t have to go through life feeling this way.”
What I learned that day in Dr. Sorenson’s office made me feel peaceful. Hopeful. I had known for a long time that my brain worked differently, but to hear it confirmed provided immense relief.
I wished I’d sought an official diagnosis years ago. If I’d known then what I know now, I might not have spent so many years convinced there was something horribly wrong with me. I could have developed better coping skills at a much younger age. With the knowledge I gained in Dr. Sorenson’s office, I might have excelled instead of merely gotten by.
I certainly would not have been so ashamed.
* * *
“Dr. Sorenson also prescribed an antianxiety medication,” I tell Tina after I fill her in on everything I learned. “He said it might help calm the chatter in my brain. Make my thoughts clearer.”
“And has it?” Tina asks.
“I haven’t been taking it for very long and he said it could take up to a month before I see the full effects, but I already feel different. Calmer.” I was starting to not second-guess everything I said and did. I felt more confident in my interactions with other people. Or maybe I just wasn’t as worried about saying the wrong thing.
“Have you shared the results of your evaluation with Jonathan?”
“Yes. I told him everything, and I told him how happy I was that he encouraged me to go through with it. I wish my mother had had me evaluated when I was younger.”
“Knowing what I know about your mother, she more than likely tried. There were fewer resources and there was even less awareness of spectrum disorders back then. I think your mom did the best she could to prepare you for the world.”
“I should have pursued an evaluation when I first started seeing you. Why can I only see that now?”
“Because hindsight is a wonderfully illuminating thing.”
“There’s a woman I work with at the library. Her name is Stacy. People smile at her in our staff meetings and everyone’s always wandering into her office to chat or offer her cookies they’ve brought from home. I’ve been trying to make friends with her since she started working at the library a few years ago. I always tried to copy everybody else’s behavior, but it never seemed to work when I did it. The other day, when we were in the break room, I felt so much calmer that I just said hi while I waited for the microwave to heat water for my tea.”
“And then what happened?”
“She said hi. And then she asked me how my day was going and I said fine. Then the microwave dinged and I took my mug and told her to have a great rest of the day before I walked out.”
Tina seems delighted by this revelation. “How did that make you feel?”
“I can’t describe how it felt other than to say it felt natural. In the past, I would have misread her signals and started rambling. Then I would worry about what I’d said, which would make me ramble even more, making it worse. This time I didn’t. A couple days later, Stacy and I were walking out at the same time and she held the door for me and asked me if I had plans for the weekend. I told her I’d probably do something with my boyfriend and she asked me his name and how we met. I told her a little about Jonathan and how we’d dated in college. She thought that was so romantic. Then, before she got into her car, she said, ‘Have fun with your boyfriend,’ and I said, ‘Have fun with your boyfriend too!,’ because of course I did.”
“What’s wrong with that?” Tina asks.
“Stacy is married,” I say.
“So close,” Tina says, and then we both crack up and we are still laughing when my time is up.
35
Annika
CHICAGO
SEPTEMBER 2001
“You are … not great at this,” Jonathan says when I try to pull his car up alongside the curb and bounce off it instead.
“Sorry!” I say.
“It’s okay. You can’t really hurt it unless you hit something big.”
Jonathan’s car is nicer than the old truck he used to drive. It’s a shiny silver color and when I asked what kind it was, he said it was a sedan.
He doesn’t drive it that often because he usually takes the train. I like the way it smells inside: new, although Jonathan said he bought it when he moved back from New York.
“I told you I was a bad driver. If I remember correctly, those were my exact words.”
“You’re not that bad. You just don’t do it enough.”
We’re visiting my parents this weekend, and Jonathan decided the town of Downers Grove would be the perfect place for some basic driving lessons before we tackle something harder. I don’t tell him I’m hoping he’ll give up on me before we reach that point. Chicago traffic has a paralyzing effect on me; I literally cannot drive the city streets. Between cabs, the L, and my own two feet, I shouldn’t have to, but Jonathan thinks I need to broaden my horizons a little.
“Annika, stop!” Jonathan slams his foot down on the floor in front of him, hard. It startles me.
“Why did you do that?” I ask, stopping so suddenly my seat belt locks up. Oh. Maybe because that wasn’t my light that turned green.
“You don’t know how much I wish there was a brake pedal on my side.”
* * *
Another fifteen minutes of jerky starts and sudden stops is all either of us can take, and Jonathan switches places with me. I’m limp with relief and slump against the seat as he drives us back to eat lunch with my parents.
My mom and dad were thrilled to hear that Jonathan and I had reconnected, and even more thrilled when I told them we were driving over to see them. That’s how this whole driving-lesson thing got started. I told Jonathan that my mom and dad usually drove over to Chicago to pick me up whenever I wanted to come home.
“It’s only half an hour,” he said. “Why don’t you get a Zipcar and drive over yourself? It would be good practice.”
“Because I hate driving. I found a job and an apartment downtown so that I wouldn’t have to do it.”
“It’s not about the driving.”
“It’s not? What is it about?” I seriously didn’t know.
“It’s about doing one thing every day that scares you. Wasn’t there a famous woman who said that? I feel like there was.”
“It was Eleanor Roosevelt and you know it. And I’m not scared.”
“Mmmmmm.”
“I know what that sound means.”
“Then you know there are going to be more driving lessons in your future.”
* * *
Jonathan wants us to head home by four so he’ll have time to go into the office for a few hours. He said something this morning about Brad wanting him to get a jump on Monday, which sounded like a good way to ruin a perfectly lovely Sunday. We say good-bye to my parents and get back in the car. I’m thrilled that Jonathan doesn’t suggest that I get behind the wheel.
“Why can’t you tell Brad you don’t want to work on Sundays?” It would be nice if he and I could watch a movie or do some other relaxing activity together when we get home.
“Nobody would admit that to their boss. It would mean we weren’t team players and that our personal lives are more important.”