It's September 28th, 2026. Today is my first therapy session with the psychologist. He'll ask about my symptoms for a couple of conditions, rule one out, and accept another. There will also be last-minute intake work (not that there's already enough going on with me). Truthfully, the therapy sessions aren't what I'm worried about; it's the two-to-three-hour-long neurological sessions in the third and fourth weeks of October. I did something similar ten years ago when I saw a specialist for learning disabilities. Boy, did I struggle. I left that day with dyslexia, non-verbal learning disorder, and sensory concerns.

Dad drove down at 3:00 AM to get here at 6:00 AM. He did this so we could attend the session at 8:15. Dad always does this, but that's his ADHD talking. Once something's on his mind, he has to do it. Yes, I know I'm a grown woman and shouldn't ask my daddy to hold my hand, but I need a lot of comfort, especially since my anxiety has grown worse over the past few weeks. I broke up with my boyfriend, though, so I feel a little safer without him trying to touch me. Dad and the psychologist recommended that I pull the plug, so I did.

Dad and I are back in the psychologist's office, my hundreds of forms stacked before him. I sip some tea we got at a coffee shop beforehand. We're going to drive to Isle of Palms after this, so I had to think about that, rather than the fact that I have started stimming (but maybe I have always stimmed?) and have even unleashed a few hand flaps lately with my anxiety. I can't stop; if it's not my hands, it's my feet. If it's not my feet, it's my hands. Sleep has been non-existent, too. I can't remember the last time I had a good night's sleep, so it's another thing Dad and I will bring up.

Suicide concerns, bipolar disorder, and psychiatric episodes are the first things the doctor asks me about.

"Be honest with your answers," he explains. "If you need to think about something for a while, I'll put it down as 'no.'"

This was going to be tough, considering that I have a horrible memory, but I trust the doctor. He has forty years' worth of experience with this.

All my answers for bipolar disorder and psychiatric episodes get a no. I would never hurt my family, people, or animals. I would never claim that I see ghosts everywhere, unless this is The Sixth Sense.

When we get to suicide, though, my answers aren't as straightforward because there was one moment, two days after my older brother died in 2021, that I tried to take my life, but Mom and Dad stopped me. In the past month, though, no, I haven't had thoughts like that again. I'm sure my brother's death is another reason why they're testing me. It's been five years, but I'm still grieving. I still have panic attacks, and I fear every day that I'll lose someone else I love just as tragically. I also constantly feel like a burden at work, to my parents, etc., and I do sometimes wonder if the world would be better off without me.

A frown crosses the doctor's face, and he instantly moves to depression, PTSD, social anxiety, and a panic disorder, all of which a majority of those answers are 'yes'.

I notice Dad watching me out of the corners of his eyes, fear and guilt on his tired face. None of this is yours and Mom's fault, Dad. I masked, and we know nothing about my birth parents. I also don't do well with expressing my emotions; I overwhelm myself all the time, and then I let it out by crying on the bathroom floor and shutting down.

"I also haven't been sleeping well," I explain when I get my chance (I constantly accidentally interrupt mid-conversation without meaning to). "I wake up, and I'm frozen. I can't move, and I see hallucinations."

"Does this happen at night or in the morning?"

"In the morning, and sometimes when I wake up from a nap."

"Hm." There the doctor goes again, typing on his computer. Oh gosh, just another thing to add to my list.

"I'm going to test you for parasomnia, too," he elucidates.

My shoulders sag, and the tears return to my eyes. What is wrong with me? I grab my dirty blonde bangs and pull a few in front of my face. My other hand lets out a quick flap. "What about my hands? I've been stimming a bit, and I sometimes flap my left hand." Palsy, maybe (the damage is on the right side of my brain)? No?

Then the doctor says something interesting: "That's your autism. It's a stress response. They're called tics."

Tics, like with Tourette Syndrome? I don't have that, though. I didn't know that autistic people occasionally had tics. I'm not sure if I have autism, but it definitely seems like the doctor isn't ruling it out. If only I didn't have to wait until the third and fourth weeks of October for those psychological exams; those would confirm if I'm autistic. I'm definitely neurodivergent, but there are lots of neurodivergent conditions. Autism and ADHD are only two of them.

"During the rest of this testing, try relaxation techniques to help with those tics," the doctor says.

I pause and think. Writing relaxes me, but I haven't written lately. Maybe now was a good time to get back into it a little: write journal-like entries about this process.

The idea crosses my mind and stays with me for the rest of the session. Afterward, the doctor leads us to the main office to check the October appointments and check out. Things are beginning to make a little more sense, but there's still so much I don't know that those neurological tests will answer.

Regardless, Dad and I leave with three new things: depression, PTSD, and tics. As well as a reminder of my non-verbal learning disorder.