Diagnosed

“Please, let me up. I don’t like to be touched.”

Fingers trembling, I fought my boyfriend’s powerful hands, but he grabbed my little wrists and pushed them and my petite body deeper into the couch.

My orange tabby, Tanner, stood on his hind legs and swatted at my boyfriend with his left paw, but he ignored him and leaned close to my face, squeezing my wrists so tightly that a jolt of pain shot through my hands into my arms.

“Please,” I begged, on the verge of tears.

For ten minutes, he didn’t move; he kept me pinned and pulled his knees close to one another. Finally, though, after one more swat from Tanner, he released me and sat back on the couch, dark eyes fixed on me. “We need to have sex,” was what he told me a few months ago. “It’s important for any relationship.”

Not to me, not to someone who didn’t like to be touched. Why couldn’t I find someone who would leave my body alone—accept the fact that things needed to move slowly for me, not quickly?

Without saying anything, I moved to the edge of the couch, my blue eyes fixed on Tanner, who hopped up and sat between my boyfriend and me. I don’t want to think about what would’ve happened if I didn’t have him there with me.

I have never been a people person; friendships and relationships are never long-term for me, simply because I can’t connect with people as easily as others.

This reason, this assault, and my anxiety are why I am sitting in the neuropsychology office with my father today. I’ve been out of college for four years, and things are only harder for me: no progress at work with making friends, no progress at home with making friends, and now I am caught in a similar bubble with my current boyfriend; he wants to touch me, but I don’t want that.

“I don’t like talking about it,” I whimper, lowering my head over the psychologist’s desk and holding it with both hands. Tears burn in the corners of my eyes, but I don’t cry. The way he held me down, though, the way he refused to release me even after I constantly begged him... No, Victoria, let it go. You’re a grown woman. But why don’t I feel and act like one?

“I don’t think any woman in that situation likes to talk about it.” The psychologist chuckles, but there’s mournfulness in his voice, too. “Don’t worry, Victoria, we’re going to figure this out.”

Please do. I hate living like this: feeling so different from my peers and not knowing how to cope.

I was adopted from Russia when I was 2 ½ years old, so my parents and I know nothing about my birth parents; however, we just recently found my old medical records for my tight heel cord when I was a child and have learned that I have hemiplegic cerebral palsy. Now we’re wondering if the brain injury affected my cognitive development, too. There is something wrong with me, but I don’t know what it is, and I wonder if I ever will.

The psychologist closes his folder and types into his computer, his fingers moving so quickly that I can hardly see them. “We’re going to test you for PTSD, depression, autism, ADHD, social anxiety, and a panic disorder. The receptionist will schedule you for your appointments in September and October on your way out.”

Over a month of tests? Now I know something’s wrong with me. But why has everything piled up at once—in this moment now? Did I mask in school?

With so many thoughts flowing through my broken brain, I shakily stand but lock my knees. My eyes roam, as they usually do, and I examine my prison for the next month and a half, but this prison will help me, not hurt me. Whatever is going on, whatever this neurodivergence is, I will find my way through it, even at the cost of my mental health.

What am I supposed to do about the boy I’m dating now, though? The more time I spend with him, the more I think he doesn’t want to date someone like me.

Am I really that much of an outsider? Am I just a burden to the world?

Please, I just want to be normal.