by Chessie Renata Hudson
Chessie Renata Hudson (she/her) is a Contracts Specialist at Gallagher Re. In 2022, at the age of 33, she was formally diagnosed with autism and dyspraxia. Chessie changed her name by deed poll in June – you may know her by her former name, Francesca Marie Alcock.
Since my autism and dyspraxia diagnoses just over two years ago, I’ve made several big changes. I’ve turned vegetarian, now work from home full time, and have legally changed my name by deed poll.
The biggest change of all, however, is how I feel about myself. I’m finally free from the dark cloud of shame that I’d lived under for three decades.
You may be wondering how that cloud formed in the first place. Let me explain.
“You’re too sensitive”
“Why are you so quiet?”
“You’re messy and lazy”
“Grow up!”
“Stop talking about numbers all the time!”
“It’s easy, just try harder!”
This is just a small sample of the onslaught of criticisms I received as an undiagnosed neurodivergent child. Often, these were accompanied by a look of total disdain. With each expression of contempt, the cloud got bigger and bigger.
I also couldn’t understand why things that seemed to come so easily to my peers, like making friends, tying shoelaces and riding a bike, were so hard for me. The cloud grew bigger still.
In the absence of any other explanation, I concluded I must be the problem. I viewed myself through a lens of visceral disgust and self-loathing.
I tried to mould myself into someone acceptable. I concealed my true interests and replaced them with socially acceptable ones. I taught myself to appear bubbly and extroverted by mimicking my favourite TV presenter Davina McCall. I suppressed my emotions.
The tiny bit of self-worth I did have came from my intelligence and academic achievements, which brought me the approval and praise I so desperately craved. I was The Clever One, top of the class and first in the family to go to university. I became a perfectionist who wouldn’t let myself be anything but excellent academically and professionally and berated myself for the smallest of mistakes. I had to keep being The Clever One, because if I wasn’t, I was worthless.
My diagnoses of autism and dyspraxia were vital as they started my journey to self-acceptance. I realised I wasn’t messy and lazy; I had executive function difficulties. I struggled to catch a ball because I was dyspraxic. I wasn’t deeply flawed, simply neurodivergent.
Through a lot of therapy, support from the neurodivergent community, and the healing power of music and films, the dark cloud of shame that I’d lived under nearly all my life finally lifted. I now respond to myself with deep compassion instead.
Now, instead of hiding the neurodivergent parts of me, I embrace them. I’ve come to realise that the parts of me that I once hated and hid, like my deep sensitivity and childlike sense of wonder, are actually the best parts of me. I celebrate my special interests as my greatest source of strength and joy, and know that without them I wouldn’t have experienced some of the best moments of my life, like visiting Australia.
My new-found sense of self-worth allowed me to make other positive changes in my life. After years of living in chaos, I’ve finally been able to get my flat clean and tidy. As my self-esteem is no longer based on my achievements, I now have a healthy work-life balance. Now I believe my needs are worthy of consideration, I’ve been able to ask for adjustments and have learned how to set boundaries and to say no.
Although the dark cloud of shame has gone, it’s left some scars. I’m currently in a deep autistic burnout caused by years of perfectionism and trying to be someone I wasn’t. Although my self-worth no longer depends on my intelligence, I sometimes panic when I don’t feel like The Clever One, such as when I don’t know something at work which I think I should. Even as an adult, I’m constantly worried that I’m ‘in trouble’. Although I’m reconnecting with Little Me, I don’t fully remember who I was before the mask went on and I doubt I ever will. The rage and disgust I once directed at myself is now rightly targeted at those who made me feel like I was broken, but some days, I think it was easier to hate myself than acknowledge the extent to which Little Me was mistreated by those who were meant to look after her.
Sadly, experiences like mine are very common in the neurodivergent community. Experts have estimated that, on average, children with ADHD receive 20,000 negative messages about themselves by the age of 10, a number which is just staggering. I would expect the numbers to be similar for those with other neurodivergences.
I wish people would think before saying something that will cause lasting damage.
But most of all, I wish for other neurodivergent people to see their own worth too.