For anyone who’s ever silently lost their s**t at doctors, hormones, or Ken: this is your AuDHD Barbie, finally done pretending.
Originally titled. "Introducing AuDHD Barbie".
Hello and welcome to Divergent Menopause, previously known as The Autistic Perimenopause: A Temporary Regression.
I am Sam Galloway (she/her), an autistic ADHDer, and I have recently had a hysterectomy. As a neurodivergent perimenopause and PMDD survivor, I offer peer support and share knowledge on how to make it through the hard times.
Thanks for joining me on this wild midlife ride! 🎢
This is a snapshot in time of Barbie in midlife, who is late diagnosed Autistic, with co-occuring ADHD (AuDHD), in the throes of hormonal flux and she does not have enough f***s left to give.
In this spoof piece, let me take you into Barbie’s messy Dream House where our protagonist can safely self-regulate and drop her social mask…
AuDHD Barbie - or just “Barbie” to her friends - ignored her ringing phone, as Ken came through to her voicemail message: “Hi, it’s Barbie. Please do not leave a message. Text me, but only if it is important. Bye.”
“For f**k’s sake, Ken”, Barbie muttered under her breath finally picking up as Ken rang through yet again. “This had better be important”, Barbie seethed down the line. “No, I don’t want to go to the beach party. I already told you! None of my clothes fit me anymore and my stupid period just started. How can I be bleeding again? It is only sixteen days since my last - hello? Ken?!”
The dead phone line was the most soothing sound Barbie had heard all day.
Barbie high fived herself. Period talk always made Ken cut his conversations short. Barbie believed that sand was cursed, and a cold shiver coursed through her body at the thought of ever having to go to another beach party again. This gave some light relief to her otherwise 24/7 hot flush. It was all right for Ken to go, he wasn’t experiencing hormonal mania making him rapidly lose muscle mass, bone density and his entire sense of self.
Yes, things were just fine for Ken as always. Whilst he grinningly pumped iron and mainlined a creatine and protein powder blend on the daily, Barbie was forgetting to eat. Her only exercise was to burn calories through hanger-induced meltdowns. Her lifelong body dysmorphia was now at its peak.
Looking down at her bloated meno belly, Barbie felt that she was retaining more water these days than there was in the entire ocean. ‘Calorie deficit diets’ were no longer working for her. Nor was intermittent fasting, the 5-2, Mediterranean, Paleo, Keto, Whole30, low FODMAP, low histamine, or eating only even numbered quantities of beige foods during even numbered hours of the day.
Barbie collapsed into her sensory swing, kicked off her high heels and threw them across the room. They had been digging into her cankles, and she applied an ice pack to the ankle she had badly rolled earlier that day. Not for the first time, she dry heaved at the sight of the thick dark hairs growing at right angles out of her once dainty feet and toes.
What is wrong with me? she wondered to herself. I used to love beach parties and hanging out with Ken. Now I just want to kill him every time he comes near me! God, he is such a dick.
Barbie excavated the teetering mountain of hot pink dirty laundry to find the remote control for her cooling fan, trying not to disturb her sleeping cats. Turning her fan on to the max helped redistribute the air flow, which was currently carrying the unmistakable odour of the cat s**t in the nearby litter box.
For f**k’s sake, Ken! Barbie thought to herself again, as rage filled every fibre of her being faster than any number of mindful deep breaths could diffuse. Scooping the cats’ s**t is a blue job. Why haven’t you f*****g done it?
Even if she had wanted to, Barbie couldn’t scoop the litter boxes; not with her tennis elbow, frozen shoulder and splinted hypermobile wrist that her doctor had said in no uncertain terms were not symptoms of perimenopause.
“Well, Ms AuDHD Barbie, you are in the prime of your life”, the doctor had told her earlier that day, whilst attempting to look both up her itchy short skirt and down her scratchy scoop neck top. Barbie could feel hives emerging across her chest, but she resisted agitating them with her brittle nails. She would wait until she got home, and then rub them raw until they bled. Bliss!
“Allow me to assure you that you are too young to be experiencing menopause symptoms”, her doctor went on. “And, might I add, that you do not look autistic, and you are far too successful to have ADHD. Your lab results are fine. Your estradiol is at normal levels. You are still a very fertile young woman.”
His lack of eye contact was now vexing her, ironic given that her own reported discomfort at holding a gaze was flagged in her recent autism assessment. Yes, for decades she had masked endlessly, with her iconic plastic moulded smile rouged to constant perfection. But now she felt ready to tear off the mask and stamp on it right there and then in the doctor’s office.
“Look,” the doctor had gone on, “I will note your concerns but, for the record, I am of the professional opinion that you have nothing at all to worry about. You are seeking diagnoses unnecessarily. There is no cure nor treatment for neurodivergence or perimenopause anyway. This trend of over diagnosing autism and ADHD is getting out of hand! We all know that males are 1,000,000 times more likely to be neurodivergent than females. Not to mention the fact that women cope with it. Why would a woman of your standing want a diagnosis when you have managed fine all your life until now?”
Barbie was mute. Situationally, not selectively. Despite scripting the discussion in advance over and over in her head, she could feel her neck and face burning, hot tears pricked her eyes. She sniffed them back. A thousand retorts would fire around her mind like pinballs in the hours and days that would follow, yet for now she froze in despair and panic. Her ever saggier face remained static, fixed with a wry smile. Barbie’s now unfocused eyes were blurring off into the distance, as she wished she could be anywhere else.
“This is all in your pretty little head. How does Ken feel about all of this?”, the doctor went on. “I can increase your SSRI dose but I cannot offer you hormonal therapy because the significant risks are not worth the supposed benefits. You are fine. Keep doing what you are doing. I am here any time you need to see me for support and advice.”
Barbie was already so f*****g sick of being objectified and patronised, but medical gaslighting was a new one on her. She decided not to tell this professional pervert all the other worries she had noted down to prompt the consultation. Bleeding gums. Loose teeth. Itchy ears. Cognitive decline. Urinary incontinence. Insomnia. Losing all her stuff. Suicidal thoughts. And that the sight of Ken in all his so-called glory did nothing for her anymore, and that she was feeling dead inside. Particularly ‘downstairs’. Her vagina was rapidly becoming nothing short of warped, and some prolific Googling of the mind-blowing symptoms of perimenopause had led to a self-diagnoses of vaginal atrophy and pelvic organ prolapse.
If Ken only knew that my vag feels like someone has taken a cheese grater to it, and that my kamikaze uterus is doing it’s best to sacrifice itself, Barbie thought, he might stop calling me all the time and let me live in peace.
No. Despite feeling broken, Barbie hadn’t mentioned her more sensitive gynaecological ailments to this doctor, and instead made a mental note to find a neuro-affirming menopause specialist doctor, and develop her self-advocacy skills.
Back in the sensory sanctuary of her Dream House, Barbie slipped into something a little more comfortable to see her through her impending shutdown. A black hoodie, compression tights that covered her multitude of coffee table bruises, and her noise cancelling earbuds. She zoned out listening to a perimenopause podcast to help her feel sane, informed and less alone.
Barbie took off her shiny sleek blonde wig to free her own matted, unwashed hair, doused her hair in dry shampoo then tied it back out of her face. The regular intrusive thought of shaving her head returned, and she blinked and cleared her throat ten times whilst humming to try to make it stop, whilst pulling out tangled clumps of fallen hair from between her fingers. Barbie was alarmed at the amount of hair she was losing, and her male pattern hair loss and receding hair line made her cry in secret most days. The wig was just easier now than dealing with her own hair, and facing questions about it.
Until she found a better doctor, she didn’t have the right answers anyway.
🩷 How are you feeling about Mattel’s announcement of the new Autistic Barbie? 🩷
Let me know in the comments!
Cheers,
and
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