The blessings and the mixing continue apace. I suppose the real miracle is that I continue to expect things to go according to plan! Or that I expect there to be some sort of plan...If I look at the pattern of my life so far, it certainly does not contain too many orderly pathways or grids.

Today I read a poignant article by a man with Asperger's Syndrome. He was not diagnosed (indeed the syndrome hadn't entered mainstream diagnostic texts) until mid-life and he touchingly describes the relief he felt once he found out that his differences and difficulties had a name. He also benefited from the gradual sifting and sorting we all undertake as we age, finding the jobs, activities, people, and lifestyles that might suit us better than those we've been given, or led to expect. But, undeniably, the diagnosis lessened his self-criticism and the anxiety of not-knowing.

As someone who has always felt that she didn't fit in, I read the article with a curious sense of solidarity - there but for the grace of a few genes go I? A friend writes of discovering a book that tells how to raise an introverted child. Through reading the book, she came to recognize and accept her child's introversion, as well as that of her partner. I remembered the joy I felt upon completion of the Myers-Briggs test, which labeled me an INFP. Many of the broad characteristics attributed to INFPs fit me, at least the way I see myself, but the item that brought the greatest relief, and attendant joy, was the acknowledgement that modern US society doesn't welcome or understand introversion. This was the first time I'd ever considered that I was not solely to blame for my differences. It was thrilling to feel that perhaps I was not wrong, just trying to fit into a way of life that didn't suit me. It's not a blanket dismissal of personal responsibility - I still need to find ways to get along in the world and function in society - but it lessens the burden of criticism and the pain of never-quite-getting-it.

Reading about Asperger's sends a whisper of familiarity along my senses, along with a healthy dose of relief - my afflictions are not so severe, nor so puzzling. But I am reminded, as I often am when reading about mental illness, psychiatric diagnoses, diseases, and other medical evaluations, that the line separating THEM from ME is fine indeed. A diagnosis can free us - from self-criticism, denial, fear, anxiety, censure - but it can also too neatly define difference as "other". It confirms that which we have feared and suspected: there is something wrong with me. At the same time, it allows us to name our fear and move on, secure in our place in the social continuum. Sometimes that acceptance is a boon to me; other times I wonder if it lets me off the hook a little too much. For the author of the article I've mentioned, diagnosis was a minor emotional miracle, but not a cure.