Remind me, next time I decide to produce a show, about the very real threats of “rejection.” I knew going into The Ferment there would be a lot of hard work and a little embarrassing desperation. But like a mother who forgets her labor pains, I knew I could withstand the many setbacks and plans b-z that come with staging a show – I’ve done it so many times before.
But now should not be confused with before. Now, I’m a woman of a certain age. Many of the delusions that used to cushion me from risk dissolved when they removed my ovaries and didn’t offer hormones to ease the crash full speed into menopause. That cancer scare was more than 10 years ago. I remind myself to be grateful I’m still here. I’ve stopped hiding the silver hair that appeared overnight and am finally on the right dose of thyroid medicine.
Asked to imagine changes to come in the next 10 years, most of us wouldn’t dare to envision the seismic chaos of an ordinary life.
Ten years ago September, I was laid off from my job of 15 years at the Scranton Times. The one where my full-time job with benefits was to interview artists and write about what they were doing in a way that inspired the community to come out and experience the magic. My work was advertising to the publishers, but for an “alternative” young writer raising two daughters as a single mom, it was sustaining and I found real fulfillment in nurturing and cheerleading the arts. The work of writing suited me and my co-workers tolerated me. The deadline was a needed push and it was comforting to trust an editor had my back.
Without deadline, it’s easy to delay. Without the paper, I lost my platform. People stopped calling to tell me what they were working on, and I was too busy job hunting to understand how much I would miss those calls. After six months of unemployment ran out and I still hadn’t found a new full-time position despite close to 150 applications, my esteem was in crisis.
Ten years ago, the court order mandating AA meetings had been fulfilled but I kept going back – that’s where I fell in love with the man I’d finally go on to marry (after a 12-year roller coaster ride!) in March 2026. Today, I avoid AA like a cult (no offense), but it wasn’t until the pandemic, after I stopped going to meetings, that I read enough about the autism spectrum to understand that I wasn’t an alcoholic. I hadn’t abused alcohol because I was an addict. I had turned to it because it dampened my senses and made the world softer and friendlier. I’ve since learned a lot of autistic people fell into this trap. Everyone seemed to like me better after a couple, when I let my guard down. They handed me drinks and I accepted, grateful for the escape and for the companionship. If only I was “like everyone else,” I might have gotten away with it. I was naïve; I’ve learned my limits.
I was supposed to talk to a therapist last week about whether it’s worth pursuing an official diagnosis of neurodivergence and presumably to discuss best coping practices. (Though John assures me there’s only a small co-pay on our insurance, the Geisinger portal wanted to charge me more than $700 for a zoom call so I canceled.) The neurodivergent community accepts self-diagnosis – no one chooses this – and if I’m going to be on some future fascist list of undesirables, I’d like it to be for my actions not my genetics. Could it impact the kids or future grandkids? I’m not interested in proving myself to anyone who can’t be bothered to practice basic empathy and I’m not asking for special accommodation or a disability status. So, what’s the point of all that hassle? If I thought more than three people would read this post, I might not click “Publish.” It feels silly to talk about myself at such length but that sounds like something I just heard Betty Draper say on Mad Men and that level of humility is even more embarrassing than exposing one’s internal pep talk.
I’ve had a few years now to replay my life through the lens of neurodivergence. That life has brought so many joys but always filtered through the noise of confusion, unable to feel pride in accomplishment or internalize compliments, wishing somebody would just tell me what’s wrong with me only to realize the agony was literally all in my head. How my brain works is not a character flaw. It’s just science. Family legend has it I learned to read when I was two. By the time I was 10, I was reading Asimov and Tolkien. I’ve been thinking about the other sixth grader who performed in the first script I ever wrote – an adaption of a scene from Asimov’s The Naked Sun. I wore a peach pantsuit and slicked back my hair to play a man. I have no clear memory of who (must have been forced to) appear in that scene with me, but I thank her for sharing the shame and embarrassment. The teacher must have been perplexed. I assume the other students made fun of me.
When I tested into the gifted program (IQ of 130 or higher) at North Pocono High School in ninth grade, they just thought I was smart. No one suspected a well-behaved scholar ranked second in her class had any problems that weren’t normal teenage hormonal surges. (NOTE: You do not want to read my 16-year-old journal. I hope that it’s not normal for kids to feel that way.)
My life choices look different now – was I drawn to study theatre not only as a solution to loneliness and because I was fascinated by the why of human behavior, but also because I was learning to act like other people? Holy masking! Of course, I’ve been wearing costumes and trying to act in an approved manner since I realized typical society had a problem with raw Alicia. What was the other option?
Which “episodes” were depression and which were just burnout? The meltdowns make a lot more sense now. I remember banging my head against the wall more than once as a child. Crying for hours. So much crying. “Monday had a sad child.” Not able to feel love from other people while feeling everything else in life so deeply. There was a reason I was so overwhelmed, why everyday little things like phone calls and driving that are still so hard for me come so much easier to others. The reason I struggled to learn French was because of an auditory processing problem I didn’t know I had until one day I noticed the glitch – a pause in my ability to listen because of a word I didn’t recognize. My brain, I realized, translates spoken language into text, words I can see in my mind. If I can’t spell it, I can’t process it. I don’t read subtitles so much breathe them in like air. I was a playwright long before I began to edit the dialogue and write it down.
What is identity?
Life flashes before your eyes through a new lens and decades of confusion clear. Because it’s not only “female Aspergers,” but what they call AuDHD – overlapping conditions. You learn this is common. (You notice you are writing in the second person again.) There’s an internal push and pull that’s quite exhausting. Being able to identify sensory overload and catch emotional dysregulation before it becomes meltdown is a goal now. Awareness matters. I am glad “someone” finally told me what’s “wrong” with me.
Today, I had to ask people for help to make The Ferment happen – past collaborators who I have no reason to think dislike me – and boy did it trigger the RSD – rejection sensitive dysphoria. It’s embarrassing to admit this, you may think I’m full of shit, but honestly, it’s better than fearing I might be “crazy” and it’s only a matter of time before they lock me up like Camille Claudel.
Given the circumstances, trauma was inevitable – studies show allistic people really don’t like autistic people and they don’t know why. It’s not their fault the other kids didn’t understand me – communication is a bitch. No hard feelings.
Despite the RSD that threatens to derail my focus, I will make The Ferment. Whatever humiliation it takes. The efforts of this whole life didn’t lead me here to pass away quietly in isolation. I will persist and the words will make sense to someone. And it’s okay if people don’t like me. My family does love me and I do have real friends. I’m good at what I do and I have more than enough evidence to prove it. So I will keep asking for help — even though the fear of rejection is so fierce it makes my head pound and tummy twist, heart race, breath short, and tears bubble. The fear must be ignored and the shame vanquished because they are false phantoms of an ignorant past. I can be stronger than my malfunction because I have to be – it’s the only way to survive. I’m not ready to give up. I’m still alive.
-ag, aug. 2026
Gregarious Expressions 
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