my life after one wp originally paused fora Bit and continue
10 Aug 2025, 7:24 pm
Hi everyone, I tried to summarize everything I had in my videos that I posted in members only
I use software to do this so it may be a tiny bit different
2013–2025 In 2013, Roosevelt High School wasn’t just where I went to class — it was a world I could navigate, one hallway and one moment at a time. The mornings always started the same way. I’d walk past the front steps, feeling the hum of energy from the buses unloading. The hallways were alive with lockers clanging shut, the squeak of sneakers on the floor, and friends calling out to each other from across the crowd. There was a rhythm to it — almost like a song I could hum along to without even thinking. My close friend was part of that rhythm. We didn’t need constant chatter; just being in the same space meant I felt anchored. Some days we’d share jokes between classes; other days we’d walk in comfortable silence. There’s something about having one person who sees you exactly as you are — not as a label or a diagnosis, but as a whole person. That’s what our friendship was. Drama club was my sanctuary. I can still feel the warmth of the stage lights against my face, smell the faint tang of paint from freshly built sets. Rehearsals were a mix of chaos and magic — someone missing a cue and making us laugh, another nailing their line so perfectly that the entire room went quiet. On stage, I wasn’t “the girl with evaluations” or “the one in special programs.” I was a character, a voice, a presence. People listened when I spoke there. They respected me. But even during those good days, evaluations were always there in the background. Endless tests. People asked me to “show” what I knew, what I could do. Sometimes I felt like they were studying me more than they were helping me. I wanted them to see that my life wasn’t just numbers on a report — I was someone who could light up a stage, someone who had genuine friendships, someone who belonged. Then, like a slow fade to silence, Roosevelt slipped away from me. The day I left felt like the ground shifting. One moment I was in those bright, noisy halls; the next, I was sitting at home, waiting for a home instruction teacher to arrive. The house was too quiet. Even the ticking of the clock felt loud. I missed my friend. I missed the stage. I missed the feeling of being part of something. 2014 didn’t just arrive — it crashed into my life. In April, Saint Vincent’s Hospital admitted me to the adolescent unit. At first, I tried to tell myself it was temporary, but the walls felt different here. The air was thick, tense, like everyone was waiting for the next problem to erupt. It was here that two staff members sexually assaulted me. I won’t give the graphic details, but I will say that it was a moment where my safety, my trust, and a piece of my dignity werWithout getting too graphic, it was a moment where my safety, trust, and a part of me were taken away.e stolen. In another incident, two female staff members attacked me in the quiet room. I can still see the thin, crinkly paper on the bed beneath me, feel the sting of tears on my cheeks. I remember my voice — shaky, desperate — saying to myself, “I’m dying,” “Oh no, my friends,”. I felt trapped, small, and powerless. That summer, they transferred me to another mental hospital. The building was different, but the feeling was the same — locked away, separated from anything familiar. After my release, they referred me to a day program, only to tell me they didn’t accept autistic people. That rejection still stings. Saint Vincent's re-hospitalized me—the same place where the worst had happened. Walking back through those doors felt like falling into a nightmare I’d already survived once. Medication became another battlefield. They stopped my Adderall cold during my hospitalization, and I never restarted Daytrana. When I returned to my psychiatrist, Dr. Harold Abellard — who had been my doctor since 2012 — he tried to adjust things, but it was a draining process.at at times I wondered if anyone could truly understand the toll these changes were taking. After Saint Vincent’s, I spent time at another m hospital. Each move was supposed to be progress, but it felt like I was just trading one set of walls for another. Years passed. In 2018, there were small moments of light again — programs, shows, and memories that reminded me of Roosevelt. But the shadow of 2014 was always there, following me. In 2021, I joined The Arc Westchester. For the first time in years, I felt my voice could matter. In 2023, I became a member of the Board of Directors. My seat at that table wasn’t just a position — it was a chance to carry my story into action, to make sure the system listened. In October 2024, I started working at Hawthorne Country Day School as a 1-to-1 support staff. Each day, I guided students through their challenges and celebrated their progress. I saw in them the same need I’d had — to be understood and believed in. Then, in February 2025, disaster struck again. A fire in my building forced me out of my apartment. I had to stay with family, not knowing when or if I could go back. Watching the smoke rise that night, I felt the same uncertainty I’d known so many times before. Looking back, the thread runs from Roosevelt’s warm, noisy hallways to the harsh silence of hospital rooms, from being part of a cast on stage to being a voice in a boardroom, from the safety of my apartment to the shock of losing it in a fire. But through it all, I’ve held on to the person I was at Roosevelt — the friend, the actor, the person who belonged. No matter what the world has tried to take, I refuse to let go
This post is about something that happened to me in 2014 — something that left lasting changes in my memory, thinking, emotions, and physical abilities. I believe it may have caused a brain injury, and I’m still living with the effects today. I’m sharing my story because I want others who have gone through similar experiences to know they’re not alone. I also want to give a clear picture of how one event can change the course of someone’s life. ⸻ Before 2014 — My Baseline Before the assault, my life wasn’t without challenges — I’m autistic and have cerebral palsy, and I’ve always needed to work harder at certain things. But I had a steady baseline. • My memory worked well enough for school, hobbies, and daily routines. • I could focus for long periods and process new information without major struggles. • My balance and coordination were consistent for my condition. • I didn’t tire as quickly — I could manage physical activity and busy days without crashing. • Stress and emotions could be intense at times, but they passed and didn’t linger for days. I was doing okay, managing life in my own way. ⸻ The 2014 Assault In early 2014, I was in a mental health facility. I was vulnerable and in need of support — but instead of care, I experienced harm. Two staff members forcibly confined me to what they called a “quiet room.” I was scared, crying, and calling out things like “I’m dying” and “Oh no, my friends.” My body was already tense from fear, but what happened next made it worse. I was physically assaulted. I was sexually assaulted. And it all happened in a place where I should have been safe. I remember feeling like time had slowed down — my awareness narrowing to pain, fear, and confusion. I was treated as if my distress didn’t matter, as if it was all in my head. ⸻ Immediate Aftermath Right after the assault, I noticed changes: • Cognitive: My short-term memory was noticeably worse. I couldn’t remember recent conversations or tasks. My focus slipped easily. I processed things more slowly. • Physical: My muscles were tighter, my balance felt shakier, and I tired more quickly than before. • Emotional: My anxiety skyrocketed. I became hyper-aware of my surroundings, easily startled, and found it hard to calm down even in safe situations. • Social: I withdrew more, partly out of fear of being misunderstood or disbelieved. These changes weren’t just “stress” — they felt like something deeper, more permanent. ⸻ The Years After (2014–Present) Over the years, these symptoms haven’t gone away. In fact, many of them became part of my everyday life. • Memory & Thinking • Difficulty recalling recent events or conversations. • Trouble following multi-step instructions without writing them down. • Slower information processing — needing extra time to respond or think things through. • Physical Changes • Ongoing muscle stiffness and reduced endurance. • Balance that’s less steady than before 2014. • Fatigue setting in sooner during both physical and mental activities. • Emotional & Psychological • Lingering hypervigilance — I constantly scan for potential danger. • Anxiety spikes when I’m in situations that remind me of the assault. • Feeling “on edge” more often, with slower recovery from stress. ⸻ Why I Believe It Could Be a Brain Injury, many people don’t realize brain injuries aren’t always from car crashes or sports accidents — they can happen in assaults too. Here’s why I think my changes point to a brain injury: • The symptoms began immediately after the assault. • They’ve lasted over 10 years without returning to baseline. • They affect both my mental and physical functioning. • Some of my test results since then show differences in cognitive speed, attention, and working memory. ⸻ Now Today, I still live with these effects. I pace myself, I make lists, and I use strategies to work around my limitations. But I also live knowing that one night in 2014 changed me permanently. I’m speaking out now because I want to: • Validate my experience. • Encourage others not to ignore lasting changes after trauma. • Show that survivors can keep going, even when the system fails them. ⸻ If you’ve read this far, thank you. Sharing this isn’t easy, but silence helps no one. If my post helps even one person feel less alone, it’s worth it
-=
_________________
Your Aspie score: 192 of 200 Your neurotypical (non-autistic) score: 9 of 200 You are very likely an Aspie PDD assessment score= 172 (severe PDD)
Autism= Awesome, unique ,Special, talented, Intelligent, Smart and Mysterious
11 Aug 2025, 11:51 am
I use software to do this so it may be a tiny bit different
2013–2025 In 2013, Roosevelt High School wasn’t just where I went to class — it was a world I could navigate, one hallway and one moment at a time. The mornings always started the same way. I’d walk past the front steps, feeling the hum of energy from the buses unloading. The hallways were alive with lockers clanging shut, the squeak of sneakers on the floor, and friends calling out to each other from across the crowd. There was a rhythm to it — almost like a song I could hum along to without even thinking. My close friend was part of that rhythm. We didn’t need constant chatter; just being in the same space meant I felt anchored. Some days we’d share jokes between classes; other days we’d walk in comfortable silence. There’s something about having one person who sees you exactly as you are — not as a label or a diagnosis, but as a whole person. That’s what our friendship was. Drama club was my sanctuary. I can still feel the warmth of the stage lights against my face, smell the faint tang of paint from freshly built sets. Rehearsals were a mix of chaos and magic — someone missing a cue and making us laugh, another nailing their line so perfectly that the entire room went quiet. On stage, I wasn’t “the girl with evaluations” or “the one in special programs.” I was a character, a voice, a presence. People listened when I spoke there. They respected me. But even during those good days, evaluations were always there in the background. Endless tests. People asked me to “show” what I knew, what I could do. Sometimes I felt like they were studying me more than they were helping me. I wanted them to see that my life wasn’t just numbers on a report — I was someone who could light up a stage, someone who had genuine friendships, someone who belonged. Then, like a slow fade to silence, Roosevelt slipped away from me. The day I left felt like the ground shifting. One moment I was in those bright, noisy halls; the next, I was sitting at home, waiting for a home instruction teacher to arrive. The house was too quiet. Even the ticking of the clock felt loud. I missed my friend. I missed the stage. I missed the feeling of being part of something. 2014 didn’t just arrive — it crashed into my life. In April, Saint Vincent’s Hospital admitted me to the adolescent unit. At first, I tried to tell myself it was temporary, but the walls felt different here. The air was thick, tense, like everyone was waiting for the next problem to erupt. It was here that two staff members sexually assaulted me. I won’t give the graphic details, but I will say that it was a moment where my safety, my trust, and a piece of my dignity werWithout getting too graphic, it was a moment where my safety, trust, and a part of me were taken away.e stolen. In another incident, two female staff members attacked me in the quiet room. I can still see the thin, crinkly paper on the bed beneath me, feel the sting of tears on my cheeks. I remember my voice — shaky, desperate — saying to myself, “I’m dying,” “Oh no, my friends,”. I felt trapped, small, and powerless. That summer, they transferred me to another mental hospital. The building was different, but the feeling was the same — locked away, separated from anything familiar. After my release, they referred me to a day program, only to tell me they didn’t accept autistic people. That rejection still stings. Saint Vincent's re-hospitalized me—the same place where the worst had happened. Walking back through those doors felt like falling into a nightmare I’d already survived once. Medication became another battlefield. They stopped my Adderall cold during my hospitalization, and I never restarted Daytrana. When I returned to my psychiatrist, Dr. Harold Abellard — who had been my doctor since 2012 — he tried to adjust things, but it was a draining process.at at times I wondered if anyone could truly understand the toll these changes were taking. After Saint Vincent’s, I spent time at another m hospital. Each move was supposed to be progress, but it felt like I was just trading one set of walls for another. Years passed. In 2018, there were small moments of light again — programs, shows, and memories that reminded me of Roosevelt. But the shadow of 2014 was always there, following me. In 2021, I joined The Arc Westchester. For the first time in years, I felt my voice could matter. In 2023, I became a member of the Board of Directors. My seat at that table wasn’t just a position — it was a chance to carry my story into action, to make sure the system listened. In October 2024, I started working at Hawthorne Country Day School as a 1-to-1 support staff. Each day, I guided students through their challenges and celebrated their progress. I saw in them the same need I’d had — to be understood and believed in. Then, in February 2025, disaster struck again. A fire in my building forced me out of my apartment. I had to stay with family, not knowing when or if I could go back. Watching the smoke rise that night, I felt the same uncertainty I’d known so many times before. Looking back, the thread runs from Roosevelt’s warm, noisy hallways to the harsh silence of hospital rooms, from being part of a cast on stage to being a voice in a boardroom, from the safety of my apartment to the shock of losing it in a fire. But through it all, I’ve held on to the person I was at Roosevelt — the friend, the actor, the person who belonged. No matter what the world has tried to take, I refuse to let go
This post is about something that happened to me in 2014 — something that left lasting changes in my memory, thinking, emotions, and physical abilities. I believe it may have caused a brain injury, and I’m still living with the effects today. I’m sharing my story because I want others who have gone through similar experiences to know they’re not alone. I also want to give a clear picture of how one event can change the course of someone’s life. ⸻ Before 2014 — My Baseline Before the assault, my life wasn’t without challenges — I’m autistic and have cerebral palsy, and I’ve always needed to work harder at certain things. But I had a steady baseline. • My memory worked well enough for school, hobbies, and daily routines. • I could focus for long periods and process new information without major struggles. • My balance and coordination were consistent for my condition. • I didn’t tire as quickly — I could manage physical activity and busy days without crashing. • Stress and emotions could be intense at times, but they passed and didn’t linger for days. I was doing okay, managing life in my own way. ⸻ The 2014 Assault In early 2014, I was in a mental health facility. I was vulnerable and in need of support — but instead of care, I experienced harm. Two staff members forcibly confined me to what they called a “quiet room.” I was scared, crying, and calling out things like “I’m dying” and “Oh no, my friends.” My body was already tense from fear, but what happened next made it worse. I was physically assaulted. I was sexually assaulted. And it all happened in a place where I should have been safe. I remember feeling like time had slowed down — my awareness narrowing to pain, fear, and confusion. I was treated as if my distress didn’t matter, as if it was all in my head. ⸻ Immediate Aftermath Right after the assault, I noticed changes: • Cognitive: My short-term memory was noticeably worse. I couldn’t remember recent conversations or tasks. My focus slipped easily. I processed things more slowly. • Physical: My muscles were tighter, my balance felt shakier, and I tired more quickly than before. • Emotional: My anxiety skyrocketed. I became hyper-aware of my surroundings, easily startled, and found it hard to calm down even in safe situations. • Social: I withdrew more, partly out of fear of being misunderstood or disbelieved. These changes weren’t just “stress” — they felt like something deeper, more permanent. ⸻ The Years After (2014–Present) Over the years, these symptoms haven’t gone away. In fact, many of them became part of my everyday life. • Memory & Thinking • Difficulty recalling recent events or conversations. • Trouble following multi-step instructions without writing them down. • Slower information processing — needing extra time to respond or think things through. • Physical Changes • Ongoing muscle stiffness and reduced endurance. • Balance that’s less steady than before 2014. • Fatigue setting in sooner during both physical and mental activities. • Emotional & Psychological • Lingering hypervigilance — I constantly scan for potential danger. • Anxiety spikes when I’m in situations that remind me of the assault. • Feeling “on edge” more often, with slower recovery from stress. ⸻ Why I Believe It Could Be a Brain Injury, many people don’t realize brain injuries aren’t always from car crashes or sports accidents — they can happen in assaults too. Here’s why I think my changes point to a brain injury: • The symptoms began immediately after the assault. • They’ve lasted over 10 years without returning to baseline. • They affect both my mental and physical functioning. • Some of my test results since then show differences in cognitive speed, attention, and working memory. ⸻ Now Today, I still live with these effects. I pace myself, I make lists, and I use strategies to work around my limitations. But I also live knowing that one night in 2014 changed me permanently. I’m speaking out now because I want to: • Validate my experience. • Encourage others not to ignore lasting changes after trauma. • Show that survivors can keep going, even when the system fails them. ⸻ If you’ve read this far, thank you. Sharing this isn’t easy, but silence helps no one. If my post helps even one person feel less alone, it’s worth it
-=
Please note I am writing explain the gap and share my story as well
_________________
Your Aspie score: 192 of 200 Your neurotypical (non-autistic) score: 9 of 200 You are very likely an Aspie PDD assessment score= 172 (severe PDD)
Autism= Awesome, unique ,Special, talented, Intelligent, Smart and Mysterious
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