Time to Connect the Patterns
Fear is a powerful influence. It can also be helpful to understand your mental health. Understanding why a particular fear influences your life can reveal important information about its origins and how to cope with it. At the same time I was diagnosed as autistic in August 2019, I was diagnosed with a most peculiar fear. A fear that has deeply affected my life as early as 1994 and as recently as today: chronophobia.
While I was writing my Autism & Denial Series in June, I discovered that my late diagnosis had caused permanent damage to my socioeconomic development. This unleashed fierce trauma that made me regard autism much more urgently and clearly than before. Now, I have found a way to chart a strain that has been affecting my autistic mental health. My fear will prove the legitimacy and need for more supportive accommodations.
Chronophobia is the persistent fear of time or the passage of time. Prolonged isolation, anxiety about not having enough time, thoughts of mortality after a serious injury, or fearing the anniversary of losing a loved one can trigger it. Prolonged stress from inadequate integration into society can trigger it, too. After connecting patterns of fear to traumatic incidents in my past, I discovered a serious problem I was missing.
At age 12, I had just finished elementary school and was months away from starting junior high. Alone on the front porch of my parents’ house, I was listening to two Elton John songs from The Lion King. The movie left me captivated with dread about my future. Where would I be ten years from now? Suddenly, I was crying so hard that my eyes hurt. My first-ever anxiety attack felt as intense and confusing as it was terrifying.
I had no concept of how to explain what I felt. So, I kept it to myself. For the next six years, my fear remained dormant because I was fixated on graduating as the next step in my life. However, I was unable to decide what to do afterwards and fell into the expected path of going to college. Then came high school graduation. During the drive home, I was absolutely panic-stricken. No one knows because I drove home by myself.
Something felt terribly wrong. It was as if an invisible force was opposing my path through life, and I was powerless to stop it. The following spring, in only my second college semester, I changed my major to avoid failing a required math course. This exposed my inability to decide on a career and forced me down a path of rapidly escalating anxiety. By the time I graduated in December 2002, I was in crisis.
I skipped the commencement ceremony. Before leaving the campus grounds, though, I remember looking back. Everything was adorned with the softest white, innocent-looking snow. I thought I would never see it again. A week later, I went to watch the film Star Trek: Nemesis. Afterwards, I got in my car and cried for an hour before I was able to drive home. I was terrified that I could not decide what to do with my life.
Seven months later, in July 2003, I unexpectedly attempted suicide after a night of clubbing with friends. My sleepless night, as I call it, left a gaping hole in my conscience. I was only 21 and knew no one with the same experiences that I could confide in. So, I ignored what I did and tried to move on. I thought I was lucky to land a full-time job in October. Nothing would ever be the same, and suicide was not the reason why.
For four years, I was employed as a shipping clerk. I worked arduous overtime hours and received good performance reviews. In 2006, I transferred to their first shift so I could take on greater responsibilities. I had my own car and was earning a decent paycheck. I wanted to have a fulfilling life by working for a living. Yet, at the end of each year, something still felt wrong and worse about my life.
My high school classmates were getting married and having kids, while I failed at dating. I was still living at home with my parents. In January 2008, I left my typical job and returned full-time to the same college I previously attended. There was just one problem. I lied about why I had chosen my degree path. Every job I considered made me feel an unshakeable emptiness. I masked this unrelenting confusion and returned to college.
Again, I fixated on graduating as the next step in my life. It never occurred to me that this was my way of coping with the indecision issue. At the end of 2008, ignorance felt blissful. On the night of my May 2010 graduation, I intentionally got drunk because I feared that the dormant stress would return worse than before. In just a few weeks, it exceeded my expectations. Except this time, I thought I figured out the problem.
More time had passed. I was older and felt as if I was falling further behind my peers. I had a bachelor’s degree in history that I could not use and an unstoppable strain on my mental health. The housing market crash devastated the job market. For the next four years, all I could do was work as a temp. Each New Year’s was more desperate. Then, in October 2014, for the first time in 11 years, I relapsed into suicide.
Six months later, I abandoned the plan when I was hired full-time at a call center for one year. This only delayed the inevitable. I started 2016 working a typical job and wanting to earn a living. Yet, I had no actual social or economic integration. In June, my employment was unexpectedly terminated. The abrupt termination and years of strain triggered a survival instinct to avoid a relapse of suicide ideation.
To survive, I felt I had to stop applying for work to look for answers. I knew this would cost valuable time. It was suggested I explore the mental health volunteer community for guidance. But in 2018, I was alienating co-volunteers and did not know why. Exclusion from a task force in August triggered a suicide relapse. Early on the morning of Christmas Day, I cried myself to sleep. I felt I was running out of time. Why?
Finally, a hunch from my first modern counselor revealed what no one ever expected. In August 2019, I was diagnosed as autistic. At the time, I had no idea what it was. Neither of my healthcare providers prioritized it. A program coordinator I volunteered with left me in despair when he said there was no support for autistic adults. Luckily, I found a local support group for autistic people of all ages. Then came the year of hell.
Mandatory COVID-19 lockdowns forced a transition to virtual services. I dropped one care provider because I was not comfortable with telehealth counseling. Incredibly, the end of 2020 was the first time in years I felt any semblance of positivity. This made me realize just how bad my stress must have been. Due to the lack of acceptance for autistic adults, I had no way to know if my stress was legitimate, let alone serious.
I hoped 2021 would lead to potential employment with the help of a prominent health care and social service provider. For five months, I struggled with their job coaching program. When I finally had to be assigned a third job coach, it was insisted that I try their mobile psych program to see if it would help my indecisiveness. But I was unaware of missing social cues and was lulled into a false sense of security by the health worker.
In the first week of August, all of my appointments were canceled by the provider. I was denied any information and left to stew in escalating anxiety until the last day of the month. Then, in a preset meeting, I was blindsided by accusations of misconduct. The shock of such a threatening disruption set off my fourth-ever instance of suicide. I was on the verge of emotional collapse and thought 2022 would be my last.
In a desperate search for answers, thanks to two key community volunteers, I discovered that autism neurologically affected my ability to communicate, learn, and behave. If my thinking was influenced, I correctly deduced that vast aspects of my life were affected as well. Not just a scattered list of traits. I dove headfirst into autism advocacy because I trusted my instinct that autism was of far greater importance than I knew at the time.
Thanks to securing a total of three presentation opportunities, I started 2023 with some hope for a better future. However, I failed to see that my quality of life was declining. Then, the discovery of a link between PTSD and autism led me to cope with being in denial of my late diagnosis. This caused substantial damage to my mental health but enabled me to finally understand autism without the deception of denial.
For the first time in my life, I know exactly what the cause of my chronophobia is. By connecting these patterns of trauma and fear, one source is revealed to be responsible. I was denied socioeconomic integration because my autism was not taken seriously. This kept me from maintaining consistent employment. Now, at age 42, I have no economic stability. If I do not secure accommodations soon, the stress will be too great.
The longer I lacked integration, the more I felt I was running out of time at the end of each year. The more time passed, the more disconnected I became from society. I fell behind my peers as they progressed past me socially and economically. The more disconnected I became from society, the more chronophobia was triggered. The economic impact on my life also reveals another key connection with autism.
I wanted to work. But in every job I had after high school, I could not reconcile feeling increasingly disrupted by the career paths I had to take. In some cases, this strain was so severe that I experienced traumatizing anxiety attacks. Masking is already known to adversely affect autistic people. My evidence indicates that masking monotropic interests with employment must greatly impact our mental health. Or there would be no strain.
Strong anxiety attacks require a definitive trigger to occur. Between ages 12 and 22, I had no fewer than seven traumatic attacks and more since then. My employment indecisiveness also crippled my future economic stability. If it was a lack of motivation or laziness, I would be more at ease. Not feeling panic or trauma. Yet I am the first to connect lack of employment, masking autistic interests, and chronophobia.
And I know the exact reason why. When I was nearly finished writing my second autism presentation in August, I stumbled across a theory called the double empathy problem. When I read through simplified research, I discovered that there has been a long history of prejudice and discrimination against autistic people. It persists, for example, even after major care providers and employers have received training to dispel such prejudice.
Why else would I have to figure out my autistic neurology on my own? It cost me valuable time when healthcare professionals were the ones responsible for my care. Why would I have to advocate to my healthcare provider when my primary source experience should already be used? In the last year, I determined that I have legitimate needs that have been marginalized for at least thirty years. How is this possible?
Autism support needs are still not accepted or prioritized, as evidence shows that they need to be. For example, in April 2016, my doctor prescribed the first psychiatric medication I had ever taken. In October 2018, I started generalized counseling. In the last five years of generalized care services, have I integrated into society according to my actual autism needs? No. I have to advocate for myself, which not everyone can do.
The double empathy problem is still not being taken seriously. This stems from the ongoing ignorance of autistic culture and the validity of autistic communication, discrimination when we request accommodations and more. I did not discover any of this until after I was diagnosed because I had to. My mental health has been deteriorating. Therefore, I submit the following theories for consideration:
Irion, Jim. “Autistic Chronophobia Theory.” Medium.com. Medium, 11 October 2023. https://jimirion.medium.com/autistic-chronophobia-theory-a1225434edd1
Irion, Jim. “Monotropism Employment Theory.” Medium.com. Medium, 20 December 2023. https://jimirion.medium.com/monotropism-employment-theory-6aa98a123f13
