Pervasive Developmental Disorders

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Pervasive Developmental Disorders
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    My explanation why some criminals are part of the ASD community.

    Most studies say that people with ASD are more likely to be victims than being perpetrators. While that is true, that statement is too broad, people with co-morbid diagnosis of Intellectual Disability and Autism are actually 20 times more likely to be victims than being perpetrators, compared to people who are on the higher functioning end of the autistic spectrum. Another problem why that statement from most studies is too broad, it is because the diagnostic criteria for Pervasive Developmental Disorders became more broad for the last decade and it was lumped as Autism Spectrum Disorder, and it's broad to the point where even some people with Antisocial Personality Disorder can be considered to have Autism Spectrum Disorder.

    A lot of you guys wonder why more criminals happen to have a diagnosis of Autism Spectrum Disorder than a decade earlier, it is because the diagnostic criteria for Autism Spectrum Disorder is a lot more broad than it was a decade ago. It was thought that only people with Intellectual Disabilities have Pervasive Developmental Disorder, but after few years, they made the diagnostic criteria for ASD more broad to include people who have symptoms of PDD but without Intellectual Disability, and after few more years, the diagnostic criteria became more broad to include Asperger Syndrome. And In 2013, it was lumped as Autism Spectrum Disorder, and recently it was lumped as Autism Spectrum Disorder in ICD-11.

    It's true that most people with ASD are more likely to be victims than perpetrators, but if we get more technical, people who have ASD without Intellectual Disability are more likely to commit crimes than people who are Intellectually Disabled. There are some people with Intellectual Disability that commit crimes, but it's so rare, because the diagnostic criteria for Intellectual Disability includes problems with Intellectual and adaptive functioning. People with ASD without Intellectual Disability are able to do neurotypical tasks and some people with ASD without Intellectual Disability are able to defend themselves than people with Intellectual Disability.

    Since the diagnostic criteria for Autism became more broad in the last decade, I wonder if I am correct that there are some crimes that with ASD without Intellectual Disabilities are more likely to commit, but due to lack of social skills and repetitive behaviors.

    You guys are wondering why more criminals happened to have ASD than a decade ago, it's because the diagnostic criteria for Pervasive Developmental Disorders became more broad in the last decade and lumped it as Autism Spectrum Disorder in recent years.

    There are a lot of people that say it's impossible to have Antisocial Personality Disorder and ASD, but the problem is that the diagnostic criteria for ASD is much more broad than a decade ago, that it's is considered possible to have comorbid diagnosis of Antisocial Personality Disorder and ASD.

    Now, you know why more criminals happened to have ASD than a decade ago.

    Community Voices

    Repetitive HUMMING while watching movies and TV?

    <p>Repetitive HUMMING while watching movies and TV?</p>
    5 people are talking about this
    Community Voices

    The four stabilizing questions

    <p>The four stabilizing questions<br></p>
    4 people are talking about this
    Community Voices

    Feeling is important

    Failure is the foundation of learning. You don't fail you don't learn

    3lvery time that you don't fail you're probably going to fIl harder cuz there's something coming up you don't know.

    Every failure is one step closer to succes

    . First part of being smart is knowing you're not

    #BipolarDisorder #Autism #PervasiveDevelopmentalDisorders
    #Anxiety #On #DepressiveDisorders
    #SchizophreniformDisorder
    #erlinePersonalityDisorderBPD
    #codependancy #PTSD
    # PTSD
    #MentalHealth

    5 people are talking about this
    Community Voices

    Social emotional delay

    One of the things that I've never really came out about before this last 6 months was a social and emotional delay that I had.

    I'm about 15 years behind in Social and emotional maturity. Now that I'm 50 that doesn't really mean that much but when I was 20 it was a damn problem.

    I basically just stopped developing socially at around 6 yo or 7 yoand then I started again around 21 or 22. I am very fortunate that it started again not everybody is as lucky as I have been. .

    I missed most all of third grade in a large children's hospital in a developmental disabilities Ward. One of the things I had to learn there was what emotions were. I didn't know that I was acting the way I was because I was feeling a certain way. I didn't know that other people had feelings too.

    Besides my hard work I've had a lot of people help me in my life as a number of Great mentors I've also been fortunate to have some good doctors. Along with a lot of hard work on my part I'm still have matured..

    #DevelopmentalDelay
    #Autism
    #PervasiveDevelopmentalDisorders

    Community Voices

    Anything worth doing is worth doing badly for a start.

    And as an example I'd like to give playing the piano for me I may have to play a song A thousand Times to be proficient where other people only have to play it 50 or 100 but if I want to sit down and play it that thousand times I'll play it just as well as anybody if not better. If a songs worth playing it's worth playing badly for a start.

    #Dyspraxia
    #developmentalcoordinationdisorder
    #Autism
    #PervasiveDevelopmentalDisorders

    31 people are talking about this
    Community Voices

    The state regional administrator for the DMV

    #CheerMeOn

    The status administrator from the DMV after I sent that letter just called me back.

    Her office had received my letter but she had not read it yet. I explain the general details to her. She was completely understanding.

    So now I can go pick up my lot from my doctor which I know is ready now. When I get there I get to ask for Craig to help me do my ID who is the facility manager.

    It's always been a thing for my handwriting and of course with autism attention Is a pet peeve of mine. To get scolded for my handwriting and not paying attention when appointing for a disability ID. That's ridiculous.

    This is personal victory.

    #Autism #disgraphia #PervasiveDevelopmentalDisorders

    6 people are talking about this
    Rachel Nemhauser

    Why I Grieved My Child's Diagnosis and Why I Don't Anymore

    The room was small and cramped. My nerves were frayed. I had my hand firmly wrapped around Nate’s wrist to keep him close as I patiently waited for this new, must-see practitioner to review her notes. Desperate for an explanation for Nate’s developmental delays, what seemed to be extreme irritability and challenging behaviors, I lifted his squirming, 4-year-old body onto the exam table. I hesitantly stepped out of the way and watched, dismayed, as the therapist pulled a very large owl feather out of her lab coat pocket and began waving it rhythmically around Nate’s face and head. My stomach dropped and my cheeks burned. This was not going to give us answers. I felt my sorrow hit a new low as I admonished myself silently for ending up here. Another appointment that provided no answers. Another out-of-pocket expense that went nowhere. Another dead-end. I was disappointed and tired. We headed home for nap time. *** When I look back, Nate’s earliest years are mostly a nervous, sleep-deprived blur. He was born when his older brother Isaac was an active preschooler, and my days were usually spent attempting to function on an amount of sleep barely measurable in hours while frantically tending to the needs of two young boys. I had fantasized about being a mom for years, and could hardly wait to hold my first chubby cheeked, smiling little baby. By the time I was in my early 20s, I craved parenthood more than a new mom craves uninterrupted sleep, and I was naively confident it would just come naturally to me. Isaac was born with colic though, and had entered our lives in a whirlwind of crying jags, speech delays and boy-energy. Instead of being idyllic and picture-perfect, our early years as a family of three had me questioning if I was even close to good enough to be his mom. First-time parenting had hit me like a bomb. As we started thinking about adding a second child to our family, I was ready for the parenting do-over I thought I was entitled to, the one where my next child would hit all his milestones on time and have an easy-going demeanor to mirror my own. I was completely, obsessively, head over heels in love with both my children, but after Nate arrived, I was also stressed, exhausted, short with my husband, and eager for a tropical vacation on a deserted island where I could eat meals and use the bathroom without a tiny person sitting on my lap. Memories from that time are mostly vague and indistinct, but the emotion that lingers over all my reminiscing is a heavy, fear-laden grief. A sadness, disappointment and despair that I carried with me while I fed my kids, while I sipped coffee with friends, and while I played hide and seek in a wooded patch of our neighborhood park. It rode in the car with me from the Little Gym to the Children’s Museum, and laid beside me at night when I tried to catch a short snooze before Nate cried for a bottle. As I kissed boo boos and played with matchbox cars and read “Cat in the Hat” and stirred macaroni and cheese, the grief was always there. It’s hard to understand it now, when I look at 14-year-old Nate and see a complex, passionate, hysterically funny person who has a girlfriend, hobbies and a mischievous streak, but for his first few years my heart was broken. From the very beginning it was clear that Nate had developmental delays, and I grieved as deeply for him as if I had suffered a genuine loss. For some, the idea of grieving a child who was safely snuggled in my arms may have seemed unkind, foolish or insincere, but I felt a crushing sadness as real as if I was holding it in my hands. I cried for every milestone he didn’t hit. I mourned every waiting room I had to sit in while a professional tried to figure him out. I grieved while I tried to learn the Special Education system, while I tried to figure out what respite care was, and while I argued with insurance companies about therapy coverage. I ached physically each time Isaac wanted his brother to play with him and Nate showed no interest. I felt a stab of anxiety every time I interacted with a child Nate’s age and was reminded how behind Nate really was. For Nate’s first five years, as his developmental disability gradually became noticeable, I cried and I worried and I mourned. Of course I wasn’t only grieving, because parenting is so much more complicated than that. I had two very active boys who were counting on me, so I devoted myself to the job of raising them. It often didn’t look or feel like what I used to imagine it would look and feel like, but there were playdates, outings, birthday parties and a million other things to fill our days, and time went by. If you know Nate, you know that he kept me very busy in his early years, but also that it wasn’t even a little bit hard to fall wholly, madly, utterly in love with my curious, imaginative, trouble-making redhead. I can’t tell you a specific moment in time, but somewhere along the way I went from fearing I didn’t have what it takes to be his mom, to wondering what I would ever do without him. I went from thinking that his disability was “unfair” to thinking, as I watched Nate shriek ecstatically over autumn leaves being carried by a gust of wind, that I had hit the jackpot with this kid of mine. I went from thinking I may never feel happiness again to feeling pride and bouts of mind-blowing joy while I watch my son engage with and contribute to his world. Nate is a teenager now, and I can hardly recognize the grieving, frightened young mom I was at the beginning of his life. I have learned and grown and reflected, and although I feel regret for so much wasted worry and grief, I still feel empathy for the version of myself who felt those things. I was wrong to see Nate’s disability as bad, as less than, as a disappointment, or as worse than I deserved; but I didn’t understand that yet. I knew very few people with an obvious disability, and I didn’t know the value, diversity, strengths and contributions people with disabilities have made to the world. I’m not proud to say it, but I had no idea. When Nate’s disabilities emerged, seeing him catch up was my only goal, and I felt that his being “normal” would make me feel better. I thought that if I took him to enough specialists, eliminated the right foods from his diet, and consistently attended every therapy session, everything would be OK. The problem, of course, was that he didn’t catch up, and forcing Nate to eat gluten-free bread and dairy-free cheese didn’t help anyone feel better. Dedicating myself to fixing him in order to assuage my grief was a failure. Instead, my grief only faded when I stopped seeing Nate as a series of shortcomings and started seeing him as an individual on the same spectrum of neurodiversity as everyone else I know. I stopped mourning him when I started seeing him, and all people, as an endlessly unique collection of gifts, challenges, experiences and dreams. I was able to move past sadness when I stopped trying to figure him out, or fix him, or mold him into a different person, and instead just adored him for exactly the individual, unbelievable, totally complete person that he is. I wish that I could change the expectations I had held so close when I became Nate’s mom. I wish I could go back in time to broaden my dreams of parenthood to include the potential for me to create any child, who develops at any speed, and who is comfortably settled on any spot on the spectrum of neurodiversity. I wish I had exposures and experiences under my belt that would have strengthened my comfort level with a wider variety of people right from the start. And I wish I had known about the vibrant, diverse, important lives of the people with disabilities in my community; the activists and writers and parents and social workers and academics who contribute to our world every day. I think that knowing all of that would have enabled me to enjoy Nate’s early years in a way I ended up not being able to. Nate is a tall, mouthy teenager now. He loves zombies, horror movies, and sneaking air kisses in the direction of his girlfriend when no one is looking. He’s impulsive, and although the experts say he has an intellectual disability, he’s one of the smartest and most observant people I’ve ever met. He’s messy and complicated, and I don’t know a single other person like him. I wasted a lot of years looking at him and feeling grief, but I’m done with that now. I’m no longer stepping out of the way while a therapist waves a feather in his direction on the slim chance it makes him hit milestones a little bit faster. Now I focus on stepping out of Nate’s way  — standing back and giving him the space he needs to grow, to explore, to make mistakes, to learn, and to become the man he wants to be. It’s not always relaxing and it’s not what I expected, but it’s certainly never boring, and I can’t think of a single thing I’d rather do more.

    When I Cried With a Stranger About Our Fears as Special Needs Moms

    I cried with a stranger today. It was awesome. Jake, my son, has been diagnosed with pervasive developmental disorder – not otherwise specified (PDD-NOS). He attends an occupational therapy “camp.” Essentially it is a group therapy session he attends one hour each Wednesday for eight weeks. He is 3 years old. I am always tired. Each week I wait in the waiting room with an older woman. Her son is seeing the speech therapist. He is about 6 and appears to be on the autism spectrum. We have spoken several times in the waiting room while our sons receive services, though we never discuss the needs of our children. This day, the U.S. Women’s soccer team defeated France in the London Olympic game opener. I spoke of how I enjoyed the Olympics, especially since the Michael Phelps craze of the previous games. I spoke about the difference four years makes. Four years prior I was married and pregnant. Here I was now, pregnant and smack dab in the middle of a divorce. Four years. Life can change so much. She gave me a pained smile. Her hair was frizzy and she furrowed her brow. Four years ago, she said, she would have done it so differently. I grasped her pain, the pain you feel as your fears are realized. At this point, the woman’s eyes fill up. As my throat begins to close, I manage to choke out a pitiful “It’s so hard.” She nods. The tears slip out of her eyes. As my eyes begin to fill, the woman dabs her own as she struggles to continue. She begins to delve into my least favorite (and perhaps most selfish) part of parenting a child with special needs: the fears. Fearing judgement. The fear that no one will see the wonderful, brilliant, soulful child. The constant explaining. The terrifying “And what of him after I am gone?” The pain of avoiding the few birthday parties to which he as received invitations. The gripping fear that no one will give him the chances he deserves. These fears are almost unfounded, yet there they are: hiding in the recesses of my brain, only poking their heads out often enough to remind me that this will always be my reality. Usually I can keep these hurtful and quite useless thoughts at bay. But today, in this conversation, I can only relate. I need her to keep talking. I need to hear her pain, to see my own reflected back at me. With all of the support I have, the specialists, my co-workers, my family, my friends, I am, with this woman, finally understood. As is she. We are not embracing. We are not saying, “It will all be OK.” We aren’t pointing out the blaring untruths in our fears. We are validating the challenge. These thoughts are not all-consuming. They don’t hover like “Charlie Brown”-esque rain clouds. They are shoved into the dark corners of our psyche, pushed away and held at bay by all of the tasks and duties of life.  But they are real. The pain in real, the fear. Useless and stupid, absolutely. But present. Except, of course, in the joy. The fears, the pain for my child, keep me awake at night. Sleepless, I fret for my son. As he sleeps and dreams, I worry. When will he have another meltdown? When will he lose it and I wont be able to help? Is there anything more I can do for him? Knowing my child needs something, but not having a clue what that thing is, breaks my heart. To this the woman nods. She closes her eyes and says she can see when her son begins to become agitated. On good days she is able to redirect. Most days, though, she says she is in the bottom of an hourglass, trying to stop the grains of sand from falling one at a time. Before she knows it she is buried. I usually cover my face when I cry but now I sit staring at her. My jaw is locked. My face is hard. She looks back at me. We have the same tired lines at our eyes. The same weak but hopeful smile. She is in her late 40s, I am barely into my 30s. Her tears are mine. Her pain is mine. Her fears are my own. We are the same. Sarah and her son Jake. The door opens. My son, a 3-year-old with social and sensory integration delays, cheerfully bounds into the waiting room. We embrace. I speak with his occupational therapist for an update. I turn to the woman. She waves to Jake, smiling, eyes bright. I know it has passed, our moment of honesty, the shared succumbing to our thoughts. The brief lapse in strength. We are again composed, back together. No different than before we began our discussion. Well, maybe a little different: stronger. Free. The kind of peace that only comes with honesty. We love our sons. Would die for them. We fear for them. Love them. Live for them. We are mothers. As I smile at my new friend, I am overwhelmed with love. For this woman, her strength. Love for moments like this, profound epiphanies that change how I view myself and the world. Love for my son, perfect just as he is. The raw and uncensored encounter, all about pain and fear, has erased some pain, relieved some fear. I offer a grateful smile. She nods, closes her eyes and leans her head back. I know her moment is not over. But soon her son will be out and she won’t have time to focus on her own feelings. And that is how she likes it. I know this because she is me. I am she. We will be OK. Follow this journey at You’re All a Bunch of Liars. The Mighty is asking its readers the following: Describe the moment a stranger — or someone you don’t know very well — showed you or a loved one incredible love. If you’d like to participate, please send a blog post to community@themighty.com. Please include a photo for the piece, a photo of yourself and 1-2 sentence bio. Check out our Submit a Story page for more about our submission guidelines.

    Carissa Howard

    My Experience With Montessori as a Mom of a Child With Pervasive Developmental Disorder

    Many parents are trying to select preschools for their children at this time of year. There are many considerations: proximity to your home; schedule; and quality of program. Most importantly, the school and its philosophy have to fit your child’s personality, especially if your child is on the spectrum, has developmental delays or other special needs. My children happily attend a Catholic kindergarten and preschool that instills strict discipline and curriculum. Before finding my current school, I had my kids in a Montessori school. After three years there, I learned that it wasn’t the best place for my family. My son attended their two-year-old program, which I loved mainly for the teacher. He wasn’t even 2 years old when he started, and it was challenging just getting him to separate from me at the beginning of the year. The teacher and school were more than patient with us during that transition and for many other things that year. Both he and my daughter loved that classroom and teacher (who taught a letter and number each month). But once my son graduated to the 3- to 6-year-old classroom, my expectations rose. He’d learned to go to school at that point. For that age group, the Montessori way was to greet students directly from a carline. My son had no problem exiting my car and finding his classroom. The other nice thing they taught him was how to hang his coat up on a hanger. And put it on himself at the end of the day. This classroom was three hours each day, five days a week. I sure loved that schedule. I could run my errands without my son and attend Gymboree classes with my daughter. But for 15 hours a week, there was hardly any instruction. The children were allowed to go around the room and select any work they wanted. All the time. There was no group lesson on the letter A; there was no common seasonal craft that they cut and pasted together; there were no math worksheets that all the 3-year-olds completed. After two years in that classroom, my son hadn’t learned to recognize his letters. I had to teach him. After two years in that classroom, he never brought home a bear puppet because it was letter B week or a worksheet with the numbers 1 through 10 traced on it. “What was he doing in there for fifteen hours a week?” I would ask. This is the response I got (more than once). “He’s not showing an interest in the alphabet works, so he’s not ready to learn letters yet.”“Have you asked him to do those works?” I asked.“Yes. But he said that he’ll do them tomorrow.” “Did you tell him that he had to do them now, since you’re the adult and you’re asking him to do them now?” “No, but I told my assistant that he’ll do the work tomorrow and she’ll help me remember.” You’re going to let a 4-year-old tell you he doesn’t want to do it now and that he’ll do it tomorrow? As an educator for some number of years, haven’t you ever encountered this common stall tactic before? It’s not a new, creative one. Can’t you think of a better way to handle that attitude than to reinforce it with actually letting him away with it? But that was their method, and that’s why it didn’t work for me or my son. It’s a shame because I think my son could have learned something more in those two years if the teacher had said, “It’s time for everyone to learn about the letter C and color a cat.” He’s quite capable of that. But I don’t think he was going to learn that in that classroom. My daughter did not attend the 3- to 6-year-old classroom at the Montessori school. That’s how we made our way to our beloved traditional Catholic school. Good luck as you make your preschool choice. Follow this journey on My Misadventures in Mothering. Lead photo source: Thinkstock Images