I was what you might call ‘a late bloomer.’ Not for most things, but in terms of a diagnosis (and acceptance) of Autism. I was in my forties. I’d say that was quite late.
My entire life has been a series of puzzles. I was different. I didn’t know why. I couldn’t explain it. I did things differently. I said things differently. I behaved differently. I was different. I knew this. I’ve always known this.
But very few people who know me, now, would believe it.
I think, that in 2024, to be an ‘autistic person’ has almost become trendy. I’ve noticed a number of celebrities (and others) coming forward to say they are autistic, or they are “probably” autistic. I’ve read (and seen on TV) the accounts of Chris Packham and Christine McGuinness and have been terribly moved by the way they talk about their experiences. Their descriptions of what’s going on in their minds have resonated with me, massively. And then there are those who say “Oh, I get anxious/don’t like social gatherings/am good at numbers, I’m probably autistic, too.”
You’re not.
“We’re all on the spectrum a bit,
aren’t we…?“
~A lot of people
I’ll be honest: that boils my giblets. It’s like saying: “We’re all a little bit pregnant, aren’t we…?”
No, we’re not.
I’ve had years, YEARS, of struggling with how I perceive the world, relationships and social interactions. I’ve said weird things to people – apparently I have a lack of filter – lost a friend because of it, was ‘rude’ to a stranger (well, once, that I know of), had anxiety and anger that is off the scale (see ‘meltdowns’ below), had odd ‘collections’ as a child (television listing magazines, hundreds of them, all stored in date order under my bed), ate paper (yes, really, it felt nice), had regular ‘meltdowns’ (although I don’t like that expression), wasn’t able to touch fabric after bathing (meltdown incoming), had intensely focussed interests (names…oh, I love names… what are TV listings full of…?), was called an ‘Ice Queen’ on many occasions (lack of empathy?), extreme difficulty regulating my own emotions (more angry meltdowns) and an inability to accept, or deal with (in any meaningful way) any kind of change.
How I’ve turned out so normal, I’ll never know.
Well, in truth, I’ve learnt to mask my differences. I know how one is supposed to behave. I’m not an idiot. I know (now) that telling a friend to “go, get out” because you don’t agree with him, probably means you’ll never see him again. I know (now) that telling a man who worked in an electrical store, that he “stinks of cigarettes” and should “probably clean his teeth more often” is not a very friendly comment to make. I know (now) that having an argument and slamming a door because you’re angry doesn’t have to lead to self-harming due to not being able to regulate your emotions.
Autism in girls is quite different to autism in boys. There are similarities, of course, eye contact is the obvious one. I’m ok with it, now (usually), but as a child I often found it fairly impossible, during long conversations, to hold a gaze for more than about 3 seconds. I used to feel embarrassed (for want of a better term) to look at things. If we went (as a family, as we often did back in the early 80s) to buy clothes, including underwear, I remember wearing a wooly hat (it was cold) and pulling it down over my eyes so that I ‘couldn’t see’ the underwear. I was bumping into other displays, while walking around BhS (a family favourite department store back then) saying loudly “I can’t see”, and I must have looked bloody mental.
My biggest trait, probably, is my intense fascination with ‘things.’
Names. I’m completely and utterly obsessed with peoples’ names. I could have a whole conversation about names: good names, bad names, appropriate names, the spelling of names, the meaning of names, what names look like when written down… I could go on.
Pens. I love pens. I can honestly say that pens give me so much joy to look at, to touch, to use. Every pen has its own personality. Pens can let you down and they can make your day.
That might make me sound weird, but I don’t care. That’s me.
And, do you know what? I like being me.