Alright, let's do this one more time. I'm starting this way partly because I just loved the repetition of this line in Into the Spider-Verse, but I also feel the same way every time I begin reading the memoir of an autistic person--so many similarities, every time, along with radical differences. And then there's that feeling, also voiced in the movie--"You're like me. I thought I was the only one."
I'm almost 50 years old, female, and autistic. I have not been formally diagnosed, and I'm not sure I will ever be for several reasons. First, there are only three people on this island who CAN diagnose me, and none of them have gotten back to me--though a fourth would be happy to charge me almost $100 to go with me through a quiz that can be found on the internet and tell me whether or not she thinks it's worth further investigation.
Second, everyone starts these conversations with "it's expensive," and I've yet to get a straight answer on what that might mean--$500? $1,000? $10,000? "Expensive" is pretty relative, and the money spent would get me nothing more than another person's opinion. Third, I resent the idea that psychiatrists are the gatekeepers of my own neurology. I've read almost 20 books, books about autism by professionals as well as books written by autistic authors themselves, and I've written approximately 50 pages on the characteristics that I see in both myself and my oldest son. If we're not autistic, people are explaining it wrong. I'm not saying I never doubt. Sometimes I doubt, but I think that's mostly because it's weird to finally have a word for my differentness.
Our backstory: When my oldest son, who is now in his early twenties, was five, an Aspie co-worker of my husband's told us that he suspected that our son was also an Aspie. I did some research at that time and was surprised to find that I had just as many Aspie "quirks" as my son did. But there wasn't a lot of information out there at that time, and in the end, we put the idea to the side. He was homeschooled, so we didn't need supports, and if I'm completely honest, I didn't want to think about it at that time. Since there wasn't a lot of information available at that time, I really didn't even see the point in having a label for our quirkiness.
But I've thought a lot about it over the years, and I would sometimes refer to my "Aspie tendencies" when I realized I'd done something weird.
Fast forward about 17 years. I read a book with an Aspie protagonist, and while I was reading, I thought, "Ha! She's like an extreme version of me." And then I realized what that would mean.
So I did the normal thing and purchased/checked-out close to twenty books over the next few weeks, including Cynthia Kim's I Think I Might Be Autistic, in which she breaks down the DSM-V criteria for people who don't speak shrink, and I began answering those criteria in a document, adding details from my childhood and references to similarities I have to others on the spectrum from the books I was reading. This fits in a way that no other explanation ever has.
Oddly enough, in the late 80s, I did seek help from my school counselor, who eventually called in a psychiatrist or psychologist (I can't remember which) to talk to me, but it was the late 80s. Autism, in any flavor, wasn't on the radar at that time, especially for a relatively mildly impaired female. All he could say was that I wasn't bipolar. But I still remember him specifically mentioning two things at that time that might ring bells for him were I to talk to him again today--my bluntness and an odd way of phrasing things sometimes.
Anyway, hey, y'all. I usually don't do forums and social media because 1) most people suck and 2) I can get obsessive about them, and I would rather spend most of my time IRL. But I spent half the afternoon crying and upset--I'm still upset--because a nasty waitress was rude to us in a restaurant today. And I realized, once again, it would be nice to have a place to vent occasionally and chat with people who will perhaps understand me a bit better than most. So here I am. It's nice to meet you.
(Also, FTR, there is an artist who goes by Anarkitty. She is not me.)
I'm almost 50 years old, female, and autistic. I have not been formally diagnosed, and I'm not sure I will ever be for several reasons. First, there are only three people on this island who CAN diagnose me, and none of them have gotten back to me--though a fourth would be happy to charge me almost $100 to go with me through a quiz that can be found on the internet and tell me whether or not she thinks it's worth further investigation.
Second, everyone starts these conversations with "it's expensive," and I've yet to get a straight answer on what that might mean--$500? $1,000? $10,000? "Expensive" is pretty relative, and the money spent would get me nothing more than another person's opinion. Third, I resent the idea that psychiatrists are the gatekeepers of my own neurology. I've read almost 20 books, books about autism by professionals as well as books written by autistic authors themselves, and I've written approximately 50 pages on the characteristics that I see in both myself and my oldest son. If we're not autistic, people are explaining it wrong. I'm not saying I never doubt. Sometimes I doubt, but I think that's mostly because it's weird to finally have a word for my differentness.Our backstory: When my oldest son, who is now in his early twenties, was five, an Aspie co-worker of my husband's told us that he suspected that our son was also an Aspie. I did some research at that time and was surprised to find that I had just as many Aspie "quirks" as my son did. But there wasn't a lot of information out there at that time, and in the end, we put the idea to the side. He was homeschooled, so we didn't need supports, and if I'm completely honest, I didn't want to think about it at that time. Since there wasn't a lot of information available at that time, I really didn't even see the point in having a label for our quirkiness.
But I've thought a lot about it over the years, and I would sometimes refer to my "Aspie tendencies" when I realized I'd done something weird.
Fast forward about 17 years. I read a book with an Aspie protagonist, and while I was reading, I thought, "Ha! She's like an extreme version of me." And then I realized what that would mean.
So I did the normal thing and purchased/checked-out close to twenty books over the next few weeks, including Cynthia Kim's I Think I Might Be Autistic, in which she breaks down the DSM-V criteria for people who don't speak shrink, and I began answering those criteria in a document, adding details from my childhood and references to similarities I have to others on the spectrum from the books I was reading. This fits in a way that no other explanation ever has.
Oddly enough, in the late 80s, I did seek help from my school counselor, who eventually called in a psychiatrist or psychologist (I can't remember which) to talk to me, but it was the late 80s. Autism, in any flavor, wasn't on the radar at that time, especially for a relatively mildly impaired female. All he could say was that I wasn't bipolar. But I still remember him specifically mentioning two things at that time that might ring bells for him were I to talk to him again today--my bluntness and an odd way of phrasing things sometimes.
Anyway, hey, y'all. I usually don't do forums and social media because 1) most people suck and 2) I can get obsessive about them, and I would rather spend most of my time IRL. But I spent half the afternoon crying and upset--I'm still upset--because a nasty waitress was rude to us in a restaurant today. And I realized, once again, it would be nice to have a place to vent occasionally and chat with people who will perhaps understand me a bit better than most. So here I am. It's nice to meet you.
(Also, FTR, there is an artist who goes by Anarkitty. She is not me.)
