Gotta Be Me

I was young enough to still need a car seat when I found out. As we were driving somewhere, my mother made a reference to our upstairs neighbors. I wanted to know more: What was the source of the constant movement we could hear in their apartment each day?
She told me that their child had a condition called autism. 

“Why don’t they tell him to stop?”

“Well, he can’t. He can’t stop what he does, and it doesn’t hurt anyone.”

“Do I have autism?”

I only asked because, as any child my age would, I immediately related the topic to myself. I had no reason to think she would tell me I was autistic, too. But she hesitated and finally said, “Yes, you do.” 

The knowledge sank in and remained in my mind like water taken in by a sponge. I asked no further questions, but I pondered our differences. I was never a hyperactive kid myself, so how did we both have autism?

For the next few years, I almost forgot that “autism” was a part of me. As it happens, autism and ADHD often occur together, though they are different and in fact some of their common markers are at odds with each other. In retrospect, I realize that my experience of autism was different from that of many others; for example, 40% of children with autism don’t speak. I was an honor roll student and made comics with my friends to put in the homeroom reading station so my classmates could read my work. I loved being praised for my creativity. Occasionally I did something that earned me a few stares, or misinterpreted something socially in a way that made others question my process of thinking. But overall I was happy. Even if I had more acquaintances than friends, I felt like I fit in at school.

As kids get older, though, they start to lock onto ideas about what’s normal and what isn’t. It took me a long time to realize that the people I surrounded myself with had begun to value me mostly for comedic reasons. My unconventional quirks and jokes made me a kind of class clown, but one who was being laughed at more than with. At the time I felt a vague sense of hurt, but didn’t really know why. In retrospect, I do understand: I was the grade’s laughing stock.

A Painful Introduction

When 6th grade and pandemic isolation arrived, once-mild social anxiety took over my entire body and brain. Excess screentime stunted my communication skills more than ever, and finding friends seemed hopeless. All three years of middle school passed in a blur. 

The only supports I had at that time were my teachers, aides, and school counselors. They showed me nothing but kindness, but sometimes I responded by attempting to push them away. For example, when the aide assigned to another student would gently remind me of things the teacher had said, I tended to rebuke her. In my mind, she thought I was too incompetent to understand, and that I needed every little thing spelled out to me. It infuriated me.

Regardless, since I had no meaningful relationships with peers, I still told the adults at school everything happening in my life.The school counselor heard whatever was on my mind. I liked her because we had the same first name, and she held me accountable for my teenage moodiness. That made me feel like a regular student, and I liked how she kept me in check.

One day I decided to tell my counselor about a specific student I saw frequently who seemed cool. I knew I had a lot to say to people, but I was too shy to go for it. The counselor proposed that she’d call the student into the room then and there so that I could introduce myself. I felt reluctant, but I was in no position to turn down an opportunity to make a friend. So I watched as my counselor spoke into the phone on my behalf. 

I stood awkwardly beside the desk, feeling too tall. I couldn’t remember the last time I had spoken to someone around my age in a conversation that wasn’t part of a group project. The lights in the room suddenly seemed blinding, and I already felt like I had done something wrong. 

The other student walked into the room, their eyes traveling all around our surroundings and eventually, to me. Insecurities hijacked my train of thought. Who on earth pulls someone out of class to try and be their friend? This isn’t how things are supposed to work. This isn’t normal. I’m not normal. 

I still remember how close they seemed to stand while conversing with me, yet I was too scared to step back. I feared one wrong move would send the whole thing south. My throat felt dry just from saying hello.         

“I like your outfit,” I ventured.

Watching her convinced me it was possible to be smart and social, all while still staying true to my authentic self.

“Thanks,” they said, smiling. “Yours is nice too.”

I was wearing the most terrible combination of a pink sweater and black baggy pants with bone print, but I appreciated the compliment anyway. 

It wasn’t a long conversation, and it could have been worse. I now had someone to say hello to in the hallway, but the whole interaction made me feel pathetic. I couldn’t make any friends “naturally,” and I was scared that this would never change–that I just had to accept it and live with it.  For the rest of the school year, I ate my lunch on the stairs.

Immovable Fact?

The summer after 8th grade was the low point of my life. I’d gone to work for my grandmother, helping her keep track of past clients at her business. I completely drowned myself in the responsibility so that I didn’t have time to think of anything else. I barely spoke to anyone. As the weeks passed, depression and introversion swallowed me whole. I dreaded high school, feeling worthless and subhuman because of the disability that, as I saw it, kept me from connecting with others. 

Autism now felt like an immovable fact: I had been born unlucky, with a permanent inability to socialize or act like a “normal” kid. I felt sad that my classmates had rejected me, but also annoyed with myself for letting this damage my self-image. My thoughts circled back to: Maybe this life is karma for something terrible I did in a past one.

At last, freshman year started, and I entered the school feeling like I was once again bleeding out in shark-infested waters. I ran blindly from hallway to hallway looking for my classes, telling myself that the school had more kids than my middle school, so I was bound to make at least one friend. Right? 

Then, on my way to fourth period, a girl in a well-put-together outfit noticed me at the same time I noticed her. Despite how rotten I was feeling, I complimented her appearance, and as it turned out she had the same idea as she approached me. We hit it off immediately, for the first time in weeks I felt a genuine smile come to me as we introduced ourselves.

She spoke to me as if she had known me for years. She was such a pleasant and funny person to talk to that my entire mood switched dramatically. As I typed her number into my phone I was filled with hope that I had found my first genuine friend since the 4th grade.

I grew closer with this girl as the school year progressed. I learned that she was a senior, an honor student involved in theater and more extracurriculars than I could count. She treated me like a little sister; wherever she went, I followed. I spent my lunch period in her classes, and got to know all of her classmates and teachers. 

Naturally, I learned a lot from her. I admired her outgoing nature and envied the way she connected so easily with people she’d just met. Her style wasn’t mainstream and she was passionate about her tastes, a big metal-head like me. Nonetheless, she was friends with everyone. Watching her convinced me it was possible to be smart and social, all while still staying true to my authentic self. My “sister” never changed for anyone, and I loved her for that.

Goodbye to Cruelty

I looked up to her so much that my self-image started to shift. She said that I reminded her of herself, and those words transformed my whole attitude toward myself. Now instead of dread I felt excited to go to school. I started to talk to many amazing people that I probably would never have had the confidence to speak to without her encouragement. As I gained more confidence in my ability to socialize, I started to join after-school programs and form my own strong relationships with classmates and teachers. By the end of freshman year I’d gone from feeling like I never belonged to feeling like my company would be appreciated in any environment. 

Every mutual friend I shared with my “big sister” is someone I trust and will stay in touch with, and I can say the same about the new friends I made myself. I’m so grateful for our lasting friendship and the seed of confidence it planted in me, and I don’t know where I would be today if she hadn’t reached out with such understanding and kindness. 

There are still occasions when attempting to fit in with the wrong people leaves me embarrassed and feeling out of place, but now I know that this is only one experience of many. I’ve worked so hard to connect with people who are on the same wavelength as me, who appreciate and see me for all that I am, and can always depend on me to light up a room with quick wit. Now that I have seen this happen, it’s easier to not beat myself when I do fall flat. There are people in my life who love me. And they make me confident that I never need validation from anyone who wouldn’t enjoy me for who I am. 

I used to be ashamed of myself and how awkward I was in my past interactions. I didn’t realize that self-loathing was making me as cruel to this young, clueless child I used to be as her former classmates were. Now I want nothing more than to hug her, and tell her that isolation is temporary. Not everyone develops at the same pace. There’s no point in rushing yourself to fit other people’s expectations. I believe my younger self would be proud to see how far I’ve come, and it would give her hope.

My upstairs neighbors from years ago are still my neighbors, and I still hear frantic shuffling and other sounds of restlessness through the thin ceiling of my apartment almost every day. Sometimes, when I hear it, I reflect that no matter how much I’ve changed, autism is still a part of my life. It affects different people in different ways, and not all people with the diagnosis will be able to shape their lives while living with it in the same way I have. Still, I’m very proud that I’ve learned to accept it as part of me.  I’ve begun to notice that I have my own unorthodox ways and routines I use to center myself. For example, I tend to talk a lot, and I find that this concentrates my attention. My friends don’t mind or make an issue of it.

I don’t beat myself up for it anymore, either. I’m a full person, meaning I’m more than my diagnosis. Surrounding myself with people who understand that has made me more comfortable in expressing who I am.