Eight Months Later

Eight months ago today, I was diagnosed as autistic.  And some days I feel like I’m still processing that diagnosis.  It’s something that, for so long, I had thought/suspected about myself and I thought, because I’d thought it for so long, that that knowing wouldn’t change anything.  And in some ways, most ways, nothing in my life has changed except that I know now and so do other people.  I mean, I’d started accommodating myself before that diagnosis – I got a weighted blanket for when I was experiencing anxiety or restlessness or just couldn’t sleep; I bought Loop earplugs to help with noise and started wearing them to things like concerts or hockey games or even the plays that we go to; I keep fidget toys at my desk at work; hell I even started keeping my hair short so it wouldn’t be touching me because I hate that sensory experience so much – so in my head, I thought it would be the same, I’d just be more knowledgeable about myself.  And yet, somehow, it did change.  I wish I had more eloquent words to describe what I mean, but there are days when I feel “more autistic” than in the past.  I’ve started writing this post so many times, just to wind up deleting the entire thing and starting again 10 minutes later.  There are days it’s genuinely harder to mask now that I know this about myself.  Days when just waking up in the morning is exhausting because when I wake up, I’m immediately planning on how to be a “normal” person to get through the work day.  Days when looking into someone’s eyes is physically painful, whereas in the past I could push through it.  Days when speaking out loud feels impossible.  And I’ve read about this same thing from other late-diagnosed adults so I know it’s a normal experience and I just need to continue to give myself peace and grace and understanding, but god it’s just hard sometimes.

I recently came across an old photo – a self-portrait project from a college class back in 2012.  I’d taken a photo in my sort of “default” dress (a shirt a size too big and baggy jeans) my face serious, or maybe thoughtful, looking into my reflection where I was wearing something more suited to what I felt my personality was (those same baggy pants, but a bright rainbow hoodie and a goofy/silly face).  The text I’d added in the top corner read “The ‘me’ people see isn’t the ‘me’ I am.”  

Back then I thought autism was a possibility, but I didn’t know.  I didn’t fully understand what masking was or that I was even doing it.  All I knew was the “me” I presented to the world was a carefully curated version of myself, designed to pass through the world mostly unnoticed, fitting in as best as possible, molding myself into a more socially acceptable human.  I knew the version of me other people saw wasn’t actually me.  People who got close to me saw glimpses of who I am – saw the Aaron Carter and Taylor Swift obsessed, cat loving, bookworm, silly human that the quiet, serious persona hid.  I wanted people to see me but, after masking for my entire life, realized that I didn’t know who that was.

I’m 33, almost 34, years old now and I still don’t know who I really am.  I don’t know, I just… I feel like I thought I’d have my life “together” by now.  As a kid, I remember seeing adults and thinking how amazing it was that they knew who they were and how to navigate the world.  So now as an adult, it’s frustrating to feel like I don’t know who I am or how to make it in the world.  I’m just here, just trying my best, just trying to figure it all out.

I don’t know. How can I have lived almost 34 years on this planet and not know who I am? Who am I? I love Taylor Swift and my wife and my friends and books and my cats. I have 4 siblings and more nieces and nephews, who mean the whole world to me, than I can count. I cried when Aaron Carter died and that still doesn’t feel real to me.  I love rollercoasters and still play games on Neopets. I’m terrified of driving and I don’t trust birds. I cry watching most movies if I see them in the movie theater, even if they aren’t sad.  I love hockey and Cards Against Humanity and live theater and long car rides on two lane roads that always feel like home and the entire Maximum Ride series (even though everything after the 3rd book is trash) and sunny days and raspberry tea and being outside and the beach. 90s country music feels like home to me and Nashville is my favorite city in this whole country even though I’ve only been there once for three days back in 2013 and I’ve been dying to go back ever since.  But is that all? Because that’s about all I could tell you about myself. Shouldn’t I be able to know more about me? And why did it take an autism diagnosis and then finding an old picture eight months later to realize I don’t think I know who I am as a person?

Or maybe it’s that no one knows who they are. Maybe everyone is forever becoming who they are, and it’s a never ending process throughout everyone’s life. But if that is the case, I wish someone would say that.