My mother always said “just ignore it.” But I couldn’t get her to tell me how. Apparently, I reacted differently than the other kids. So it was even more fun to taunt me. My mother got to the point where if I wanted to stay home from school, I had to be willing to call the doctor myself to make an appointment.
I would say inappropriate things or have inappropriate facial expressions. I would freak out at sounds and smells and touch that others took in stride; in fact, my “temper tantrums” have been referred to as “legendary.” I never got subtle humor, so there were misunderstandings aplenty. Friends were rarely better than acquaintances. As I got older, I couldn’t keep a boyfriend longer than three months.
I was smart. I was in the gifted and talented program from elementary school through high school. In ninth grade, I gave a speech before governors on Earth Day. I was a finalist in a national high school mathematics competition. I graduated with a bachelor’s degree from a Big Ten university in three years with honors. I interned at National Geographic magazine. I was the woman for whom there were no rhetorical questions. I could figure anything out. But I couldn’t figure out how to get along with people.
The year I turned 25, my parents wanted me to move back home to the Midwest, but to me that was defeat. So I picked up and moved from one coast to the other to get away and “figure out” the solution to this problem, too. I had enough saved to last about three months, which was plenty of time to figure this out, right? Nope. Then, it got worse. The diagnosis turned into major depressive disorder. I couldn’t work. I went on disability. I only left my tiny one-room apartment to go to the grocery store or the doctor.
It wasn’t until my 20s were nearly behind me and I saw a Time magazine article about a little boy with autism that I finally figured it out. I showed it to my psychologist, and after a year-long battle to get it covered by insurance, I had an appointment to be evaluated.
January 7, 2016 marked 4,500 days since my autism diagnosis. I keep track in recognition of the day my life began again. I could finally understand why I couldn’t understand. I got services from the local regional autism center. I slowly transitioned back into the world. Now I’m married, and we own a home in a quiet suburb of Los Angeles. I work from home so I don’t have to remember to use the right facial expressions or deal with the cacophony of a cubicle farm. Every day, I work remotely with technology teams from Texas to India who take my ideas and bring them to life for a major corporation. I am the official “autism champion” for my global company in Southern California. I volunteer with a local charity to help my compatriots struggling to find their place in the world. I teach law enforcement about sensory issues to aid in dealing with those in crisis.
I am an adult with autism. I am autistic. No matter how you say it, my life is better with the diagnosis.