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“I thought you were autistic.”
This innocuous sentence, said by a friend during my first semester of college, changed my life. I had never before thought of myself as autistic, or even something approaching it. No one had ever suggested it. And, thanks to my mother and the failings of the educational system, my view of what autism meant was not as well-rounded as it could have been.
I knew I had trauma, and I knew that made my brain different. But the sensory issues, food aversions, social awkwardness, intense passion and focus, and bluntness in communication were all just… personal quirks. Until that sentence.
Funnily enough, I can’t remember the context for that conversation, or even what my reply was. I do remember having the words stuck in my head for weeks, maybe months, to come.
As I pondered them, I shared my thoughts with others. But it was all abstract. I couldn’t point to anything concrete, and my friends and loved ones didn’t have the frame of reference to suggest further resources. So I felt stuck.
On some level, the label just felt right. It explained dozens of little quirks stretching back as far as I could recall. But it didn’t feel like my space to claim, not without professional evaluation. So eventually the exploration subsided, although the wonder only grew stronger.
“You’re a peer-reviewed autistic,” another friend said to me on our ride home from work. This was two summers after that initial sentence, which still weighed on me. This friend was also autistic, so as we got to talking on our long car rides, the conversation turned to autism more and more.
I laughed, amused by the ironic appropriation of scientific terminology. By this point, I understood more about autism and, most importantly, the systems designed to identify and treat it. I knew these symptoms were also deeply, deeply broken.
A shard of memory had surfaced, too. Me at a therapist, far younger than most go to therapy. We played Blokus and talked about… something. I remember the yellow lights—no bright overheads—and the colorful blocks. A wooden table and sitting on the floor. But the woman across from me, the details of our conversation, are nothing but a faint hum. Could this have been related to autism? Even worse—could it have been Applied Behavioral Analysis?
(Episode continues below)
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No one in my life can answer those questions. The only people who might recall those details can’t contact me—and even if they could, I doubt they’d be truthful. The world of secrets and lies doesn’t end just because I’ve uncovered a truth.
I returned to the car. “I really am, though,” I said. “You’re not the only one. Most people around me believe I am. Hell, most people around me are autistic.”
He glanced at me briefly before returning his eyes to the road. “Then you are. If you believe you’re autistic, you are.”
Something jolted within me. Was it fear or excitement? Both? His words felt right, but my expectations struggled to allow them to be true.
That winter, I took the RAADS-R, a clinically proven pre-assessment for identifying autism. I hate that even now, I feel the need to clarify that it’s clinically proven. Imperial, capitalist diagnostic systems based on one dusty old book should not be the standard for validating lived experience. When it is, too many people get hurt. But I’ll save those thoughts for another time, another essay on why I’m not pursuing formal diagnosis.
The test was decisive. If only they had programmed a little pop-up to say “congrats! You’re autistic.”
Armed with this clinical test and over a dozen peer reviews, I finally felt comfortable—and safe—to really claim this as part of my identity. “Well yeah, because I’m autistic,” I would casually say at work in the coming weeks. I felt the tension, hesitancy in the air for a brief second. It passed.
I’m not sure if you know this, reader, but the world doesn’t like autistic people very much. The world of education, even less so. The more I embraced my identity, the more conflict I found myself in. People aren’t fond of you calling out their ableism. And apparently, when they say to “feel free to talk to me about any issues,” they don’t actually mean any issues.
Still, I wouldn’t go back. Before self-diagnosis, I always felt like a piece of me was missing. I struggled with an internal sense of self because I felt I had no core to anchor myself to. I didn’t respect my sensory needs, and in return they caused me mishap after mishap.
Now, I just feel… happier. Calmer. I’m more able to navigate my bodymind’s needs with ease. I understand why I react a certain way sometimes, which makes my processing of that reaction so much faster.
Has there been some regression? Absolutely. Do I struggle more with things now? For sure. But do I feel happier, more complete, more fulfilled in my relationships? Also a very solid yes.
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Ashton Rose 
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