POLITICS
A
t s i i c t L u i A v es l l
h av e va l u e
I
didn’t receive my autism diagnosis as a child. It’s something I blog about often, usually whilst remarking on society’s trend to let autistic girls languish in silence for years. As an undiagnosed autistic child, I lost most of my childhood and adolescence to a silent and impenetrable hell. On the surface, I presented as bright, outgoing, intelligent. I was called “an old soul,” “wise beyond my years,” and I took that praise to heart,” drifting deeper and deeper within myself until I dared not allow myself any feelings at all. I didn’t know how to act like other kids and I was so confused by the differences between myself and my peers that I lapped up any praise which suggested that my differences might be positive.
12
Because, without an explanation for how my brain worked, I assumed that I was the problem. Internally, I labelled myself “broken" and "bad” because whenever I read about people who— like me— didn’t fit in, didn’t feel like other people, they were always criminals and serial killers. As a child, I connected those dots and spent years assuming I must have some hidden streak of deviance that I must suppress at all costs. After all, I assumed, why else would I feel so different? As a 25-year-old with 5 graduate degrees, a thriving social life, and— crucially— an autism diagnosis, I have shed many tears for the undiagnosed little girl I used to be. On good days, I want to hug her and whisper that she isn’t the problem, that there’s a name for what’s going on in her head, and that none of this is her fault.
NEURODIVERSITY
