Autistic Me

The two year anniversary of my official autism diagnosis passed by without me realising, yet I think about being autistic every single day.

It wouldn’t be right to say that it has become all-consuming, it is more that I suddenly see the space that it takes up within myself; how much of my being is neurodivergent-coloured, mottled with ‘Other’. It is not that being autistic is part of my identity, rather that it is the receptacle that holds my identity cupped within its palms. Imagine not being aware of the ground that holds you steady, or the body that you reside within.

It has taken me a long time to feel comfortable enough to begin to stretch my limbs out and tentatively fill this space that has always been mine. It has taken me even longer to begin to remove the signs saying this space is out of bounds, placed there by society and reinforced by myself; seemingly tiny moments that merge to become a barbed wire fence, keeping me small and normal. I am sure that word is scrawled throughout my formative years, scratched across memories, bound around every single past moment: “I wish I were normal…”

I don’t wish for normality anymore, though part of that is the accumulation of years of evidence showing that there is no such thing. I wish to be so fully myself that no-one can take it away from me again. I wish to stand tall in the knowing that this is who I am and how I will step forward through my life. And yet, I still feel the encroaching perimeter of ‘normality’ trying to keep me contained. I feel it from within and from without, and I don’t know which feels worse. Is it harder to accept that I have such deeply-held stillness within me that it hangs like heavy chains from my limbs? Or harder to feel the distaste of others witness a metamorphosis that feels so profoundly delicious within myself, but is tinged with shameful self-indulgence? They both appear hand-in-hand, forming a stark contrast to the unfettered joy of becoming.

I know this process cannot be a quick one. The uncovering takes time and needs to be slow in order to sink fully into my nervous system. If I were to rip the layers of masks from my body I would be left raw, fleshy and ultimately vulnerable. I wish for the layers beneath to naturally grow and solidify, taking the shape of the real me that has been forever hidden. I imagine this process will cause those masks to shed all by themselves, to crumble and fall, or rise and disintegrate like burning paper. It feels like it should be that beautiful, and yet some would have me believe I would be turning back into the beast, the frog, the thing that doesn’t belong. What they don’t tell you, is that the only real sense of belonging that matters, is that which resides within ourselves. If I do not feel that I belong in my own skin and my own life, then how will I ever truly feel like I belong anywhere else? As I say this, I wonder whether that is the reason why I have always felt an element of looking from the outside when I am with other people. Part of me is not quite there, because I have not quite been within myself either. I have not allowed myself to connect to it, nor have I wanted to reach out to grasp it as my own. It felt like it did not belong in the reality that I was wanting so desperately to be a part of. A fish trying to play the role of a bird, wondering why it could not take a breath. A book trying to play the role of a cup, wondering why its words were no longer legible and its pages no longer able to open.

The reality is that the masks covering my being like armour have kept me safe from a world that didn’t know how to support my differences, and they have kept me safe from myself as well. Even though I was not gifted that deep sense of inner belonging until quite recently, the masks helped me to feel that I could at least pretend to belong. Growing up can be brutal, and traversing the teenage world is particularly difficult when there is a taste of oddness every time you swallow. The masks have allowed me to try on different clothes of identity with seeming ease, and some of them have fit beautifully like a second-skin. Some of them I will continue to hold close, because they have spoken to the me that was hidden beneath - like finding a tiny lost earring on a vast pebbly beach. Some of the other masks have already begun to fall away, and I cannot see how they ever attached themselves to me. There are times that space is filled so quickly when emptiness is discovered, and this is true in the expansion of becoming as well. A piece falls away, and what was underneath grows to fill it. A new leaf breaks through. A flower blooms. I become a little less them and a little more me.

And that’s the journey, really. Becoming a little less them and a little more me. Over and over. Again and again. Sorting through a lifetime of pages containing pieces of myself, to discover which words are mine and which have never belonged to me. Sometimes I discover glorious treasures that free a piece of me that has been trapped, allowing me to dance lightly through the air of my life. Other times I discover parts that I shun with the deeply held judgements of others; parts that feel shameful and uncomfortable; parts that the world has always told me are wrong. And yet, I collect them all into my basket woven with the pieces I have already found, and I clutch that basket to my heart, cupped within the palms of my identity. And with every step and every breath, I become a little more whole, a little more full, a little more me.

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