Happy birthdays to me: reflecting on 1 year with Autism
Mid-February, I turn 49. I feel a lot of ways about that.
But, also, I feel like I’m a child. A small one. A toddler. In the best of all possible ways.
A toddler turning 1.
So, I’m about to be 49, but also a 1 year old. At least in terms of being totally, completely myself.
Last year, at this time, I completed an official assessment through GRASP (the Global and Regional Autism Spectrum Partnership) and received the gift that gave me this new baby life: a diagnosis.
I have Autism Spectrum Disorder (ASD).
I am Autistic.
And it is fucking awesome.
Getting an official Autism diagnosis as an adult is a tricky, expensive, time-consuming endeavor. The truth is that most of us who make it to adulthood without getting a diagnosis have developed skills that have allowed us to, at least, limp along for decades, surviving, if not appearing to be outwardly flourishing. It’s not that we don’t (and didn’t) need services and assistance; it’s that we got adept at playing neurotypical enough — masking, guessing, nodding, pretending — that, at best, we spent our lives, so far, as “eccentrics,” loners, weirdos, or doormats well-enough that we could “pass”.
