
Aspie by Nature, Human by Proxy
“The more powerful and original a mind, the more it will incline towards the religion of solitude.”
– Aldous Huxley
I was born premature—7 weeks early, I'm told—the umbilical cord wrapped 3x around my tiny, unripened throat, as though the universe had sent an invisible hit-man to terminate my burgeoning life in-utero.
That's how I came into this world. All 3lbs, 6oz of me. Gasping, choking—barely able to breathe my first shaky breath. Spending the first 5 weeks of my life isolated in an incubator recuperating, relaxing, beefing up—purportedly protected from the alleged germs of human touch and connectivity, as this was the 1970s and all forms of bacteria were viewed as public enemy #1. The fact that my brain's oxygen supply had been cut off for the first several seconds of my out-of-the-womb existence likely didn't help my odds—all things being equal.


I was considered vulnerably undercooked and woefully unprepared for what was to come next. Not to mention, I’ve since learned underweight preemies are 5x more likely to be on the Autism Spectrum (or neuroAtypical, as many of us prefer to call ourselves) than our full term, full weight counterparts.
The next several years of my life involved the bracing of both my legs and feet, as my feet pointed due west rather than east…
...or maybe it was due east rather than west.
Most of my toddler-esque and youth-based years were spent in and out of the hospitals on account of various respiratory based infections, my underdeveloped lungs protesting loudly over the torturous existence they’d already been subjected to the umbilical cord throttling my neonate’s little neck merely a contributing factor to the overall root cause.

In spite of these setbacks, I was a bit of a daredevil, climbing every piece of furniture in my parents’ house, acquiring a concussion and a few broken bones in the process. DSS (Department of Social Services) felt the need to investigate, probably because one of the incidents involved a broken collar bone from a jungle-gym accident; the next incident a broken toe from a radiator. The parental units, frustrated, were beginning to suspect I wasn’t quite built like other girls; though it would be decades before any of us (i.e me) would unravel the how and why my weird-girly-self was constructed so very Atypically.
Though I do personally think it was my innate ability to laugh at such adversity—despite the many thorny lows I experienced capable of tearing said laughter clear from my traumatized lungs—and survive these types of ailments and misadventures which would eventually shape and define my particular brand of Atypical.
My pre-teen years could definitely be defined as of one of those thorny lows I mention above.

Puberty hit early. Nothing came in as anticipated—more like I appeared the distorted and sharply contoured visage of an undiscovered and distressed Picasso rendering. My uneven spine (scoliosis) throwing everything off balance. My girly peaks and valleys all tangled and askew—limbs and torso ever so perceptibly off-center. My features coming in rough and unformed.
I felt a proper outcast. Hunchback. Egor. Freak.
I was unaware of my Autism at the time, but I’d always felt odd.
Different.
Other.
Outlier.
Alien.
My thoughts and behaviors were peculiar. The contrast of stoic logic to emotional extremism often jarring. I repeatedly told my parents I was a halfling/changeling child left behind by the Fae or some alien race.
My father would invariably laugh at me, teasing, “Very true. I do believe we had to have your antenna surgically removed so you’d appear more human.”
My mom, pained by my words, would gently remind me of my premature birth and 5 week incubator incarceration. She’d then ask, her voice so very soft and husky, “Do you really think I wouldn’t recognize my own daughter?”
Their assertions and questions would oten throw me. Then I'd remember how my parents claimed they acted as they did, behaved as they did, because that’s how they were brought up. My young mind determined to understand, asking myself: if people act as they do because they’re brought up a certain way—and my sister and brother were definite testaments to this theory—then why were my behaviors and thought processes in such stark conflict to all other humans I’d encountered?
In my own mind, my alien theory also explained why I often felt people (especially women) spoke a secret almost silent language I just could NOT understand. The women in my family were extra scary to me, as they’d always treated me like—well—I just didn’t belong.
So, wearing a backpack full of books, I’d wrap myself in the safety of my own company, nestling securely within the solitude of my own consciousness (or innerscapes as I liked to call them), I’d trek deep into the woods, my crooked spine full-on powerless to slow me down—and I'd find the tallest tree to climb and I would just sit up there for hours, hiding, reading, reflecting. Often speculating as to why the world was so confusing for me. Trying to piece together what made my body and thoughts so very Atypical, aberrant. . . different from everyone else.
If I wasn’t an alien, then what was I?
Ungainly. Giant. Awkward.
Disproportionate. Crooked—


—were a few of the terms I heard adults whisper oh so sympathetically.
Kids weren't so kind, formulating and targeting their words for optimum impact—finding creative ways to inflict “accidental” bodily harm upon my already warped frame.
My ability to laugh at life's adversity at this juncture was beginning to dip dangerously low.
The boys at school would often surround me, taunting me like hyenas bating their prey, targeting their verbal blows for maximum impact. The frustration beginning to build inside of me, growing to such a crescendo of pain and confusion—their words eventually biting chunks from my figurative belly, exposing my innards for all to see—I suddenly erupted, almost explosively. I found myself tackling several of the boys, retaliating against their words with harsh, physical blows. My oddly strong punches brutal, marking their soft skin with mottled bruises.
I remember losing myself to these punches. Evidence of an inherent darkness hidden deep within me. The shame of it weighing heavily upon my young soul.
It took me years to understand bodily injuries heal that much more seamlessly and fully than those inflicted emotionally. Psychologically.
But that's an insight and story for later.
Fast forward to the summer before high school, freshman year. Another transformation. My Picasso-esque physique—all jagged edges and misshapen corners—softens to rounded arches, sprouting to form properly defined womanly dips and supple curves.
This time, I’m told, in all the right places.
Outwardly proportionate. Seemingly symmetrical. Prototypical. Balanced.

In one word: Confusing.
The girls—who only months before—alternately shunned and taunted me, were now inviting me to exclusive girly-girl outings and events, sharing their most private secrets and exciting gossip, attempting to mold my unformed psyche with makeovers and unsolicited, unwanted attention…
...seeking to alter my appearance and personality to better click with their group based identity.
Another word: Frustration.
I'd customarily received only hurtful, negative attention from the boys at school. Now those same boys were complimenting me, attempting to court me, vying for my attention, almost shyly. As though they were intimidated.
Intimidated by me...
I thought perhaps their hormone infused minds were unable to reconcile my actual identity with the girl they saw displayed before them; the possibility of these two seemingly contradictory semblances existing within the same person causing a type of cognitive dissonance—their minds defaulting to what was easiest for them to digest: that I must have been some new girl at school, a girl they'd never seen before, a girl with no history associated with their lives or related to their experiences.
At least, that was the theory I'd devised in my own girly noggin over the years, as I was unable to see the whole of it at the time, with so many gaps in the overall puzzle.
I did, however, understand my classmates treatment of me (owing to the series of physical transformations my pubescent body underwent) was one of my first lessons in understanding what I eventually came to view as the darker side of the neurosocial mindset; where a person’s appearance often influences how a neurosocial will perceive and/or treat said person (aka as the halo effect), to the extent many neurosocials are capable of seeing only what they expect to see. Their minds filling in the gaps with their assumptions and expectations, rarely seeing what is actually there before them. This is due to the power of heuristics (mental shortcuts), which studies have proven over and over we neuroAtypicals are supposedly deficient (i.e. our minds have difficulty making mental shortcuts, so we see the details or puzzle pieces first, our minds rarely filling in the gaps with expectations as the puzzle—or big picture—slowly unfolds before us).


I theorized that’s why, in the DC comic book universe, Superman only needed to wear glasses, part his hair on the opposite side, and act the part of a bumbling nerd to keep people from recognizing his 6’4” muscled frame and distinctive features as the iconic superhero we all know so well. I felt this frustrating yet compelling plot device was meant to demonstrate how most people are full-on blinded by such a simple, yet oh so effective disguise—fully incapable of reconciling Superman’s true identity with the awkwardness conveyed by his alias, aka Clark Kent: his proverbial mask and public persona. A persona comprised of glasses, hunched shoulders and such palpable and jarring insecurity to the physical stature and power of Superman which lay beneath.
This lesson would set the stage for how I’d navigate the world for the next few decades of my life.
