My autism (non) diagnosis story
Ten years ago, I had to write a letter to have a chance to meet with an autism specialist. You can’t just call (thank goddess! ha!) to get an appointment, you have to give them proof you’re worthy of their time (seriously, eye rolling. Fund mental health, thank you.)
I had just read T. Attwood’s book on Asperger Syndrome (note: now I know better than reading Nazi supremacy bs.)
In the letter, I described what I considered to be, compared to my peers, unusual things I would do as child, and how weird I’ve always felt and how socializing was still a mystery to me.
I felt this was my chance to unlock a part of me.
Months later, someone from the autism center called, out of the blue (sigh), to schedule an appointment. I had just given birth to my second child one month and a half earlier and was still nursing. I was so happy to have access to what I already considered to be a privilege: an official diagnosis.
I was finally going to meet with the head of my town’s autism center (fyi: in France). I was excited, proud, and nervous. Proud because I felt seen with my reality unmasked. For years I had read, researched about mental health, trying to find what was going on with me.
I have a great neurotypical passing, except for appearing as rude, arrogant, untamed on occasions. My school years remember. As do my relationships with most of my family and friends (what’s a friend?). On the positive side, a lot of people like my naive, fresh approach to things. (I don’t always, it makes one a prey to mockery and abusers. Been there, done that.)
On the day of the appointment, I made sure I nursed enough so my baby would be fine for a few hours, my breasts away.
I must have talked for forty-five minutes, barely interrupted by the specialist. I was full ON (hello, overexcitability!). He seemed to listen to me carefully, wasn’t taking note, asked questions. I felt like we were having a passionate conversation about people and psychology at large (hello, special interest!).
I didn’t want to make it just about me (!).
When it was over, he put it simply (paraphrasing, I don’t remember his exact words):
“You’re going to be disappointed, but you don’t have Asperger Syndrome, you’re too social and warm to be. You should take a look at IQ tests though.”
And that was it, thank you, goodbye. Too warm? IQ tests? I was confused.
(Note: I’m a 43-year-old cis white woman, raised to take care of others and emotionally gaslighted since forever.)
Fast forward a few years later, I got an official “gifted” diagnosis (I would like my money back, in retrospect) even though I don’t perform (note the double meaning of the verb…) as well as I could have had as a child, because of trauma and, well, life.
And now, 2021, I’m a self diagnosed autistic woman with most probably a hint of ADHD, and a fibromyalgia diagnosis (by my MD) (aren’t comorbidities fun?), all thanks to the amazing autistic and neurodivergent and disabled online community. We learn so much from each other.
Back to square one in a way.
Difference is I don’t need external validation from the medical world. I understand myself better.
