I have an invisible disability. You can’t tell by looking at me that there is anything neuroatypical about me. You might guess when I speak, though I put a lot of effort and spoons into keeping the conversation going and my tone appropriate (volume sometimes escapes me, but I’m usually WNL). If you do notice anything off, it will be in a complete inability to keep small talk going for more than a couple back-and-forth rounds, or the regurgitation of trivia only marginally related to the situation at hand (“Scots have red hair because of Viking settlers…”).

Up until a couple years ago, I had no real awareness of autism. My first introduction to the topic was in 8th grade when the county-wide “special” school was piecemealed out to the elementary and middle schools by group. My middle school became host to an autism-only classroom, placed in a trailer (about half the school was trailer classrooms) and only interacting with the rest of the students by sharing a lunch period. The students were all boys, and all non- or minimally-verbal. I was pissed off that I wasn’t included, because I misunderstood–I thought it was an artistic classroom (thanks, auditory processing!).

It wasn’t until I was in my 20s that I really learned about autism and had the terrible moment of self truth: shit, I am autistic.

You see, I grew up knowing there was something different about me. I was a target for bullying even through college, and work. I did not make friends easily and held the few I did make jealously. I was upset if my friends made other friends, because invariably they would not want to play with me anymore. I was exceptionally bossy because I needed to be able to control the interactions; playing with kids is hard because they do unexpected stuff and I could not handle the unexpected. Being bossy was my attempt to eliminate that element of anxiety. I was a very picky eater, both in texture and taste. I was gullible with peers and could be goaded or encouraged into bad behaviour very easily; I had no sense of what made a friend different from a bully if both were being nice to my face. I probably would have benefitted strongly from a visual schedule, as I needed multiple reminders to do things like chores (and, later, when I was in high school and college and had more control over my scheduling, homework and papers), but chafed against verbal reminders. I exasperated my parents with apparently selfish behaviour and a lack of social graces. I was distractable in classes and made numerous “careless” errors on work I knew and understood because something else caught and held my attention.

I was also hyperlexic, reading and writing by two and a half. I learned early that language helps, and used this to soak up information. I learned as much as I could about whatever I was interested in; my interests could last days or years. I played with dolls well into my teens (and have been carting my American Girl doll around with me still–she came with me to Australia and then to Virginia). I can still sing songs or parts of song word and note perfect that I learned for my fifth, sixth, and seventh grade choir performances, 15 years ago. I only need to go someplace once before I can get there again with few or no reminders or prompts. I could look at a map and visualize my path. I amassed vast amounts of trivia. I spent a lot of time alone, which gave me to the tools to really consider my self-conceptualization. I draw beautifully, and sometimes write well. I experienced the delight of synesthesia, my tastes and textures lighting up with colours.

All of these are things, states, experiences, emotions that I can look back and say “there was probably some autism involved in that.” I cannot meaningfully separate out autism and my personality. Autism has shaped who I was then and who I have become as an adult. Autism meant not looking adults in the eye when being disciplined, and being yelled at for insubordination for it. Autism meant sobbing when the boy I had a crush on “killed” the oil clay cat I made and kept on my desk in 4th grade. Autism meant being perfectly willing to taste pine sap when a girl in my class told me it tasted like maple syrup–twice. Autism meant not skipping a grade. Autism meant being able to hear perfect pitch in choir, even if my rogue vocal chords could not always produce it. Autism meant being teacher’s pet. Autism meant taking an overload of classes every semester in college, just because I could. Autism meant the small, private university I loved over the bigger, public university that had more academic choices–and, because of this, autism meant my best friends.

And yet, I didn’t know about autism.

Growing up, for me, led to a set of beliefs that I have had a very, very difficult time removing. I didn’t know that many of my struggles and achievements could be attributed to autism. Instead, I attributed them to two ideas:

1. I am bad and worthless.
2. I am ridiculously smart.

I grew up feeling frustrated with the world around me, and knowing that the world often felt frustrated with me. I often didn’t understand what was wanted of me, but admitting that and asking for help would mean I wasn’t smart, right? So I didn’t ask for help, and did things wrong, and then I was bad. It was a self-perpetuating cycle. To be not bad meant I needed to be able to do things properly, and I was smart, so I should be able to figure this out! And then I wouldn’t, and then I’d fail, and then my self-esteem would sink another notch. Self-esteem and the appearance of confidence are not the same thing.

Being ridiculously smart meant that it was okay I didn’t understand or particularly like my peers (it was mutual on both points). I desperately wanted friends, and when I was finally working out that bullies and friends are not, actually, the same thing at all, I consoled myself by remembering that I was smarter, better, more likely to succeed. I told them they had smooth brains. I sought out the company of adults and books and the internet–it was still pretty new, then. Being ridiculously smart was the only defense mechanism I had against my classmates, and I hung onto it with all my might. This was not a positive self-image. It was bitter and angry and filled with self-loathing. I could not be normal, so I had to compensate with the only thing I believed was of worth about me.

The thing about defense mechanisms one develops in childhood is that they’re pretty difficult to get rid of later in life. I’ve learned about autism. I make to-do lists and schedules and keep a planner. I write out my thoughts and make more lists and get post-it notes. I rehearse conversations, and try to take advantage of this strange, fabulous brain. I subject people around me to trivia endlessly.

And yet, still, if I miss a dose of my migraine medication, or forget to eat, or don’t call the bank to tell them I’m travelling for a month to Australia and could they please not flag my account as hacked for the fifth day in a row because I couldn’t remember to write the post-it note that would remind me to call, or I make a grave error with my friends, it all comes back and I am eight and I am bad and a failure. I can feel my self-esteem drip away, as if I was a watercolour painting put out in the rain. And if I am bullied at work, or forced to listen to misinformation, or interviewing for a job that I am ridiculously overqualified for, or rejected from a volunteer position because it didn’t occur to me that I could lie (or even just not disclose) about my mental health history, I can feel the irritation and self-righteousness boiling up inside of me. Damn it, I am too fucking smart for this, why can’t they see that and value the one valuable thing I have to offer? (And they don’t, because being smart is really only worthwhile when you can temper it with being sociable, and then we’re back to failure.)

You can’t tell by looking that I’m not neurotypical–not at first. Because I grew up without notions of neurotypical or autism or healthy self-esteem, you’ll get a carefully crafted idea of who I could be, if only I had been aware that I was autistic.