I remember the day I realized I was on the spectrum. I eight, maybe, sitting out in my dad's office while my rabbit stretched his legs on the floor. My mom had been watching a today show special that focused an autistic boy boy and his family, but she'd changed the channel as soon as she noticed me watching it. So I'd asked to take my rabbit, Luke Skywalker, to the office and turned it on out there.
And I saw parts of myself reflected in him. I tried to talk to my mom about it later and asked her if I was like the boy on tv. Her response was a hard no and outrage that I would even think that.
But that moment stuck with me. I learned something about myself that day.
I never talked about it again with my parents, but I thought back on it frequently over the years, often after people had teased me for being different.
I grew up in a small Alaskan village in the 90s, and although there were several of us that would grow up to realize we were on the spectrum we were never called autistic. We were simply "different." We weren't put in special classes or seperated in any way from our peers, but we were often encouraged to "fit in," to be more like the other kids.
Finally, in 3rd grade my mom realized I wasn't flourishing in public school and decided to homeschool me starting in 4th grade. With the pressure to fit in socially removed I flourish academically. My mom, a retired special education teacher, also worked hard to reduce my "differences" with mixed results.
By the time I returned to public school in 9th grade I was socially behind but academically advanced, but I learned quickly that because I had been homeschooled I was no longer considered "different." I now fit into the mold of "shy, smart kid."
Over the next four years, I made some friends and gained respect from the majority of my classmates as a quirky yet kind person who liked to bake.
By senior year I had made myself a name as a casual athlete, small business owner, and outstanding academic.
However, I wasn't one of those people who went off to college and found myself. I made a few close friends and had many others who would have loved to have been friends or who considered me a friend, but I resisted, preferring to keep to myself.
I struggled with depression, anxiety, and unhealthy coping mechanisms as a result of years of child abuse (yeah I kinda glossed over that part since I wasn't abused because I was on the spectrum; I was abused because my mom has an undiagnosed mental illness, another post for another time) and suppressing half of who am.
After graduating college and at the suggestion of my dad, I moved back home to be there for my mom who had lost her mother the year before and was struggling with debilitating depression. It was hard going back home with the many unpleasant memories of not being able to be me, even in the privacy of my own home.
However, I was lucky to get a job at the local school, which I'd attended as a child, and with the help of several supportive coworkers who became friends I was able to continue getting to know myself and the person I truly am.
A few years later, when my mom was doing better, I took a teaching job and struck out on my own. There I found the acceptance and support I needed to continue getting to know myself.
I'm not sure if I'll ever be entirely comfortable in my own skin, especially after spending so many of my formative years learning how to not be myself, and I'm just now reaching a point where I can say "I'm the spectrum" outloud. But I feel each year I get closer to being "me."
