Autism & Me
For as long as I can remember, I’ve been plagued by this desperate need to prove my suffering to others, for someone to realise that something really was very wrong.
As a child, and then more so as a teenager, I would wish for something to happen that would provide those crucial answers. A hospital visit where some suave doctor would swoop in with an all-clearing diagnosis.
Maybe it was more than anxiety, depression, panic attacks. Or maybe just another manifestation of a traumatic childhood that never made me feel seen or heard. The uncertainty caused the most damage.
Because everyone understands a cancer diagnosis, or a broken bone. Life, and death, are easy options. I wished that, to be easy, and not so burdensome. And yet every waking decision from the ages of 11 onwards seemed anything but.
Perhaps further back is a good place to start. As a toddler, I would have to be put in a separate class because I would cry if we had parties. I had severe separation anxiety as a baby, I hated loud sounds like rain and fireworks, I was constantly out of school for being “unwell” – all things people laughed at, because it was unusual and therefore easily exploitable comedy.
My anxiety seemed to blossom out of the blue at the age of 11, but more and more it seemed like the product of an overwhelming home environment, which added to my stress in its own unique way.
I started to develop rigid behavioural patterns to remain in control, because it felt easier, even if I knew in some deep part of my psyche that it was a lie.
As long as I was in control, ate the same foods, did the same things, watched the same shows, I would be ok. I wouldn’t shutdown, or have to spend hours in a locked bathroom, trying to manage my melancholy.
What I didn’t know is that maintaining that peace, to appear normal to others, meant sacrificing mine. And I did it for years before the realisation hit me.
Autism is very much considered a “male illness”, very few studies have actually involved control groups that examine the effects on women.
With no biological markers to work with, we often resort to analysing behaviour to make a diagnosis, and this shows prominently in men. Yet because women are more likely to “mask/camouflage” their feelings as a by-product of societal pressures and gender stereotypes, there is a real delay in initial prognosis & access to treatments.
We spend our whole lives wanting to be seen and heard, but really everything we’re taught involves hiding the very things that set us apart.
That isn’t the only obstacle; mental health in Asian cultures, even as recently as 20 years ago, was nonexistent.
Concepts such as anxiety and depression were often dismissed as a product of poor faith, or a faulty relationship with God, or, my personal favourite, a figment of the imagination. All viewed as weaknesses of the soul, and not recognised as a cry for help.
In that grey area of not acknowledging or admitting our mistakes, we’ve failed so many women, who like me, spend their entire lives not knowing what their fault is, why they are plagued, marked, where others live freely. Some have to wait longer than 24 years to reach that level of understanding, especially when we still don’t know much about the origins of autism.
So I am left with this crippling regret for a version of myself that no longer exists. She exists only in my memories, a skeleton that doesn’t want to leave the closet because she was never put to rest. If only people had believed, listened, or heard. Watched, observed, acknowledged.
As troubling as it is, there is a part of me that surrenders to it. I didn’t get to allow myself to feel deserving of love for so long, but now, my autism is who I am. It is always who I have been, at 12, at 16, 20, and now, soon to be 24.
I can put on headphones when I experience sensory distress and carry on with my life, understand when I need space and when I need company. I have fought through discomfort to figure out the inner workings of my own mind.
These scars are mine to proudly show. They say, I battled through hell and I didn’t even know it. And yet here I stand. Tired, but unchanged. Even the devil must be impressed.
Autism makes me love in extremes, it means I give everything to others, to work, to life itself. I am incredibly (slightly problematically) empathic. It means I can remember profound amounts of information, soak up new hobbies in a matter of weeks. It makes me creative so I can sing, dance, draw freely. This powerful tool once came at a cost, but it doesn’t have to stay as a haunting ghost.
As of writing, I am in touch the right people to provide me with the help I need. If there is anyone who feels like they might be autistic, or are on their own journey, I am always happy to connect & share my learnings so that we can all find the peace we are searching for.
