When it comes to telling someone they are different, it’s a hard battle. If you tell them they are wierd or “not like everyone else” it leaves a mark. If you don’t tell them they aren’t like everyone else, chances are, at some point they are going to figure it out anyway and dislike that you never mentioned it. Know the term “Damned if you do, Damned if you don’t?”

I guess in some way I always knew I was different from other kids, particularly when every adult in a three mile radius was more interesting than the other children. Children were self obsessed and like boring things. They didn’t want to read or talk about the same things I did. I remember an obsession to learn everything about cats – big and small – and a desperation to avoid large groups of screaming children.

Children were wierd.

I remember strings and teams of child psychologists, frequent doctors checks ups and adhd and ritalin and how I was bound to start showing learning difficulties. Well, it’s not my intention to brag, but those learning difficulties never turned up. Just behavioral ones. Turns out I wasn’t fond of being kicked under the table while I tried to work on my school stuff while trying to ignore loud children and harsh glaring lights and brilliant bright primary colours or loud screaming rooms full of children. I remember my first few weeks in my first year of schooling where I threw up almost daily and the teachers would complain, telling my to stop making myself throw up. But I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t even know why.

Nowadays, I put that down to being overwhelmed.

I never went to special schooling. I spent the entirity of my school career in mainstream schooling and in a neurotypical world that is considered a good thing. Why? I dread to think how bad special schooling is if sensory overload or lack of social skills is a reason to throw away someone’s education.

Regardless, due to my smarts, problem solving and bold ability to push myself and put my point across, everyone thought I was just occassionally acting out on ADHD. After all, I am a girl and I talked from an early age. Hell, I was speaking in sentences at 18 months. I couldn’t be autistic. That was ridiculous. I’ve never LOOKED autistic.

Please. Tell me. What do the physical manifestations of autism in a six year old girl look like? Enlighten me.

When I was eight years old, I was taken for a diagnosis. Being oblivious to the world at that age, I have no idea how hard my mum must have pushed to have me seen for a diagnosis, but looking back on how hard it is for people to consider females worthy of diagnosis (After all, girl’s can’t have autism!) she must have been trying for a while. After all, we had to figure out what exactly was “wrong” with me. I just wasn’t playing with the other kids right! The others kids just kept bullying me, what was I doing wrong?

Three people took me into a room walled off from my mother with a tiny camera through watch my mum could watch me. I wasn’t stupid, I knew exactly what the camera was for, but mother wasn’t in the same room so she couldn’t tell me to “stop acting like that” or “don’t do that.”. My mother has a case of misophonia, so presumably my stimming must have got on her nerves.  This was nearly 16 years ago, so bear with me if my memory is hazy.

I remember the room having white walls and a bookcase at the far corner. A single desk with childlike seats sat near the back wall. The man stood behind the camera filming everything while one woman asked me to “play with her” and another stood back collecting things and observing as she moved around. She brought out dolls.

I hated dolls.

A mum, a dad, and a toy airoplane. Now at the time, I wasn’t aware I was to be diagnosed for anything, so I was quite content with messing with the doctors. The previous day at school, one of the bullies had upset me and I had said to them “that hurt me.” and they replies with “so, why should I care?”. As we played with the toys, I had the airoplane run the mother doll over because I hated her stupid pink dress. I specifically remember the woman looking shocked (a facial expression she greatly exagerated. God they were so patronising, that’s probably why I wanted to mess with them.) and saying “that’s not very nice.”

So, naturally, I replied. “Why should I care?”

(At this point, I would like to point out that at 8, I was extremely presumptious. I was smart and “very switched on” as people liked to say. I had a large vocabularly and understood a lot of things that went on around my current vicinity due to my inability to switch things off. As a result, I have almost always been aware of when people are patronising me. I fucking hate it.)

That memory has always haunted me. For years, I’ve always wondered, if I didn’t say it, would I still have been diagnosed with autism? What if I hadn’t said anything? Would I be considered normal and not have the struggles I did? But I couldn’t have given a shit about two rotten plastic dolls playing house. Still couldn’t. Could you? But nowadays, when I think about it, I’d still have had the same struggles, only I wouldn’t be able to say why. I’d still have been tripped down stairs for being wierd. I’d still have been ostracised for saying odd and inappropriate things at the wrong times. I’d still have been laughed at in the girls changing rooms just because I was the token wierd kid, only now I can say it’s those kids’ issues with their own insecurities. Not mine.

I’m glad I have autism.

For those of you at the back?

I AM GLAD I HAVE AUTISM.

Do you know why?

My autism makes my perspective alternative. And funny. People think I’m funny and laugh at my dry jokes. I have a natural aptitude for learning and languages and I’m really rather good at spelling, so I took to writing quickly. I have an acute eye for detail and so drawing comes natural. I am an artist. I love to draw. And due to years of bullying, I know how to pick out a victim from the crowd. I know what it’s like to be pushed to the edge, and I know how to pull someone back from the edge. I’ve done it for myself so many times.

So, to all of you. Neurotypical, Autistic, Black, White, Polkodot. Abled, Disabled. I don’t care whats wrong with you, or whats right with you; If you need someone, anyone at all, to vent to, or to just know that they care. Email me. We’re all wonderful in your own way and no-one else needs to accept it.

Just you.

~Shan. x