Every once in awhile I take an online test that tells me I’m borderline autistic. Actually, my numbers put me in the overlap zone between autistic and anxious-but-masking-it-pretty-well.
My therapist seemed to think I was joking when I brought it up last Thursday. To be fair, she didn’t flat-out tell me I was being ridiculous, but I got a sense from her body language that she was gearing up for an eye roll and then holding it right on the edge.
“You know that autism is a spectrum of behaviors, right?” she asked. Sure, I knew that. Then she started telling me that she often sees teenagers who start talking about their anxiety and labeling themselves as Anxious People because they’re teens and they love labels, they make a diagnosis part of their identity.
“So, why do you need to label yourself?” she asked.
I don’t know why I want a label, because it would be something I could look up in a book that would explain me to myself, and explain my oddness to everyone else? It would let me be part of the club? Because I self-diagnosed after following too many neurodivergent meme accounts online? Because I want to quit pretending that it’s easy for me to function like a normal adult?
Sometimes I get overwhelmed and I don’t want anyone to look at me or talk to me, because I’m tired of looking back and talking to and acting like I think a woman like me is supposed to. Maybe it’s just garden-variety introversion, to want to hide or drive away or just sit in a quiet room while my system resets. Maybe it’s all the parenting and moving and grieving through three years of pandemic.
Honestly, I don’t know what autism looks like, even though I can imagine I know what it feels like. I have met people who are what I’d call classically inward-facing autistic, and I’ve also met funny, outgoing people who are like, “Sorry I suddenly blurted out that I love you, I’m autistic*!”
There seems to be a lot of space under the autism umbrella, is what I’m saying, and the complex and wonderful people beneath it are working toward a life of self-acceptance that I can only dream of. That’s all I want: to love myself as I am. Maybe a label would help?
*This from a woman I met in Salt Lake City recently, who was the perfect example of the type of filterlessness I adore. About ten of us were sitting around the hotel bar recovering from a five-hour-long memorial service. Our heads ached from crying and no one had eaten dinner and we were emotionally exhausted, and this adorable woman started talking about how much she loves dick. I’m not sure I can express how happy I was that she was there.
Here’s a link for all the Baking Show fans who need a little something while we wait: Depression Meals Week