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[diary-of-an-aspie]

First Steps As Me

So here I am. It's me. I am twenty-two years old, I am a woman, and I am autistic. I finally received an official diagnosis three months ago, after two years of difficult, painful, and at times lonely research and self-doubt, and overall identity crisis.

Covid really fucked us all, it seems. I spent a year and a half locked up in my room, with zero social interaction - save for my family - and reemerged so socially crippled I barely recognized myself. The smallest things became unbearable when they used to be simply challenging. The idea of being seen was paralyzing.

It took so long to be heard. I knew and dreaded and hoped that 'autism' was the right word to summarize everything that had ever felt a little out of place or entirely wrong with me. It had to be because there had to be an explanation and this one fit just a little too well. But I was twenty years old, then I was twenty-one, and I was a woman, and I was successful in school. I was quiet, I was rule-abiding, and I was invisible. I was never a problem for anyone, never difficult to manage or requiring extra attention.

But I was also angry. I am angry. I am in pain. I ached - I still ache - for a word, a reason, to explain why I struggle so much all the time. Why is it so difficult to exist, to be seen, and to speak, and to take up space when everyone else seems to do it without struggle or even a second thought? Why can't I do it too, when it's all I ever long for?

I have Asperger syndrome. Here's the reason. Here's the word that sums it all up. And it sucks.

I feel trapped. I wanted the explanation, needed it, and now I hate it, because there is no cure. All there is, is work and acceptance, and adaptation. Never pure, simple, easy healing. There is no solution that will grant me the life that I want. I have spent the last three months reading about others, people like me, who have found ways to cope. A social life is possible, but only if your circle is limited and you allow yourself plenty of time to recuperate afterward. Interactions are tiring, after all. You can live with your quirks and your obsessions and your limitations, as long as you allow yourself the time and effort to work with them.

I don't want to rest after hanging out with a single friend. I don't want to avoid stepping on grass. I don't want to always park in the same spot because I know that I won't get in trouble if I stick to what I know. I want to sleep and breathe without noise-canceling headphones. I want to stop picking at my face until it bleeds and hurts and scars, until all I see in the mirror is the missing skin and the angry red marks that have replaced it. I want to think of something else than my current obsession, I want to be casual about my interests and be able to talk about them without sounding crazy.

I am twenty-two years old, I am autistic, and I hate it. And I feel so guilty about it. I hate the limits it imposes on me, and I hate that I might never accept myself as I am because of it. I fear, with all my heart, that I will never stop fighting against the barriers in my brain that keep me so far away from the world. I am not like other people. I will never be like other people. And I have never wanted anything else more.

I hate my diagnosis. I hate that I haven't known about it until now, that I was bullied and hated myself, and that I suffered because of it when it wasn't my fault. I hate it all, and I am so sorry that I do. I hoped the answer would heal me. But all I feel now is that I will never heal. I will never be different than what I am today, and I can't breathe. I can't do it. I am sorry that I can't be optimistic and cheerful and thankful for my diagnosis. I am sorry that I have never felt so hopeless.