“There are other people like me! I’m not defective. I’m not randomly weird. I’m an Aspie. One of many.”
In response, I wrote in the margins of my copy: “And this is an incredibly powerful statement, telling shame to fuck off.” (I’ve noticed that as I’ve found ways to manage the anxiety, my expletive usage has increased considerably. Part of me still feels apologetic; the rest is strangely amused.)
It’s been nearly two years since I began this process: exploring the possibility that I might be on the spectrum, not ready to call myself “Autistic” (wondering if I fit anywhere) and lingering on passages from Rudy Simone’s books and later the writings of autistic bloggers. Last summer, I wrote a series of poems exploring Autistic identity; I called them my proud poems, after Laura Hershey’s “You Get Proud By Practicing.”
These are your bits of narrative. Claim them. Embrace them. Feel them out. This is not a rejection of the self you knew — this is a renaming, an honoring.
Not weird — othered or strange — different perhaps, quirky — autistic in a way you haven’t all the way acknowledged. Every word but that one. Yes, this is a thing.
Last night at open mike, I read these words aloud. I spent the evening moving my Tangle back and forth between my fingers. Perhaps I was trying to lessen my nerves about reading in front of a crowd. It’s like Fight Club, I said to the friend siting beside me; if I attend open mike, I have to read. I realized sitting in my seat, that I would be calling myself Autistic, claiming that identity for myself in front of a crowd that size. “What if I’m wrong?” I thought. “Remind me why I’m outing myself in a public setting.”
Because this is the night of #shediditanyway, I told myself. When women share their stories with one another, maybe from the professional distance of 3rd person, but these are our narratives. You want to be part of that experience, even though you’re scared.
So I shared two proud poems, amongst the shaking of my legs and the audience before me. I’d already witnessed the tears and snaps that accompanied the other women’s poetry. They clapped. I walked back to my seat; the night continued. A friend from school hugged me afterward, telling me she loved “She Did it Anyway,” a poem that began as a shaming. In retelling that experience of shame, I wanted to find another story.
I’ve attended womyn’s writing circle these last two years as well. I started attending this group the same semester I started the PhD program, the same semester I acknowledged to myself, “I think I might be autistic.” I love the carefully worded nature of Kim’s title — how it reflected my experience of exploring my own identity. I think… I might be… It’s harder to form the words that follow because I could be wrong. And that’s still terrifying.
I’ve written so many versions of this narrative — why no one noticed my autistic traits as a child or even adolescent, then young adult (until they did), how I successfully completed undergrad, and where I made friends. Questions remain about what happens to Autistic adults like me — seemingly unicorns, whose therapists ask, “You mean Asperger’s, right,” even though it had been a year since ASD encompassed the entire spectrum.
We become incredible self-advocates — keepers of our own stories — because we have to — to be ourselves; to find a measure of self-understanding. As we learn to believe ourselves. Of course this is a thing, she replied.
My Autistic experience is a series of narratives — reframed, retold, and sometimes rewritten entirely. And the first page will state, in a voice that is growing louder, “She did it anyway.”