There are two things I hate in more than anything in the world: crying in front of my parents and making my parents cry. Both things, to put it lightly, kinda suck. Trust me, I’m an expert at this point.
I’ve been on a steady path of trying to better my mental health since ninth grade and, while it has been incredibly effective, something felt like it was missing for a long time. I couldn’t put words to it, but it felt like everyone knew how to exist and communicate properly and I just didn’t. I realized about a year and a half ago that there was a possibility that I was neurodivergent in some capacity. It wasn’t something I knew how to ask for help with, so I kept it to myself for a year.
The time I was given in quarantine forced myself to really confront my problems and essentially forced the words “I think I need to get tested for ADHD” out of my throat. I hated myself for it at first. I didn’t mention my suspicions that I might be on the spectrum because I thought I was lying to myself. I didn’t want to have to put my parents through more of my problems.
I didn’t want to see them cry again.
It didn’t shock me when my neurologist suspected I might be on the spectrum. I was excited for a moment, thinking I finally had some sort of closure, but then I had a crushing thought: does this actually change anything?
My mind reeled after realizing that despite getting the help I wanted for so long, I still was alone in a way. My friends and family are a wonderful support system, but I knew no one that went through the same thing I was going through. Seeking an autism diagnosis at 20 years old isn’t really a universal experience. Because it took me so long to actually confront my symptoms, I don’t think even the people I love entirely know how to interact with me—and I don’t blame them one bit.
I remember telling my mom as we left the neurologist after our first visit that I realized something about me wasn’t normal about a year prior, to which she replied something along the lines of “Well, normal is relative, it hardly exists.” While I entirely agree with her—a universal “normal” doesn’t exist—it still feels like there is. My mind can’t help but think that there is a normal that I’m just not a part of. This normal isn’t necessarily written in stone, but its presence is certainly clear. These so-called “normal” people know how to interact with other people naturally. They can function without question and can understand what people mean without an explanation. Normal people make eye contact. Normal people don’t have to do trial and error runs with people to learn how to interact with them. Normal people don’t lose their ability or desire to speak for any given reason. Normal people know how to do small talk and start conversations.
Again, I know normal doesn’t exist and I know that having autism isn’t a curse or anything like that. It’s just incredibly isolating to watch most of the people in my life function in situations that I can’t function “properly” in. I’ve grown to learn from other people that needing to set certain boundaries like needing to be alone for a lot of the time and needing to go entirely silent for some time are just rude things to do. Not making eye contact simply because I can’t apparently isn’t a good excuse for some people. I have to function the way other people do in order to be taken seriously.
I remember my neurologist suggesting something along the lines of slight behavioral therapy for things like improving eye contact. While the idea of something like that should appeal to me and the suggestion wasn’t in any way coming from a negative point of view, I just didn’t want to do it. Not necessarily out of my resistance to change, but more from a concern for myself. I talked about it with my current therapist, mentioning that there are some things about myself that I absolutely need to change in order to better my mental health, like setting boundaries or forming healthier habits—which I have been growing to do more of. But things like forcing myself to make eye contact with people when I physically feel like I can’t or forcing myself to speak at times where I physically cannot didn’t seem like good options at all. It would feel like I was lying to myself in a way, trying to be something I wasn’t. As much as I recognize that there is a certain “normal” that I don’t align with, I don’t want to chip away at my mental health just to force myself to align with it. I figured if I learn to set boundaries with people I can get to a place where I can feel more comfortable in functioning the way that I do.
A part of that scares me, too. What if people start to not take me seriously? What if people don’t look at me the same way over something like that?
In the end, I doubt I’m truly alone. I can’t be. I also don’t regret seeking answers anymore. I don’t think I’m wrong for the way I act and I don’t think the boundaries I need to set are bad at all.
My biggest issue is just that it gets a little lonely sometimes, you know?
