When I started this blog in the fall of 2016, I was going through a significant transition in my life – I’d just found out I was Autistic at the age of 29 after spending most of my life oblivious to this fact.
I was a different person back then.
Pre-diagnosis, I’d struggled to find compassion for myself.
I saw myself as unworthy of compassion because I believed I was broken and flawed.
I hoped to be “worthy of love” one day (when I fixed all my problems and imperfections). Until that happened, I viewed myself with scorn and disgust.
Desperate to become worthy of my own love, I kept chiseling away at each “flaw,” trying to become an impossible, out-of-reach ideal (neuro-normative version) of perfection.
When I had this overly critical eye, every aspect of myself appeared to be a flaw, even characteristics I now consider strengths. Because I saw myself as “trash,” all of my pieces were also garbage, leaving no room for love and compassion.
Back then, I treated myself poorly and accepted poor treatment from others because I believed I deserved to be mistreated.
It was a vicious cycle resulting from years of exposure to society’s neuro-exclusionary hearties, behaviorism, and abuse.
Parts of myself that “drew the wrong kind of attention” were filed away, hidden in shame… parts that had no names (before my Autism diagnosis).
Post-diagnosis, something in me started to shift.
I went through a rollercoaster ride of emotions, cycling between all of the stages of grief in the early days of trying to accept that I was, in fact, Autistic.
At 29, the diagnosis was a lot to swallow, and while my new label, “Autism,” helped my life make a lot more sense, part of me had a difficult time accepting this truth.
In the early days, I was in a state of bargaining and denial, trying to learn as much information about Autism as possible, looking for any evidence I’d been misdiagnosed. However, the more I learned and the further I dug, trying to disprove my diagnosis, the more I realized the label I’d been given was, in fact, correct, and I was (and always have been) Autistic.
It was a relief when I finally accepted “my Autism,” but I also felt a lot of frustration in the early days.
Early on, once I finally was able to embrace the fact that I really was Autistic, the next emotion I felt was anger.
Waves of anger.
I used to be much angrier than I am now.
I was angry about all the pain and wasted years that I’d spent not knowing.
I was angry at myself, angry at my guardians, and angry at the world-just angry about everything that had happened to me over the years because either I (or someone else) had assumed I was NeuroAverage.
Looking back at all I’d been through and all I was still going through back then (not knowing my true self and living life like a robot mimicking “appropriate” human behavior, hollow and empty inside), with the eyes I have now, it is easy to see why I was so angry.
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