Sadly, no one has actually made me a Congrats on the Autism cake and so I have been forced to mock up my own (badly) in Canva.
Long before I identified as an autistic woman, I identified as the mother of an autistic girl. It was often commented on how close my daughter and I were. In fact her early years were spent her clinging to me and me clinging to her just as eagerly. At that time, I had no idea my daughter was autistic (or indeed that I might be). All I knew was that she was intensely shy, sensitive and strong willed. A carbon copy of me. I felt an overwhelming need to protect her and advocate for her. And so, we were often judged. Her for being stubborn and moody. Me for "indulging" her - that word still makes me rage.
At some point during lock down, we decided to try and get her a formal diagnosis. School had always been a deeply uncomfortable environment for her and somehow lock down and not going to school had triggered an enormous anxiousness in her. I couldn't tell you when we had starting to realise she might be autistic. I don't think it was consciously recognised before the age of ten.
My awareness of my own autism is even foggier. It might have been the process of recognising it in my daughter that triggered my own inklings. It very often is for parents of autistic children. It certainly wasn't something I would have even considered prior to my thirties. I just thought I was odd, highly sensitive, introverted and deeply unlikeable.
My autism diagnosis has hit much much harder than my ADHD diagnosis did and I'll be honest, I'm not quite sure why. Being told there is a very real cause of the issues you have faced in life does little to lessen the sting from the things that hurt you most in the past. But, like my daughter, I'm pretty fierce and strong willed, so I refuse to let this diagnosis define the rest of my life. I haven't gotten much further than that. The formal diagnosis came through yesterday and the report today, so it's early days.
Looking forward the goal has to be to stop thinking of myself as deeply unlikeable. I am odd. I am highly sensitive. And I am intensely introverted. None of these are bad characteristics. I am me. I must do as I tell my daughters (each a different flavour of neurospicy): Rizz em with the Tism. You are perfect, precisely as you are.
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