What it means to be diagnosed Autistic.

I keep my inbox clean as a matter of principle, but I leave the email containing my diagnosis letter in my inbox as a reminder that I am, in fact, Autistic. That email is now a little over a month old and ironically ends with, “Best of luck.” I knew it’s a common post-diagnosis experience to be whisked out the door and offered half-hearted reassurances like “good luck,” but I didn’t expect my own experience to be quite so literal.

We certainly have a long way to go in regard to post-diagnosis support and resources, but receiving my diagnosis has nonetheless been one of the most impactful events in my life. I’m still processing what it means—and I expect I’ll continue to do so years into the future—but for the first time in a very, very long time I finally feel like I’m making some real headway toward a brighter future.

In the time since my diagnosis, I’ve been asked by friends, family, and the doctor who diagnosed me various questions like: What does this mean for you? What does this do for you? What now? I suppose these are reasonable inquiries, especially if one doesn’t understand Autism especially well in the first place. However, I haven’t had a good answer to those questions. It takes me a while to process my emotions and discern what I’m even feeling in the first place (something called Alexithymia). I was confused: I felt relieved, but sad; excited, but terrified; sometimes I felt nothing at all.

Now, I feel like I have a pretty good answer: To be diagnosed Autistic is to be told that I’m valid. That I make sense. That it’s okay to struggle sometimes.

When one experiences sensory and social difficulties no one else seems to; when one feels so alien to everyone else and no one understands them, the natural conclusion is there must be something wrong with them: You’re too sensitive. You’re too awkward. You’re too annoying. You’re too-

No, I’m just Autistic. Yes, I struggle with things other people don’t, but I excel in areas other people don’t, too. I’m very detail-oriented. I notice all sorts of things others never do, which makes me an excellent proof-reader. My intense interests allow me to view video games as something much greater than “children’s entertainment;” instead, as an ever-developing art form that offers experiences that simply cannot be replicated through any other medium. My unique perspective and communication style allows me to form deep connections with animals in a way that many people just can’t. And while I have experienced a lot of pain and discomfort due to being chronically misunderstood, those experiences allow me to better understand and empathize with other people similar to me.

It turns out, the traits I had been despising and trying to pave-over my whole life were actually my best assets. I just needed to be told they made sense; that I wasn’t broken.

I want to shout, “I’m Autistic!” from the rooftops. I want to drone on-and-on and lecture about all I’ve learned about Autism and how it relates to me and explains why I am the way that I am. I want to be so visibly Autistic that no one would be surprised to learn that I am as such.

And yet…I won’t do those things. I won’t declare I’m Autistic to every person I meet, and I’ll try to refrain from lecturing about it. I’ll continue to mask, because, unfortunately it really is necessary in a lot of situations.

Maybe my workplace would react well to learning I’m Autistic. But maybe it wouldn’t. Is it worth the risk? Probably not.

This is perhaps the most frustrating thing about diagnosis: once one has it, it’s clear one has support needs, but getting accommodations for those needs is difficult and poses a lot of risks by merely inquiring about them.

One day, perhaps we will live in a world where neurodivergence is freely accepted, stimming isn’t stigmatized, and neither are meltdowns or shutdowns. A world where sensory rooms are standard and no one will feel the need to be Secretly Autistic™.

Until that day, I’ll do what I can: I’ll stim a little more freely than before. While I’m certainly not comfortable stimming in public like I do in private, I’ve realized I can get away with a little more than I initially thought. Hopefully the sight of my ever-wiggly self will help others like me feel more comfortable to be themselves, in turn.

I’ll try to be more proactive in stating my needs. If I need information to be restated or presented differently, I’ll do so. If I need to leave a social gathering for a bit to recuperate, I’ll do so. And I’ll try not to beat myself up for doing those things.

To those that I feel safe enough with, I’ll disclose being Autistic. I don’t want to hide this pivotal thing about myself. And through that disclosure, it allows the use of certain vocabulary to better express what I’m experiencing, so that hopefully we can start to finally understand each other.

And if they don’t react favorably to that disclosure? Well, it’s painful, but I’ll probably be happier without them in my life.

Life is still going to be hard. I know that. Unfortunately, diagnosis doesn’t magically solve all one’s problems. I’m still me. I’m going to continue to struggle with sensory sensitivities, socializing is always going to be demanding and frequently intimidating, and I’m still going to have shutdowns. But I no longer have to carry the burden of feeling like I’m broken for experiencing those things.

I’m just Autistic. And that’s okay.