Member-only story
Autism and me
Autism and me — it’s a complex and deeply personal relationship. For the longest time, I didn’t understand why I struggled with things that seemed effortless for others. Social interactions, loud noises, crowded spaces, unpredictable situations — they all felt like insurmountable obstacles. I spent years masking, desperately trying to fit into a world that wasn’t built for people like me. The effort was exhausting, and the return felt unfairly small. It left me resentful and frustrated that I tried so hard but got so little back in return. My unique and interesting gifts and quirky personality weren’t celebrated in any meaningful way. I had such a hard time making friends, but at the time, I felt nothing for them. I didn’t understand what the big deal was. It was only when I got older that I realized how important it is to make people like you, not just for companionship, but for survival. We’re a social species — we need each other for help, support, and information.
But as a child and even into my teens, it didn’t click for me. I was always an observer, never quite understanding the hidden rules of social interaction. I used to think everyone else had some kind of secret language, something I wasn’t taught. Glenn from Oryx and Crake was one of the few characters I truly related to. Margaret Atwood subtly coded him as Aspergic, and his way of thinking, his detachment from the emotional chaos of the world, mirrored how I often felt. She even named him after Glenn Gould, an eccentric pianist who many suspect was autistic. It felt like a hidden nod to those of us who don’t quite fit the mould — people whose brilliance or creativity is there but isn’t recognized because we don’t express it in the ‘right’ way.
When I was diagnosed with autism, it didn’t solve everything, but it finally gave me answers. As someone who enjoys finding an answer to every question, it explained so much — my detachment from the rest of the world, my struggles to connect, and why I felt like I was observing life from a distance. For the longest time, I told myself I was an ubermensch, someone above the fray of typical human concerns, but in hindsight, I think it was just a way to make myself feel better about being constantly rejected. Believing I was superior was easier than confronting the pain of not fitting in.
