An Unexpected Spectrum
The son is the same in a relative way: Chris gets an autism diagnosis.
Turns out I've been refracting light at a different angle this whole time.
I'm autistic. Always have been. This revelation isn't so much an illumination as it is finally understanding my own wavelength.
It explains the constant feeling of being an anthropologist on a lifelong field assignment among humans, burning through extra energy just to maintain basic social protocols. It sheds light on the anxiety that sometimes cranks up to panic mode, and my comfortable relationship with solitude (seriously, I don't get lonely). It explains those brief cameos as a grade school math prodigy, that mysterious IQ test results that were not shared with my parents (or me), and yes—those years I spent trying to chemically edit my personality. (Twenty-seven years sober now, thanks for asking.)
Suddenly there's context for why I've collected labels like “odd," “weird," “aloof," and “unexcitable" without trying. How did I slip past detection for so long? Apparently, I built some pretty sophisticated camouflage using raw processing power and a desperate desire not to be disliked. (Spoiler alert: results varied.) Recent testing confirmed my late, detection-escaping diagnosis and my Manchurian-Candidate-level deep-cover masking skills.
I don't know exactly what this means for my next chapter, but much like my atypical color vision, it's liberating to finally understand that my different way of seeing the world isn't a filter — it's my spectrum. I'm ready to embrace this fundamental part of my story—though I'm still learning the language to describe it.
Note: I'm using “high-functioning" to describe my autism for now, but I'm aware the autism community has complex feelings about this term. Consider it a placeholder while I figure out better ways to express where I sit on the spectrum.
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