NEW COLUMN ALERT: A late-diagnosed neurodivergent woman and 1980s preschool dropout identifies every moment from her past that filled her with shame, and mutters, “Yep, that tracks. I see it all now.”
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If I think of Autism as Place, then I arrive late at age 41, a bit timid, uncertain of the right words to say, but certain in what I know to be true: “Hi, I’m new here. And I’ve always belonged here. And I meant to come here. I want to be here. But I have to be honest, you’ve been hard to find.”
If an official time of entry exists, a record of belonging that doesn’t hinge on my awareness, then I suppose it’s 4:25 p.m. on a Wednesday in 1983 under the direction of a Midwestern doctor who wears glasses and jokes, “She’s got a good set of lungs, Brenda, that’s for sure!” Brenda is my mom.