“We should’ve known. We should’ve known.” I mumbled while shaking my head, as Mom and I walked back to the Xterra after spending nearly four hours in an office in downtown Seattle, talking with one of the best autism evaluation psychiatrists in the world. 

I walked into that colorful doctor’s office still in denial about the theory that I’ve always been on the autism spectrum. After all, throughout my life I’ve seen numerous therapists ever since I was four years old. None of them ever mentioned the possibility that I may be autistic, including those who had decades of experience working with all sorts of people. At least, not until I started seeing a different therapist shortly after my eighteenth birthday, who within just a few sessions, mentioned she was certain I was autistic. 

At the time, I scoffed at the idea, as I believed autism diagnoses was given to those who had something very obviously wrong with them. But, I buckled down and did some research and remained open-minded about possibly being on the spectrum. The more I learned about the autism spectrum and about myself in therapy, the more I realized that I could very well be on the spectrum. Still, I remained stubbornly in denial. Logically, I knew (and know) that being autistic isn’t anything bad. It’s still called a disorder, but it’s really not. At least, not in the traditional sense. Autism is just a different way of viewing the world, and it’s difficult for people with Autism to navigate the world, as the world’s built around people who do not have Autism, AKA, neurotypicals. 

But, my appointment with the Seattle autism doctor dispelled all of my doubts about being on the spectrum, especially when my mom began to reveal information about my early childhood that I don’t think she really thought about until we were seated in front of the doctor who asked very specific questions about how I was as a child, from the time I was a newborn up until the present day. I walked outside into the chill, windy air after that appointment absolutely certain that I’ve always been on the spectrum. Even the doctor told us, “There is no doubt you’re an aspie!” (An aspie is someone with Asperger’s syndrome, which is now called Autism Spectrum Disorder, or ASD for short). 

Holy shit, looking back, it’s so damn obvious that I was on the spectrum even when I was very, very little. I had all the classic symptoms: hyper-fixations on very niche subjects such as light fixtures and lizards, a strong aversion to touch and loud noises (especially sudden noises and shrill noises), repetitive behaviors such as rubbing my hands together and cracking my knuckles (which I still do), and lining up my little toy animals and/or taking apart and putting together the same Lego set for hours and hours, being socially distant and even somewhat fearing other people and kids my age, struggling to make eye contact and pick up on social cues, and much more. 

To be fair, my parents were putting all of their energy and then some into keeping me alive. So, I don’t think they really made sure to keep track of my typical milestones. Instead, they were focused on getting me off the ventilator and out of the hospital, and keeping me at home as long as possible. Then, when that didn’t work, they somehow managed to get me to come home while still on life support. My parents literally had to take shifts at night to watch me sleep for the first several months of my life, making sure I didn’t struggle to breathe or stop breathing altogether. There were many moments when I did start to hyperventilate or something else went horribly wrong, resulting in my parents having to call an ambulance. 

Whenever they brought me out of the house or the hospital, I hung out in a harness on my parents’ chests, while they carried a backpack containing all of the medical equipment keeping me alive. They had to deal with nosy people wondering what was wrong with me, some of whom shamed my poor, young parents for keeping me alive when I was clearly suffering too much and should’ve been aborted (yes, people are really that shitty). My parents could never really relax, and were really at their wit’s end. Thankfully, they had friends and family to turn to for help. But, no amount of love and support from friends and family could calm my parents’ very real fears about how I could be fine one minute and literally stop breathing or have a cardiac arrest and die the next, without any warning whatsoever. 

Needless to say, I’m not at all shocked that it took my mom a few minutes to recall what my first words were, or when I took my first steps, both of which are things that are usually very memorable, while we talked to the doctor at the autism center. Even when I called my dad after my autism evaluation, he could barely remember what my first words were or what it was like to watch me take my first steps. My parents, family, and close family friends (who are more or less family) who’ve known me my whole life, were all too focused on keeping me alive, that they just missed so many of my typical (and atypical) milestones. 

Even when CF and Pulmonary Atresia failed to kill me, and I grew up into a toddler, then a preschooler, then an elementary student, my parents weren’t as concerned about my quirks as some people believe they should’ve. For instance, in preschool I always played alone and I went out of my way to get as far away from the other kids as possible. Whenever the teachers had us kids sit in a circle for whatever reason, I couldn’t face anyone. I sat with my back to the students and the teachers, and usually appeared to be distracted. Yet, whenever I was called on to give an answer, I responded immediately with the correct answer. And, I always had a little toy animal with me that I usually brought from home, which I did up until second or third grade. At first, the teachers were a little annoyed by that, but my parents just told them it was normal and even if I seemed distracted, I wasn’t. 

When I stopped taking little toy animals to school, I spent my days doodling, which really irritated my teachers throughout the years. Very few teachers catered to my doodling, especially when I reached middle and high school where I was expected to be more “mature” than that. No matter what my parents said about my doodling, the teachers didn’t care. Many teachers thought that since my parents weren’t in the classroom, they had no right to say that I wasn’t distracted whenever I doodled in class, completely ignoring the fact that I was a doodler at home too, and used doodling at home to concentrate just like I did at school. 

Of course, as I grew up I could mask my autism a little better, but I could never mask it fully. It was very clear throughout my entire life as a student that I learned very differently than usual. I’m still not over how many of my teachers and peers treated me. I can admit that in retrospect, some incidents are kind of funny now, such as the time my eighth grade math teacher grilled me for being able to do senior-level math on the online state test (which took me twenty minutes to complete when we had almost two hours to complete it) when I “didn’t understand” math in his class and was on the brink of flunking it. Back then, I didn’t know what to say to that. But, today I know that callous sumbitch graded me based on how I got my answers, rather than the answers themselves (which were almost always correct), and I've come up with a million snarky responses to my teacher's rant. 

It wasn’t until the middle of eleventh grade after I almost died due to a combination of Pseudomonas, mold, and the flu, and ended up in Homebound where Eric became my teacher, that I finally was credited for getting the right answers rather than being scolded for not doing the math the “right” way, whatever the hell that means. I’m still pissed that I had to literally almost fucking die in order to get the help in school I’ve so desperately needed my whole life. Even then, my mom had to go full-on Karen to get me that help, which even she was reluctant to do because she was afraid I’d miss out on the crucial social aspects of high school if I finished it online like I did.

But, I joined the writer’s group and still had to leave the house everyday to attend school for an hour a day at the library, which seemed to put my mom at ease for the most part. Still, she wasn’t too happy with me when I declared I’d never go to Tuesday or Wednesday night (I can’t remember which day it was at the moment) bible study, because I was still recovering from Pseudomonas that spring and summer and coughed up a mortifying amount of mucus on my arm in front of everyone in the church. 

That, and sometime that summer after school, I turned onto my street when I noticed some big, burly construction dudes were working on something in the house, but my mom wasn’t there. So, I waited for another forty minutes in the summer heat for my mom to come home because I was more afraid of coming off as rude or awkward to the guys working on our house than I was of passing out of heat stroke. Yeah, my mom wasn’t very impressed. 

Of course, all of this and more happened long before anyone ever even mentioned that I may be autistic. Most people seemed to agree that I was just traumatized and needed to heal from that, and once I healed from the past (or more accurately, got thrown to the wolves over and over again until I figured out how to properly socialize with people and stifle my anxiety) I’d be normal. If only I’d been tested for autism way sooner. If only someone had pointed out that I may be on the spectrum sooner. Looking back, my autism has always been ridiculously obvious. Yet, for some reason, not even the most experienced psychologists we met ever suspected it. 

But, I guess I just can’t dwell on the past. I cannot cry over spilled milk. The past is the past. What is done is done. As badly as I often wish I could, I don’t have a badass 1980’s Delorean that can go back in time, so I can find and tell my young parents about what their future with me held. I just have to be thankful that I found out about my autism while there’s still time to do something about it. In my case, this will help ensure that my college years will be way smoother than I thought they would be.