Four years ago, after another long battle with my arch enemy, Pseudomonas, I weighed 112 pounds at best. For my height at the time (five foot three inches), I was alarmingly underweight. 

But, four years later, I now weigh a whopping 142 pounds and stand somewhere between five foot five and five foot six. Most of that weight lies in my muscles, giving me authentic muscle tone for the first time in my life. Words cannot express how glorious it feels to be so heavy, so strong, so amazingly healthy. So remarkably normal, for the very first time in my life thus far. 

I have seemingly boundless strength and energy, which I use to hike for miles up and over foothills and hogbacks, down into canyons and valleys, across wide open prairies, through creeks and rivers, along mucky banks of ponds and reservoirs. The energy and stamina Trikafta has given to me are astounding, to put it very lightly. I’ve said it once and I’ll say it a billion times more; Trikafta is a miracle unlike any other I have experienced yet. 

However, I still get tired. Maybe not while I’m out in the wilderness working out my heart and lungs until I feel nauseous and woozy (which usually doesn't happen until a few miles of nonstop moving). Maybe not while I’m at home doing housework or hanging out with just a few close friends and loved ones at a time. Maybe not when I’m out driving on quiet roads or riding horses or looking after the animals at the shelter. But, my energy still gets sucked out of me at times, particularly when I’m around lots of other people. 

It's the kind of tired that makes me feel fifty pounds heavier, slows down my movements and thinking, and makes my eyes bloodshot and itchy. It's the kind of tired that sleep alone can't fix; it takes me a couple days of solitude and rest to fully recover after being in a classroom full of students for five hours a week. It's the kind of tired that pisses me off and makes me wish I was "normal", as well as terrifies me and makes me question if I can ever really function in the real world. 

Cystic Fibrosis is no longer my biggest hurdle health-wise. Rather, being autistic is. Not that being on the spectrum is inherently bad or wrong. It isn’t. In fact, like professors Tony Attwood and Temple Grandin, or Amazon and Google (which both specifically look for autistic people to work for them), or naturalist Chris Packham, or even my current therapist who specializes in helping autistic women, I think being autistic is largely advantageous and a very beautiful gift. 

But, like all things, it has its cons. Specifically speaking, I have to work extra, extra hard to act “normal” around lots of “normal” people. In other words, I have to hide my autistic traits to make it through almost any social situation. And that just drains the life out of me. 

Apparently, I’ve always been pretty damn good at “masking” my autism. I mean, up until late last year (2020), psychiatrists and psychologists alike, many of whom with decades of experience and prestigious degrees, said I was just anxious as a result of past experiences and current struggles. With time, therapy, and effort, my anxious, introverted ways would disappear almost completely, and I’d grow into a healthy, “normal” adult. Of course, this meant pretty much everyone in my life saw me as a fixer-upper, for lack of a better term, including my parents and grandparents. While everyone had their hearts in the right place, oftentimes what they put me through to make me “normaler” did much more harm than good. 

For instance, my mom would thrust me into massive social events and sleepovers with little or no support, and would expect me to go up to random people and strike up a conversation. Obviously, being a clueless middle schooler at the time, my attempts to make friends and not come across as an awkward, stuttering mess rarely went all that well. My mom, not quite sure what to do or say to me, would glare at me for being “embarrassing” and “offensive”, without giving me an explanation as to why. Unbeknownst to her, I had no idea what I was doing wrong. I was just doing my best to mimic what other people said and did, in hopes of passing my mom’s tests and not coming across as a rude, stuttering, shaking little girl. 

Eventually, after years and years of trial and error, I managed to figure out just enough social norms to hold a decent, albeit slow and awkward small-talk conversation, as well as order my own food in a very nervous, stuttery way. But, beyond that, I was pretty much hopeless. 

It would take me many months of interacting (or, more accurately, observing from a safe distance) with one person to feel comfortable and confident enough around them. Even then, if my mom was around, she’d always find something to scrutinize. Again, she meant no harm, but her constant nitpicking really put a dent in my already shitty self-confidence. Especially, since she would rarely specify what I did or didn’t do right. 

However, since my official diagnosis last year, things have begun to change for the better. 

My mom has become much less nitpicky. Well, for the most part. She has her moments, but don’t we all? My extroverted family members, both close and distant, have stopped trying to turn me into a social butterfly, and stopped taking so much offense to my quiet, inquisitive, and often blunt nature. In return, I’m starting to learn how to better interact with “normal” people in ways that don’t completely exhaust me or force me to suppress my autistic traits, while also accommodating "normal" people traits (such as, going to a friend's birthday party even if I think it's very uncomfortable, and allowing people to hug me without stiffening up). But, that’ll take years, if not a lifetime, to figure out.