But You Don’t Look Autistic

This piece has been named an honorable mention of Lena Dunham’s Famesick Writing Contest with Girls Write Now.

“But you don’t look autistic,” said my seventh-grade best friend. To her, I was just a normal twelve-year-old girl, just like her. I wore checkered Vans and shell necklaces, I had a strong group of friends, and I was no Sheldon Cooper or a little boy obsessed with trains. I explained to her with a shaky voice that yes, I indeed was autistic, telling a story that I had never told out loud before.

As a child, I couldn’t control my emotions. I always cried in minor situations that the other kids wouldn’t cry about. I broke a pencil? Cried. I misplaced my lunchbox? Cried. I also had two things that I despised with my whole heart: cameras and loud noises. I hated how whenever a photo was snapped, a bright light would suddenly engulf my face. I hated how whenever I was in a room with many different noises, I heard everything simultaneously. I could hear my aunts gossip about family drama whilst I heard my grandfather watching Gunsmoke in the living room and heard the loud humming of the refrigerator in the kitchen. It caused my mind to spin like a merry-go-round being pushed in two different directions, and I would cry in reaction. 

My Kindergarten teacher advised my mother to get me evaluated for autism. It was a long, expensive process full of interviews and observations, and I was oblivious to why these random people were following me to class and having me play with toys and solve mind-boggling puzzles. These remained a mystery to me for years; the psychiatrist advised my mother not to inform me of my diagnosis. My world changed drastically within a year, and I still had no clue why. I transferred schools to enter the Nest program, which is meant to help autistic kids be in a normal school environment while still getting the services they need. I would go to “group”, where the three other autistic kids in my class and I would be pulled out and learn social skills. 

 I despised group. I  hated how everyone watched us get pulled out and stared at us like zoo animals as we exited and re-entered the classroom. I hated how teachers in group would baby me and act like I couldn’t do basic functions such as saying to a friend, “How are you?” or tying my shoelaces. I hated being asked by my friends, “Why do you leave?” I hated how I didn’t know the answers to these questions; my diagnosis was still unknown to me. What I hated most was the fact that I was the only girl who went to group. I couldn’t relate to the boys whose needs differed from mine. I slowly learned that no matter whether I was in the small, windowless room for group, or the cafeteria listening to the voices of my classmates boom, I was a snowflake in summer. 

As if automatically, I would adjust myself to whichever situation I was in, copying the mannerisms of those around me. Whether it was with the neurodivergent boys in group or my neurotypical friends, I shifted into a completely different person as this felt easier than being confronted by my own oddities. I would later discover that there is a term for this with autism: masking. Masking was exhausting and anxiety-inducing, yet almost addicting as I couldn’t seem to find the strings to pull the mask off. Before I knew it, I was having panic attacks in a Target dressing room (yes, this is where I had my first panic attack) and attending therapy sessions every Wednesday after school.

All this time, I still didn’t know I was autistic. New questions occupied my already overstimulated mind: What is wrong with me? Why do I feel this way? Why do only I have to go to group and not my friends? These questions almost fully dissolved once my mom told me the truth of my diagnosis, nearly six years after my initial evaluation. At eleven, I was already the overthinker I am at eighteen, and my insecure mind spiraled. This must be a bad thing, I thought. If it was hidden from me, then it needs to be hidden from everyone else. My mask tightened.

I was always told to “be myself,” but I didn’t think my real “self” was acceptable by society. In fact, I was only just learning who my “self” was. But somehow, the internet saved me.  I saw dozens of other autistic girls displaying who their “selves” were freely on the internet. Talking about their special interests, expressing their needs, and most of all, they seemed happy. I remember seeing a video of an autistic girl going on about her love of medieval fashion, the light beaming in her eyes. I then scrolled Instagram and found a quote from my favorite musician, Kurt Cobain.

“I’d rather be hated for who I am, than loved for who I am not.”

So when I was in art class, listening to my friends and their misconceptions about autism, I grasped my Nirvana bracelet and explained who my “self” really was.

Process

My whole childhood, I was unknowingly playing the role of a “normal” girl. I was diagnosed with autism at five, but wasn’t made aware of my diagnosis until I was ten. I spent my adolescence tackling the fact that I didn’t know who I really was and that I thought that my real self should be hidden from the rest of the world just like it was hidden from me. But slowly, I began to take my mask off and discovered that there are people who will love me for me. Writing this piece healed my inner child; it was something that I wish eleven-year-old Kylie would’ve had. I hope that someone will gain solace through this piece and realize that they shouldn’t feel as though they have to curate an intricate role to play their whole life.