Embarking on the journey of life with autism, some brave souls suspect they’re walking along the spectrum but opt out of the full diagnosis minuet. Respect to their choice, but decoding a symphony of a lifetime’s worth of “What just happened?” and guilt-laden tap dancing is, without a doubt, at least in my case, very much worth it.
Let’s set the stage. Picture a vivacious Brazilian household, a modest 70 square meters echoing with the cacophony of family life. Dad, the patriarch, transforms the entrance hall into his personal concert venue, belting out tunes from the car radio. Meanwhile, sister orchestrates her own TV drama, setting the volume to an ear-splitting crescendo. Mum, a culinary conductor with a touch of hyperactivity, arranges pots and pans in the kitchen’s symphonic cupboard, all the while calling out our names like a culinary maestro in search of harmony.
And then there’s me, the protagonist in this family drama. Seeking refuge in the confines of my bedroom, a haven from the sensory carnival transpiring outside. Yet, the door swings open, and the inquisition begins. “Why the silence? Stirring up trouble, perhaps?” they speculate. Cue the grand crescendo of misunderstood feelings, a virtuoso performance of sensory overload.
The adults, ignorant of my inner turmoil, prescribe a cure: Embrace your inner child, they say. Play with the neighbourhood kids, they suggest, or face a future devoid of companionship. And so, I become a social chameleon, adept at fitting into the mosaic of social norms. Masking emotions becomes an art, a survival skill perfected by years of missteps and societal misunderstandings.
Fast forward to my current age, and the struggle persists. Relatives and friends become unknowing invaders of my sanctuary, disrupting the delicate equilibrium I’ve crafted over the years. Why can’t they take a leisurely stroll? What’s with the relentless questioning during my moments of focus? The pacing around when all I seek is solitude to find myself? Why can’t they let me be the soloist in my own concert of thoughts?
The questions echo within my overwhelmed brain. But fear not, for after a solo retreat, a period of self-imposed isolation, the mental fog gradually lifts. I return to “myself,” the core of my being, though not without a lingering guilt for not mastering the intricate steps of the social dance.
Yet, besides this complex choreography, there’s a silver lining – an understanding that these struggles are not merely personal failings but part of a condition beyond my control. The realization dawns like a spotlight on a dimly lit stage. It’s the jazz hands of comfort, a reassurance that I’m not alone in this unique tango with the spectrum.The journey of self-discovery is an ongoing narrative, a script written in the language of neurodiversity. It’s about finding solace in the pauses, embracing the unexpected improvisations, and revelling in the uniqueness of my own rhythm. As the curtains rise on each new day, I navigate the intricate steps of this dance, sometimes stumbling, often finding grace, but always moving forward.