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After A Lifetime Of Guilt, Here's Why I'm Finally Embracing Autistic Joy
I’ve always had a love-hate relationship with Autism Acceptance Month. On the one hand, on a purely objective level, raising awareness of autism should never really be a bad thing.
There are so many misconceptions out there — from our alleged obsessions with trains to supposedly savant mathematic abilities — that having 30 days a year dedicated to amplifying autistic voices and allowing us to set the record straight is, if nothing else, a start.
But every year, as the end of April rolls around, I’m left feeling hollow. Like an imposter. No, this isn’t because I’m faking autism (though a PIP assessor once accused me of such because I smiled at her), but because, as much as it embarrasses me to admit it, I’m still not 100% there with my own autism acceptance.
When you’re open about autism on social media, you find yourself posited as an authority on the subject. Maybe you wanted this at the time; perhaps you didn’t. But it will happen regardless, whether you like it or not.
In many ways, ‘going public’ about being autistic was crucial in my personal journey of radical acceptance. I thought that if I immortalised the ways being autistic affected me in tweets or articles, then I had no choice but to acknowledge it as part of me.
But a handful of neat paragraphs, and the placid praise and validation that follow an openness like this never tend to tell the full story.
I would talk and write until the cows came home about how we need to be more accommodating of autistic minds, but the moment autistic traits bubbled over into my own day-to-day life, it was an entirely different story.
If my bluntness accidentally offended someone; if I had to go home early from an event due to overstimulation, or if I ended up making a mistake at work due to miscommunications, feeling overwhelmed by changes, or both, I’d be my own harshest critic.
By now, I think we all broadly know how autistic people ‘mask’ their natural state of being to survive conversations. We manufacture eye contact, mirror peoples’ body language, and add intonation into our voice which just doesn’t come naturally to us.
But even around those who know I’m autistic, the ‘unmasked’ version of me they think they’re getting is still a mask in and of itself.
Sure, you might allow your filter to be a bit looser and feel just that little less pressured to force a smile, but you’re still trying to conform to a version of autism that’s palatable to neurotypicals.
I can deliver the quirky one-liners, and maybe be a little blunter towards people than I normally would, but I’m still conscious, every second of the day, to keep the autism traits palatable and neurotypical friendly.
In its own way, having an outrageous autistic friend who says the mean things you’d never dare to can be funny. Charming, even. An autistic friend that bursts into tears because of a loud motorbike, on the other hand? Not so much. The trouble is, I am both of these autistic friends — but I’m a lot more reluctant about being the latter.
It’s why when the more inconvenient parts of autism confront me in public — like having a meltdown in front of colleagues at work, or feeling my ability to form words slip away from me as I go non-verbal — I feel like the Emperor with his invisible clothes, completely vulnerable and exposed.
I feel the urge to hide myself away as I repeatedly text friends, loved ones, or really anyone who will listen about just how desperately I wished my brain wasn’t ‘like this.’ But in the process of admitting that, there’s also the tidal wave of guilt that, contrary to my online persona and general day-to-day personality, I’m actually not a ‘good’ autistic person after all.
I’m a fake advocate, a performative activist, and worst of all a giant phony who doesn’t deserve accommodations, understanding, or a even a voice because somewhere deep inside me, I still yearn to be neurotypical.
Charlotte Colombo
Of all the ableism I’ve encountered as an autistic person, that’s nothing compared to the internalised ableism I turn towards myself. Being diagnosed relatively early as a child means I have no reason to complain: I was privileged and should’ve had a much easier time than other autistic women, but I was so terrified of classmates clocking on to the idea that I was ‘different,’ I would turn down each and every offer of help and pastoral support, no matter how desperately I might’ve needed it.
The very idea of using a stim toy or ear defenders at that age felt ludicrous to me, as I felt that for all intents and purposes, I might as well have just carried a neon sign with me at all times reading “SHE’S WEIRD. DO NOT BE FRIENDS WITH HER.”
But something clicked in me this year. Maybe it’s the fact that I don’t write about autism as much anymore; feel less obligated to be a spokesperson for the Autism Experience™, or by entering my mid-twenties this year, finally developed enough of a frontal lobe to stop letting ten-year-old Charlotte’s insecurities run my life.
I accepted the fact I was autistic a long time ago — for better and for worse — but the difference in me this year is that I’m going to start being unapologetic about it.
We spend so much time preoccupied with neurotypical people accepting us, that we continually fail and neglect to accept our own autistic selves first and foremost. This means that I’ll strive to be kinder to myself.
I’ll take the bad days of overstimulation as they come, and instead of punishing my brain for being the way it is, try to nurture it to help it get back to its healthiest self. I’ll unmask more. Maybe use stim toys in public.
And at 25 years old, I’ll finally use some damn ear defenders.
