Embracing Labels

I am queer. I make no secret of the fact that I am a genderbending lesbian. There is almost nothing that is feminine about me. My hair is short, I wear men’s clothes, and rugged activities appeal to me far more than domestic ones ever will. Although I prefer the term spouse, instead of wife, I don’t hide the fact that I’m married to a woman, and unless we’re traveling in an ultra conservative area, I hold her hand in public. But while I may have grown comfortable enough in my queer skin to tattoo a rainbow on my arm, I still shy away from labeling myself as autistic. There are few people in my inner circle that I have told, and if you’re following me online, then I suppose I’ve outed myself to you as well, but it’s not something I’m comfortable discussing. At work, the faculty and students all know that I’m a lesbian, but I’ve only told one other teacher that I’m probably on the spectrum, and that was only after she shared with me that she believes she might be neurodivergent. I can’t imagine any scenario in which I wouldn’t feel awkward telling the administration, my colleagues, or even the students that I’m neurologically different. Why am I bold and brazen when it comes to embracing one identity, but sheepish and borderline embarrassed when it comes to the other? I’m not really sure, but the inquiry has taken up enough of my headspace that in order to quell the constant questioning, I’ve decided to explore it here.

Perhaps the most relevant factor is time. I’ve been an out lesbian now for nearly thirty years—more than half my life. I’ve only been cued into the fact that I might be autistic for six months. When I first acknowledged to myself that I liked women—somewhere along my first journey through Asia a lifetime ago—I struggled with it. I didn’t want to be queer and when I got back to the States telling people what I'd learned about myself was difficult. Each time I opened my mouth to speak the words, “I’m a lesbian,” I felt as if I was confessing some awful truth, a grave sin that I had willfully committed. I’m sure that could easily be traced to my Conservative Catholic upbringing, but regardless of the source, affirming my sexuality was daunting. I suppose my biggest fear was that people would treat me differently, or worse, flat out hate me. It was a long lonely journey to reach the point where I am now, a process that involved small acts of defiance, but also the occasional timid step to the side, ducking back into the closet momentarily to catch my breath or regain my equilibrium. Eventually, I grew tired of the duality, and cast off the need to fit in and be accepted. I suppose part of me just stopped caring what others thought, and as a teacher I realized I didn’t do anyone any good staying silent. I’m out at work because it’s too hard to lie, too hard to pretend to be something I’m not, but also because I feel it’s important for queer and questioning students to see me, to know that I’m here and I’m not ashamed. 

In short, I’ve been out and queer long enough that I have forgotten what it might mean to pass as straight, to try to convince others that I might be more like them. However, in regards to my autism, I’m high enough functioning and skilled enough at masking that I continue to pass easily enough as being neurotypical. While I may have a few odd quirks, nothing stands out, nothing prompts others to inquire whether or not I might be on the spectrum. For now, hiding in plain sight behind that mask feels safer than removing it. I know it sounds almost hypocritical. After stating all the reasons I’m out at work, those reasons could easily be applied to being open and honest about being autistic as well. How empowering would it be for my neurodivergent students to see an autistic teacher functioning—for the most part—in the real world? And if I don’t care what others think of me regarding my sexuality, why should I care about this? I shouldn’t, and maybe someday I won’t, but for now, I’m having a hard time accepting it, embracing it, and understanding my limitations because of it. I need more time to live with it, to quietly and independently process this new me, to comprehend all the ways that I am and am not a stereotype. I need time to sort through my hangups and redefine what being autistic means.

You see, like everyone else, I had many misconceptions of what being autistic means. I lumped all autistic people into one box, and now that the box belongs to me I’ve come to realize two things. One, the box is too small. It was created out of stereotypes that society, my experiences as a teacher, and social media impressed upon me. And two, I was used to viewing them—autistic people and the stereotypes applied to them—as other, and now that other is me. Some stereotypes fit and some do not, but nearly all of them are negative. When I look through this new lens, so much that baffled me before now makes sense, but that doesn’t mean I like the me that I see. To come out as autistic, to own the identity means admitting things I’ve spent years hiding, masking, or ignoring because I didn’t like what I saw in myself. The world will view me far more critically if I discuss the severity of my meltdowns, my inability to act my age and hold down a job, the reality that I am overly sensitive to rejection and perhaps self sabotage as a result, and truth behind my failed relationships, the friendships that have imploded or dissolved because of my inability to read most social cues. If people in my life, people with whom I need to interact every day, know the truth, they will treat me differently, and since I see how cruel society can be to people on the spectrum, I’m not sure I want to put myself in that position.

At twenty-two, I came out as queer. At the time I felt old, as if I should have known sooner, but I was still young enough to shape the way in which I interacted with the world based on my queerness. At fifty-one, I am getting old, and to have this diagnosis dropped on me completely shattered my world view in so many ways. I look back at my life and feel anger and disappointment. If only I’d known sooner, if only I was more in tune with why I struggled with so many things, perhaps I could have grown into a different person. Perhaps I could have had a different relationship with the world and the people in it if I had been given the opportunity of understanding this identity and its limitations sooner. Being queer molded me and as I learned to embrace it, as I learned to stand up against discrimination, it made me stronger. Autism broke me. It was a barrier to success, an obstacle to being a good mom, a healthy spouse, and a decent friend. And at fifty-one, I feel too old to repair any of it. Discussing my autism openly feels more like emphasising my failures than anything else and who wants to be reminded—constantly—of everything they did wrong, and how things might have been better. If I don’t tell others that I am autistic, perhaps I can maintain the facade of normalcy and continue, in public at least, to present an image of someone striving to be more, to achieve lofty dreams, instead of someone who has been conquered by despair, and defeated by their continued shortcomings.

But failure aside, to identify as a lesbian, I didn’t need an official seal. I didn’t have to take a battery of tests, withstand psychological probing, and have the proper authority declare that my inklings were accurate. No one but me needed to be in touch with how I felt. Once I realized that I was attracted not to men, but to women, it was up to me to decide how to proceed. And once I started to gain comfort in coming out, no one—aside from my mother who desperately wanted to believe I was mistaken—doubted me. No one told me I was wrong. No one ran through a criteria checklist just to be sure. No one responded with, “Well everyone’s a little queer,” or “You don’t look like a lesbian.”  And no one, not one person, looked through the pages of my life and felt compelled to tell me all the ways in which I presented as being straight. My word, my acknowledgement, my lived experience was enough.

Unlike my declaration of being queer, autism requires an official diagnosis to be taken seriously. I didn’t diagnose myself. Over the years, as I worked with autistic students, or was exposed to autistic people in various situations, there were moments when I thought to myself, “Hmmm I’m like that too.” I didn’t like loud noises. Certain textures felt uncomfortable on my body. I often preferred books to people. So there were signs, but compared to others, my issues seemed so mild, I couldn’t possibly share a label with them. If my friend hadn’t gently placed the possibility before me, I’d still be clueless, and if my marriage counselor hadn’t confirmed her assessment, I’d still be going about my life wondering why I was so fuck-up. But most professionals who are licensed to officially diagnose autism work only with children. To be tested as an adult means a long waiting list and/or having to pay out of pocket. I’ve looked around. I’ve tried to find someone to diagnose me, but the insurance factor is prohibitive. Most places do not accept my insurance and I can’t afford $3000. I’m a teacher. It's not like I have a huge cash flow with lots of extra money hanging around. The one place I found that does accept my insurance has extremely rigid hours and would require me to miss four days of work. Again, as a teacher, that’s not possible. Not if I wish to keep my job. Without an official diagnosis, maybe I’m not really autistic. I don’t want to falsely represent myself. So, perhaps it’s best to say nothing, to keep this potential identity to myself. Why speak openly about being autistic if there’s a possibility the diagnosis—for me—isn’t accurate? 

Finally, I don’t want anyone’s pity or sympathy, neither will do me any good. It would depress me if acquaintances pulled away because they suddenly didn’t know how to interact with me any more, but it would also frustrate me if people now wanted to be my friend just because they felt bad for me. I’d seriously rather just sit alone—as I’ve grown accustomed to doing—with my cats and good book. Even people, friends and family, who might have the best intentions may skew their interactions with me based on this new knowledge. I’m afraid I’d stop being me, and the label—autism—would replace everything else people know, or thought they knew, about me.

So for now, at least until I become more comfortable with this new identity, I’ll keep it close and not wear it any more overtly than I have for the last fifty years. But knowing me, the time will come when I will speak openly about being autistic and what that has meant for me in all facets of my life. Once upon a time, I thought I wouldn’t be so open about being queer either. It wasn’t anyone’s business but my own, but that has obviously changed. The more comfortable I become navigating my life through this autistic lens, the more likely I’ll be to wear my autistic identity openly, perhaps I’ll even get a tattoo to commemorate the moment.