The problem of the unofficial ditzy diagnosis

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The all too familiar sneer that follows after I misunderstand a sarcastic comment or can’t process a string of sentences fast enough has followed me throughout my life.

I grew up knowing I was different but could never quite put my finger on why.

Throughout school, most of my teachers were kind and patient. Some, however, simply couldn’t wrap their heads around why I could read and write well but failed to understand ‘simple’ maths or ‘basic’ instructions.

I spent a lot of my childhood being shouted at or punished but never quite understanding what it was I’d done wrong. If felt so unfair.

My family have always made me feel accepted and provided me with a safe place to be myself. They only became actively concerned about my ‘differences’ when they began to hinder my education as a child.

I couldn't make sense of times tables no matter how often they were explained to me, and instructions often seemed too simplistic to follow. Where others could read between the lines, I became lost.

When I was nine, a teacher picked up on my strong aversio to numbers and I was diagnosed with dyscalculia. It’s a condition most have never heard of and I received little to no support for it.

Year after year, my confidence would wane. I internalised this low self-esteem because I couldn’t comprehend what was causing it or how to articulate it.

Life became a strange kind of game in which I never seemed to know the rules. Even when I did learn one or two, they would often change without warning:

Secondary school was a shock. Going from the small and familiar classrooms I knew as a child to sharing a school with hundreds of loud, unpredictable teenagers took its toll on me.

The building itself was huge and I would frequently get lost, showing up late to lessons. I would often be humiliated by teachers in front of the class because of this and so, at times, would skip crucial lessons altogether.

I managed to make a group of friends who I would sit with at lunch and sometimes go shopping with at weekends. But no matter how hard I tried to fit in with them, I couldn’t keep up with the trends or TV shows they followed. Our friendship lacked depth and meaning.

I became the perfect target for bullies. People began picking me apart over minor imperfections just to watch me panic and become distressed.

My supportive family had been trying to get answers since I was five or six, but with no success.

Then one day, like magic, I found the answer. I’d become curious about a particular word that was mentioned in my Social Studies class, so searched for it on Google.

I read the symptoms and recognised myself in every one of them.

Feeling that I’d never be free of negative judgment, I attempted to take my own life several years ago.

Thankfully I had a change of heart and shouted for help, and I was given medical intervention, and have never attempted it again.

When I reveal to people that I’m disabled, I’m either met with polite understanding or the head tilt and high-pitched voice of someone speaking to a small child.

I’ve noticed that people often look for physical signs of disability and, when they can’t see any, they find it hard to fathom that any disability even exists. It’s much easier for people to think of me as clumsy than to understand the complexities of my disabilities.

Receiving my diagnosis put me on a path toward self-love and acceptance that I wouldn’t have been able to access otherwise.

Now, at 25, I have just finished my degree, am surrounded by great friends, family and a supportive boyfriend, and instead of fearing the future, I welcome it with open arms.

If you think you or someone close to you could be autistic, seek help and know that you don’t have to face it alone – I spent too long doing that.