She gets me

I didn’t want to admit it right away, no one ever does, but deep down I knew she was right. We’d been friends for almost a decade and roommates for a couple years. She knew me like well loved book she read countless times. I started to open up more and more, like chapters unfolding before her. She knew before I allowed myself to know, based on observations vocal reflection and body movement alone. It’s not easy to admit you’re autistic as an adult, and it’s definitely not any easier to have someone else suggest you may be, either. It’s some weird territory you have to learn to walk in. Almost like you’re sand walking in the Dune universe, but with gravity that sucks you down and then pushes you away. She taught me how to walk through uncharted territory, to move the way I was resisting, and it never seemed out of place.

Her knowledge was maternal, even sisterly. Like an extra embrace for my inner child, letting me know that all those things I was picked on for years, decades… my whole life were a normal part of me. The way I loved the feeling of stickers on my finger tips or walking on my toes. I wasn’t an alien or anything supernatural, I was and am autistic. I always have been, and will continue to be. I began to observe myself in the way that she did, through a neurodivergent lens. In a way she became my autistic Yoda or Obi-Wan, teaching me the ways of the autism spectrum from her experience. She had been diagnosed in her late teens and became an encyclopedia of autistic knowledge. It was almost as if being autistic was one of her fixations, and she was constantly trying to understand what made us tick. Always observing and trying to unravel the threads that wove together to make each of us so unique but still sometimes look or feel or sound alike. Reminding me that sometimes autistic people can be so similar but then completely different. One of us may love the feeling of raindrops and others may loathe them. Some of us have one safe food, some of us are foodies. Some of us crave stimulation regularly, some of us avoid it entirely. Each fiber of autism could weave together and make wholly unique but related blankets allowing us to relate to each other, though we may not always fully understand each other. The more I opened up about my deepest fears as I moved towards a diagnosis, the more she did too. The complexities of being autistic, the comorbities and everything in between.

There is a unique kindness that comes with understanding someone on such a deep level, patience and love embodied. She saw a part of me that was hiding away, so afraid of being seen and judged that it forced itself to act normal. She showed me that I didn’t have to conform to be anything I wasn’t, because ultimately it was hurting me. She taught me about masking, how autistic people will mask their autistic behaviors to be “less” autistic. Some autistic people are literally trained by supposedly trusted authorities and experts to act less autistic. In the end, it can lead to something called burnout, which she taught me is a form of mental and physical exhaustion from having to suppress and conform. She helped me walk on my toes again, twirl my fingers, and dance like no one was watching when the music moved me just right. She told me that I wasn’t being “picky,” I had genuine sensory preferences that my body reacted to. Sometimes in pain or disgust. She helped me explore more foods safely, but never forcing anything on me.

I finally got my diagnosis, a few years after she first suggested it. She saw something shining in me I wasn’t ready to let glow completely yet, but the more I learn about myself and become confident in every quirk, or stim, or difference, the brighter my light becomes, and I can’t wait to be a beacon like her.

In honor of my best friend Elanor, who I felt in my bones was a kindred autistic spirit. In helping her find the path to diagnosis, I helped her open up and truly find herself.