Lists of “common Autism traits” online are popular because they’re reductive and sharable-but not everyone who relates to them is Autistic. Autistic traits are human traits-turned up to 100 million thousand billion. Despite being someone who internalized/hid a lot of my shit, some stuff was (and continues to be) very noticeable.
This post is also mixed in with debunking these lists that seek to undermine what I see called “stereotyped” autism. I really dislike the aspect of the late-dx dialogue that claims these defining features aren’t legitimate because it’s based on outdated information.
Yes and No.
The outdated part is the narrow scope to whom autism was applied-not the actual criteria. If you self identified against the DSM 5 (TR), those ‘stereotypical’ traits are the lynchpin you based your realization upon-so don’t be quick to call them out for being wrong. The range of presentation and time manifestation is what has evolved in the literature, study and consciousness of diagnosticians. When people with strong platforms start denouncing criteria that literally diagnosed them, lateral ableism is set in motion and furthers the marginalization of the most vulnerable of the community.
I understand the grief and rage of being missed. But that doesn’t give us the right to re-imagine the DSM according only to our presentations. It’s never going to be perfect, but it is being addressed:
Fig.1 Criteria C in the DSM 5
Ok. Onto my list:
Odd-Gait/Posture
To this day I can’t get out of my parents what exactly my posture issues were that made me see a podiatrist at 3 years old and chiropractors at 5. It’s a mush of them not keeping records and it being over 30 years ago. These gait-related issues went on to affect me everyday of my life, giving many years of chronic pain with common flares of debilitation from neck spasms to seized backs. I’ve no idea if my leg length discrepancy and aching joints at 10 years old are related to some motor issues. There’s not enough research.
Fig.2 Section of my 1989 Psychometric report where there was were several key aspects found in ASD to be present, but not identified as such. My Assessor deemed this report “a snapshot in time” and was the only medical document I found to provide them context to my developmental history.
Buying shoes has always been a nightmare the way I wear them out. I need an Ortho-something fucking substantial after years of pain and aggravation but don’t have the money and doubt I ever will given the state of my life.
Fig 3. Help.
I have been diagnosed with everything from Sacro-Illiac Joint Dysfunction to Anterior Pelvic tilt to little relief. Since my ASD dx, I wonder if I have hEDS, but it is worse finding a specialist in that than Autism. I’m too tired and broke to find a geneticist, so it’s a bunch of crossing my fingers that whatever is going on with my hips and feet will not fuck me over into old age too badly.
Being fictional characters (Restricted Interests)
When I was younger I fell deeply for fictional characters, notably Anne of Green Gables and Jughead, from the original Archie comics. Fandom is not exclusive to Autism, but perseverance on characters to the exclusion of all else along with rest of the criteria for a diagnosis is indicative.
Fig 3 I longed for some guy to annoy me. Lucky for me, there have been many.
I became Anne for Halloween of course but on regular days would put freckles on my face, braid my unruly hair that could never sit flat like hers. I was so unbelievably in love with the character that I really thought it was possible to become them. I was so happy when the family went to PEI for vacation. I felt like I was home. I watched the tv show over and over and over, studying every interaction and line of dialogue. I deeply desired my own Diana-type best friend and a boy in love with me that I was constantly mad at. I got a Green Gables cookbook which had the “Raspberry Cordial” in it and was delighted to pretend I was drunk. I would dress like her, recite her lines, got as much memorabilia as I could, painted my clothes with her image and read all of Lucy Maud Montgomery’s work on Anne and her legacy. I know my parents feel guilt about a lot in regards to raising me undiagnosed. But one thing they never did was shame me for how absorbed I was in these things. They helped me bring my imagination to life and I was so, so happy.
Fig 4. He’s literally me
Jughead was aloof and cool. I admired him. He side-stepped interpersonal drama by never dating, becoming the wise council for all characters who desperately sought validation through others. His routine of strawberry milkshakes at Pop’s was soothing to me, it was all I ever drank when ordering for myself. I went so far as to mimic his dress, creating an S shirt so I could be him. A short, squatty kid I longed for his body type. I never felt like a girl anyway. I tried skateboarding in his honour but gave up fast because my body couldn’t catch on. With over 700 Archie comics in my collection, the ways to re-arrange and categorize was endless and Jughead was always first priority. I was so intensely in love with him, I needed to track his characters’ development from inception and sought out all special editions, catalogues and histories of Archie they put out. This intensity is what shot me through the heart one day when I was with some guy and he asked what I was a ‘connoisseur’ of. I said Archie comics and he replied, “Archie, eh. I would have thought Jughead.” In my head, that is knowing me deeply.
Which leads right into the next one:
Obsessions (Restricted Interests)
My obsessions/obsessive nature was and is pretty obvious. When in regards to something socially acceptable-like Jiu Jitsu or Drawing-it doesn’t seem off. But my obsessions with individual people-regular and celebrity-have caused concern. I was always mocked or commented on about my fascinations and abruptly told I needed to tone it down, never understanding how my interest in particular people looked like to others. I have a long list of people I have been obsessed with. Friends, celebrities, teachers. I also think because I have a hard time knowing my emotions, I can develop romantic feelings and am unaware, as everything for me is initially experienced as anxiety. This happened as recent as the past 5 years. Two people irl who eventually I came to realized I like liked, I talked about incessantly with a friend, who complained that that was all I wanted to discuss. It made me feel really small and embarrassed because they felt it was too much. So I did my best to stop—talking about it to them, that is. Because my mental perseverance doesn’t stop when people bring it to my attention. It just goes inward. When I was younger, I would be insulted and embarrassed about it. Now, the pattern of being told “it’s [a conversation, friendship] not all about you”, is tiring, along with how my perseverance is mistaken for narcissism.
Language Delay
While it’s true I hit developmental milestones for speech landmarks, it was never about the timing of my speech, but the sound of it.
When I was quite young I had a speech impediment. A slushy sounding, lateral lisp where anything with “eech” (peach, speech, bleach) at the end was super wet but crunchy at the same time. It didn’t mean anything to anyone and there was nothing to do about it. I guess because it didn’t get in the way of schooling or gave other people trouble, it was just left to dissipate, regarded as a cute blip in my speech.
In conjunction with this, I had difficulty pronouncing certain words. Most notably was saying my favourite cousin’s name. If it was ‘Jordan’, I would pronounce it:
On the inside I felt real frustration with placing letters into words on my tongue. I kept adding and rearranging them with zero inhibition to mentally calculate then physically form the correct usage with my mouth.
When my psychologist inquired on any developmental issues, I was reminded of this. Under the impression lisps were normal, I took to the internet to see if I was right. And that’s when I found I was wrong.
Let me put it in big, large, readable letters so everyone knows:“A lateral lisp, however, is never considered developmentally appropriate”
Playtime (Repetitive Behaviour)
I played with my neighbours growing up who I consider family everyday. As my mom put it: “you played normally!” This is the part where you need to pause and really examine your own assumptions. Rationalization is denial’s sister. So many things about me were labeled ‘unique’, ‘inventive’, ‘intelligent’,‘a world of her own’. All of which were textbook examples of repetitive and restrictive play behaviours.
Then there is ‘secret’ play no one witnessed. One long standing game with myself was tumbling a matchbook in public bathrooms over and over again. Another game was counting Volvo cars on the road. This one was noticed.
The most annoying question I am asked by friends and family right now is, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Why would I?
In what world would I be so self aware that I’d know I played differently enough to mention it. Until I’m 38 I guess. Why is the ownness of literally everything about me on me. From daily bullshit to fucking therapy that claims I hold the key to my own happiness. Maybe if you were educated in Neurodevelopmental disability, I could have saved 7 years of circle jerk therapy. I’m sick, tired and done.
Sometimes when visiting friends, I would take a book off their shelf, start reading and get complaints I wasn’t participating. Not just when I was a kid, I did this as a teen too. I didn’t mind friends being in the room with me as I read, but it seemed to bother them opened a book. I didn’t piece together that it was weird to go play or hang out, then just sit in quiet doing a solitary activity. TV is so normalized for that but somehow books create an invisible wall. So I made an effort not to do that anymore, when I was reminded.
I know people who are really into examining their masking would jump all over this as an example. But honestly at this point, I don’t care. Was I bothered? Yeah a little, I think I felt like I was doing something wrong but Jesus Christ did I have bigger problems than being accused of reading. The hook is that I didn’t know that’s not what people did or expected you to do; not that I consciously chose not to do it. This lack of cognizance over social bids, cues or situations only exacerbated with age, my masking efforts deteriorating the more complicated it got.
I used my play objects differently than they were intended as well. Like, spinning the wheels of a toy truck rather than playing traffic, driving or crash with them. I once took a counting block set with felt pieces and turned it into bread and butter. I enjoyed the sensory experience of making cookie dough over the product. I loved putting things in sequences and organizing, pretending I was teaching something. I really hated when playing board games and other kids wanted to make up their own rules-the rules were already written to follow!
Fig.5 Well, wasn’t I a well organized cutie
I grew very attached to inanimate objects like rocks and sticks, had a massive meltdown when my snowman melted. I needed to know the in and outs of all grasses, plants and nature I saw, usually picking them apart into pieces. Enjoying my Mom’s garden mulch paths that were cool and crunchy on my feet is one of my most cherished memories.
Looking Back is not Romantic
I think the most intense thing about all this is how it was buried in me for so long. For what reason would I have to store all these memories and experiences? When I say they were locked away, I mean it. It has been a brutal process of both conscious recollecting and uninvited flashbacks that has brought the fullness of who I am to the surface. There is no Therapy that could have strong armed and mindfully coaxed this shit out of me. It has to be…injurious. It had to be a rupture. It took me months to compile evidence of behaviour because that Rationalization? I did it as well. All these things that were at one time interesting, turned against me as the rigidity, repetition, and restrictions costs me friends, belonging, income, jobs, relationships and ultimately how to navigate as an independent adult.
But at least I no longer hate myself for it.