“Can you ever breathe without counting?”
My chin bobs up and down three times. “When I’m sleeping.”
My friend looks moderately panicky at hearing this. “That sounds exhausting.”
“I’ve been doing it for as long as I remember. It’s just normal at this point.”
“I’ve always thought autistic people avoided eye contact. I mean seriously, I would have never known you were on the spectrum.” She hurries to ask, “How did you find out?”
“Like you,” I tell her, “my parents thought I was just a little different. They never guessed I had anything diagnosable going on. But when I was fifteen, I failed math. I was never a straight A student, but I never got anything lower than a C, until then.” I inhale deeply before adding, “My teacher told my parents I was very smart, but I refused to apply myself. I knew that wasn’t the case, but I didn’t want my mom and dad to know I was stupid.”
“So, what happened?”
“My mom found a tutor who came over to the house twice a week. Four weeks in, she told my parents I was unteachable. She suggested they investigate putting me into a special education program. My mom was so mad, she fired the woman on the spot and drove me two hours away to Chicago to see a specialist.”
“Who said you were autistic.”
“Eventually,” I tell her. “It turns out there’s a lot that goes into the diagnoses. ADHD, compulsive disorders, and learning disabilities are all individual diagnoses, as well as being common in people on the spectrum.” I conclude, “It takes time to figure out exactly what they’re going to embroider on your sash.”
“Embroider on your sash?” she repeats.
“Yeah, you know, like Miss America contestants.”
Allie laughs. “You’re adorable, Finley. Seriously, I’m glad you’re not like everyone else. A world of beige makes for a boring life.”
“You’re not beige,” I tell her.
“Not usually, but I can be,” she says. “I don’t think you could ever be boring.”
My head tips to the side so that my blonde hair sits on my shoulder. After a count of three, I flip it to the other side. I don’t want my left shoulder to feel left out. I respond, “That seems like a weighted compliment, but I’ll take it.”
“Is being autistic the reason you don’t drive?” my friend wants to know.
I hate that question. As far as the world is concerned, a trained monkey in a diaper can learn to drive, so if you don’t, you must be a real idiot. “Autistic people can get drivers’ licenses,” I tell her.
“Then why don’tyouhave one?”
“I get overstimulated easily,” I confess. “Lights, pedestrians, traffic, horns. There’s a lot going on.”
“I’m surprised you played college basketball. That had to be a lot of stimulation, too.”
“I used to wear clear earplugs to help mute the noise,” I tell her. “Either the refs didn’t notice them, or they thought they were hearing aids. Either way, no one mentioned them until my junior year. After that it became an issue, and I wasn’t allowed to wear them anymore. Which led to me quitting. That buzzer, man. It’s like being stabbed in the eardrum.”
Allie laughs abruptly. “It really is.” As the girls’ high school basketball coach, she’d know. “Then there’s all the whistle blowing and yelling in the stands.”
“As bad as all of that is,” I tell her, “nothing is worse than ten pairs of court shoes screeching across the floor.”
Her grimace is one of camaraderie. “Do you have any special interests that are tied to your diagnosis?”
“Like Sam fromAtypical?” I ask, referencing yet another television show that has dipped its toe into the neurodivergent well. Not surprisingly, the only hit programs about being on the spectrum illustrate stereotypical behaviors. And while I’ve truly enjoyed both shows, neither portrays my particular brand of sparkle. I’m neither brilliant nor overtly awkward, although the latter takes some work. Most autistic people pass for normal, most of the time.
“Yeah, like Sam,” she confirms.
“I’m not obsessed with Antarctic penguins, if that’s what you mean. I do tend to hyper-focus, though. When I get into a project, hours can feel like minutes.”
“Give me an example.”
“When I was in college, I took a drawing class. The assignment was to make a sketch of an interesting nose. I started at six o’clock at night and the next thing I knew it was six in the morning, and my alarm was going off.”
