Girl, Undiagnosed

Not everyone has the luxury of identifying their disorder.

Shumskaya Tatiana

Strange. Weird. Different. You think you might be autistic, but your friends split into camps. Some describe you as “our favorite psychopath,” but others think you’re not cool enough.

You take tests, but they all ask if you’ve ever hurt an animal.

No, but that’s because you like animals way better than people. You’d probably save your cat’s life over ninety percent of humans.

Everyone wants to be unique, as long as it doesn’t come with any stigma. Even in strangeness, we still want acceptance.

Lots of us hear “different,” followed by “wrong.” Even worse, they vaguely suggest testing — but don’t give you the resources. By “they,” I mean everyone. Teachers. Counselors. Your friends. The testing never happens. Because your parents don’t want you stuck in a special ed class.

How embarrassing, to have confirmation of your weirdness.

Besides, your grades are fine. It’s not that you have trouble learning — just interacting, and following directions.

Schools don’t know how to handle that.

So you make it into adulthood, knowing that you’re “weird.” You do the best you can to pretend. Act normal. Hide in the crowd.