Since I didn’t know I was autistic, I just assumed there was something wrong with me and that I deserved what I got. I learned that intrinsically, I was less than a person, since I didn’t have a framework to tell me otherwise.
Part of my imposter syndrome probably has to do with the fact that, in the ’80s, an autism diagnosis didn’t exist for kids like me: I was considered merely an academically gifted, artistic, shy little girl. My autistic traits were explained away or overlooked.
I started playing tuba at twelve, but passing for non-autistic is my longest running show. It takes more practice to fake facial expressions than make a forty-pound horn play sixteenth notes.
I am very grateful to have this new piece of information about myself. I don’t consider my diagnosis to be an answer to all my life’s problems, nor do I consider it to be a deficit. What I see it as is a new lens to see my behavior through.
