When I was in first grade, my teacher called home to tell my parents that she thought I needed glasses. It made sense to them in hindsight, as they had seen how I watched television with my face within a foot of the screen and how I buried my nose in books when I read. I was accepted by my family as a quirky kid, though, so odd behaviors were normally attributed to that and flew under the radar.
Within a few weeks, I got my first set of glasses. The second I put them on I discovered the gift of sight, a sense that I soon realized most kids my age had had all along. It never occurred to me that they might be living a different experience than I was despite being impaired in ways that others seemed not to be. I chalked it up to a difference in intelligence, and assumed that my lack thereof was luck of the draw.
It was a similar feeling when I was diagnosed with a sensory processing disorder, landing me on the spectrum. Except this time, I wasn’t six years old -- I was eighteen. Eighteen years of trying to figure out why my classmates didn’t have to cover their ears when the fire alarm rang, why they could leave the tags on their clothes without obsessing over the scratchiness on their skin, why they were able to make eye contact with friends and teachers when I simply couldn't. It didn’t occur to me that I was lacking a sensory input filter that the neurotypical people around me had intrinsically.
There aren’t any glasses for autism, though. Even at 24, I still navigate my way through a sensory minefield in the same way I wandered through life as a kid trying to discern the fuzzy shapes and colors that I saw without my glasses. It may require more concentration and effort than for others, but it doesn’t mean that I can’t find my way. Knowing there’s a place for me on the spectrum makes me feel comfortable and secure in my need to squint a little harder and stand a little closer.
~Anonymous
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