6. Charted Territories
6. Charted Territories
I was a textbook case once (cont.)
Welcome to CHAPTER SIX of #TechnicallyAutistic: Lessons from the Periphery, where I talk about how I found out I was diagnosed with autism.
Previous chapter / Next chapter
Two weeks before summer break, my parents made their final stop: a neurologist’s office in the City. Apparently, she had diagnosed me with Asperger’s. As I sat on the chair, over the thin walls, I heard my mom talking about transferring me to yet another school.
I flung open the door, sobbing. What do you mean, a different school? Why didn’t you tell me? HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME?
My parents explained to me that the special education program at the other school had more resources to help me. What they told me blurs into the conversations I had with multiple adults in my life, over the next days, weeks, and months:
Grown-up: You know how you said you’re unique and sensitive? Things that don’t bother most people might bother you.
Ten-year-old me: Yeah?
Grown-up: That’s because you have autism.
Ten-year-old me: Okay.
Grown-up: That also explains why getting along with people hasn’t been easy for you. You might have trouble understanding certain things, so it can be harder for you to make friends.
Ten-year-old me: Oh, I don’t have trouble understanding anything. I think other people have trouble understanding me, though. But that’s because the things that don’t bother other people bother me, like you said. And you’re saying that’s autism, right?
Grown-up: That’s right, kiddo.
Ten-year-old me: Okay! That makes sense!
Well, kind of. I could see how a smaller class would make it easier to decompress and talk to someone when I felt anxious. But having different assignments, taking extra time to take tests, and being in a social skills group felt well… a bit extra.
That was also when they started me on the SSRIs. I’d told my parents that they should medicate me, but my parents and I both knew that I’d meant in rhetorically, to say that I couldn’t help what I was feeling more than I could stop feeling physical pain. I didn’t know that was an actual option. Under the kitchen light, the little green pill looked too pretty. I felt a bit weird about it, like they were trying to gaslight me, but why the hell not? I didn’t notice a difference.
But switching schools? That was crossing the line.
It felt like a way for people to say that my feelings were incorrect, that knowing what I’m supposed to feel should’ve been enough for me to stop be so sensitive, and that since I was flunking, everything else also had to be dumbed down by a dozen. It felt like a scam. Why were my parents falling for this?
The thing about self-awareness is that you don’t know what you don’t know. Half of the time, I had no clue whether I was feeling anxious or hurt or frustrated! I went for dramatic language, like traumatized and depressed.
When I first saw one of those “thoughts, feelings, and behaviors” triangles, I didn’t get it. The idea, of course, is that by thinking about things a bit differently, I can make myself feel better. But I didn’t think; I just felt.
To me, there was no difference between emotional pain and physical pain: they were uncontrollable, unchangeable, and to be blamed on some external force, whether it be the whack of a volleyball or the prying gaze of a classmate. “Positive self-talk” stuck as well as a wet band-aid.
After I bid my farewells to 3N, I told my parents that I was suffering.
“We don’t want you to suffer. But you might feel differently once you start going there,” said my dad.
Tears rolled down my eyes.
My mom wrapped her arms around my shoulder.
“I know it’s hard, but think of all the good things that could happen.”
I sniffled. Why did she have to be so cheerful?
These days all I do is remind myself to be present, but there was once a time I couldn’t see beyond the here and now. As a kid, I lacked emotional permanance. It was hard for me to imagine how other people felt when I wasn’t there, and how my feelings might change over time. I must’ve known at some basic level that feelings change, and that other people had their lives as I had mine, but I couldn’t form a convincing image that stuck.
My mom looked at me. My diagnosis had given her a sense of relief, renewing her determination to keep advocating on my behalf, and for that, I’m thankful.
“Remember how Ms. Sandler said that she knew some kids who know what you’re going through?”
Mrs. Sandler was one of the school counselors Ms. Nally introduced me to. Mrs. Sandler (Sonlew, I said, since I couldn’t pronounce my R’s) spent her working hours driving back and forth between multiple schools in our small town. She also saw what Ms. Nally saw in me, that I didn’t see at the time: I was a writer. And since the new school was under the same district, I could continue working with her.
I must’ve known at some basic level that feelings change, and that other people had their lives as I had mine, but I couldn’t form a convincing image that stuck.
I don’t know if my parents had succeeded in convincing me as much as I had given up on trying to convince them. Nonetheless, I promised them that I’d give it a try.
My first challenge at the new school was navigating the attention directed at my upbringing: Where are you from? When did you move from Japan? Oh, I didn’t know you went to the other school! Wait, you’re Japanese? Park is a Korean name, right?
It took everything in me not to crawl under a desk. Mrs. Sandler suggested that perhaps, I could give a presentation at homeroom to talk about my background. And I must’ve mentioned something about me being unique and sensitive because she said it would be very helpful if I could fill my classmates in on the whole autism thing.
I was impartial to the idea. Mrs. Sandler also thought it was a good idea to link a Brainpop video on autism, which baffled me, because the subject of the presentation was me, not autism as a concept. Why not, I thought. As long as I could talk about my upbringing, and get that out of the way, I was happy.
The new school wasn’t all that bad. My parents told me that if I was still suffering at my new school, we could talk about switching back.
I never suffered in the ways I thought, though Miss Clements*, the special education teachers got on my nerve. It bothered me that she used a different Sharpie each time to annotate my assignments. It bothered me that she only let me talk about dogs and feelings in three out of ten of my sentence-writing exercises, because she said I had to learn to talk about things. It bothered me that she said “QUIET HANDS” every time she caught me scratching my would-be, never-became boobs.
My memory is selective, as most childhood memories are, but sometimes I wonder if any of it was about Sharpies or private activities or dogs—or if this was about something else.
It felt like a way for people to say that my feelings were incorrect, that knowing what I’m supposed to feel should’ve been enough for me to stop be so sensitive, and that since I was flunking, everything else also had to be dumbed down by a dozen.
The rage I felt in those moments was like the rage I felt when my parents reminded me to do my homework just as I was about to start it, but worse. Today, I mostly recognize this rage in the context of my disability: I feel it when someone underestimates my intelligence, and I also feel it when I explain something to someone, only for them to ask the exact same questions I just went above and beyond answering—even that’s not their fault.
It’s rage, but not quite anger, or at least the type of anger where I shake and sniffle and say this is not fair. It’s something more primal. Defeat. Humiliation, even.
When I told the teacher, “I feel anxious,” it was never “Are you okay?” It was “That’s inappropriate behavior. Strike one.” And “quiet hands,” really? What was I, a dog?
Admittedly, I didn’t see anything wrong with pulling down my shirt in public. To me, boobs were just another body part to put cute bras on, similar to how you wear nice rings on your fingers or cool shoes on your feet (I probably fall somewhere on the asexual spectrum, even though I find people hot in ways I cannot explain), though I wonder if that was a hill—or hills, I should say—I would’ve been willing to die on, if I didn’t have other beef with that class.
When I was in bigger classes, I never felt like arguing as much. I was too excited about the subjects I was learning. Some of the special education staff made things harder than it needed to be. But others have been nothing but wonderful, and ultimately, they were all trying to help. Despite everything, the thought of switching back never crossed my mind.
I first met Emily* at the Halloween Party the PTA had put together. I was waiting in line outside the school gymnasium to sign in. In front of me was a tall girl I’d never seen before. I was a snow fairy and she was a witch.
Despite everything, the thought of switching back never crossed my mind.
Emily said she’d moved over the winter but went to a private school for a couple of months. She reached into the goody bag they gave her, and snapped a vampire tooth in her mouth.
She motioned me to the center of the gymnasium. “Let’s dance!”
Cupid Shuffle. Macarena. Barbie Girl. It didn’t matter if I was a beat or two behind; I could follow her lead. Every once in a while, she’d take my hands and spin me — a welcome break from scrambling to keep up. At the end of the night, we gave each other a high-five.
“That was fun!” I exclaimed.
About a week later, I spotted Emily again on my back from school.
“Wait!” I whispered excitedly to my mom, handing her my lunchbox.
I made a beeline towards where Emily was, but her back was turned to mine. She was talking to another friend. I shifted from foot to foot, aiming for an angle to face her. The moment she said bye to her friend, I waved and mumbled hi, but she was now walking the other way.
I turned back, tears welling up. I yanked my mom by her arm, stuck up my nose, and stomped away.
Feelings are so weird. I didn’t actually think Emilia was purposely ignoring me. I wanted this to work out so so badly and I needed an excuse to hear that we were friends. Of course, that wasn’t a good excuse for making other people feel bad.
I asked Mr. Sandler if she could pull Emily out of the homeroom before classes started, so that I could speak to her. I had to apologize. I hope she still wanted to be my friend.
“Okay, we can do that. Do you want to do that today, or do you want to maybe give it—”
“Can we do it now?”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, let me—” she grabbed the phone, typing in the extension for 5C.
Emilia turned the knobs, flashing me a shy smile behind the door window. She asked the first question any kid would ask in a situation like this:
“Am I in trouble?”
“No, not at all,” replied Mrs. Sandler.
Emily blinked, trying to decipher what I was saying. Her wide hazel eyes never mirrored the fluoride stares I got from many of the other girls in 5C. Mrs. Sandler didn’t say much but she nodded a lot; the cautious, yet encouraging glimmer in her eyes indicated that she knew something I didn’t.
“Oh, that’s OK. Don’t worry!” Emily said at last.
“So, are we… friends?”
“Yeah!”
And damn right we were friends. We weren’t in the same class, but we looked for each other whenever classes weren’t in session. At recess, we met up next to the swing bench. We auditioned for the school play (a musical rendition of Flat Stanley, where a small underclassman clambered in a cardboard costume twice his size) together and sat next to each other.
I just stayed by her side, occasionally interrupting with little remarks (”I like your outfit” or “Are you excited for the spring musical?”) and listening to her talk to her other friends, and later asking her to elaborate on something she shared with her other friends.
That was how I learned that Emily also had a case manager and a therapist.
One day, I told her: “I also have mental problems.”
“I know. It starts with an A, right?”
“Who told you that?”
“My dad.”
My face flushed.
“I don’t mean to be offensive or anything.”
“It’s not your fault,” I said. My dad must have told your dad. It wasn’t his story to tell.
“Asaka, it’s OK. I still love you.”
When I look back at my fifth grade self, I see a kid dealing with all the same questions, fears, and doubts all the other kids my age must’ve been dealing with, but getting stuck in places where others didn’t.
Since I couldn’t hear my own thoughts, I defined my opinions by working backward, pulling cliches and platitudes from books that struck a resonant chord and letting the echoes speak for me. This resulted in an over-simplified, almost cartoonish view of how life works.
I remember the day Emily showed up in glitter eyeshadow.
“Why are you wearing makeup?” I asked. I thought she was going to say that she had a dance recital or a wedding to go to.
“Just felt like it.”
I was shocked.
“Your mom lets you wear makeup!?”
“Yeah, it helps me feel more confident.”
My smile turned upside down, and it stayed that way as I spent the rest of the day battling between two emotions: envy, that she was allowed to do what my mom said was strictly for grown-ups, and pity, that she didn’t feel good enough without makeup.
Since I couldn’t hear my own thoughts, I defined my opinions by working backward, pulling cliches and platitudes from books that struck a resonant chord and letting the echoes speak for me.
I knew that Emily already wasn’t in the best headspace. I couldn’t help but wonder if she was going to start starving herself, hooking up with guys, and getting wasted, like some of the characters I’ve read about in YA novels (with Scars to Your Beautiful playing in the background, but that song wasn’t released back then). Latching onto these familiar tropes only strengthened my belief that I was always right.
But slowly, things changed.
My therapist, Dr. Mori, was incredible. Instead of telling me what I should and shouldn’t worry about, she saw my anxiety as a sign of what had yet to be processed.
Dr. Mori didn’t just say that she understood; she showed me she understood by rephrasing what I was feeling. After listening patiently, she’d ask me some questions and come up with analogies that, without fail, made me think differently by the end of our 45-minute session.
“No one else has been able to convince me to feel better,” I remember telling her one day.
“Soon, you’ll learn to convince yourself,” she told me.
It was still hard to hear myself think, but I could at least see myself think.
Ms. Sandler encouraged me to continue what I had been doing: using the brainstorming techniques Ms. Nally had taught me to articulate my feelings. I made mind maps, numbered lists, and collages of quotes to explain how I felt, and drew speech bubbles to act out my internal conflict. Ms. Sandler made sure to always bring a pen and a paper to our weekly check-ins, and when the school district started getting iPads, she showed me how to use the Notes app.
It was still hard to hear myself think, but I could at least see myself think.
Thank you for reading CHAPTER SIX of #TechnicallyAutistic: Lessons from the Periphery. Just a friendly reminder that this blog series is a work of MEMOIR. All pertinent disclaimers apply, such as:
- My narratives reflect the cultural context of the present year (2024? No way!) and my experience of growing up in the 2010s. If the world doesn’t change and I don’t change, then I’d be damned—we’d all be. Stay curious.
- I’ve made minimal changes to some names* and identifying details for the sake of privacy. I’d rather you not stay curious about that.
- I also used fictional names* for medications because different things work for different folks and I don’t want to interfere with anyone else’s path to wellness. (Do I have to tell you that I’m not a doctor?)
- But yes, this series contains depictions of mental illness that some readers may find triggering. Please take care of yourselves.
Now that I got that out of the way, a special shout-out to the best accountability buddies in the world: Dr. Harriet Hustis, for allowing me to start this project in a life-changing summer program, Nora Neus/The Longform Lab for supporting me through completion, and the journalism faculty of TCNJ for setting me up for success.
Next chapter:
Previous chapter:
