Welcome to CHAPTER SEVEN of #TechnicallyAutistic: Lessons from the Periphery, where I talk about how I grew an interest in writing.
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People often ask me what I learned from my special education journey. The kid described in those early psychological reports sounds nothing like the Asaka everyone knows now, and most importantly, the person I see myself to be. What gives? I’d say that one of my biggest takeaways is that everything is relative. It’s a realization that can be comforting but also unsettling, and as I grew older, I've seen both sides. I lived it.
In hindsight, my need for orderliness wasn’t all that unusual. So many people want things to look just right or to follow a set of rules. Just look at Instagram: you have digital marketing managers churning out those sleek Canva posts, influencers sharing perfectly curated GRWMs, and people spending a fortune hopping from one wellness program after another. Back then, small annoyances—whether it be my dog’s training setback or ugly Sharpie mark-ups—felt like massive crises because I didn’t have bigger things to think about. As life became more stimulating, my microcosms became mere specks in my universe.
By the time I was in sixth grade, my worries changed from the minutiae of life to the typical puberty stuff: whether my bad haircut would grow out before the musical, the butterflies I felt around certain friends (hint: I can like girls), and my mom’s insistence that I was too young to shave my legs. For a while, I even lost interest in the dog I’d once pleaded with my parents for (Pumpkin forgives me), and more interested in going to the mall with my friends. Really, I was just a girl.
As life became more stimulating, my microcosms became mere specks in my universe.
My school district was the worst possible place to try to reinvent myself. Like I said, I spent one year at one public elementary school before being moved to the other public elementary school. Kids from both elementary schools ended up at the same middle-high school. My schools were small, something I only realized when I started talking to people in college. I basically spent my entire childhood surrounded by the same 100 or so people.
When I started sixth grade, I thought that the group of preppy girls would get it. Many of them were nice. The others? Not so much. They brushed me off and said “What?” in a rude tone of voice.
But they all struck me as… mature? Or I don’t know, the type who wouldn’t furrow their brows in confusion if I told them that I wanted to try underwire bras, or that I was proud that a boy had asked me out, even though I didn’t actually like him back. They had the cutest clothes. I felt like some of the other kids that my special education teachers set me up with, wouldn’t get it. I just needed to show them that I was also growing.
But there was one problem: I was late to the game.
The group talked about Dance Moms, The Walking Dead, and Teen Beach. They also joked about Miley Cyrus twerking and played Dumb Ways to Die. I found myself at a bit of a disadvantage since I had no cable TV at home and strict rules about inappropriate Google searches.
They also devoured books like The Hunger Games and Twilight. Serieses overwhelmed me because I didn’t know where to start. Fantasy novels confused me; I couldn’t keep track of all the names and places. Realistic fiction was more interesting anyway. I liked reading about everyday, semi-ordinary kids (Or talking dogs. I still had a soft spot for talking dogs. I was actually able to get into the Survivors series when it was relatively new).
I thought that these were things I could overcome by acting cool. But no amount of shrieking “Oh my gosh!” and talking a mile per hour (think: Trisha Paytas speed reading) was going to hype them up the same way they would, if I asked them how their day was going and went, Ugh, I know right? No amount of swaying my hips and flipping my hair wasn’t going to distract from the awkwardness of me approaching a group mid-conversation with: “Hey, do you want to hang out?”
Eventually, I settled with a group that I occasionally hung out with in elementary school. One of them was Hannah. Hannah wasn’t one for long conversations. This girl ran on catchphrases (I love you! Awesome sauce! Fluffy!), pranks, and Candy Crush. Basically, if Party City was a person. She had chaotic energy before that was a trendy thing to say.
But one time, she told me: “Asaka, you’re acting fresh.”
“What does that mean?” I asked. I knew it was figurative, but wasn’t sure what. Probably sassy.
“It means that you’re trying to act cool. You know, like Becky*,” she said, referencing the meanest girl in the grade.
I basically spent my entire childhood surrounded by the same 100 or so people.
There was a difference between impressing and connecting, and I didn’t yet know how to connect. And once you make enough people uncomfortable that you earn the reputation of being “the kid with problems”, it only gets harder. People treat you differently from everyone else, and all your efforts is directed towards breaking through that initial wall before you learn about actual friendship.
By then, I was used to people treating me differently. The popular kids bolted up to me and said “Hi Asaka!” even though they never did it to everyone in class. I was happy they were taking to me, and I don’t think there’s anything ever wrong with making an effort to say hi to people who aren’t in your in-group. But something was missing from these interactions. Onomatopoeias occupied the space where people typically shared things about themselves.
Them: Asaka, what are you listening to?
Me: Sweeter Than Fiction by Taylor Swift
Them: YEAH? Do you like Taylor Swift?
Me: Yeah.
Them: [Looks to friends] AWW
Like before, it was the mostly adults who upset me. Mostly special ed people. Some of the older staff tended to be too lovey-dovey, saying “sweetie” and “good job” every five seconds, while possibly holding back a small sigh or two, but that wasn’t nearly as bad at the younger staff, who behaved like robots.
My new case manager, Jen*, loved giving me the same dead-end clarification about what was and wasn’t appropriate: It’s not appropriate to worry about that. It’s not appropriate to discuss that. It’s not appropriate to focus on that (for some reason, they all loved the word “focus on”).
One day during recess, my classmate shared a story about how her teacher in third grade shamed her for having a messy backpack. She said that the teacher took out her backpack, dumped everything on her desk, and counted all the old worksheets she should’ve thrown away, right in front of the whole class.
That made me feel sick. When I went outside for recess, I still felt sick. And when I went to my next class, I still felt sick.
“This shouldn’t affect you. It’s none of your business,” said Jen. “You need to respect boundaries. It’s like personal space.”
Weekly counseling with Jen felt like bait and switch: I shared my deepest struggles (for a sixth grader, of course) hoping to get help, only to be given the most obvious and insulting answer. I stopped showing up to appointments.
“It’s not appropriate to tell your teacher how to do their job,” she told me, when I dropped off a letter, telling her why I didn’t want to talk.
“I can really feel you want to help me. I appreciate that very much. However, sometimes I feel frustrated and offended after sessions with you. I'm tired of bottling my feelings up,” I wrote.
I felt like she didn’t care about my feelings. When I got my period two months after starting sixth grade, I felt embarrassed about changing my pad. Most girls didn't start it and I felt like a freak, since I was puny. I asked Jen if I can use the faculty restoroom and she said no.
“I don't like the ‘It's a matter of discipline' approach,’" I remember writing.
"I never said that," she said. I knew she didn’t. I was talking about her tone, not the fact that she said no.
"I feel like you're not being open to what I'm saying, even though I'm trying to be open to what you're saying," she said.
But I couldn’t shake off the feeling that many people weren’t actually listening. Sometimes, it felt like they were just observing me with a notepad and a walkie-talkie, recording my “behavior.”
I turned on my parents’ desktop, opened Microsoft Word, and started writing down everything I wish people who claimed to help me knew. As time went on, my lists, numbers, and tables turned into full paragraphs. When I showed to one of my English teachers, Mrs. Schwartz, she loved it. The other English teachers loved it, too. They volunteered to help me revise my pieces after school and their faith in me is the reason I’m here now. I’m derermined to write for that little girl that noticed so much but couldn’t find the words.
Around the same time, I started seeing Judy. I liked Dr. Mori but lately, I’d been stopping myself mid-sentence, asking if I could explain it in English instead. And her English was good—she was the one who taught me what “validation” was before “valid” made its way into mainstream vernacular—but sometimes it felt like she didn’t quite get me, I don’t know.
Before my first session with Judy, I typed up an introductory letter. I listed some invalidating comments I wanted her to avoid, and referred to it as “my boundaries.”
Mrs. Schwartz said maybe not use the word boundaries because “it might raise… some red flags.” I got rid of it but added it back before I printed it to bring to my session at 5PM. I used that word because I was still thinking about Jen and I’d realized she was the one being intrusive by suggesting I did something wrong in order to feel the way I did.
Thankfully, Judy didn’t take out the porcelain doll in the glass cabinet next to the door and ask me where my old therapist touched me. She did, however, ask:
“It’s OK if I said you were wrong, right? Sorry for my language, but sometimes you need people to call bullshit.”
“Yeah, of course! That’s OK,” I said. I already felt relieved.
“What I don’t like is people looking down on me. Talking to me like I’m stupid,” I elaborated.
She shook her head in compassion.
“It almost sounds like they’re telling you who to be, instead of letting you be your own person. We’ll work together, kiddo.”
Hannah frequently invited me to her place to watch movies. We tried Hunger Games and I had no idea what was going on. We did Pitch Perfect, which was much better though I missed some things. It was obvious to me that Beca was worried about fitting in at Barden University, but not that her dad was a professor and that he had begged her to come for one year. And when the limo broke down on the way to the tournament, I didn’t realize that Amy never actually got around to putting gas in the tank until she did. I just thought it was interesting that she called herself Fat Amy. “So twig bitches like you don’t do it behind my back,” she explained.
I wanted to perform "Cups," but no matter how many times Hannah tried to help me, I just couldn’t get it right. I’ve always liked singing, but no one ever saw me break out into songs. Unless I was in the privacy of my room, I always felt like needed permission to sing. Honestly, I think I’m still like that.
I joined the theatre club. I enjoyed the singing, acting, and the festivities. I also loved introducing myself to upperclassmen because they didn’t know who I was. They were older and undeniably cooler, showcasing the allure of teenage life, and trying to make a fresh impression on them felt like an exciting adventure. It was intoxicating. By the end of the year, I was crushing on half the cast.
When practice ended early, Hannah took videos of us goofing around. I found it hilarious and at the end of the year, I went on iMovie to try to make a compilation of “funny moments” like the ones I’d seen on YouTube.
Watching myself on video made me feel weird. My demeanor was dull, with shoulders that curved inward and an unchanging groggy look from day to night, but when I smiled big, I smiled BIG. I had all the dimples in the world, and my eyes, according to my mom, were beautiful like crescent moons.
But sometimes, I couldn’t help but get a bit annoyed by my own smile; I could be frolicking in the sun in sheer bliss, or laughing in secondhand embarrassment about an offensive remark and it would be the same goofy grin (Some of it, I’m sure, is cultural; the Japanese smile a lot in general).
What frustrates me the most was the distinctive, muffled quality of my voice. It always sounded like something was stuck in the roof of my mouth. I said “word” instead of “world,” “phio” instead of “feel,” and tried to incite reverse McCarthyism to my humdrum suburban town by saying someone’s parents are “witch” not “rich.”
My mom said it was probably because I had an accent and that I had braces. But I knew other people with braces and accents, and no one sounded like that. Well, except for some of the kids at school that I went to speech therapy with.
The school’s "speech therapy" sessions didn’t do squat for my pronunciation. We spent our time reading picture books about resolving conflicts and taking turns saying things like, “I’m sorry that…” “Thank you for…” and “I feel… when you…” At first, I didn't mind, because it meant that I was pulled out of math class every Wednesday, and there was no point in me going to math class. It made no difference because in order for me to retain anything, I had to sit next to the teacher, and have them demonstrate step-by-step. Missing math was fine but lately, the speech therapist has been getting on my nerves.
I relayed this to Judy.
“I know someone who might be able to help you. Her name is Lisa,” said Judy.
I looked at the business card she handed me.
“So, you’re saying she can help with my voice? Not just, like social skills?”
“Yes! That’s what she’s here for!”
Lisa told me that growing up, she used to have a lisp. “I’d say, ‘Hi, my name is Litha,’” emphasizing the th. “I couldn’t say my own name right!”
Lisa slipped on a glove, pulled out a popsicle stick and positioned it across my mouth.
“Don't use your teeth. Just hold it there.”
Within a second, my lips started to tremble, causing the popsicle stick to slip and scrape off a layer of hot pink Baby Lips as it fell onto the desk. Lisa explained to me that I had low muscle tone, which meant that my muscles were unusually weak.
By then, I tossed my sequined Old Navy tees, pigtails, and denim skirts for Hollister hoodies, a shag haircut, and high-waisted jegging (the shag made me cry nonstop for a whole day because I looked like a Beatles member and not the cool #Hipster girl I found on Pinterest). Despite everything, I still felt like a little kid because of the way my society treated me.
When I was researching for my book, I learned that there was a word for it: infantilization.
I also learned that people can discriminate against people with disabilities the same way they have discriminated against women and people of different races (and continues to, but like many of us, I wasn’t taught about current events in middle school). The first time I heard the word ableism was in a book called Respect: A Girl's Guide to Getting Respect & Dealing When Your Line Is Crossed by Courtney Macavinta and Andrea Vander Pluym, which I picked up because I felt unheard, though I wasn’t really thinking about it in terms of disability at the time.
When I googled “autism” and “ableism,” I stumbled across Autistic Hoya, a blog run by disability rights activist Lydia X.Z Brown. Shortly after, I discovered #ActuallyAutistic, a hashtag used on social media (at that time, mostly on Tumblr) by autistic people to share firsthand experiences.
So you’re telling me I wasn’t imagining all the weird and kinda rude interactions I had with people? And you’re telling me that it wasn’t my fault? I felt relieved, and hopeful. The stigma against autism, like any other form of prejudice, is something we can— and should—overcome as a society.
Up until that point, I’d only ever heard the word autistic in a negative context. The kids who said that someone had autism said so with an uncomfortably deferential nod; the kids who said that someone was autistic scoffed and sneered, making no effort to hide their disdain. I knew that I had a speech impediment, and some other things I couldn’t put a finger to yet but filled my head with shame, disgust, and stereotypical images.
Through the practice of writing every day, I developed a strong inner voice that could hold its own — and so much more. If my head was a backpack, where my thoughts competed for space and threatening to spill out at the wrong time, then my manuscript was a flat surface where I could unpack everything, with enough space to hold two truths at once and mend what was broken.
I’d originally intended to publish the book on Thanksgiving, and when that didn’t work, it turned into winter break to spring break to graduation. It felt like watching a play where the "I want" song played on repeat, with no sign of the powerful ballad where the protagonist reveals important truths about herself. I was at the edge of my seat.
If my head was a backpack, where my thoughts competed for space and threatening to spill out at the wrong time, then my manuscript was a flat surface where I could unpack everything, with enough space to hold two truths at once and mend what was broken.
In the last month of eighth grade, I was nowhere near done with my manuscript. But I was already thinking about the cover art. I knew this one girl in class who was into photography and had all the fancy cameras. I told her I had autism and that I was writing a book about it.
“I couldn’t tell,” she said.
“Really? I’m surprised, because I know some people say that they can and other people say that they can’t,” I said.
She froze for a spilt second. Then, she told me: “Asaka, everyone at school knows that you have autism.” These were her exact words.
That was when I knew that I had one of two choices: tell my story, or let the world tell it.
By the time the graduation rehearsals started, I was white-knuckling. I started having nightmares about losing my flash drive, and about people hacking my computer. I stopped hanging out with other kids, and spent recess at the library, typing away at my computer. I believed that if I wasn't ready to publish my book, I wasn't ready to face high school, either.
The growing June sunlight gave life a dreamlike, surreal glare. It felt like I was reaching for something that I could never catch, and holding onto something that didn't belong to me. I was in suspense; in my head, out of body, and firmly on hold.
Three days after graduating, life got a bit too surreal. I was on a family trip to Japan for the first time after my grandpa passed, and when I arrived at the airport, I was greeted by the aromatic smell of seaweed, the warm voice of the airport announcements, and the vivid, colorful displays. It’s too good to be true.
How can I prove that my parents are real? Or my friends? Or anyone, really?
I can't.
I could feel the color drain from my face as the foundation of everything I cared about crumbled; a T-bone collision of fear and grief. I wanted to scream, the same way Jim Preston from the movie Passengers did when he realized he woke up 90 years early from his hibernation on his way to a planet 120 years away.
My parents shot panicked glances at each other as I writhed on the hotel floor, hitting my head and screaming I CAN'T STOP! I CAN'T STOP! My head was pounding with questions that no one could answer — Why am I here? Why is it now? Why am I me?
And that’s the thing about dissociation: it takes meaning and holds it hostage. I was surrounded by a haze, and in my stupor, the only thing that I could see was the sheer absurdity of my existence.
I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep. I felt dizzy.
As the hospital carried away the stretcher, I made a promise to myself: I’m not going to write the book. I'm going to take it one day at a time. For a moment, a feeling of calm washed over me.
Then, it started again.
Thank you for reading CHAPTER SEVEN 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.
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