I am hoping to share some insight into my own life with autism and possibly help prevent some of the early tragedies in my childhood from happening to other children on the spectrum. I also want to share up front that I don’t understand all the rules of political correctness and will possibly offend some who have a great concern for how things are worded. For example, I may refer to myself as an autistic child rather than the way some prefer of saying a child on the spectrum. It feels very awkward to try to be politically correct. I can, however, spell pretty good. So I most likely won’t offend those with a penchant for correct spelling.
I was not diagnosed with ASD (high functioning) until I was 66 years old (2015). I was one of those for whom the puzzle piece representing autism actually fit. I had been a life long puzzle to my family, teachers and doctors. Something was wrong, yet they always looked in the wrong direction. I was obviously an intelligent child, but why did my speech not develop normally? And why was I such a weird little kid?
I was born in 1949, about the same era as Temple Grandin, but to a farm family in northern Alberta, Canada. There was no diagnosis to fit me as a child, although they tried to find one. I was hospitalized on numerous occasions for “observation” and sent to a neurologist for evaluation. The doctors and neurologists were able to rule out a lot of possibilities but never made a positive diagnosis. I was a puzzle! Finally, in 2015, my family doctor referred me to a neuropsychologist to evaluate a tic disorder and extreme light sensitivity. I went through a whole long day of interviews and tests including a QEEG and 5 hours of cognitive testing. The diagnosis was autism spectrum disorder. I have also been diagnosed with PTSD as a result of seventeen years of child abuse. As an adult I have told a lot of my story through art and poetry, which I am going to share through this blog.