Inside of my brain there is a mushroom, a slug, and a moon made of cheese
A slow blossoming of acknowledgement that yes, my brain is different, and no, the problem is not me
Update from the Author: I talk in this piece about autism not being a word I use, or a diagnosis I am interested in pursuing. Despite my assertion when I wrote this, the opportunity to have my neurodiversity assessed professionally was much more easily available to me than I had anticipated. As such I have since been diagnosed with Autism, and am navigating my new identity as an Autistic person. While in this piece I speak about my neurodivergence with a broad brush, please keep in mind that while I did not know it at the time, I was speaking very much of an autistic experience of my life.
I received a question in a question box not long ago that asked - “have you ever considered you’re autistic.” I sent it to Arlene to check if she too, had quietly been wondering whether I was autistic and had not told me (she hadn’t “your brain is very strange though,” she offered, and gently suggested I might like to explore this further). I pondered over whether I would answer or ignore the question and then decided I would. My answer: no, not really, I just accept that my brain works differently to other people’s but don’t have language to describe it… but perhaps that’s my own internalised and yet unpacked ableism?
