I Am Not Special: A Neurodivergent Perspective
Article By: Tariana Trosin / Graphic By: Kylie Huerta-Rojas
I am on the autism spectrum, but I am not special. I was diagnosed with high-functioning autism at age nine; now I am sixteen. Here is my story.
At age nine, I sat outside my general psychiatrist's office door, which was elaborately decorated with autism awareness puzzle piece stickers and cable television characters from Nickelodeon. That wasn’t enough to deter the daunting feelings I had about the diagnosis. The autism diagnosis process for people on the spectrum is a long and arduous one that took me about a year, so I was keen to know, yet incredibly nervous at the same time. I distinctly remember my parents coming out of the room. It hit me that I had autism –high functioning autism– meaning I could function in a way that a neurotypical person could to a certain degree – to be specific. Overwhelming emotions like confusion and fear clouded my mind, and all I could hear was my heart ferociously pounding. I incessantly pondered what my life would look like, what would change, and what people would think. While adults didn’t characterize autism as a disease or plague like children typically do, deep down inside, that was what it felt like. That mentality had been ingrained in my brain, that anything other than the neurotypical point of view, or what was considered “normal”, should be paralleled with illness, because it wasn’t considered “normal”. This was a very harmful mentality. Essentially, I felt alone.
It was seventh grade when I first was called “special”. The whole class laughed at me because one kid took into account my hyperfixation on the history of anesthetics and recalled that I was on the spectrum, and I had mistakenly interpreted it as a sign of inclusion. I thought they were laughing with me rather than at me, and then I realized that their laughter was rooted in mockery. It would later come to my knowledge that being called “special” is another way of saying “you're from the special needs class” or worse, “you are retarded”. I didn’t fully understand the powerful connotation of the word “special”, and the depth of how heinous the meaning behind it was. Even though I had never been in a special needs class, being labeled as “special” still did calamitous damage to my self-esteem that would take years to overcome. This experience planted seeds of doubt, fear, and embarrassment in me. From then on, when I met a person for the first time, I would purposefully not disclose the fact that I was on the spectrum as a means to assimilate into what was deemed a neurotypical society; I now embrace who I am and reject the stigma that once a domineering burden in my life. In retrospect, it was a dehumanizing experience that slowly ate away at my prospect for happiness, so I got used to hearing the word “special” or other synonyms that targeted my autistic traits on a daily basis. Today I stand strong, relying on my confidence and self awareness to remind myself that I am enough, just the way I am.
We’re told that “sticks and stones may break your bones but words can never hurt you”, but one word–one word– had a profound impact on the course of my life. Sadly, now that I’m in high school, I hear words like “special” or “acoustic” thrown around like it’s nothing; this rhetoric left me shattered. Derogatory words like that leave a long-lasting impact on the community that is targeted, and a long-lasting impression on mainstream society. We are more than the perpetuated stereotype of dysregulated people who have eccentric quirks. People with autism go through all walks of life, and we all have different capacities and challenges thrown at us. The autism community is a broad spectrum of people who have passions and pursue them at the highest caliber, but unfortunately, it’s become an outlet to exclude people. Some of the brightest minds across the globe have autism, but that’s just seen as “special”. A quarter of us are non-verbal, but our communication–whether it’s speech or letter boards–can be just as impactful. People on the neurodivergent scale learn, think, and interact in different ways and see the world from different viewpoints, but how is this different from any other human being on the planet? How does this make me any less human? Why are people with autism called special, when really, the whole of humanity–every person–is unique, intricate, and divergent. With that logic, we are all special–not one group of people, all of us.
Now I flourish in almost every sphere of life. My life now consists of hanging out with friends, listening to Queen, trying out new things–living. I ooze with confidence everyday, but it wasn’t always like that. Adjusting to high school was hard in the beginning, but now I thrive. Granted, the hallways are always loud, but hey, some things never change. Not only do I make it known that I am on the spectrum, I embrace it! My latest catchphrase is “rizz ‘em with that ‘tism”, which garnered a ton of laughs from those around me, which is something I would never have thought to achieve in middle school.
My message to neurotypical folk would be to think before you speak. We exist. We’re human. We have feelings just like the whole of mankind does, and we are just as capable. We are your future doctors, your future architects, your future mathematicians; we are the future; please, give us agency. For the neurodivergent community, love yourself; you are valued, and your autism is what makes you, you. Also, getting to know other folks on the spectrum leaves a resounding message: you're not alone. I want my writing to be a threshold of change for both neurotypical and neurodivergent communities, and I hope this article will serve as a beacon for folks seeking a path of kindness and understanding for the neurodivergent community.
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