Living in an area under the curve

Being neurodivergent is sometimes like being a data point on a normal area under the curve. That especially becomes apparent when navigating society, including health care, insurance, and public policy. Our current state of the US is a perfect example where an outlier on that curve is a target for ridicule, harassment, or a political object. It all complicates understanding and interacting with each other. 

To aid navigation through life and society we want to understand ourselves, be understood by others, and accepted for who we are. We usually seek guidance in the first step, which is often thorny:

"Occasionally I wonder what my life would be like if a doctor had ever actually settled on "You are THIS type of neurospicy". I've had, in my life, three attempts at diagnosis, and it's always "You're not quite [thing], but have aspects of it."

My take on this (with help from a neurodivergent neuroscientist/psychologist colleague) follows: the brain is 'plastic', which means it functions in a myriad of ways to enact with & survive in its environment. And no two minds are alike.

Humans like 'boxes' into which they place and label animate and inanimate things. It helps us understand and communicate with others. Medical and insurance communities require and assign labels as guides to categorize physical/mental states and to navigate social systems: care, policy, education, etc. But they do not fully represent the reality.

Each category (box) has a probability of a standard normal distribution (area under the curve), which is agreed upon by a community of practitioners and researchers. For mental states and function the official guide is the DSM. It is not accurately representative of the full diversity of mental function because its goal is to determine 'normal' & 'pathology' (or 'outliers', if you will). What determines 'normal' is that middle area under the curve (AUC), but is also a biased interpretation (socially constructed). Humans are complicated. 

Thus 'diagnoses' (which I don't like because it implies pathology) are attempts to categorize and put labels on the way your brain functions. But they don't fully capture the reality. Boundaries of those categories are fluid, often unspecific and flow into another. A good discussion and graphic for autism is addressed in this recent article.

Increasing opinion by practitioners & researchers is that other neurodiverse traits currently excluded be added to the Autism Spectrum Disorder (ASD) category: ADHD, bi-polar, anxiety disorder, etc. All these can co-exist, should be recognized & included in a diagnosis. Or minimally be included in ongoing discussion with each practitioner and client.

I was told when learning my 'label' and category (2007) that my primary traits aligned with autism, specifically 'Asperger's syndrome'. I also fit the criteria of "mild" ADHD. However, medically and legally, I could not be both. According to the DSM-4, my category had to be one or the other. (see footnote below)

As my colleague explained both autism and ADHD can co-occur regardless of the strict criteria and categorization in the DMS-4. If I wanted his analysis added to my medical records, it would be 'Asperger's Syndrome'. (I chose not to have it documented for reasons explained in an earlier post.) 

Research in the last two years indicate that a significant percentage of people with ASD also exhibit symptoms of ADHD, and vice versa. The overlap is more inclusive of the reality of traits and function. Yet it can complicate diagnosis and therapy. Both conditions share some behavioral or cognitive characteristics but can also have distinct features.

We unofficially label it 'AuDHD'.

Regardless of a diagnosis label, individuals can discover more about themselves and other neurodivergents through conversations sharing experiences and testimony. It's less about what label you are than more about who you are as a person. The best way is to meet other ND people and learn from each other. 
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Note: A newer addition, DSM-5, eliminated the Asperger's label and incorporated those criteria into the Autism Spectrum Disorder category. Also, DSM-5 allows for the co-diagnosis of ASD and ADHD conditions, but the current colloquial term AuDHD is not included. 

No One Knows...

We get some rules to follow
That and this, these and those
No one knows…..”

(‘No One Knows’. Song by Queen of the Stone Ages; album Songs for the  Deaf, 2002)

 Since the beginning of human civilization, especially with expansion beyond the extended family groups to form societies, rules and guidelines were established for everyone to follow. These rules were either dictated by a top power or agreed upon by consensus of the people. In early history, those rules and regulations were shared and broadcast verbally. Later, by written laws. They were communicated to the masses and became expectations.

As societies grew larger, and industrialization/capitalization expanded, most of the important rules and regulations, especially those that saved lives and livelihood, were taught in organizations: schools, churches, clubs, etc. As children we learn many of those rules, yet they vary by time, location, country and nation. Even family. For instance, many social rules and laws of Victorian England are no longer practiced or even known about; they don’t apply to us in this modern time. 

Numerous implicit social rules that are no longer communicated continue. Yet people were, and still are, expected to know and practice them regardless of if we are aware of them. They are the “unspoken rules”: behavioral constraints imposed in societies that are not typically voiced or written down. Any divergence is often considered abnormal, impolite, and intolerable. 

This isn’t a topic relegated to only social conduct. Many of these rules also exist amongst and are often reinforced by scientists. That does not mean that they are “science”, or infallible facts. Instead, they are interpretations and conclusions derived by experimentation, data collection, and interpretation by scientists. Scientific conclusions can be tested and either validated or flawed when a new investigation reveals another understanding. That’s the scientific way.

One almost universal human trait is humor. Ironically, a myriad of social unspoken rules and expectations exist surrounding humor. Despite the number of ways humor can be expressed and perceived, several strict rules are embedded in human conversation and body language. Humor, like most diverse human traits, can be experienced in a number of ways, often requiring personal and interpersonal assumptions and expectations. 

To be, or not to be, funny.

Humor is a human quality experienced as amusing, comical, or funny. Nearly all humans have the ability to feel or experience one or more of the aforementioned states. It evokes a range of responses in humans and even some other animals, such as non-human primates. Responses range from laughter (vocal and silent), play, panting “laugh”, and play facial expressions.

Likewise, the way humans express humor, or their response to other’s humor, is diverse. Some people laugh loudly, some simply smile or smirk, others shake their heads, roll their eyes, or do nothing. These behaviors are not always obvious amusement or expressions of fun. At least, in honesty. Many people pretend they are amused but in reality, they are not. Perhaps the joke or story is misinterpreted or, for some other reason, unappreciated as being amusing and funny. Perhaps there is no rewarding feeing of “getting it”: understanding and appreciating the humor. Some people don’t react at all.

An unspoken rule in most of our societies is to react in a way to express amusement or appreciation at another’s joke, comical act, etc. If a person does not react in this expected way, they are perceived as rude or stupid. That person may also be perceived as abnormal, even pathological. 

Two examples portray the latter. First, Parkinson’s, a neurogenerative disease, may affect functions (memory, reward, etc) of the brain that are involved in recognition and understanding humor. Many psychologists and even neuroscientists believe that laughter is the “glue” to relationships, society, and individual mental health. A neuroscientist studying Parkinson’s regards the lack of humor in afflicted patients as “symptoms that really affect the quality of life and relationships, so it’s really a pertinent thing to study.”(1) But is it really? Or just an unspoken rule and expectation of all human beings?

The second example is a perceived difference or pathology of many, if not most, neurodivergent children and adults on the Autism Spectrum. They often don’t laugh or understand all the conventional jokes and comical behavior of neurotypical people (not on the spectrum). It’s not always amusing or understood for various reasons. 

Briefly, autistic people don’t lack a sense of humor. Many like comedy and can be amusing. However, they don’t often engage with neurotypicals in “social interaction” laughter (unless they pretend to fit in). They don’t respond to the social cues to laugh at various things, funny or not. 

Another reason is that some autistic people simply don’t understand or make conventional-type jokes, especially contrived jokes. They may also not “get” humor because they think literally and logically. Or they may interpret things with different meanings. 

(These are the main reasons I don’t get sarcasm: I think literally and take a while to try and understand conventional joke "punch lines". However, I love dry humor; it is usually delivered very literally and directs attention to funny aspects by pointing out the obvious. I also like satire, which is usually riddled with dark sarcasm in conjunction with dry humor. Slap-stick comedy and Seinfeld-type delusional humor are too painful to watch.)

On the other hand, an expression of humor or laughing too loud by a neurodivergent person may be deemed inappropriate by neurotypical people. Too often the response by the latter is anger, resentment, or embarrassment. It “breaks the rules”. As one organization(2) that “embraces autism” states, “These differences in humor production and understanding may have a negative impact on social participation and the development of interpersonal relationships such as friendships.” This is biased.

Many neurotypical people believe and postulate that “individuals with autism do in fact want to laugh and make others laugh.” Is that true? Or an expectation and assumption by neurotypical people? Is it just another rule? 

The point being is that our society considers those that don’t align with the norm, aka don’t follow the unspoken rules, are abnormal, sometimes pathological, and therefore must be “fixed”. They are “broken”. The neurodivergent must always be trained or changed to conform to the norm, the convention, and abide the rules”, silent and communicated. The same organization referenced above states “it is crucial to teach individuals with autism humor to equip them with an important social skill to improve their social interactions with others.” Or to pretend to be normal, even when they don’t know or understand the rules. 

“You’re either with us, or against us.”

Us and Others

Modern society is highly homogenous, glued together by sameness that keeps the machine moving smoothly. But smoothly for only a relatively small section of the total population. They are the “Us”. They develop, consolidate and enforce the rules, the norm.

Those people that are different are the “Others’. They are either excluded, punished, or “invisible”. They must conform to the norm or be further excluded or punished. Rather than trying to learn and understand how the “others” think and feel, they must be fixed to be like everyone else. Again, referring to the website of the aforementioned organization, 

“In conclusion, humor is vital for one’s personal and social growth. Producing and responding to jokes appropriately helps to facilitate one’s interpersonal relationships. As individuals with autism may perceive jokes differently, we can use various strategies to equip them with the social skill of understanding humor in a conventional way.”

Doesn’t this seem biased, one-sided? It is! 

Perhaps us “Others” do have a sense of humor; it’s just different than that of the “Us”. However, it’s not terribly hard to try and better understand each other. People on the Spectrum have feelings, too. 

"We get some rules to follow

That and this, these and those

No one knows

We get these pills to swallow

How they stick in your throat

No one knows..."

 

1. "We now know why we find some jokes funny - thanks to Seinfeld," New Scientist, December 8, 2023.

2.    Autism and Humor (healisautism.com)

The world as a chocolate moose

I read the term "helicopter parenting" this morning and all I could picture was a helicopter and kids without connecting the maze of dots to the euphemism that it means.

Same with "ghosting" people. I didn't understand that until I got brave enough to ask last year what it meant. Recently, it was "gaslighting". (I don't look these things up with Google because I always think it's a social quirk that won't be found.)

Has anyone read the children's book, "Chocolate Moose for Dinner"? It's about homonyms. It may seem 'cute' and funny to most people, but it's actually a perfect description of literal thinking and communication for many people on the autism spectrum. (excellent article here) And why we don't understand most sarcasm and jokes.

I also think that may be why the overuse of 'like' in every sentence people speak makes me internally (and literally) cringe. Even my 6-yo grandson understands the meaning of the word 'like'.

All change is not equal: good change and bad change

One commonly known trait of autism is fear of change. Reaction to change can be extreme, e.g. a 'meltdown', or mild, such as slight anxiety. It's usually inherent, but also adaptive. 

As a child and through early adulthood, I did not deal well with change. It always induced anxiety. Most times it manifested in a controlled way: part or complete shutdown. I just completely withdrew into myself and shut my mind and body 'off'. A few times it resulted in stomping, angry yelling, shaking, sweating, and/or crying. Commonly called 'tantrums'. But it was rarely explosive (mostly due to consistent shaming "Girls don't act that way!"*).

I remember my mother telling the adult me on the phone once, "You don't like change, do you." It wasn't a question; it was a statement. I realized she was right. Remembering something I saw on the TV a few years prior helped me to try and address that. 

During torrential flooding from a massive storm in California may years before, a river overflowed it's banks and flooded a town. A media crew in a boat was filming the damage and talking about it. As they floated past a house with water nearly up to the eaves, they asked a man on the roof what it was like. He smiled and calmly said "Change is good!!". 

That 30-second film clip is anchored in my brain. I reach for and use it whenever a big change is expected or pops up unexpectedly. It sets a stage for me to navigate through a change, be it having to go to a new doctor, moving across the country, losing my funding for research and finding a new position, going to a place I haven't been before, etc. Especially a change in routine. For example, unable to follow my gym schedule (this really upsets me) due to an illness or other demand. 

A more recent huge change was retiring from academia. I'm still dealing with that 10 years later, but better than immediately afterwards. Another was changing my  post-retirement routine, which was travelling around the country for nine years in my travel trailer and working at wildlife refuges. The latter was a sacrifice for my daughter and her family, and one I would not have made for anyone else. I'm still trying to adapt to that, too.

Being an adult with late-identified Asperger's, I had already established ways to mitigate many of my Asperger's idiosyncrasies. One is by masking my behavior (especially in academia). But that comes at a cost when done for too long. The edges start crumbling and people say I'm edgy and irritated. Or I'll shut down: I turn into a zombie. If I don't get a reprieve, I blow up. 

Some people ask me how I handled traveling around the country so often if I am on the autism spectrum. "You're not afraid of change! You can't be autistic.". That's not exactly correct. I'm not 'afraid' of change because logically I now know and accept that life is full of change. But I can get anxious about change. Sometimes more than others. And, after 5 decades I've learned ways to cope. Most times.

One is anticipation and expectation. If I know a change is coming, I plan for it. Often to the minute details. It then becomes a sequential adaptation. For my trips across country, I would plan routes, timing, location and time stops for gas, overnight stops, and arrivals. My biggest anxiety was breakdowns (which did happen once). 

Unanticipated changes are slightly different. If it involves sensory changes, it has more immediate responses that I can't control. Such as flashing lights, loud sounds, etc. "Everybody does!", you might think. Sure, but do they cause extreme physical and mental reactions that last too long? Does a loud muffler cause your entire body to shake, lose your balance, and your head feeling like it's going to explode for several minutes? Does a child's screaming sear your brain like hot pokers? (think of someone putting your head next to a fire siren) Do flashes of bright light cause you to lose balance and make you nauseous? Does constant dog barking feel like a hammer beating your head? If someone grabs/hugs/or touches me unexpectantly, I'll flail and back away in a 'fight or flight' response. (Please don't hug me.)

Sensory perception, integration and/or processing are different for many on the AS.  Learning about how the autistic brain is wired differently than neurotypical brains and how to mitigate reactions to triggers helps. I wear sunglasses a lot, my regular glasses have a tint to negate fluorescent lights, and are progressive darkening. I carry noise canceling ear plugs all the time. 

The last 40+ years have been forcefully camouflaging myself to be like the neurotypical 'normal'. But it has never been my 'normal'; rarely being myself. It's like wearing a costume most of the time. And it's exhausting. Meeting other neurodivergent people has been an awakening that I'm not alone. 

I now feel affirmed and courageous enough to ask people not to hug me or to ask first. (wish I had a shirt that read, "Please respect my personal space") Most times I compromise, but other times will be who and what I am: different. When necessary, I will tell a person I'm Asperger's, or on the AS. Mostly because I want to contribute to educating others about autism and change stereotypic 'typing' of autistics by neurotypical people. But also to encourage them to meet us halfway. 

Those are good changes.

👉For an excellent description of what the "Autism Spectrum" really is, read this webpage, "What Is Autism Spectrum Disorder (ASD)?". 

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* One thing that has helped with that (all my life) is motion: pacing, twitching my leg, thumbing on a surface with my fingers, playing with my hair, bouncing on the balls of my feet, twirling my pen/pencil. Running is good; riding a horse or motorcycle is freedom. All the others mentioned were punished by my mother or teachers: slaps on the hands or knee, having to sit on my hands, told to stand still, etc. Later, it manifested in outdoor physical work and lifting weights. I wasn't hyper: it was a way of physically dealing with stress and anxiety. It 'quieted the brain and body'. 

In the mirror....

Discovering as an older adult that you are Asperger's: You feel fine most of the time. But you don't know if that's because you've dealt with it, or if you've buried it.  

Coming out of the closet. Finally.

I know I'm not alone in this. So many ghosts linger in the void who didn't know, didn't have a word for it. They, we, were strangers living in a strange land. 

I and a close friend from long ago used to call it "The Outliers' Club". We didn't fit into the belly of the area under the curve called 'Normal.' In retrospect, I had many friends like that. My father was like that. They were 'different' (sometimes I used the term "abby-normal"), but not from me. We were different, to various degrees, from most of the multitudes that occupied life around us. 

This realization wasn't obvious to me for too long in my life, although as a teenager I felt something about me was different. Or everyone else was different. I just didn't understand it nor other people. After graduation I moved to live in the Maine woods. It was quiet: being surrounded by the natural world (which I felt more at home in), my books and music, apart from the trappings of society. I could enter and leave it when I wanted. Keeping my distance from people, physically and emotionally, I was able to form my own reality closer to my own preference. The solitude was, and always has been, my friend. My silence was comfortable. Most of my expression, when the urge came, went into writing. 

After my daughter was born I forced myself to integrate and participate more in society for her sake. I fell into a relationship with a man who was kind, patient and undemanding of conformity (mostly). I sought to organize and channel all my weird thoughts and ideas into a productive university education and profession. I followed my strongest interests: the living sciences. All of them, at the micro- and macroscopic level. 

How it started

My first realization of problems was with numbers, and one I hid as best as I could for many decades. I had the equivalent of dyslexia with numbers (now called 'dyscalculia'). In high school, I failed algebra twice. The third time, the teacher recognized I had issues with ordering/reading/thinking in numbers, but not arithmetic concepts. He patiently reassured me I wasn't stupid and tutored me in how to negotiate the world of numbers. I had to write all numbers and equations down on paper, methodically solve equations step by step, and slow down to avoid increasing anxiety. His recommendation of separating long strings of numbers into groups of three by using dashes is still helpful.

I had nightmares (still do) for as long as I can remember of being unable to correctly dial phone numbers, transposing the numbers over and over. It was worse when in those dreams a person was in distress and I was trying to call for help. I would wake up in panic attacks. All through university and my years in academia, this was a deficit that I managed to hide well. Until I learned later (after I retired) that several scientists, even mathematicians, also had dyscalculia. 

Back in high school, there was no name for this. I remember how much relief I felt when I learned about dyscalculia as an adult in my 50's. My 'stupidity' finally had a name and I didn't feel stupid about it anymore. Regardless, I didn't reveal it to anyone, even my family, until a few years ago. I came out of that 'closet' intact. 

Most of my childhood, teen years and early adulthood, I was a person of few words. A few traumatic events resulted in total silence: I literally could not talk for periods of time. It was like my throat was paralyzed. I remember that vividly to this day. When I was 17, my mother sent me to a therapist in the city, where she found me a room at the Y to stay for a few days. I think that being away from the rest of the family provided me the space I needed to deal with a private event. But, even now when I am angry or distressed, I freeze up vocally and I want to be alone.

On the other hand, because my interests vary widely, even outside of my academic career, I now enjoy talking about topics in history, philosophy and science. My father was similar, which I didn't acknowledge until much later. He was a polymath: well-read and versed in physics, chemistry, all the life sciences, music, history, philosophy, and languages. Even theology. Just not other people (unless they were notables in history, science or music). Oddly, he was also interested in poetry, and could recite poems verbatum from memory. 

After I realized we were alike, we often had long phone conversations along these many topics on the phone. Likewise, my conversations with others were also on topics that interest me. I had no interest in meaningless chats and especially gossip. I still don't but try my best to engage in a limited amount of it for social ease. However, I sometimes realize that I am talking too much about things other people have little or no interest. 

Once, my date and I were sitting around a campfire with other people, and I rambled on too long about a recent discovery that red fire ant queens clone themselves. My date quickly interrupted a question from another person by saying aloud, "You don't want to ask her!" I didn't then and still don't catch sarcasm. 

I still struggle with picking up facial expressions of others when my discussions have gone on too long. Or when I mention aloud data points or observations in my current thoughts. I see blank stares and realize they have no idea what I'm talking about. 

What higher education did for me was learning to organize the constant barrage of thoughts in my head into a cohesive stream of consciousness that made sense, and that I could use to form questions and answers. They were always there; I just didn't know what to do with them. It was like the universe opened up and invited me in. 

A former close male friend from forty years ago recently asked me why I chose to be a biologist; he never expected that. "It was always there in me. I just didn't know what to do with all of it. 'I can't help it; I was drawn this way.'" (Referenced from Jessica in the movie Who Framed Roger Rabbit.)

Hypersensitivities

I exhibited negative reactions to certain stimuli during early childhood, not realizing that I had sensory hypersensitivities until my early teens. I abhorred loud noises and certain sounds, running away from loud parades, covering my ears and humming with sirens, and having to wear earmuffs during fireworks. Some sounds (triggers) make my head 'explode' (loud mufflers, engine breaking, snoring, incessant dog barking, loud chatting, screaming children, leaf blowers, and, ironically, the German language). Noise cancelling earplugs have been a godsend. 

Certain smells also bothered me, to the point of physical distress. Anything perfumed like most laundry and bathing soap, but especially body perfumes, made my head pound and being nauseous. Much to my father's chagrin, limburger cheese did the same. I would run up into my bedroom and shove clothes or bedding under the door to stop the smell from entering.  I can smell the weather changes in the air, and people give me strange looks when I mention it.

My department on the 13th floor in my last position dubbed me the 'canary'. A common issue was poor air cleaning/circulation. I could sense the sour odor in the restroom across from my lab of backed up wastewater in the building long before anyone else could. And the metallic smell of industrial air on our floor that escaped the air cleaners on top of the building. After realizing I had a heightened sense of smell, the office laughed when I called to alert them. 

I also had, and still have, an aversion to crowds. Malls gave me anxiety; sometimes panic attacks and I'd get dizzy and can't breath. A visit to a mall to find work suits decades ago was my first real awareness of this. It was crowded and I felt dizzy and nauseous, having to lean against a wall to keep from collapsing. My body screamed "Escape!".

My personal space is bigger than most and I'm not a huggy person. Except for my immediate family, I feel like shrinking into myself; stiffening and becoming invisible when hugs are attempted. I avoid isles in stores with a lot of people; getting in and get out as fast as possible (and I hate shopping.) When I am in amongst groups of people, I try to move to the edges and 'lurk'. My whole life has been lurking on the edges.

While visiting a friend in Manhattan (shortly after 9/11), he took me to Time Square. It was a disaster. With a long-standing sensitivity to light, the crowds, noise and flashing lights prompted a panic attack. Only many years later did I learn that my responses to such stimuli was really that: a hypersensitive panic attack. Otherwise, I only knew one thing: fight or flight, and I had to get out.

Lack of social graces

In grad school I became aware that I had trouble speaking to groups of people. Apparently, I was too direct and said the 'wrong things'. I took a technical writing class (two, in fact) that included presentations. I forced myself to learn how to quiet the animal inside to speak clearly and eloquently. As a faculty member at three academic universities, I learned to mingle and communicate better. My first decade as a researcher required giving presentations at conferences, which became easier. My sister-in-law took me shopping to help choose proper suits for me. I had no sense of fashion (still don't). 

During those early years I also had to learn about sensitivities with other people. Unlike many (most?) people in the autism spectrum, I engage with others by strong eye contact. If I don't, I fumble in 'reading' people. (I also have hearing loss in one ear from childhood illnesses. I read lips to fill in blanks that I can't hear.)  Apparently, this distresses some people. While in New York City, my friend strongly advised me to look down when amongst strangers, especially on the street. I still don't understand why, but it bothers people. 

I tend to be blunt and honest to a fault. Evidently, some people can't handle that, either. A student worker told me almost in tears that I am "intimidating". The department head diplomatically told me she would rather I did not attend a meeting with others discussing my research budget. She would serve in my stead. That was a hammer that made me realize I needed to learn how to talk to other people with more sensitivity. (Ironically, years later at a different university and lab, I was asked by a colleague to coach him on how to talk to his all-female lab staff so they wouldn't cry.)

Despite that I occasionally joined colleagues in the lunchroom or for coffee, I was branded as being "unfriendly and anti-social" in the departments. I avoided volunteering for committees (they were a waste of my time) and hardly ever attended social and holiday functions. It appeared this behavior was unacceptable, even jeopardized promotions during more than half of my career. Ironically, a colleague, who became a good friend, chastised other department members during one of those meetings, commenting that I am not unfriendly or anti-social; "She's just careful about who she chooses as friends and likes her privacy."

All those decades, and through failed intimate relationships, I never stopped being a stranger in a strange land and asking myself "What's wrong with me?". My mother used to yell at me, even as an adult, "You're just like your father!". It wasn't until several years before my father passed away, and I learned I had Asperger's Syndrome, did I understand my father's weird quirks and his lack of social graces. I was much like my father, who also was (undiagnosed) Asperger's. But I learned to understand and adjust better than he, even if some of it requires pretending.

I was teased (still am) about being a bit more OCD than the normal person. I managed my labs and office tightly and was referred to as the 'Lab Nazi' in one department. Another time (different university), the department head mentioned in an introduction to a visiting speaker that our lab was the cleanest in the department. I wanted to shrink during the laughter after that. 

My fortune was working with a MD/PhD in neuroscience and psychology who is very ADHD with no apologies to anyone. I would steer him back to finish his sentences when he often went off tangent. We worked together very well appreciating the complementation of our strengths. I was glad I could confide in and discuss my recent Asperger's diagnosis with him. He assured me I've already adapted well and will continue to. "Learn to appreciate who and what you are. Don't let anyone tell you differently."

I also realized that most of my closer friends, at least in adulthood, were also on the spectrum. I think we tend to gravitate to those who are like us. My closest friend was a male 15 years younger, yet we thoroughly knew each other, possibly better than we knew ourselves. We complemented each other intellectually. Because he also was graduate of the life sciences, we shared thoughts and ideas and collaborated in business and projects during my hiatus from academia. His mind was very linear, whereas I think in systems and patterns, complementing each other in our pursuits. I also helped him adjust with his issues by suggesting he observe and mimic other people in social interactions. Unfortunately, his wild mood swings challenged our relationship more than once. After over a decade of close friendship, it completely fell apart. But I still very much miss his friendship.

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It's now 16 years after learning why I have always felt like a stranger. Because I have feared the stereotyping and stigma by other people, especially during my academic career but also my own family, that knowledge has been buried. No headstone, no obituary, no memorial; just buried in an unmarked grave. I even refused to learn more about neurodiversity and being a functional adult on the spectrum. The diagnosis of being Asperger's has explained most of my oddities, and I still learn to adapt. 

Discovering as an adult that you are Asperger's is like you feel fine most of the time. But you don't know if that because you've dealt with it, or you've buried it.

Recently I discovered a local friend who is also neurodivergent. And she has an autistic son. She recognized my neurodivergence quickly without any prompts from me. She is also an advocate for neurodiversity. It was a relief for me to finally be accepted for what I am in a long time. We have talked long about how we adapt and about the lack of awareness of neurodivergent people, young and old. She has given me the courage to take steps and "come out of the closet", especially to my remaining family, my sister and daughter. I mentioned once that it would be easier to come out and tell people I'm gay (if I was gay). 

But she and Phil are right: I need to accept and appreciate who I am. Keeping this secret is exhausting. 

This is MY reality. Welcome to it!

Secrets in a Strange Land

 "The secret always finds its way out, if not in words, then somatically, and most often in a way that it can be dealt with and helped in a straightforward manner. [Usually] So what does the woman do when she finds the secret leaking out? She runs after it with great expenditure of energy. She beats, bundles, and burrows it back down into the dead zone again, and builds larger defenses. She calls inner guardians and ego defenders to build more doors, more walls. The woman leans against her latest psychic tomb, sweating blood and beathing like a locomotive. 

A woman who carries a secret is an exhausted woman. Secrets cause a person to become haunted."

- excerpt from Women Who Run with Wolves, by Clarissa Pinkola Estes