14/06/2024
Picture the scene. It's 2012, and I'm finishing my second year of university. I'm most of the way through a BA Honours in Music, and I've just received my adoption file.
Having read through the copious notes, reports, and schedules that made up my first two years on earth, I noticed that a lot of my "issues" as a child seem to fit with autism. Armed with my file, I headed to the campus GP and asked for a referral.
Two months later, I received a letter from Dr Lynn Roper, who was the specialist in charge of my diagnosis. In that letter, she stated that I had been diagnosed with Asperger's Syndrome.
I remember that day clearly, mostly because the bottom dropped out of my world. I'd always suspected something was different, but to have it confirmed was simultaneously relieving and horrifying.
I spent many days coming to terms with my diagnosis, doing copious amounts of research into autism, and ended up writing my third year dissertation on autism and music therapy. I was (naively) determined to learn everything I could about autism so that I could make sure I hid my symptoms.
Now, of course, I no longer hide the fact that I'm autistic. I still mask a lot, and I'll discuss that in another blog, but I'm not ashamed of my autism any more. I still spend a lot of time researching autism, keeping up with new therapies and new diagnostic techniques, so that I can help others.
One thing my diagnosis taught me is that without it, support is impossible to receive. Yes, being labelled can be scary, but it can also help you understand why you do certain things or need things a certain way, or even why certain sensory things can cause overload.
