My Autistic Self-Discovery, and Undetected Childhood Traits

Wild, Free, and Full of Piss-n-Vinegar!

She’s stubborn as a damn mule. Just a girl who knows what she wants. Full of piss n’ vinegar, that one. Drama queen. So intense. Such big emotions. She belongs on a stage. So enthusiastic. So loud. So bossy. So Controlling. She’s 7, going on 27! Little Miss Know-it-All. Sharp as a tack. Too smart for her own damn britches. Such a hypochondriac, always somethin’. Boy, she can be meaner than hell. So cut-throat. So unfiltered. She’s gifted, you know. She’s different. Such an old soul.

Thats me — there on the left. With all my big, whacky-faced expression and over the top, candid character for the camera.

For the skimmers who want a blunt list and no back story — check out my article here.

After a late-diagnosis of ADHD (age 35), it’s standard protocol to cycle through the phase of reflection. Looking back to yester-year, cross-referencing every trait, every trauma, every circumstance and moment, arriving at overwhelming clarity, only to smother each with an equal attempt of invalidating discredit.

I am my own worst gas-lighter.

When I received my ADHD diagnosis, I all but rebuked the idea, claiming, “But I wasn't THAT kid”. I wasn't defiant — I was fairly obedient. A rule-follower. Scholastic. An impressively advanced reader… straight-A student. My worst notes home from school were, “Talking too much in class”. (Bingo!)

After completing a more modern, female, questionnaire — Turns out, I was. I was SO, that kid.

I was all the things — just ‘girl’ version, or what we have come to learn today as an appropriate female presentation of an otherwise classic, 8-year old male, disorder. I can vividly remember the explanations from my parents and teachers…

• I wasn't hyper — I was passionate, enthusiastic!
• I wasn't defiant — I was smart. An independent thinker who had an unfiltered confrontational tolerance for challenging the systems.
• I wasn't underperforming, I was just bored, underchallenged.
• I wasn't inappropriately rambunctious or ill-behaved, I was incredibly emotional and sensitive.
• Impulsive…yeah. There is no girl-version of my impulsivity. I was impulsive no matter which way you cut it. (see photo above…pretty sure you can just feel the impulsivity buzzing out of that girl’s hella’ ugly ,white leather fringe jacket. Thanks G’ma…)

Since that initial diagnosis, I have spent countless, obsessed and hyper-fixated hours, digging into the world of neurodivergence, in an attempt to identify, validate, and truly accept who I am. It didn't take long to uncover that as much as this new ADHD diagnosis made sense — an equal and opposite part of me, didn't relate, and instinctively knew it wasn't the whole picture.

Spoiler alert: You can't study neurodivergence, and not study autism.

Just as my ignorant, preconceived, social stigma of ADHD once precluded my ability to relate or consider, it had done so with autism as well.

I am ashamed, but quick to admit, that when I thought of autism — I envisioned an uncommunicative person, hitting themselves in the head, rocking back and forth in the corner of a room, screaming and inconsolable -OR- Rainman.

I considered ‘Aspergers’ to be the weird, quirky, mild-version of autism. A disorder that demanded pre-requisite of making little to no eye contact, possessing strange and uncontrollable tics, being socially awkward and incredibly inappropriate without any regard for common social-cues.

Basically — this was what I knew. Autistic, linear, spectrum. A line. At one end, a little bit weird. The other end, a lotta’ bit weird.

I would even go as far as to say my stigmatic spectrum-line could have been labeled this person makes me feel a little uncomfortable, and this person makes me feel a lotta’ bit uncomfortable’. Horrible, I know.

I think this spectrum should now be retired and repurposed. Only to be referred to and used as the ‘Idiot Spectrum’…and we can reference it and place all the antiquated, narrow minded, neurodivergent detesting idiots on the spectrum as they fit.

I am not proud of this of course…and am grateful for a fresh, new perspective and understanding, so that I can begin to do my part and debunk this grossly antiquated and incorrect stigma that still permeates our culture and society.

Below is a modern representation of an autistic spectrum.

Carrying on.

In all of my ground-up thinking and hyperfixation, it wasn't too long before I began to stumble upon the female version of autism. The round-wheel spectrum and all of its individual traits and qualities, and the idea of neurodiversity and switching our mindsets (and diagnostic accume) from an external presentation, to a subject’s internal experience.

I had begun discovering, uncovering, and connecting ALL of the dots.

MY dots.

Not only had I eradicated an entire lifetime of misinformation and ill pre-conception, but I was re-learning and educating myself to a whole new modern-era of neurodiversity. The whole-picture, MY whole picture, was finally making sense.

I was autistic.

I was the otherwise, ‘rocking and screaming in a corner’ misinformed, stereotype. The ‘incapable of making any eye contact and will forever not know how to socialize or make a friend’ stereotype.

(Insert life-changing, blank stare, absolutely come-to-Jesus, mind blowing moment — GIF)

You can read more of my come-to-Jesus story and experience, here:

As you can imagine, it didn't take long before I began to usher in the reflection phase, revisiting all the moments of this trait and that trait, the behaviors, the quirks, the experiences, the relationships, the misunderstandings.

In reflection, I began to dissect my childhood. I would have knee-jerk told you several months ago (pre-informed and still registering on the idiot-spectrum) that I wasnt that kid, but turns out…I genuinely believe I was.

I don't hold any resentment or anger for not having been detected — how could I? For as ill-informed as I was in 2022, what would make me believe that anyone, including my parents, would have been so-woke as to know what the hell to look for in 1990? I find it interesting, rather. Humorous, really, to reflect back on.

Perhaps you may relate…

Uncanny ability to mimic and impersonate others from a very young age.

-Whole-body, whole-personas…I would creatively channel and become the character needed. I practiced being social, expressing emotions, and becoming what was expected of me from the rest of the world.

I have smile-invoking memories of spending countless hours every week in front of the bathroom mirror, acting out imaginary characters. Too short to see myself in the mirror standing, I would climb up atop the counter and crouch naked inside the bowl of the sink, offering me a very up close and personal experience. When I should have been taking a bath…I instead would get lost in my own fantasy world. I had an intense preoccupation with acting a part (for lack of a better term) and creating imaginary personas.

I would contort my face around to create different looks and expressions, invoking the identity of anything from Mr. Pentuckle- the angry old Brit’ next door, to Mrs. Cantanini — the softest, sweetest, most generous kid-loving school teacher, to Bethany Vera — Hollywood’s richest, and most lavish movie star. (And anything in between).

I loved listening to language, clarifying meaning, and was quick to incorporate new vocabulary. I would carefully observe all of the different subjects I would meet in everyday life or see on tv…studying their personalities, mannerisms, and ‘personas’. Soaking them up like a curious sponge and hanging on to their quirky anticipated presentations for my routine dates with the mirror.

My favorites were the super-extra characters. The ones that we might consider ‘unforgettable personalities’. Incorporating all of the different dialects, accents, enthusiasm, and personality to pair with it. There for a while, I remember being hell-bent on using that time to practice learning how to cry on command.

This has currently (and rather, ironically) become a favorite past-time of my 10 year old daughter’s…and one without an ounce of my influence. Her ability to transform herself into said-character (and the words, phrases, accents, and period-specific language used on the fly), is pretty incredible and far superior to any of my once-upon-a-time character-channeling-mirror-dates.

I find myself shaking my head in disbelief and thinking…Wow. This girl is so incredibly talented…she belongs on a stage. (and I am blasted back to my childhood and the adults in my life making similar claim…)

Big, dramatic, over the top, facial expressions. Or really, expressing myself in general.

-My facial expressions have always been over the top, dramatic, contorted, and hard to hide. I often would resort to using big hand gestures and my entire body to ‘tell a story’. All of which contributed to my -too muchness-.

Perhaps it was all of the solo-time spent performing naked in front of the mirror, or perhaps it was just an innate, bold personality. But, I have always been known for my over-the-top, expressive sense-of-being, even as a youngin’.

My already big buggy eyes, instinctively growing into the size of saucers in a state of disbelief, my lips pursing or contorting unnaturally into an awkward state of ew, my nostrils involuntarily flaring as I sit stunned and motionless, trying to process some inconceivable news or angry reaction.

Or the opposite.

Unreactive, with a lifeless-like expression, often leading others to perceive me as angry, upset, brooding, and all around having a negative energy (IE: resting bitch face). This wasnt always the case though. Just like today, this can be the result of overstimulation and nearing internal shutdown -OR- I am simply dissociated and off somewhere deep in my own head or thoughts, likely replaying, and working out every detail of a personal experience, concept, or theory.

Bossy. Pretend-play was my way or the highway.

Need for constant structure. Rule following. And intolerant/reactive to abrupt changes against my control. I didn't play with figurines or barbies. I had a 1st person type perspective imagination and it was always literal, real-life-like, and recreatable. I couldn't (and still don't) relate to much that isn't able to be ‘real’.

I had a lot of younger brothers growing up (ranging from 3–11 years age difference). The older boys I would often play with…as long as they played on my terms. I was in control. I made the rules.

I would become so irritated and frustrated if they went rogue and began deliberately defying the clearly defined rules I had formulated for whatever game or make-believe play that was going on.

For instance, playing any sort of car-video game (or matchbox car game), meant following all the rules of the road. Stopping at the red stop lights, waiting your turn to proceed, using appropriate directional blinkers, going the speed limit of course, yielding to pedestrians…or sometimes, finding and laying claim to your home in the game, where you would park your car and carry out the rest of your make-believe, or otherwise, real-literal-life.

My brothers could only take so much of this…their skin crawling in boredom…incapable of understanding why THIS…this dreaded rule following, was FUN. It didn't take much of ‘NO! You ran the red light! You can't do that!’ before they were off creating pandemonium and mass-destruction with their car’s flamethrowers and bazookas. And I was stomping off in a tiny fit of I need control rage to otherwise regulate my unsettled self.

My poor brothers…I have quite the laundry list of ‘sis’ is in charge’ games and fantasy-play memories. From creating a family band, delegating who played what instrument and how they would pretend-play-it, creating their rock star persona and dressing them for their part, lighting, sound, photography, and every usable prop to boot. (There was nothing quite like a guitar made from a broomstick and a dog leash. Absolutely brilliant.)

Finding comfort in objects vs. people

Finding consistent security in an otherwise gaslit, denied world of neurodivergent (different) child-needs.

I had a blankie until I was 21. Until I settled down into a long term relationship to start a real-life-adulting-reality. I reluctantly knew (felt) at that point, that I had exhausted any excuse for still needing this tattered, filthy, 21 year old, silk-lined child’s-thing, that I had depended on my entire life to bring me comfort, calm, and recentering.

I still remember that evening. Placing it in a box and grieving it’s loss (sounds dramatic, I know…). It had been my sensory-talisman my entire life. The one-thing I would consistently hide away from the world with to violently explode with feelings…only to find recovery, by shoving my face into my blanket so hard, and breathing in the familiar scents of pheromone, like an intoxicating, re-centering, chloroform. It was my drug as a child, really.

I naturally resurrected the familiar comfort, by becoming fond of a ‘squishy’ pillow that offered the same coping and recovery, adult version.

My little brother had a similar comfort blankie. I will never forget how upset I became when I found out that his father had gotten rid of his blankie because he had simply had enough of it — ‘he was too old for this baby shit’.

An immediate, uncontrollable meltdown ensued — overcome with so many intense and overwhelming feelings of disbelief, sadness and rage. I was incapable of ‘dealing’ with these incredibly deep feelings when I was young, and they would explode in epic and unproportionate fashion like a hair-trigger explosive.

Meltdowns.

The most intense eruption of suppressed and indescribably deep-felt emotions.

I plan to write an article specifically about my experience with childhood meltdowns…in an attempt to describe and express what has otherwise been so incredibly difficult to do my entire life. It is still challenging to consciously put into words, to find any language for, the all-consuming experience. For now — let's just say — standing frozen-statue screaming fits, crying uncontrollably and being completely inconsolable, anger, fear, shame and guilt, all boiling in a fit of absolute overwhelm, terror, and explosive emotion.

I remember only having these (catastrophic moments) in the custody of my mom. Not because she was so full of love, nurture, and acceptance…far from it. But because that's what I knew as safe and my domain, even if it was incredibly toxic. I would instinctively hide and weep silently elsewhere (at my Dad’s) in an attempt to express and unload the intensity of feelings, but avoiding judgment, humiliation, or being bad.

Odd Presentation of Perfectionism.

Very particular about certain things. Everything had a place. Everything had a purpose. Everything had a special meaning. Everything needed to be ‘just right’. MY right.

I often nested as a kid. This was always seen as Gigi just off playing house and being a girl. In retrospect, this was Gigi off organizing chaos and creating order, to provide feelings of safety and contentment in an otherwise out of control, emotionally dysregulated, and sensory-overloaded-world. Everything often nice-n-neat, organized by color or shape or amount of interest/affection. Stuffed animals arranged on my bed from largest to smallest, back to front, and equally symmetrical from side to side, in a centered-font structure that offered a satiating appeal to my particular eye.

Writing in a diary or journal (which I did routinely in an attempt at dumping my feelings into a book when I felt like I wasn’t able to fully satiate my words), or even just completing homework, if my handwriting didn't look just right…didn't have consistency in the size or font, or really…didn't offer an organized and succinct matching feeling I wanted it to have — it wasn’t abnormal to find me reprinting my writing, essentially starting all over again, just…because. Because it didn't leave a good feeling not to.

Possessing a deep empathy for creatures and inanimate objects (like a spoon), but not human beings.

I had empathy for human beings of course, it was just often harder to relate to/process/express.

I will never forget the moment my mother sat me and my brother down before bed to have the ‘divorce talk’. I was 7, and my brother was 4. My mother…bless her heart…has always been known for her attention-starved, martyr-like, theatrical displays of expression, and this particular episode of the Angie-show, didn’t disappoint.

She sat beside us, crying loud and uncontrollably, apologizing, and squeezing my hand so incredibly tight that I thought it might break. My brother, like most 4 year olds, couldn't handle his mother’s bellowing tears and emotions, became frightened, and began to cry frantically in sync. I however, remember like it was yesterday, sitting frozen-like, watching intensely…all the behaviors happening around me. Confused, and not sure whether I was supposed to be crying my heart out, or angry, or upset in general. I wasn't sure how I was supposed to act, nor was I even sure what I felt inside. I knew I didn't feel bad necesarily. Not because I was an evil, empty, feeling-less child, but because I was still processing. Often times though, it was expected of me to instantly process and react ‘normal’, with no patience or second-thought as to why I would be capable of responding or feeling differently.

Neurotypical expected divorce reaction = sad, crying, aching heart…real-time, in the moment. That’s, ‘normal’.

Note to self: next time just pretend. (Ahhh…pretending…for another article).

Retreating/Hiding in small spaces.

A favorite past-time…creating forts or small spaces to ‘live in’.

I spent so much time as a kid creating secret-lairs, forts, and tucked away tiny spaces to exist in, away from the world. I would nest in these spaces, curating them exactly as my minds-eye saw them…and furnishing with all of my special interest toys, art supplies, books, or gadgets. They always were ‘homey’ and comfortable…with pillows, blankets, and intentional decor. I loved spending time in the spaces and they became an escape into a comforting fantasy-world I would create (IE: I had control of). I vividly remember a period where I transformed my entire closet into a hidden fort, and didn’t tell anyone what I had done, where I was, or what I was doing. It was entirely secret and lasted a long while. My after-school hideout. Looking back…I don't know if I ever uncovered to anyone the existence of that fort (Let’s just say, I don't remember inviting them over to my ‘house’ during that particular fort-phase).

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