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Growing up, I never knew I was autistic.
How is that possible? Well, to be honest: my particular brain malfunction is pretty rare, very high-functioning, and can be—and in fact, was—mistaken for the typical social awkwardness of someone much too smart for his own damn good.
I'd started reading at an unbelievably young age, but had serious problems dealing with my own age group. I couldn't figure how to fit in, and eventually stopped trying; I became sarcastic, insensitive and often quite hurtful—traits which, as one can imagine, didn't exactly get me invited to a lot of parties. My parents chalked it up to my having my nose pressed into a book all the time, and figured I would grow out of it when I was older.
(I did, though not in a way that anyone would've predicted. But that's a story for another time.)
When I was in second grade, my mother decided to go back to college. She brought me in with her once; it happened to have been on the day her psychology class was discussing a book called Dibs: In Search of Self, a doctor's account of her work with an autistic seven-year-old.
I was seven years old; to me, it made perfect sense to participate in the class discussion.
When we got home, my mother gave me the book. I devoured it in less than two days, and over the years found myself returning to it every so often. Even though it had been written from the doctor's perspective, I always felt more of an affinity for young Dibs; like me, the kids his own age couldn't figure him out—but there was at least one adult who did.
And so it went until college, at which point I wound up packing away the majority of my books, intending to come back for them once I had the room.
Fast forward twelve years. One of my friends had finally managed to convince me to split the cost of renting half a house, which in turn allowed me to retrieve my by-then rather dusty collection. By that point, my experiences with various headshrinkers had begun to head toward a surprising diagnosis: hyperlexia, an autism spectrum disorder so rare that even today, my spellchecker still thinks I'm making the word up.
Talk about a paradigm shift! I hadn't been socially inept growing up; I'd been autistic.
And just as I was starting to wrap my mind around that concept, guess which book got unpacked.
But this time around, Dibs—and Dibs—carried a much deeper meaning. The young boy I'd rooted for, the one who had fought so hard to fit in, turned out to have been my brother in spirit all along.
I still thumb through the book from time to time, whenever I need a reminder that being 'different' is not a defect, nor an insurmountable obstacle. After all, if his disability could be overcome through determination, then there's nothing to stand in my own way.
How is that possible? Well, to be honest: my particular brain malfunction is pretty rare, very high-functioning, and can be—and in fact, was—mistaken for the typical social awkwardness of someone much too smart for his own damn good.
I'd started reading at an unbelievably young age, but had serious problems dealing with my own age group. I couldn't figure how to fit in, and eventually stopped trying; I became sarcastic, insensitive and often quite hurtful—traits which, as one can imagine, didn't exactly get me invited to a lot of parties. My parents chalked it up to my having my nose pressed into a book all the time, and figured I would grow out of it when I was older.
(I did, though not in a way that anyone would've predicted. But that's a story for another time.)
When I was in second grade, my mother decided to go back to college. She brought me in with her once; it happened to have been on the day her psychology class was discussing a book called Dibs: In Search of Self, a doctor's account of her work with an autistic seven-year-old.
I was seven years old; to me, it made perfect sense to participate in the class discussion.
When we got home, my mother gave me the book. I devoured it in less than two days, and over the years found myself returning to it every so often. Even though it had been written from the doctor's perspective, I always felt more of an affinity for young Dibs; like me, the kids his own age couldn't figure him out—but there was at least one adult who did.
And so it went until college, at which point I wound up packing away the majority of my books, intending to come back for them once I had the room.
Fast forward twelve years. One of my friends had finally managed to convince me to split the cost of renting half a house, which in turn allowed me to retrieve my by-then rather dusty collection. By that point, my experiences with various headshrinkers had begun to head toward a surprising diagnosis: hyperlexia, an autism spectrum disorder so rare that even today, my spellchecker still thinks I'm making the word up.
Talk about a paradigm shift! I hadn't been socially inept growing up; I'd been autistic.
And just as I was starting to wrap my mind around that concept, guess which book got unpacked.
But this time around, Dibs—and Dibs—carried a much deeper meaning. The young boy I'd rooted for, the one who had fought so hard to fit in, turned out to have been my brother in spirit all along.
I still thumb through the book from time to time, whenever I need a reminder that being 'different' is not a defect, nor an insurmountable obstacle. After all, if his disability could be overcome through determination, then there's nothing to stand in my own way.
Literature
Autism
Don't treat me like a patient
All I want to do is run around
Don't talk to me like I am deaf
I can hear it loudly, every sound
Please don't judge me
If you see me cover my ears
It's the way I block out everything out
All the threats and all my fears
I might not communicate like the rest of you
Or look you in the eye
You might tut and moan and bitch
But never ask me why
The truth is that I am different
I just want you to see
That I'm not rude, impolite or weird
Under it all, I am just me
Literature
Autism
Autism.
My definitions for this word are:
Brain Damage
Imperfection
Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD)
Mental Illness
Frustration
Slow Learning
Incomprehension
Dense
Attention Defesit Disorder (ADD)
Intolerance
Paranoia
I am cursed with autism.
I am confused whether my thinking is normal or not.
I am the only one.
I see teens with incredible thinking power.
I see science everywhere.
I see sin.
My mind carries no common sense.
My mind can never come up with the right words for me to say.
My mind is imperfect.
I repeat real life events I see over and over in my head.
I concentrate on hatred passed to me from other people
Literature
Autism Misconceptions Essay
The Growing Misconceptions of the Autism Disorder
Do you know someone with autism? Recent studies tell us it is likely you do, whether you know it or not. As the prevalence of autism grows, there are many misconceptions surrounding what this disorder actually means. This can be very damaging to how it is viewed in America’s or any society. There are many celebrities today that work to advocate for autism awareness. It is always important, however, for individuals to check their sources before believing everything society tells them. People have always been afraid of anything viewed as different, a
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"Uncovering Myself, A Memoir" by =BornBlitzed
Artist's comments:
"The book (Dibs: In Search Of Self, by Dr. Virginia M. Axline) is still in print; I recommend it to anyone who is—or is considering—working with young children of any kind. It was first published in 1964, as her doctoral thesis on mainstreaming a child with what nowadays would be called Asperger's syndrome; and many parts of it are just as relevant today as they were forty years ago.
And for the record, most writers consider a flash to be anything up to five hundred words; this one clocks in at:
*WordCount: 498 words."
"Uncovering Myself, A Memoir" by =BornBlitzed
Artist's comments:
"The book (Dibs: In Search Of Self, by Dr. Virginia M. Axline) is still in print; I recommend it to anyone who is—or is considering—working with young children of any kind. It was first published in 1964, as her doctoral thesis on mainstreaming a child with what nowadays would be called Asperger's syndrome; and many parts of it are just as relevant today as they were forty years ago.
And for the record, most writers consider a flash to be anything up to five hundred words; this one clocks in at:
*WordCount: 498 words."
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