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This First Person article is by Julie Green, a writer who was diagnosed with autism in her forties. For more information about CBC’s First Person stories, see the frequently asked questions
In 2012, my three-year-old son was diagnosed with autism. At the time, his diagnosis felt all-consuming.
It was the steepest learning curve because the only thing I knew about autism came from watching Dustin Hoffman in Rain manIn other words: a stereotype.
As I got to know my son over the next few years, I realized how much we were alike. So many of his quirks were my quirks. The way he saw patterns in everything. His love of the written word. His perfectionism and low tolerance for changes in routine. How easily he would get overwhelmed and fall apart. His sensitivity to smells and sounds and certain substances were my sensitivities.
The more I learned about the unique workings of his brain, the more I learned about my own brain. And I started to question everything I thought I knew about myself up until that moment. The constant fiddling with my hair and picking at my nails was not mood – or was it? The way I rehearse and ruminate conversations in my head wasn’t autism – or was it?
As a girl I was painfully shy and overly sensitive and sometimes (dare I say it) weird. I could be intense, picky and demanding. I suffered from frequent migraines and apparently could not cope with crowded places and social gatherings. Even the birthdays and Christmases I looked forward to were usually a bust. And yet I could talk and always had at least one boyfriend, so in my ignorance I assumed I couldn’t be on the spectrum.
I didn’t look like the characters I’d seen on TV or read about in books. It never occurred to me that I might be autistic because so little was known about how it manifested in girls when I was growing up. Often, autism in women was completely missed or misdiagnosed such as anxiety, obsessive-compulsive disorder, depression or borderline personality disorder.
Long after my son’s diagnosis—nine years, to be exact—I finally put the pieces together. During the pandemic, my suspicions were confirmed after an assessment at the Centre for Addiction and Mental Health in Toronto.
I’m autistic. Of course I am. Autism is highly hereditary. And it can look like so differentIt is a spectrum after all.
Despite our differences, my son and I feel connected in ways that feel personal to us. There was the year we went nuts and listened obsessively to the Beatles and nothing but the Beatles. Sometimes we’d play a single song on repeat for days. The way we can both eat peanut butter every day and never get tired of it. The passion we share for dogs, 80s music, and John Green novels.
I can intuitively sense what my child needs in a way that I probably wouldn’t be able to if my brain wasn’t wired the same way. I can tell when I’m out shopping if that shirt is too scratchy or if that smell that no one else can detect makes it impossible for him to be in that environment. Autism gives me a sixth sense that has nothing to do with seeing ghosts and everything to do with being neurodivergent.
Of course, being an autistic mother is no walk in the park. I struggle with my mental health – I always have. Postpartum depression hit me hard after my son was born.
Many autistic mothers like me feel guilty and blame ourselves for passing on our genes. I am still so afraid of being judged and criticized that I often mask or hide my autism, especially around professionals. I can feel isolated, yet reluctant to ask for help. I can feel like a terrible mother, even though I never fail to put my child’s needs above my own.
I share my stories of rejection and bullying with my son, and how I deal with difficult situations as an adult. I do my best to show how to stand up for yourself in a world that, despite all the awareness campaigns, is still not easy to navigate when you are neurodivergent.
I teach my son the tricks of the trade: how to breathe through his mouth in smelly public places and how to air-dry his hands instead of using a hand dryer to avoid sensory overload. When he has to fake eye contact, which can be very uncomfortable, I tell him to alternate between looking at someone’s eyes and looking at their nose or forehead. I teach him how to regulate his emotions by taking deep breaths.
Sensory toolkits for first responders can be used by anyone in need, to help people feel more at ease in a high-stress situation. Paul Walsh, CEO of the Autism Society of Newfoundland and Labrador, says noise-canceling headphones, a whiteboard and markers, and name tags can go a long way in helping neurodiverse people and those with autism.
Most of all, I encourage him to know and love who he is: funny and brilliant and unapologetically himself. This is something I’m still working on. I’m so used to masking myself and beating myself up for who I am. I hope he will have the benefit of knowing he is autistic from an early age and tap into a supportive community that didn’t exist for me.
If I hadn’t learned about my child’s neurodivergence, I would have spent the rest of my life confused and ashamed of my own differences.
Despite everything I teach him, it is my son who teaches me the most valuable lesson of all: be yourself and stop hiding.
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