How well do we know ourselves?
Two years ago, after encouragement from my wife and advice from my therapist, I took the autism diagnostic observation schedule assessment. Also called Ados, it's a tool used to help clinicians assess autism.
There were signs and I had my suspicions, especially during my teen years, but I hadn’t done anything about it.
After undergoing the assessment, I was diagnosed with autism spectrum disorder or ASD. I am on the high-functioning end of the spectrum, meaning I can perform many tasks and appear like a neurotypical person would.
I had mixed feelings about the results. On the one hand, a lot of what I found complicated and difficult in my life suddenly made sense. On the other, I was worried about being seen as inferior, if my diagnosis was shared.
Over the past two years, I have tried to understand myself better, now that I know there is something within me that makes some things harder to do.
One thing I learnt during therapy is the concept of “masking”. This is defined as “a strategy used by some autistic people, consciously or unconsciously, to appear non-autistic in order to blend in and be more accepted in society”, according to the UK-based National Autistic Society.
I realised I probably have been masking my whole life. I now understand why I didn’t call people as often as I should have; why I avoided social interactions and events; and why I felt especially exhausted after having done any of that.
But discovering that I mask did not mean I could suddenly stop doing it. And to avoid it would mean either opening myself up fully to people I don’t necessarily trust, or withdrawing from many societal expectations, which was not really an option.
People talk about a social battery. In my case, it is a “function as normal” battery. I just need to understand how to best refill it when it runs out; how to make sure that I am doing my job well and being present for my wife and my family.
Earlier this year, I rediscovered the joy of WWE. I had watched professional wrestling in my teen years, but stopped by the time I went to university. When tuning in again, I realised I was really enjoying it. Not like I did when I was young, but as sort of a soap opera ballet.
It’s the mixture of reality and acting that makes it so engaging and fun. Seeing elite athletes perform incredible stunts all while portraying a character is incredibly enjoyable.
I had the same experience with Formula One. I had watched it with my best friend in high school, but stopped by the time I went to university. Recently, my wife was curious about the sport and we began watching every race.
Between wrestling and F1, I have been finding reliable ways to refill my battery. For a while, though, something was still missing – a daily filler, or an activity that was simple but focused. Something I could recharge with.
At the start of the current F1 season, Lego released sets of the 10 racing teams. I was intrigued. I hadn’t put together a Lego set for a long time, but my love for F1 convinced me to go ahead.
I built one. Then two. By the end of the first week, I had built five of the 10 sets and wanted to keep going. I was building one set a day, and it was giving me about an hour of serenity and the kind of focus I couldn’t get doing anything else.
Three months later, my home is full of Lego sets. I have had to apologise to my wife for suddenly taking up so much space in the house, but I'm also thankful for her understanding, enthusiasm and support.
Cracking open a new set gives me a feeling of unbridled joy. The build process calms me, so much so that I even decided to write this column while building a set. When I complete each set, there’s a sense of sadness that it’s over. But this is overshadowed by the feeling of accomplishment.
I don’t know why I wanted to put this out there for the first time. I suppose it’s partly an appreciation for the things I love that have helped me cope with the difficulties of everyday life, and partly because I needed to get it off my chest and not be afraid of sharing who I really am.
Autism isn’t a defect. It just means people who have it require a little bit more patience and understanding. The process of understanding myself better is a continuing journey, perhaps a lifelong one. For now, I’m grateful and happy to have found things that help me recognise myself every day.
