What I Mean When I Say I'm Autistic: Unpuzzling a Life on the Autism Spectrum

by Annie Kotowicz

As an adult, I still struggle to figure out what is and isn’t required in various situations. I probably work harder than I need to, because I haven’t mastered the art of what to prioritize and what to rush through or skip.

It wasn’t until my thirties that I learned some people correct factual errors as a power move. That explains why teachers rarely appreciated it when I pointed out their mistakes—they saw it as an attempt to usurp their authority. I also got similar reactions from classmates, colleagues, and others whose authority was equal to mine, because they assumed I was flexing on them. Nothing could be further from the truth. For me, showing someone where they’re wrong feels like keeping them safe from the consequences of their mistake. It’s a collaborative pursuit of truth, not a power move.

But the standard I prefer to use is the size of the feeling. A big reaction to a big feeling isn’t an overreaction—it’s an accurate reaction. It’s only overreacting if it’s a big reaction to a small feeling, because then it isn’t communicating how the person really feels.

I’ve heard that you can’t control what happens to you, but you can control how you react. That isn’t always true for me. Often, I have more control over what happens to me than how I react to it. I can choose to avoid some stressful situations, and I can choose to exit others. These may sound like reactions, but I see them as proactive, preventative actions. I have less control when I’m reactive, and more control when I’m proactive.

I feel like my brain has two settings, which I call “flexible mode” and “safe mode.” I can usually choose which one I want to be in, though it takes some time to switch back and forth. Both have pros and cons.

I wish it would say to police officers, “I strictly follow every rule to the best of my ability. If it seems like I’m not following directions, it’s because I process audio more slowly under stress. Either that, or I feel confused because what you’re saying contradicts what I thought I was expected to do. Please slow down, assume the best, and rephrase your words if I seem to have misunderstood.” I wish an autism bracelet would say to paramedics, “I don’t know what’s happening, and I find that terrifying. Please tell me where we’re going, and exactly what to expect. Also, many kinds of physical sensations are uncomfortable for me, and that can be hard to distinguish from pain, so I may not know how to answer when you ask me if something hurts.” To doctors, dentists, mechanics, and other professionals, I wish an autism bracelet would say, “Please explain everything in detail, without skipping information that you assume is common knowledge. List every step I need to take, and include reasons for any recommendations you give. Regardless of how clearly and directly you think you’ve communicated, please understand that I may still need to ask follow-up questions.”

I enjoy the way my thoughts analyze patterns and identify structures that bring order out of chaos.

There are many people who like me, and many people who don’t. For most of my life, I figured that one group was wrong, but I could never be certain which one. Either I was likable, and some people just didn’t know me well enough to see it, or I was unlikable, and some people were just patient with me. It took until my mid-twenties to learn that likability is a question of compatibility, not a question of identity. It took another few years to learn that what makes me less compatible with some people, and more compatible with others, is a beautiful neurotype that I would never want to lose. I now believe that there is no such thing as “being likable” or “being unlikable.” If beauty is in the eye of the beholder, then likability is in the mind of the liker.