becoming who you’ve always been
There’s an incontrovertible truth about growing up autistic, especially as a woman who wasn’t diagnosed until the age of 50:
We mask ourselves.
From an early age, we learn to pretend to understand what’s going on around us. To prevent being left out, we fake understanding social cues, when in reality we can be deeply confused. We pretend that the bright, buzzing fluorescent lights don’t bother us, because we don’t want to draw attention to ourselves or be labeled as “fussy” or “difficult.” (We still get labeled.) Same goes for loud or irritating sounds, vibrational frequencies, food tastes and textures, fabrics and clothing items . . . The list goes on.
Being a “weird misfit” in a world which is literally not designed for us leads many autists to adopt an almost permanent game of “let’s pretend,” because it’s easier and safer than standing out and being different — particularly when inclusion, academic grades, family and social stability, and income/employment/survival depend on being perceived as “normal.”
Last week, I was talking with some friends about masking — and about the many positive things that come along with being neurodivergent. Someone said, “It’s like I spent all my adolescence figuring out who I could pass as instead of who I was.”
That stopped me cold.
I thought back to who I was as an adolescent: a straight-A student at a girls’ religious prep school in Virginia. A kid who’d checked out every science fiction book the school library had, and who read obsessively about NASA missions and programs. When the school library needed to dispose of back issues of Sky & Telescope magazines, they approached me to ask if I wanted them.
I had a thing for space. I was the weird girl, the sci-fi nerd who preferred Battlestar Galactica to experimenting with cosmetics, and who took a Greyhound bus to Washington, DC, to attend a Star Trek convention entirely by herself. All of those pursuits were solitary.
My “peculiarities” were mostly tolerated, occasionally encouraged. But none of my classmates could relate — few of the adults, either. I was a curiosity, and I got excluded, a lot. As I grew older, I read and watched less science fiction. I didn’t pay as much attention to the latest satellite launch. I didn’t look at the stars as often.
It wasn’t a conscious decision to try to fit in better, but it sure looks that way in retrospect. Call it survival in a world of tribalism. Of course, I never truly fit anywhere, and it’s taking a great deal of deliberate, dedicated effort to reclaim what I lost.
When the world shut down in 2020, I wasn’t the only one who turned to astronomy as a constructive, solo, at-home hobby. Lying on the decrepit picnic table in the dark and looking up, I was reminded that I have always been interested in astronomy, mythology, and storytelling. My childhood obsession with the Greek myths fits perfectly with my fascination with the stars and my early (and continued) attempts to write stories of my own.
Over the weeks and months that followed, a few personal truths came into focus:
- It’s of core importance to me to be a part of something bigger than myself.
- I revel in the connection to ancient storytellers who looked into the sky and saw archetypes and legends in the stars.
- Astronomy is both ancient and futuristic; the sky reminds us of who we’ve been and shows us what might be possible in our future, as a species and as individuals.
Under the sky on a clear night, I embrace who I’ve always been. Here there is no judgment or exclusion, and no pressure to conform. The stars don’t require me to conceal or camouflage anything about myself; they don’t care either way. Instead, I am a witness to and a participant in an unfolding cosmic tapestry.
This is where I fit. There is nothing bigger than the universe, and every one of us has a place within it.
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IMAGES
1. Delphinus constellation, by Giuseppe Donatiello
2. Five-year-old Jen receiving an Apollo rocket toy for Christmas, dated 24 December 1974.