From the Outback to the Spectrum

Outback Australia was a tough place to be an undiagnosed autistic child in the 1990s. Convinced I was just the wrong person in the wrong place, an outsider in a small rural town, my childhood was characterized by daydreams of escapism. Two common daydreams were leaving for the city to become a big-shot lawyer, or being “found” by the people I was “meant to be with” who would take me back to my homeland or even my home planet. My grandiose daydreams were a source of shame; they emanated from an inner truth that I was somehow different and “special” in a society that prized humility and conformity to defined social roles.

Fast forward to 2024, and it all makes sense.

Listening to the stories of other adult diagnosed autistic people is like looking into an uncomfortably accurate mirror. All the private feelings and experiences that I thought were unique, actually formed part of a broader, common experience. I was suddenly hit with the realisation that I am “special” and different, but I’m no longer alone. I now know why I’m special and different rather than continuing to exist in the fog of mystery.

Until that realisation, my life involved incredible struggles that I believed everyone else also faced. I thought they were simply all handling it much better than me. An “old soul” as a child, my struggles being understood and taken seriously led me to develop an obsession with language and communication. I had an unusually serious demeanour for a child, and intensely strong reactions to anyone “patronising” me. These traits formed useful foundations for my legal and political careers, where my abilities and traits were treated as relatively normal. Instead of being criticised for being pedantic, like I was as a child, people accepted it because they expected that sort of attention to detail from a lawyer.

In a quest to accommodate myself I also became supremely ambitious. If I was in charge, I could control the things I struggled with. If I was in charge, people had to be on time, they had to stick to scheduled plans, keep the temperature comfortable, communicate in writing instead of through meetings, and more. In a position of power, I wouldn’t be called rude for listening without making eye contact, or for dressing in comfortable clothes. I wouldn’t be shamed for stimming if I was at the top of the social hierarchy. I unwittingly realised that I could accommodate myself by using neurotypical reverence for social hierarchy to get what I needed. I just needed to be highest on the social hierarchy; easy, right?

Undiagnosed, I didn’t know what I needed. I had been told my whole life that these needs were simply personal preferences or personal failings. I pushed through when teachers or managers publicly humiliated me for “not listening” when I was actually listening intently, just not making eye contact. I suppressed my needs as “selfish preferences” and convinced myself that the sacrifices were just a necessary part of fitting in. Everyone else seemed to manage, so I needed to put aside my entitlement, and just handle it. That approach “worked” until it didn’t: the hidden cost started to overwhelm me as I sought to maintain my masking: severe depression, sex, drug, and alcohol addiction, regular suicidal ideation, exhaustion, and meltdowns, were just a few of the consequences of maintaining my social mask. I kept them hidden as long as I could, but as time marched on, each day became harder and less sustainable.

Realising I was autistic fundamentally changed everything about my life.

All the feelings I had experienced throughout my life, but I had always doubted and questioned, were suddenly verified. The struggles were real, and so were my abilities. The patterns I saw, that everyone told me weren’t real, were real; they just didn’t see them. The awkward experiences that I never understood, made sense. I didn’t need to be in charge to be accommodated anymore. I could just ask for the accommodations I needed, and I finally had the right vocabulary to ask for them.

My changed perspective opened up my world. I’ve started to develop a healthier relationship with my job, balancing work and life more reasonably, understanding that “give 100%” isn’t meant to be taken quite so literally, and seeking out the accommodations I need. I’ve started to work with other autistic colleagues through the company’s mentoring program, generating rewarding mutually supportive relationships.

I’ve embraced my special interests, even going as far as investing in a restaurant where my passions for food and beverage service, hospitality, art, architecture, interior design, antique collecting, and politics can all come together.

In my personal life, my partner, family, and friends have been in a better position to understand and support me, viewing me through a different, more understanding lens. My own lens for viewing the world has also changed, as I embrace a more compassionate view of everyone around me and their invisible struggles.

While my journey remains difficult, and the road will be rocky, having the right map for the road I’m on makes it much clearer to navigate.