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When I was a little kid, I could be quiet around my peers, especially in casual, social situations. To some adults, it seemed like I was grumpily or shyly refusing to participate; to others, I simply seemed disengaged.
But I was often very engaged. Proof of that would arrive when my mom, dad or some other poor, unsuspecting adult asked about my day. I would respond with a verbose stream of consciousness, recalling every detail of human interaction I’d observed all day: who got in trouble for what; a funny thing a classmate said; an incident that frustrated the teacher; an offhand comment from a lunch lady; a kid who was absent (again).
That’s the essence of the writing I love to do now: Go somewhere, watch people do things, analyze it all — and report back.
I learned that I am autistic earlier this year. Autism has been in the news lately, in the stupidest, most destructive way. So it’s a good time for autistics who have the safety and ability to tell our stories to do so. I don’t speak for all autistic people, but I do think my experience is somewhat representative of a certain type of late-diagnosed autistic adult.
Autism has shaped every moment, every interaction, every thought, every relationship, every problem, every solution, every failure and every accomplishment in my life. I am as autistic as I am human. My choice of career or, at least, the very particular way I approach my job … well, that too is autism.
Those of us who learn to “mask” or pass escape detection because, among other factors, we are able to make a careful study of human interaction. I feel an overwhelming urge to tell people about the things that interest me, a common trait among autistic people. And, like virtually all autistic people, my interests are intense. One of my “special interests,” as autistic people’s seemingly obsessive interests are often called, is synagogue life and Jewish ritual.
Add up all of the above, and you have a recipe for a very specific journalist, who spends years reviewing new Jewish liturgy and analyzing minute moments and details at synagogues he’s visiting for the first time. If you’ve ever liked the things I write about Jewish ritual and religion as they are lived on the ground here in the Bay Area, you can thank autism for that.
Without directly addressing acetaminophen’s supposed turn to the Dark Side or our conspiracy theory-addled disgrace of a Health and Human Services secretary, let me just say this:
Autism has always been here. It has no cure, and I do not want one. It is inherent to my brain and my being; I would not be me without it.
This is not to say that autism brings me nothing but joy and gainful employment. In fact, according to a 2021 study, about 40% of autistic adults in America are unemployed, and those who are employed tend to earn less and switch jobs more frequently. We are also more likely to suffer from clinical depression, high anxiety, addiction and self-harm, and we are more likely to die by suicide. (Though, to be clear, those mental health outcomes have more to do with the way autistic people are treated than anything inherent to autistic brains.)
I am gainfully employed now, but I have not always been. And my mental health is, let’s say, a mixed bag. I was on medical leave for three months this summer because I was burned out. Autistic burnout is a distinct phenomenon, terrifying while you’re in the middle of it, that can cause fatigue, memory problems, loss of skills (including hard-won social skills), increased executive dysfunction and more. In my case, I was perpetually tired, having trouble thinking clearly and much quicker to reach that state of total emotional dysregulation called an autistic meltdown.
It’s funny that people like me used to be called “high-functioning” autistics. I don’t feel highly functional. This summer, I often felt barely capable of living independently.
My life didn’t collapse completely because I’m lucky. Not only do I have supportive family, friends and bosses, the people of California made it possible for me to take 12 weeks of paid disability leave, paying about 70% of my salary while I was out. (That’s what that SDI deduction on your paycheck is for.) It is frightening to contemplate what would have happened if I lived in one of the 37 U.S. states that have no mandatory paid medical leave.
Autism is complicated. It brings me overwhelming joy just as often as it brings me unbearable pain. It’s different for each person. Though many of us live independently, many are not able to; either way, all deserve dignity. Even if there were a way to prevent more autistic people from being born in the future (and even if one thought that was desirable), there would still be millions of us here now, trying to live our lives and mostly not being met with the support and empathy we need to thrive.
The politicians, influencers and researchers who are trying to “cure” autism (mostly hucksters and eugenicists) or discover its secret cause have no apparent interest in making the lives of real autistic people easier. To them, our existence is a problem to be fixed. To me, a society structurally incapable of supporting neurodivergent and disabled people is the real problem.
Autism isn’t going anywhere. I’m not going anywhere — and neither are my interests. The nerdy, detail-ridden reports will continue.