I can’t say this on other platforms for many reasons, but as written in my bio, I am proud to be autistic and to have Asperger’s.
February 6th has just passed, the day that in Italy is celebrated as “Mismatched Socks Day”.
We’re already off to a bad start.
Exactly—because if you try to make an autistic child, even one who is very high-functioning, wear a pair of socks with different textures and colors, it’s pure panic. I, like every other day, wore ribbed wool-and-cashmere socks, monochrome, neatly folded and with a defined texture.
But it’s not the day itself that bothers me. On the contrary, I think it’s a nice way to explain diversity to children.
What bothered me was seeing some adults repeat the gesture who... I can't say they are doing it believing in the cause.
For example, a girl who has always treated me with extreme superficiality and very little tact.
You might say: did she know you were Asperger’s? No, of course not—maybe I didn’t even know it myself back then. But I’m talking about something else. I’m talking about empathy. Too often we end up excluding people who are literally doing their best just to exist.
I work, I have a boyfriend, I travel often, I have a hectic life. And I am autistic. I cope thanks to medication, because my mind too often takes overly complicated and absurd paths to solve even the simplest problem.
And sometimes I’m told: you’re not autistic enough.
For once: autism is a spectrum! What do you know about the days spent at school with my face against the wall because of too much noise? About how at restaurants I struggle to eat because of too many stimuli? That everything always has to be neat and perfect, starting with myself, otherwise I panic? That the other night I stayed up reading the history of Golden Goose Brand (because I love fashion) due to hyperfixation?
I understand that there are people with more severe conditions.
And I function—barely, by trial and error, out of breath.
I am autistic. I didn't choose it. But I am proud to be what I am.