Teachers and family rejected my cry for help: it was almost too late

Growing up, I navigated a world that felt strange and unfair. My experiences – and people’s reactions to my reactions to my experiences – often left me feeling isolated and misunderstood.

I struggled to understand why my reactions seemed exaggerated to others, and why they didn’t have the same reactions I did. I panicked and cried when an adult tried to get me to do something I didn’t fully understand and asked him to explain it over and over again.

It seemed that other children had no problem completing tasks without knowing all the information, although I also suspected that they knew all that information, and that it was information that I needed to know as well.

For years, my parents’ doctors and teachers dismissed me when I was struggling and begging for help. My parents yelled at me and told me I was fine and to stop crying, so I ran and hid when I was upset.

When I had panic attacks and cried in class, I was told that I was disruptive and making a scene on purpose, and I was sent to the office or the hallway to deal with my sobbing myself. My GP, with whom I shared my personal feelings, always attributed it to anxiety and did not take my pain seriously until I attempted suicide.

After begging and pleading with my primary care doctor, I was finally referred to a child psychiatrist, who was the first doctor to assess my mental health and work with me on how to be genuine with myself and others.

When I sat in that hospital room chair at age 15 and received my autism diagnosis, it felt like someone poured a bucket of cold water on me and extinguished the fire that had engulfed me all these years.

The diagnosis served as a beacon of validation and confirmed that my overwhelming experiences were real and valid within the context of autism. It felt like someone stood up for me for the first time.

It was a pivotal moment of liberation, as I no longer felt pressured to conform to society’s expectations of how I should behave and who I should be. Instead, I got that warm hug of acceptance that I had always longed for all my life, somewhere deep inside, and I felt like for once I was actually able to survive in the world.

But my diagnosis didn’t solve everything right away. Finding out I was autistic didn’t change the fact that I was autistic, every day, in real life, and the days went on and on. The fear did not stop. But now I knew why I was having a hard time. My life made more sense and I received more guidance from professionals to make it work, with my diagnosis as a tool to give me that help.

I no longer felt compelled to make myself uncomfortable or stay in situations that hurt me. I didn’t have to laugh at my mother’s snide comments or suppress my discomfort with physical contact. I didn’t have to make an effort to maintain eye contact with my father.

One of the most profound effects of my autism diagnosis was my sense of belonging. My diagnosis brought me into contact with so many vibrant communities of individuals like me, who shared similar perspectives and experiences.

I found comfort and solidarity in knowing that others understood the ins and outs of my sensory issues, anxious thoughts, and the feelings of disconnection I felt from those around me. This newfound sense of community became a source of strength and support, allowing me to have confidence in who I am, knowing that I am not alone.

My diagnosis was a lawyer and a security guard who stood by me and let me explore my passions freely, whereas before someone could pull me away and tell me I was wrong, or stupid, or crazy, too dramatic or annoying. My diagnosis gave me the freedom to explore myself without guilt, fear or reservation. And every day I explore and accept myself more radically and unapologetically, and have the courage to say ‘no’ much more often. I am finally the driver of my own life.

In retrospect, I know that my autism diagnosis was not just a label; it has stopped me from deciding that the world was too difficult to move forward, and has unlocked resources to support me in living the life I was always meant to live, authentically and authentically. insolent.

Paige Layle was diagnosed with autism spectrum disorder (ASD) at the age of 15 and is now an advocate and influencer for better understanding autism on social media. Now in her 20s, Paige is an autism acceptance activist and advocate on her social media channels, in person at autism rallies and speeches, and in her writing as the bestselling author of But Everyone Feels This Way.

All opinions expressed are those of the author.

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