I leave crowded spaces. I switch off discordant music. I wear headphones at restaurants. I openly express my hatred of the saxophone and electric guitar solos. I don’t allow important emotional conversations to take place in cafes with polished concrete floors.
My son has an autism diagnosis. I do not. Yet the more I learn about ASD and witness the lived experience of my boy, the more convinced I am that I have undiagnosed autism.
There is too much about my childhood - and my adulthood - that ticks too many boxes for me not to be open to the idea that I’m “on the spectrum”.
This is completely fine; I only wish I had been able to give it a name earlier in life.