“It was. I cried when I found out. But then I immediately arranged to have a one-night stand with someone from a dating app.” I sit straighter, trying to make myself look bold and indifferent, but my muscles tighten as I brace myself for her condemnation.
“I might have done the same thing, in your shoes,” she says. “How did it go?”
At her casual acceptance of my attempt at revenge sex, my stomach muscles loosen a notch. Still, I struggle to describe my time with Quan. He’s been on my mind nonstop, what we did—and didn’t do—and I’ve been restless and extra absentminded all week. This morning, I forgot I’d left my contacts in last night, and I stuck in another pair. I thought I was going blind for an entire hour before I realized what I’d done.
“It wasn’t a success,” I say finally. “We didn’t . . . you know.”
Jennifer gives me a commiserating look. “That happens. But that’s the nice thing about one-night stands. If they don’t go well, you just brush them off and keep on with your life.”
I nod in agreement. “That’s what I had in mind. I thought a lot about what you said last time about masking, people pleasing, and worrying too much about what others think. I hoped that I could use the time during a one-night stand to experiment.”
“That’s such an interesting approach. Did it work?” Jennifer asks.
“A little, but I was so nervous for most of the time that I couldn’t think clearly. And then in the end, it was just . . .” I shake my head. “People are—they’re so confusing. Sometimes, if I think about things long enough and hard enough, I can understand them. But other times, no matter how hard I try, it’s impossible.”
“I wanted to talk to you about that, actually,” Jennifer says, and there’s an expression on her face that I haven’t seen before. I can’t read it.
She gets up and goes to the desk on the other side of the room to sift through one of the big drawers. She extracts a thick manila folder, which she hands to me before sitting back down in the chair across from me.
“This is for you,” she says. “Go on and take a look.”
Feeling strange, I open the folder. There’s a paperback on top of a stack of printouts held together with various staples and a large paper clip. I run my fingertips over the book’s title, Aspergirls: Empowering Females with Asperger Syndrome, and give her a questioning look.
“I recommend you read that book in your free time,” she says. “It’s not a comprehensive source by any means, but I do think parts of it will speak to you.”
“Okay. I’ll read it,” I say, though I’m still not sure why she wants me to read it. I mean, there’s one obvious reason, but I discount that immediately. There has to be another reason.
Because I’m curious, I set the book aside and inspect the printouts. In bold print, the top sheet reads “Understanding Your Autism.” Various sentences and bullet points have been highlighted in yellow, but when I read them, I don’t understand their meaning. All I can think about is the title.
“Based on what you’ve told me about your current issues and childhood, and what I’ve personally seen over the past months with you, it’s my opinion that you’re on the autism spectrum, Anna,” Jennifer says.
In a flash, it’s like the air is sucked from the room. A loud ringing fills my ears. My thoughts narrow to those words—autism spectrum. She continues speaking, but my brain is too shaken to pick up everything. I catch only bits and pieces.
Difficulty socializing.
Need for routine.
Repetitive motions.
Sensory issues.
Consuming interests.
Meltdowns.
She’s describing autism, I realize. It also sounds eerily like she’s describing me, but that’s simply not possible.
“I can’t be autistic,” I say, interrupting her. “I hate math. I don’t have a photographic memory. I fit in. I have friends, a boyfriend, even my mom’s friends like me. I’m nothing like Sheldon from The Big Bang Theory or—or—or the brother in Rain Man.”
“None of those things are diagnostic criteria. They’re stereotypes and misperceptions. And I believe your fitting in is a result of a great deal of masking on your part. It’s common for high-functioning autistic women like you to acquire late diagnoses because they ‘pass,’ but it’s not healthy. I’m concerned you’re on your way to autistic burnout—if you’re not already there,” Jennifer says with a worried frown.
I have no response. Her observati
on has literally made me speechless.
We get through the rest of the session, but when I step outside the building, I don’t remember much. I squint up at the blinding brightness of the sky. It’s the same sky that’s always been above me, but it feels different now. Everything feels different. The sun, the wind in the trees, the pavement beneath my shoes.
There’s a green bench to the side. I’ve walked by it for months without once sitting on it. I sit on it now, open the book Jennifer gave me, and read. Hours pass. Clouds race over the sun, momentarily shrouding me in darkness before passing on. In these pages, I read about other women, their experiences, their difficulties, their strengths. But it feels exactly like I’m reading about myself—the way I copy my peers so I fit in; the way I don’t understand them but I pretend; the way I used to hide under the table at parties to avoid the noise and the chaos and the stressful social interactions, much to my parents’ embarrassment; the way I need rigid structure in my day or I can’t function; the way I can’t stand to focus on something unless it’s interesting to me and then I get tunnel vision; even the way I’m tapping my teeth right now. I’m stimming. In secret. In broad daylight. I’ve been doing it my entire life.