Is There a Pill For That?
Sep 18
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4 min read
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Is There a Pill For That?
When I was first diagnosed with autism and started talking about it publicly, a good friend of mine who had been struggling with his own diagnosis of schizophrenia sent me a private message, asking why in the world I wouldn’t want a cure. If there were a cure for schizophrenia, he would want it immediately. There was nothing he wanted more in his life than to go back to “before” he had schizophrenia. He remembered that time period clearly. That was who he “really” was, not this person who had hallucinations and paranoid delusions and who picked at his own scalp until he bled.
I gently pointed out to him that although I had just been diagnosed (at age 46, late as many women are now being diagnosed late), I had always been autistic. There was no me from “before.” There was only me now. And much of the difficulty of being autistic comes from the pressure to conform to rules and norms that make no sense and are actually harmful.
Other difficulties came from the not so kindly delivered information all through my childhood, from well-meaning teachers and not so well-meaning peers, that how I was naturally was not acceptable and that I had to change to be more like them. I tried desperately to do just that, especially during junior high and high school, when I became savvy enough to see that walking around the playground, holding up a book of Shakespeare so I didn’t have to make eye contact with anyone, was not acceptable. I started identifying the appropriate brands of clothing I needed to wear, the hairstyles that worked, and conveying this information to my mother with a plea that she allow me to buy just one pair of Levi’s 501 Jeans.
By the time I was in my 20’s, I was highly accomplished. But other people considered me brusque, odd, or socially awkward. Indeed, I didn’t have normal social interactions. I didn’t like them. I hated meaningless small talk. I struggled with too much bright light, loud sounds, and in particular, the incessant playing of music everywhere on earth (except my home).
In my 30s, I began to do what others might consider insane amounts of exercise and became an endurance athlete, and part of the reason that I loved training and racing was because it gave me time alone to myself. I didn’t have to make those facial expressions that seemed to be expected of me, or try to figure out what hints people were dropping that it was so hard for me to pick up, or try not to just blurt out things to other people when it wasn’t “socially appropriate.” Conversation while running might possibly consist of shouting out the name of what drink (water or Gatorade) you’d prefer from the volunteers at the aid station, but that’s about it. I loved it.
In my 40s, I began to notice things about myself that I’d been ignoring for a long time, like the fact that I love one-on-one conversations or with small groups (less than five people), but feel overwhelmed by larger groups and just get lost in them. I realized that I had autistic meltdowns, something I’d never accepted about myself. I don’t cry or kick and scream like a child might. I go mute. Words, which are my favorite things, are no longer accessible. I also get migraines and have to retreat to dark, silent rooms as my only cure. I am capable of incredible feats of Ironman competition and can do more in a few hours than most people get done in a day. But that was important now because I often only had a few hours in a day when I was “on.” The rest of the day was lost to walking, knitting, or other things that involved no other humans.
In another conversation with a person who deeply loved music, I responded that I very rarely listened to music because of my sensitivity to sound. I wouldn’t say I “hate” it, but that it often requires so much energy to listen to it that I can’t do it without a huge commitment. I actually have learned to play the piano (badly), but I still don’t listen to music while running, only books. So much easier.
“Is there a pill for that?” this person asked.
No, there isn’t a pill to make my autism go away. There isn’t a pill that will make me act normal in a thousand ways. I read a science fiction book years ago (Elizabeth Moon’s The Speed of Dark) that posits a far future cure for autism that the main character takes. The ending is sad, but understandable, given how much autism is seen as a disorder, as something that must be fixed. I don’t think I would take such a pill. It would be like agreeing that I should not exist. It would be worse than death, because it would be erasing all the parts of me that are me.
What if instead of me being told I need to be cured, people stopped thinking there is anything wrong with me at all and started seeing how my different way of being in the world can be a gift to all of us?