I didn’t realize I was autistic until my sons were diagnosed with both ASD and ADHD. By that time, I was a seemingly “well-adjusted” woman in my 40s. Growing up, I was labeled with “pathological shyness,” “hypersensitivity,” and “lack of interest in my surroundings.” Later on, I was diagnosed with an anxiety disorder. I always wondered why I struggled with sensory overload while others seemed to handle it just fine. I grew up with a lot of emotional suffering, thinking that I was probably insane. I didn’t feel like I could confide in anyone, so I pushed through and took it in my stride. I liked to lock myself in my room, put my Walkman on, and dance in the dark while imagining day-to-day situations and how I should act. Sometimes, when I was particularly tired, I would cry in the dark and silence while my body seemed to be rocking back and forth on its own.

My first-ever memory is a feeling of discomfort. Someone was feeding me with a spoon, and I did not have the time to swallow the first spoonful before the next one was shoved up my mouth. But most of my earliest memories are those of preschool. I mostly remember the playground and the canteen, both my personal definition of hell. Adults around me were always yelling or angry. Somehow, I never seem to get it right with them…
The playground was particularly difficult for me. Somehow, I was always in the way of someone running or yelling, it was hectic, it was hell, and it terrified me.

During my first year in primary school, I felt alien, I was weird and unusual, all the other kids in my class were taller than me, they were already 6 and I had another 2 months to go before I could catch up with them. They were all a lot more advanced than I was, they could differentiate their right from their left, and they could follow instructions easily which I found particularly hard at that time. I felt the teacher seemed somehow angry at me all the time. The kids in my class scared me, they felt aggressive towards me. I passed the days, daydreaming, lost inside my mind, waiting to go home.

That dreaded playground was wild, unpredictable, and terrifying. The only way to conjure this was for me to find some sort of order in all that chaos. So, I walked, one step at a time, on the same path every day. One step, and another, look at my feet, one step, and another, follow the rhythm, one step, and another, block the noise, feel the air on my cheek, the smell of Oak bark and concrete, block the lights, look at my feet and breathe.
Every day, that same ritual kept me safe, until it didn’t…
On one of my walks, as I was continuing on my path oblivious to my surroundings, two boys ran straight towards me, and suddenly it went all dark, I was lying on the floor. When I opened my eyes there were the entire playground and the teachers looking down at me. Turns out these two boys tackled me to the ground and my head hit the concrete floor. I do not remember the impact but just the instant before and when I woke up. A couple of teachers got me up, and dusted me off and no mention of this was made to my parents.

Amazingly, this pinnacle moment signified the end of months of torment. Older Twin sisters witnessed the whole event and at this moment in time decided to take me under their protection. They were kind to me, teaching me to spell words like Fromage, the first word I ever spelt.
Their kindness saved me from sinking further and further into my mind. It made me change my mind about “them”. Maybe we were not so different after all.

From there on I decided to take part, however painful it was, however hard work it was, my mind was set.