When I was young, I read an autobiography called Nobody Nowhere. I was young and consuming books at a phenomenal rate, but this story stuck with me. Unfortunately, I misremembered it for twenty years. I thought the author had schizophrenia. Her experiences resonated with me, but I didn’t want to be crazy. In fact, in order to avoid being called crazy, I developed a mask.

Masking is what people do to pretend to be normal. With my mask, I made eye contact. I nodded at the appropriate times and always appeared to be listening. I pretended to care about the weather and how someone’s weekend went. I didn’t mention when I was cold or really bothered by the noise. I tried to convince my bosses that they were smarter than me and knew what they were doing. I did very well with a mask for a while.

My mask got its first big crack when I was fired four years ago. My firing was the beginning of a year that ended with me leaving my husband and moving into my dad’s house. I stopped doing small talk. I sought out relationships that met my needs. I dressed down and only showered when I cared to. I adapted my parenting style so my daughter didn’t have to mask either.

My family’s reaction was interesting. On the one hand, they had always known that my sister and I were different. A lot of people in our family were “special.” On the other hand, they worried about my success. Why did I have to be so rude and so messy? Couldn’t I go back to the overachieving woman who overloaded her credit hours and participated in multiple organizations? The truth is, I was tired.

As I mentioned before, I first went to a therapist when I diagnosed myself with social anxiety. My last year of college, I cried on a plane flight from Memphis to Charlotte. I spent a night driving through Columbia because my apartment was too loud. I went to the emergency room every time I had chest pain. I graduated with two degrees with honors, but, inside, I was a mess. I struggled with depression and anxiety for the next few years while I moved houses, worked several jobs, got married, and had a child. Masks help, but only so much.

The author of Nobody Nowhere had autism, but I did not remember that until I read it again last year. I had rediscovered autism when I was researching my daughter’s Sensory Processing Disorder. We had just finished a disastrous semester of pre-K, and I was finally realizing that her reactions to her environment were not normal. My research led me to believe that she had autism, though was another year before she was diagnosed. All of the symptoms felt familiar to me–in fact, they felt normal. So now I’ve become one of the self-diagnosed adults who is willing to say: I am autistic. And once I accepted that, the mask came off completely.

I still experience anxiety in certain situations. I’m still considered rude by some people, and my friends just accept that I like being blunt. But my movement through this world is a lot smoother now. I don’t consider myself a disability activist because I have other things to do. But I support everyone who wants to take the mask off. And I hope that telling my story will help others support those who do.

Update: in October 2018 I was officially diagnosed with Autism Spectrum Disorder.