It’s been a year since I’ve spoken to either of my parents. It was in the midst of understanding myself, for the first time, as an autistic person. I had very recently, at 37.5 years old, received my official diagnosis, and my entire world changed. I was finally able to put a great deal of myself into context - context that was sorely needed for my self-esteem, self-love, happiness, belonging, ease, comfort and sense of direction. If you’ve read my other writing, (or if you’ve gone through this yourself) you’ll know just how intense and unyielding this process of learning you’re neurodivergent after an entire life of believing you’re a broken neurotypical is. It is extremely relieving, but there is also an immense amount of grieving. I could spend a lot of time exploring the intersections between relief and grief, and I will someday - but not now.
