The Lumberjack



Students Serving The Cal Poly Humboldt Campus and Community Since 1929

Tag: ableism

  • I don’t tell people I’m autistic. I’m trying to change that.

    By Griffin Mancuso

    When I was 14 going into my freshman year of high school, my mother enrolled me with a new therapist shortly before school started. My parents were concerned about the transition to high school and wanted me to have a support system. I also went to my hair stylist right before so that I’d look presentable for the first day of school.

    Just after getting my modernized Karen cut trimmed and getting in the car to go to my appointment, my mother turned to me and told me I was diagnosed with autism spectrum disorder (ASD) at four years old. She didn’t want to confuse me when I was younger and didn’t want the therapist to tell me first.

    I was livid, but somehow relieved. I finally had a reason for the continual failure to connect with my peers as a child; I had an answer to the “why?” that had plagued me since I started my education. I had a reason, which meant I had a path forward.

    Besides telling the entire campus I am autistic before even getting into this article, it’s normally something I don’t bring up. I had witnessed how neurodivergent people were treated throughout my childhood, and my greatest fear was being associated with them. I didn’t want to be “special.” I hated being talked down to by adults and peers. I was infantilized and dismissed until I eventually figured out how to pass as neurotypical.

    When I tell people I’m autistic, I’m usually met with surprise. I’m ashamed to say that I feel a bit relieved when I’m told that I don’t seem autistic or that they never would have guessed I was. Internalized ableism is a hell of a beast. I want to embrace my autistic identity, but I also want to blend into neurotypical society. Letting myself unmask means less built-up stress and being able to get things done, but blending in means having friends and job opportunities.

    With the life experience I have now, I have found that there is a lack of education on ASD among the general public and the medical field. I have been assessed for ASD twice because a therapist I had a few years ago didn’t believe I was autistic. Since autism assessments are based on outdated research, I was genuinely afraid that the psychologist doing the test wouldn’t believe me either. I’ve been met with hospital staff declaring me neurotypical after two minutes of knowing me.

    An autism assessment is almost traumatic in and of itself. There is no established test for older children and adults. The current test is made for young children and involves playing with toys and reading picture books. Having to play pretend with Barbies at 17 years old to prove you’re autistic is a little humiliating. I stomached the preschool voice that all adults use with autistic people and whatever juvenile task I was given to prove that my experience was real.

    I don’t want my autism to be defined by suffering and shame. I try to make connections with other neurodivergent people and allow myself to use resources that will help me. Being a part of a community has helped me cope with the stress of blending into neurotypical society. I still put on the mask when I go about my day, but I now have times when I can unwind with people who understand my experience.

    Autism has become much more visible in mainstream media since I was younger. There are autistic social media influencers and shows with autistic characters. While we aren’t quite there yet as a society, I have seen monumental progress in the normalization of autistic people. We now see a wider diversity of experiences and, with new social media platforms, we can see those experiences in everyday life.

    Our society was not made with neurodivergent people in mind. Being neurodivergent can look different for every person, and who are we to decide who gets to have the label and who doesn’t? Neurotypical people haven’t taken me seriously even with a diagnosis. 

    One of the biggest contributors to internalized ableism is worrying about what the majority thinks; worrying that the autistic community won’t be taken seriously because of your individual experience. You don’t have to prove to anyone that you are autistic, nor do you have to tone yourself down to make everyone else comfortable. You are allowed to put a label on your experience so you don’t have to continue asking yourself, “Why?”

  • Masking mental illness is a privilege

    Masking mental illness is a privilege

    by Lex Valtenbergs

    I could tell that the woman lingering at the bus stop was mentally ill within the first few moments of speaking to her, although it wasn’t my place to surmise what mental illness she suffered from.

    She asked me a question about the bus schedule and muttered something aloud as if in reply, but not to me. When her eyes met mine again, she blurted, “Oh!” as if she forgot I was there.

    My initial reaction was to fear her; I didn’t understand the inner workings of her mind nor their outward manifestations. I perceived her as volatile and therefore threatening.

    At that time, I was also going through a protracted depressive episode marked by the distinctive mistrust and self-sabotaging tendencies that are all too common in borderline personality disorder. As a result, I had little to no verve to engage with her.

    In our own respective ways we were unmasked.

    The difference between her and myself is that I have the privilege to mask, or hide the symptoms of my mental illness to the best of my ability. She’s always visible; not by choice but by circumstance.

    Ironically, my masking urge to ‘help’ in some way and assuage her symptoms that brought me discomfort was snuffed out by my own unmasked symptoms. I was defying the neurotypical script and the internalized ableism – discrimination against people with disabilities, mentally ill and neurodivergent people – that came with it.

    I got on the bus and sat down, trying to push away the dread and discomfort that were triggered by the brief interaction that I had with the mentally ill stranger at the bus stop.

    As if being summoned by telepathy, the woman appeared at the open back door of the bus and asked me another question that I didn’t have an answer to. Just before the back door slid shut, she snuck inside the bus without paying at the front and sat down across from me.

    For the next half hour or so, she had an ongoing dialogue with no one in particular, constantly shifted in her seat, and ripped up a handful of white paper straw covers from a fast food restaurant.

    At one point her eyes wandered to mine and she asked me, point-blank, “Are you okay?”

    I was baffled by her lucidity. I curtly replied, “I’m good,” even though I wasn’t. She didn’t push me like I feared she would.

    At the last northbound bus stop in Eureka, she abruptly stood up from her seat. She left a pair of brown moccasin boots under her seat. As she passed by me, she gently touched my shoulder and said, “I love you.”

    The physical contact was unexpected but not entirely unwelcome. When she told me that she loved me – a misplaced but sincere disclosure – I felt the burning touch of shame press firmly inward. What were the people around us were thinking? Would they associate me with her?

    It didn’t matter, I consoled myself. I always try to deconstruct any ableist narratives that crop up in my mind. Then I learn from it and strive not to repeat it again.

    If we dare to overcome our fear of judgement, we are more prepared to dig through the other discriminatory narratives that are ingrained in us.

    She turned around. “Could you be a dear and grab my boots for me?”

    I cynically inferred that she left her boots on purpose just so I could get them for her, but I realized that I couldn’t be certain. Even if I was, her intention wasn’t malicious. I stooped down to grab them, and brought them out to her.

    It felt like we understood each other as I handed her the boots. She took her boots from my hands, and then she was gone.

    I almost cried as I sat in silence, my heart twinging painfully with every second the bus pulled away.

    I am mentally ill. I am broken. I am whole, but not seamless. The woman on the bus couldn’t seal her cracks as well as I can, and that’s a privilege that weighs heavily on me.