Being diagnosed with autism as an adult was a gift that unlocked my mind to who I really am

This story was originally published on Oct. 25, 2022.

This First Person piece was written by Fran Henderson, who has retired from a career in photography and lives in Moose Jaw, Sask.For more information about CBC's First Person stories, please seethe FAQ.

Right from my very beginnings, there were signs that I was different from other children.

It wasn't until I was diagnosed with autism as an adult that I understood why.

When I was a baby, my family put me in a hallway closet because I couldn't handle any light or noise when I was sleeping. When I went down for a nap, everybody would walk on their tippy-toes, no easy task for my five older brothers and sisters.

As I grew older, my differences became more obvious to myself and others. I hated talking to people, and when I did bring myself to do it, I was told I was lying because I couldn't make eye contact.

My parents divorced when I was seven-years-old, leading me to move schools more than once. Making friends was next to impossible. Watching people communicate was like trying to interpret Morse code you could learn how to decipher the code, but you could never understand the emotions or feelings that were being tapped out in dots and dashes.

Instead, I would sit in the back of the classroomwatching the other kids, awed at their ability to focus and stay calm. Meanwhile, in my own mind, I was orbiting around the classroom like a spinning top, with nothing to hold me to Earth. When someone would ask me a question, my mouth would open but my mind would go blank and nothing would come out.

I tried so hard to fit inby watching my older sisters and copying their responses, but this never came easily to me. It was exhausting. I spent many nights crying into my pillow, wondering what was wrong with me.

Over time, I began to understand I don't see things the way others do, that the very way I perceive the world is different than people around me.

When people talk to one another, they may use a language like English. But my first language is not a spoken language of words, but rather abstract thoughts and senses. When you walk into a room, you might notice other people and start talking to them. For me, I walk into a room and experience it differently. I see and notice things you never would. I hear every sound in that room distinctly, and have to cut through all that noise in order to have a conversation.

For me, it has always been easier to form a connection to animals. I've found contentment in retraining animals that have been neglected.

When I'm retraining horses, I'm sensitive to their cues, how they respond to the slightest variation of my touch on their wither or their face. They sense what lies in my heart, that feeling I wanted to transmit that I could never communicate in words. They feel that air of security, compassion and love and know that I'm not going to hurt them, but that I will protect them.

These insights have been piling in my mind recently.

It began when one of my granddaughters was showing signs of being on the autism spectrum. Knowing autism can run in families, I decided to get evaluated too. Last year, I got confirmation that I am indeed on the spectrum as well.

It would take a while for the meaning to sink in, but the diagnosis would be the best Christmas present I ever had. Since my diagnosisI feel a deep relief, knowing that the fear racing through my mind all the time is the result of my disorder. It's how my mind processes things.

It has allowed me to see and accept myself, instead of being angry or pushing myself to be different.

I wish I could reach back in time and tell my seven-year-old self, crying into a pillow over not being able to fit in, that it's OK not to fit in.

I wish I could tell her to allow herself to be sensitive and compassionate, and not live in fear of being crushed around the world around her.

I am who I am, and who I am is beautiful.

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