Imagine my shock when I realized that it took years of us dating for my boyfriend to finally let the cat out of the bag regarding what he really thinks about me. How he truly sees me. “Lani, you know you’re probably on the spectrum too, right?” Just like that, bomb dropped in the middle of an otherwise pleasant constitutional back home from the metro.

Maybe I should have known all along that there had to be a catch to someone “loving” me. That they couldn’t have possibly seen me as “sexy” and “normal.” That maybe what had actually attracted them was my “weirdness.” And that for me to harbor the belief that the attraction was because of being “normal” (a “sexy” quality to most), well, it was a delusion I had clung to for too long…one that Malcolm finally chose to disabuse me of as we were, like I said, walking home. And also talking about someone we had just met for dinner. Someone that Malcolm, as he told me in that instant, believed to be autistic. His name was Laughton and he was more Malcolm’s friend than mine. In fact, I had really only gone along to get a sumptuous dessert out of the deal. Perhaps somehow yet another sign of my autism. And yet, if I truly were, wouldn’t I have avoided the outing altogether in a bid to spare myself from socializing? Wasn’t that one of the key “tells” of being “on the spectrum.” Of course, all along I had just thought I was a garden-variety misanthrope (though now I’ve been led to believe there’s no such thing), that there was nothing more to it than that. After all, that’s what Daria Morgendorffer—my high school-era idol—was: a misanthrope. Right?

But no, as it turned out, there had been many theories peddled over the internet, whether via “think pieces” or memes (in image and video form), that touted Daria as a classic example of a girl with Asperger’s. Of course, that term isn’t used anymore when diagnosing strains of autism. Done away with to fit under the umbrella of “autism spectrum disorder”—and also because Hans Asperger was a major Nazi colluder and sympathizer. So yeah, who really wants to associate an already stigmatizing disorder with someone who had such an overt predilection for cruelty? In any case, Daria is now apparently considered, to many, to be a “textbook example” of having at least a mild form of the disorder. And so now the show is somewhat retroactively ruined for me because it never occurred to me that I might identify with her so much because I, too, shared the same disorder. But then, why does it have to be deemed as such? Can’t a girl just be antisocial and surly and methodical and interested in what she’s interested in without having to be relegated to this category?

As for the thing I was “obsessed” with, it was writing. Often to a point that might be called graphomania—except that my writing didn’t devolve into nonsense, “word salad” (as gibberish is sometimes called). Anyway, it seemed that, for the most part, this is what Malcolm was begrudging me of. Using it as ammunition for his sudden diagnosis (or what, to me, seemed like a sudden diagnosis, but evidently, he had been ruminating on it for quite some time). Which was honestly news to me. I mean, why didn’t he just come out and tell me he felt this way before? Apart from the obvious reason of endlessly offending me. And it is an offense. Because, of course, if I were a man, my “obsession” with writing, which was a core reason for my preference for isolation, would be deemed admirable. I would be called “committed to my craft.” “Ambitious.” “Resolved to succeed.” But no, as a woman, I’m just “on the spectrum” for being so “fixated” on it.

As for my tendencies toward preferring to be alone (though I will, as mentioned, not shy away at a so-called opportunity to socialize if it presents itself—even with those I’m not all that close with), what intelligent person doesn’t prefer that? It’s the brainless twits that have to drown out the loneliness (that thing that can only arise when a person is so inherently needy) they feel with the company of others as a result of not having a rich, vibrant and cerebral mind. I don’t have that problem. Yet rather than being applauded for my self-sufficiency (at least when it comes to not relying on others for meaningful conversation), Malcolm chooses to effectively lambast me for it with this “diagnosis.” Can’t I just be an iconoclast? Why does autism have to be the label? And when did everyone get so “label-happy” anyway? I know it all started to happen at the dawn of the twenty-first century, but it was gradual, still barely detectable. Then, by the mid-2010s, it seemed like an avalanche of “correct language” that everyone now had to use in order to “understand one another” came crashing down.

Yet, although I despised labels, I must admit that I took the autism one to heart. And the following morning, after he went to work and I stayed at home to do the only thing I know how, which is write (an inability to “work with others” at a “conventional job” is also another symptom of the disorder), I kept thinking about what he had said. And his explanation of why he thinks I’m autistic sent me spiraling to the point where I took a number of online tests (some leaned toward yes, that I was slightly on the spectrum; others toward no), did a deep dive into the usual indicators of what makes a person autistic and, then, after all that, started crying. Because I could see a lot of the “symptoms” in myself and it made me sad for the girl who was so misunderstood (and still is).

Among my additional findings, it was frequently said that women are the most likely to go undiagnosed because of their ability to hide the more obvious “tells” in ways that men simply can’t—men being the gender so much more accustomed to letting their freak flags fly without worry. Without fear of being branded as “abnormal.” Since, in this society, being a woman is already considered “abnormal” in and of itself. So the autistic girl shrinks herself further inward, hiding the traits that might give her away and emulating others—other girls, that is—as best she can. Maybe that’s what had happened to me. Maybe, instinctually, I knew to bury the clues to my condition, lest I 1) be othered or 2) be offended by the notion that I was somehow “different.” “Not right.” Because that’s what it meant to the neurotypical mind to be neurodivergent. That you were somehow “off,” out of step with the rest of the “right-minded” world.

With all of this to consider, I didn’t know if I really wanted to get a “proper” (a.k.a. “professional”) opinion on the matter. I think I prefer to stay “in the dark” while sometimes feeling sure—mostly because of what Malcolm told me—that I must be, and other times feeling like, no, I’m just, like I said, an iconoclast. Stubborn. A person who makes no apologies for knowing what they want and what they like and don’t like. If that makes me autistic, maybe I am. So what? My boyfriend loves me “in spite of it.” Or perhaps because of it.