Misconceptions about our neurotype are institutional: there’s a glaring misunderstanding of how autism presents in women and girls. The original diagnostic criteria and tools were developed primarily based on observations in men. For women of colour, these problems are magnified further still.
There was the practice nurse during my cervical smear, who cheerfully told me I ‘didn’t look autistic’ whilst squeezing together the handles of her speculum (‘is that why you’re so tense, love?’). My diagnosis has been brought into dispute in the instance of low iron, high blood sugar, dizziness, an ear infection and one particularly memorable occasion when a mark below my abdomen needed to be looked at. Presumably they wanted to know if the mole was autistic, too.
For each autistic person the reasons we seek formal confirmation are individual and varied. When it comes to diagnosis some merely aren’t interested, for reasons I’m beginning to understand. Personally I didn’t realise it meant opting into a wieldy debate every time I required a prescription for antibiotics, or a tube of Canesten oral thrush cream. At more appointments than not these days, I seem to be in for a second round of screening.
I’m consistently wary of the power professionals wield. For a long time, I thought every psychologist knew my own mind better than I did.
Similarly, there are many who won’t question the experts that say we can’t feel, write or be who we know we are. The damage caused by this is immeasurable.