Autism: the dying diagnosis

Having a book on hygge lifestyle thrust into my hands by my flatmate, upon moving into our new house, was — while unexpected — welcomed. As I now sit writing this, surrounded by 20 candlesticks rammed into old wine bottles and an unlimited supply of soft furnishings, I feel as though I’ve been conned. Where was the book on autism as a desirable life aesthetic, and why was it missing from our coffee-table collection? Apparently I missed the memo that, along with tabis and wired headphones, autism is an up-and-coming trend that everyone should adopt. I don’t believe it’s a secret that anyone exclaiming, “Bro, I’m so autistic,” to their friends is probably not actually autistic. However, it raises an interesting question: why is a disability being appropriated?  I don’t see anyone hobbling down the street pretending to have one leg or announcing when they fall over, “Bro, that is so amputee of me,” so perhaps the more apt question is: why is a hidden disability the butt of a joke? 

The diagnostic process, seemingly designed to give an outcome validating an individual’s experience of life, is notoriously uncomfortable. The assessment involves putting someone who’s uncomfortable meeting new people and making eye contact in a situation where they have to … meet new people and establish eye contact. Then explain, in detail, to underpaid professionals why they feel different and don’t fit in. So different, in fact, that they have sought professional support. When you have enough gems to level up, you are introduced to long waiting lists and disbelief about your condition, a common experience for high-masking women. Upon receiving a diagnosis, you are then sent away with the promise of impending doom: yes, you are different, congrats; and no, we offer you no help. You are still alone in a room full of people who all appear to be part of an inside joke that excludes you: neurotypicality. 

Going through such a process is exhausting and tumultuous, let alone attempting to keep it a secret, as is the case for the majority of the newly diagnosed, while convincing everyone that socialising for a day doesn’t mentally exhaust you. It isn’t an experience you’d expect anyone to want. You’re then suddenly chucked into university with more social rules to keep up with, but it’s okay, because at least now everyone has it? Except they don’t. Or do they?  

With so many claiming to have a diagnosis, telling the real, diagnosed troopers from the impersonators becomes challenging. Whilst we are seemingly normalising autism (a win after years of stigmatisation), someone trying to express their actual diagnosis may now unfortunately find themselves a victim of others’ excessive and inauthentic claims. “Wait, like, actually for real?” isn’t exactly what you want to hear when confiding in someone. 

Ironically, one of the most understated traits of a hidden disability is the hidden aspect of it. Earth-shattering, I know. Thus, it is nearly impossible to know who, in a room of people whom you are so casually dropping the ‘A-bomb’ around, is actually diagnosed. A true comedian knows their audience. So, in a situation like this, where you actually can’t know your audience, it may be wise to refrain from making a comment that can trivialise someone's disability for the sake of a few chuckles. 

With skinny jeans back in fashion, perhaps pair them with some faux-fur boots. They would go far better than with faux autism.

Illustration by Francesca Jeffs