My diagnosis/discovery story:
My story is boringly similar to other adult-diagnosed autistics. I had always felt different and had a hard time connecting to people -- and though I didn't really realize it at the time, was prone to meltdowns. But I had many issues to attribute this to: Living in a counterculture; moving around constantly; a childhood filled with neglect at best and abuse at worst.
And then I had a child, and endeavored to give him the most secure, loved, comfortably middle-class life possible. Nice home, which he's lived in since he was born. Loving parents. Christmas and Hannukah and Easter and Passover. Plenty of everything, but not to excess. Right out of one of my favorite children's books.
And nonetheless, he was basically me. The sensory needs, the anxiety, the odd freakouts. Like me, he was very happy and friendly and open when young, and then grew lonely and closed off and suspicious. Like me, he was intelligent, but had some communications issues. (I was a late talker, which no one thought anything of at the time.) Like me, he had a desperate need to chew on things. (I am so envious of what's known and available for this now. I chewed on my hair, the hands and feet of dolls, and pen caps. I hate to think how many chemicals I ingested.) Like me, he had a much easier time getting along with adults than other children.
He was diagnosed when he was two, so I had plenty of time to read about autism and notice all the ways in which I had been similar. I sought out an autism-friendly therapist, not really sure if it was for him and me. As it turned out, I started seeing the therapist and they diagnosed me. (I sometimes feel guilty about this, for "hogging" my therapist, but I'm not sure my son would be open to it anyway.)
