Child's Play.

What goes in the box should stay in the box.

Not the actual box. The real one is much worse.

We have a plastic box in the kitchen cupboard; this is where we put all the things that we deem important. It’s an elegant solution which stops us having to pull the place apart. I must admit that it doesn’t get audited particularly often (Mea culpa, I am a slovenly house keeper, so shoot me). The important things include all my qualifications, none of which have ever secured me any decent

work or opened anything even approaching an open door. I have a number of birth, marriage and death certificates, out of date credit cards, and our passports.

It was the passports that I was particularly after, we are off on holiday in a couple of weeks’ time and although it is just a domestic flight, you still need to prove you exist. Ironically, the thing that confirms me as me doesn’t even look like me. I think this is true for most folk.

So, with that sorted, I decided to clear out the detritus and make room for more junk.

And that’s when I found my letter from the clinic where I got my diagnosis some 10 years ago. I was quite happy to see it, I remember when it first arrived, the feeling of being told that there was a reason that you have no friends and precious little desire to change that situation. Lovely. All sorted.

Now, I had attended appointments over the course of about six weeks to get assessed. I had sat in the waiting area feeling uncomfortable and twitchy, not knowing what to do with my hands, or how to act. My knowledge of the condition up to this point was sketchy. It was a GP that had first brought the idea up to me, and, as per usual, I said that I was totally fine with going through the process. I do have a really unhelpful habit of saying ‘Sure, why not?’ to any and all suggested treatments.

The actual test itself had been oddly childish, lots of picture books, plasticine and toy zoo animals. I was 43 and had been married for three years. I’d worked in an NHS practice in which the doctors treated drug and alcohol addiction. I’d been threatened a number of occasions and can proudly say that I never flinched. But there I was, being asked to mime making a cup of tea. I did my best and tried not to be sarcastic.

I was even asked to invite my elderly parents in to a session, as they might be able to tell them a little more about how I was as a child. As they were both in their 70s and would have to do a six hour round trip from where they lived, I declined on their behalf.

But I persisted and a diagnosis was made and sent by post to my house. The letter had been in the plastic box since then, so I could show people who doubted me. I decided to have a little read of it again, for old times’ sake –

This is the childrens book that was used in the test.

Always nice to hear how your social overtures are unusual and restricted to social demands. Seems a little bit over the top with hindsight, but hey. Let’s move on to the next page and see if the energy kicks in and there is some brighter news.

Shit. NON-spectrum? I had to ask my husband to look at the letter for me and check that it said what I thought it said.

Dave read the letter, looked and asked me ‘So, are you autistic or not?’

For a moment I had to stop and think, I mean, it’s quite a big thing not to remember and I really felt like I had missed this crucial element completely .

“Yeah, I’m totally autistic, either way, I’ve told everyone now, so I can’t take it back”

So, here’s the answer. In 2017 I was told that I wasn’t on the spectrum. Yes, the letter says that I have all the symptoms, lack of eye contact, repetitive behaviours, limited facial expressions… I do have a regimented way of making tea (milk in last), didn’t want to play with the toy hippo. I would have through it was a done deal.

But even less than a decade ago they still felt that those patients who didn’t have a marked cognitive developmental delay in their early years could not be classed as autistic. It clicked with me that this was why they wanted my parents to be there, if they could tell them that I was showing signs of something ‘up’ at an early age then I might have recieved a different diagnosis. As it stood, with only my narrative, there was only one box to put me in. In the while plastic box, a little lower down, there was another letter that read:

IT SAYS AUTISM, RIGHT THERE.

Was my assessment wrong? Perhaps. There was a real focus on the 43 year old in the room and not much conversation about the time before. I don’t think I’ve ever been entirely comfortable in company ever, choosing to live a mostly isolated life to this day. I can go long stretches of time alone and have conversations in my head constantly. After the Asperger diagnosis was scrapped (done quietly but for all the right reasons) we still retain the lable on our medical notes. I am considered to have low support needs, but I don’t think that’s always the case. The letter has gone into the white plastic box, I considered the bin, but it’s a bit of history. And yes, I am autistic, I like cheese and banana togther on pizza, hate parties, wear headphones in public to help me to focus, freak out when people are in my personal space and my cat is my spirit animal. I wonder if I’m allowed to apply for another test, just to be on the safe side?