Neurodivergence and Me
HAVANA TIMES – The first time I heard the word “autism” was about 30 years ago, and I formed a rather different idea of what it was. Autistic people, according to what I was taught at home, were people disconnected from reality.
Nowadays, whenever a new term comes up for me, I turn to Google to clear up my doubts. But back then, there was no dreaming of the Internet in Cuba, so over the years I just stuck with that initial teaching.
I felt pity for autistic people, but mainly for their families, who had to take care of people who, in my view, were absolutely dependent.
At some point, probably influenced by the character Dustin Hoffman played in Rain Man, my preconception shifted a little toward the myth that all people with autism are geniuses in some specific area.
I should clarify that although that movie was released in 1988, it wasn’t until the mid-90s that I was able to see it, because we only saw what was shown on television.
For me, autism was a disease. That’s why, when some people suggested that our daughter might be autistic, it struck me as offensive, as if they were belittling her.
Although today the topic of neurodivergence shows up all the time—and with such force on social media that it almost seems trendy—I still have much left to learn.
My responsibility to know is high, as the father of a girl who, although she hasn’t received a diagnosis, has a strong likelihood of being autistic.
We looked for family history and found suspicious traits in both my mother and my father.
My sister, when she arrived in Curitiba after 15 years without seeing me, confessed that she had undergone tests confirming her neurodivergence. She told me that, in her view, I am too.
“Do you think so?” I answered naively. But from that moment on, I began to notice that we share a lot of traits, tendencies, and obsessions that are truly uncommon.
I took the test she recommended, and it showed that I have a neurotypical intelligence of 101/200 (average) and a neurodivergent intelligence of 132/200 (above average). The test is not official, so it is not a diagnosis, but it does point in a direction.
Since then, I’ve carried the subject without thinking too much, slowly, trying to get to know myself—until three days ago, when I read a text on Facebook written by a neurodivergent person, and it felt like they were talking about me.
It spoke of pain, hypersensitivity, the constant feeling of exhaustion, difficulties with relationships as signs of that condition—and that was me.
I read the text to my wife, without saying it was written by someone else, and she ended up thinking I had written it myself. That day, I had a moment of awareness about myself. Everything was explained. So much pain, suffering, so much pressure, confusion, for decades—and a huge weight seemed to disappear just by reading those words.
I researched a bit of the scientific basis for neurodivergence, fearing it might be some conspiracy, and discovered that its existence is widely accepted in different fields of scientific knowledge, and also among believers.
Knowing myself to be autistic—even without an official diagnosis—has brought an unexpected peace to my life.