Once I had segued from preschool into kindergarten at a new school, I had access to professionals who could analyze me. Now, up to this point my parents were certain that something was “wrong” with me, what with the things that would upset me, not speaking until I was four, and my lack of socialization. However, no one would take my parents seriously and just say that I was “going through a phase” or I was “excitable”. But the analysts at the elementary school agreed that there was a reason for my behavior.
My mom was the only parent present when they gave the diagnosis of Asperger’s, and she was given a large pill to swallow. She was told that I wouldn’t be able to read. I wouldn’t be able to speak properly. I wouldn’t be able to learn math. When I grew up into an adult, I wouldn’t do very well in society and would have to live in an assisted living home.
Well, that wasn’t going to fly. Neither of my parents believed in this prognosis of my abilities and future projections as an absolute. And so began the hard work. They had already gotten me used to physical touches, and they had a system at public playgrounds of giving me a heads up that we were leaving in ten minutes, five, ok we’re going now (otherwise I’d have a fit without the warning). Now they made especially sure to talk things through and explain things when I was behaving rudely or didn’t understand why my classmates were acting a certain way. My mom tried to get me to read to her at night so that I’d get better at it (I hated those times, don’t remember why exactly).
I also got extra help at school, and it was a good thing they were open to special kids. If I got overwhelmed, I was allowed to leave the classroom for ten to fifteen minutes so that I could cool off in the hallway (though sometimes I didn’t leave soon enough and would explode in a tantrum when confused or frustrated). I was allowed to take extra time on tests and quizzes since my brain’s clogs took a little longer processing and understanding questions. There was counseling to teach social cues and body language (including facial expressions), and speech therapy both at school and in private sessions at the therapist’s home. I really didn’t like either the counseling or the therapy, but they helped me in the long run.
Over those six years at Bellview Elementary, I had improved significantly. Periodically college students would sit in the back of the classroom with the task of picking out the autistic kid in the room. It was pretty obvious at first, but from third grade on? They had serious difficulty. Math? That became my best and favorite subject. The formula format made so much sense to me. Put in the right numbers, do the right calculations, and you get one correct answer, no ambiguity. That was very appealing to me. Reading? In fifth grade I broke the record for most books read in a year (though someone else broke that record the following year). Speaking? Well, everyone seemed to understand me fine when I slowed down my words, which was an improvement.
By the time I left Bellview, it was pretty obvious that I wouldn’t end up in assisted living. I was sociable with many friends, I functioned well in class, and I didn’t need breaks to cool off. I still had the cushion of extra time on tests in the following years, but the regular speech and counseling sessions were no longer needed. I was well on my way to passing as “normal.”
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