To those who know me, it might come as a surprise to learn that I was diagnosed with Asperger syndrome in ninth grade. Coming out to people now, I’m usually confronted with reactions that range from disbelief to amusement. At the time, the diagnosis may have seemed more apt. I was content with few friends, went about annoying people with inflated language and lived in a haze oblivious to most social norms and conventions. Pop culture was having a brief affair with the stock character of the eccentric but lovable Aspie (think Sheldon from “The Big Bang Theory”), and I was ripe for a prognosis. Awkward didn’t cut it; my behavior defied casual accounts of adolescent diffidence. When I received my diagnosis, I was very pleased with myself and relieved to better understand who I was. In a way, I had my fun. I didn’t suffer from bullying (at least explicitly), blithely ignored my studies and tended to amuse people with my quirks.
Yet as I advanced through high school, I found the symptoms that were supposed to define my behavior melting away — not as a torrent, but in a noticeable retreat nonetheless. Asperger syndrome is usually characterized by impairments in social and executive functioning, which for me meant trying to spread socialist consciousness at a private Yeshiva and recycling clothing from my middle school wardrobe until my senior year. Yet I noticed that with each year, more and more of my quirks would disappear. I began to develop a sense of self and began acting out the motions of teenage self-expression.
I started going to the mall and by senior year even went to a party or two. My friends still lovingly compare me to the maladjusted imp I was freshman year. I changed enormously as a person and reflected with wonder at this transformation. Questions began to pop up. Wasn’t my diagnosis supposed to be terminal, a life-long condition I’d have to navigate? I decided to Google “overcoming Asperger’s” and found articles in Time magazine and The New York Times that described similar experiences to mine. In these columns, authors described how their weirdness lessened as they matured. Some even mentioned misdiagnoses. When some of these articles started to become too optimistic in their prospects, I knew it was time to reflect further.
The damning fact is that Asperger’s is a life-long struggle. I doubt that I’d still meet the qualifications to be certified as an Aspie, but the choices I made in its fog and the enduring parts of my condition continue to affect me today. For instance, at 21, I still haven’t passed my driver’s test. Maybe taking driver’s ed in high school would have been a good idea, but I preferred to spend my Sundays prowling Wikipedia and watching documentaries. I regret being largely asocial in high school, even if I didn’t then, but am grateful for the enjoyment and socializing I had in spite of myself. As a clinical learning disability, Asperger’s still affects my academic performance. I need extra time on tests and any instructional vagueness wiped out from assignments. I overthink prompts and have trouble expressing myself clearly in conversation and print. These inconveniences don’t debilitate me, but they don’t make my life any easier either. However, from what I’ve seen, a diagnosis doesn’t mean that you’ll live your whole life in its acute stage. Things do get better.
Alec Weinstein is an junior majoring in English.