Memoir 2: Autistic Childhood: A Labyrinth Just for Me

Growing up autistic.

I don’t remember much about my early childhood. I suspect that is because for the most part, my childhood was uneventful. I don’t have grand memories of birthday parties with friends or spending the day at an amusement park with family. I struggle to recall the names of my grade school teachers and it is almost impossible to recall any names of childhood friends. 
  .Lamar Hardwick, I Am Strong: The Life and Journey of an Autistic Pastor

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Until recently, whenever there was an autistic character in a movie or TV show it was a safe bet he¹ was in the possession of some extraordinary talent. Like the title character in The Good Doctor, severely autistic yet a brilliant surgeon. Or Rain Man, who effortlessly counts six decks of cards at blackjack. Or The Accountant, autistic super-assassin. Or the profoundly autistic boy in Mercury Rising who can read the cryptography codes that the NSA has concealed (perhaps unwisely) inside consumer word puzzles. Sadly, nothing like that applies to me.

I imagine that screenwriters conjure up autistic superpowers in a bid to make developmentally disabled characters sympathetic and respectable. To make them worthy media heroes. But autism sure didn’t bestow any marvelous talent upon me to compensate for all the mental competences it ripped out. Even when it comes to topics that interest me, my intellectual skills are mediocre at best. I can claim only two mental advantages from the gnashy ravages of autism: