As Dr. Stephen Shore said, “If you’ve met one person with autism, you’ve met one person with autism.”

I am not a scientist. This is not an academic research paper. I am an adult diagnosed autistic, and this is a personal essay. While I understand the diagnostic criteria that led to this, I don’t embrace the overbroad label. I relate more to the non-medical term “Neurodivergent“, and I prefer it to the alienating “Gifted and Talented” label I was stamped with in Kindergarten.

I’m shocked that folks are surprised when I explain my intricacy to them. It seems so obvious to me, but Neurodivergence, especially for women and girls, tends to be experienced internally rather than expressed overtly, due to societal pressures to conform that are not imposed on boys and men.

This contributes to late and under diagnosis in women, as well as the co-occurring symptoms between Neurodivergence and Trauma. Neurodivergence, in itself, can cause trauma, but, while girls are five times more likely to endure sexual abuse in childhood, Autistic women tend to experience abuse at an even higher rate than Neurotypical females, due to their…our…difficulty in picking up on social cues and non-verbal communication.

When the presence of neurodivergent content began increasing on social media, I found myself resonating with most of it. I felt seen, known, and described in ways I had never experienced. The more I learned, the more I felt at home in the community. After scoring very high on 6 diagnostic tests conducted by a Psychologist, it was confirmed that I am a High Masking Aspie.

So, how does this manifest for me? Neurodivergence is like an Indian Family’s Masala Recipe: The same ingredients, but different, proprietary ratios with some secret spice thrown in for fun. Most notable, in my case, is my mastery of masking. Like most Aspies, I get hyperfocused on my areas of interest. If I like something, or someone, I become an expert, effortlessly. My social discomfort and experiences being bullied from very early on encouraged me to embrace theater. I even studied at the best conservatories in the world. The ability to memorize lines, rehearse scenarios, explore the range of human emotion and expression helped me learn to impersonate Neurotypicals in real life…to a point.

Hypersensitivity is another main ingredient in my special sauce. On a physical level, I experience sound, light, smell, taste and touch to a greater degree than Neurotypicals…like, 50-100%. When I’m over stimulated, tired, hungry or otherwise uncomfortable, it’s harder for me to mask. This results in a dire need for organization and control over my circumstances. My Neurodivergence made me an Entrepreneur. I was a great manager for other businesses before I owned my own. It makes complete sense to me now that I experienced success in Hospitality and Public Relations, industries that depend on discipline and the and the ability to conceal one’s emotions.

Of course, my hypersensitivity extends to my emotions, as well. Managing them became my second career: Philosophy Student. Yoga & Buddhism are my survival skills. They are Cognitive Behavioral Therapies. Meditation, both in stillness and in movement, is my medicine. I practice discomfort. This is likely why I’ve thrived as a result of my Divergence, at least professionally. For better or for worse, my ability to mask makes most people completely unaware of my internal experience.

Personal relationships are my greatest challenge. I feel safer on stage performing a song for hundred of people, or info dumping about yoga or travel to an interested gathering, than I do one on one. My discomfort in conversation is not because of a lack of sensitivity, but, rather, my heightened sensitivity. I don’t know whether to believe the body or the words. So often, non verbal communication completely contradicts what’s being expressed verbally. I tend to address what feels most TRUE, which is, of course, what’s not said. In equal parts, this has proven to be both blessing and curse. People are either relieved to drop their mask, or resent feeling exposed. The former are usually other Divergents who become valued friends.

Like most autistic women, I am very direct with my language. I have no subtext. I say what I mean and I mean what I say. I’ve come to learn that this is not the case with Typicals. I take people seriously when they suggest we “get together soon.“ I make an effort to fulfill that request, and find myself feeling foolish when my efforts aren’t reciprocated, particularly when I wouldn’t have bothered in the first place. My tendency to mask compels me to confirm to the wishes of others. I’ve learned to doubt my own instincts in favor of “etiquette.“ Since diagnosis, I’ve, gratefully, embraced my boundaries when I’m not interested. I still find myself following up with folks who had no intention of further connection, much to my embarrassment, but I’m slowly learning to reassign the shame to them. Why I should I feel bad for being vulnerable? I feel bad for the Typicals trapped in their inauthenticity.

Dating is incredibly difficult for me. This is where the chicken / egg paradigm of CPTSD / ASD becomes relevant. My history of early childhood trauma, abusive relationships and sexual assaults are further complicated by my low self esteem. I struggle to see anything attractive about myself beyond my competencies. I understand my value is what I can do for others, but it’s difficult for me to understand that I have inherent value in simply “being myself”, whatever that means. Conversely, I expect nothing from others. I delight in the simple presence of people I find smart, funny, and interesting. I want nothing more than company. I’ve come to learn that it’s acceptable to acknowledge other needs that I wasn’t aware I had, until recently.

Because I’m completely oblivious to subtle expressions of interest, the relationships I’ve found myself in have almost always began with the explosion of a love bomb. Narcissists and I have a magnetic appeal that I’m still challenged to repel. Couple that with the patterns introduced by my Daddy’s issues, and I’m a goner. The more distant someone is, the more desirable they were. I’ve successfully cured myself of a romantic attraction to emotionally unavailable, inconsistent men, though I do still find myself in friendships with them out of sheer curiosity. I don’t want to date them so much as BE them. I wish I could be that removed from emotional attachment, so I find myself studying them up close.

Awareness has encouraged me to abandon that behavior in favor of simple solitude and self awareness. I feel safer physically, mentally and emotionally after almost 8 years single than I ever did before. The optimist in me still wants to believe that a partnership is possible, though. I know this will require both finding the right person and being the right person. I’ve mastered control, and now I’d like to surrender. I need to find a partner both willing and capable of providing an environment of safety and stability so that I can soften into a receptive role that I’ve genuinely craved for the longest time.

Simply writing this piece has left me with a sense of relief that makes a positive outcome feel possible. My diagnosis helped me understand my intricacies in a productive manner. Sharing it will help others to come to that same understanding and, hopefully, acceptance.

There are some invitations a girl can’t turn down.

It’s October 22nd, 2008 when my roommate invites me to be her plus one to Diddy’s private party in celebration of himself…specifically, his L’Uomo Vogue cover, shot by her employer, Mark Seliger, a celebrity and fashion photographer of note. Though I was no stranger to celebrity, having worked in music PR for major artists, and, living in New York, encountered the rich and famous socially and professionally for a decade, I danced like Grandpa Joe when presented with Charlie’s Golden Ticket to the Wonka Factory. A Diddy Party was something else entirely - the stuff of legends.

Diddy, née Puff Daddy, née Sean Combs, is famous for being famous, and, perhaps, for making others famous by association. “He’s a MUSICIAN,” you protest? Of course, he has won Grammy Awards, but so did Milli Vanilli and the Starlight Vocal Band. I can hum only two of his songs, and only because they rely heavily on samples from The Police and Led Zeppelin. He’s a celebrity’s celebrity, a Bon Vivant, a man most famous for throwing parties. Perhaps the event would be so overcrowded that people would faint in the crush to get in and/or out. Perhaps there would be gunplay. Perhaps Diddy’s mere presence would magically transform me into Special K from the Breakin’ films while we improvise a Krump routine that would inspire onlookers to exclaim, “Damn, that white girl can DANCE!” I hoped for the worst and expected the best.

I had one dilemma. What does one wear to a Diddy Party? Mike Meyers, at the height of his Austin Powers fame, was refused entry to Puff Daddy’s Post VMA celebration because he did not adhere to the dress code. The invitation demanded that those invited “Dress to Impress.” Clearly, he did not. Were this his famous annual White Party, I would have a clear direction, at least. With the help of my roommate, I decided upon a gold knit dress I had thrifted, gold suede heels I purchased in Milan following 6 months of sandals in Asia and her belt with a prominent gold Gucci logo buckle. I felt confident and, yet, slightly ridiculous…exactly how I would describe Diddy, so off we went.

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In the spirit of the occasion, we forwent the subway and opted for a car. The line outside 1OAK extended around the corner. It occurred to me at that moment that I was where millions of Americans would humiliate themselves on national television to be, and all I’d done to gain entry into the spectacle was answer a posting in the housing wanted section of craigslist 2 years ago. Alas, fortune smiles.

Once inside, we hurried to the bar to get our drank on. We were presented with a complimentary cocktail made with Ciroc Vodka, a brand Diddy endorsed. We leaned, consciously “casually”, on the bar and surveyed the scene. It was soon evident just how exclusive this party was. There were fewer than a hundred people within the Diddy plastered walls. Of the chosen few, only three were caucasians. Myself, my roommate and a middle-aged man sporting an Obama hat.

Though the music was loud and, unsurprisingly, syncopated, the last thing I was going to do, in the absence of Diddy’s fairy dust, was dance, but why was the floor empty? No one was demonstrating their prowess…or talking. They huddled in groups, looking beyond each other with forced smiles or bored runway glares. The beautiful people were as self conscious as I was…more so, I guess, considering how much cost and care they’d invested in their costumes.

The lighting changed. The bass got stronger. The air grew electric. He appeared. Diddy. In the flesh. Immediately, the crowd became thicker, as though a very powerful magnet had been laid in a pan of metal shavings. He wore sunglasses at night and his arm in a sling, though I noted it’s absence in images from the red carpet posted online the following day. This baffled me. Diddy pays someone to carry his umbrella. How could he have hurt himself? Surely, had he fallen, his mammoth bodyguard would have cushioned his fall. He worked his way through the crowd pointing and shaking with his right hand. It was his left that was slung. This struck me as even more odd. Is he left handed? Could it be an acute case of Blackberry Thumb?

My roommate, a recent transplant from Vancouver, was awe struck. I was always told that it’s rude to stare, but she tuned into a simple truth. He wants to be stared at. That’s what he does. When people stop looking, he disappears. Moments later, an audible gasp echoed through the hall. Beyonce and Jay-Z had arrived. The room felt tighter as I was crushed toward her, forced to take her in. She smelled like white floral cash money. She wore the “it” shoes of the season, Dior’s purple snakeskin, chunky chrome heel. Her hiney was as round and succulent in person as it is on camera.

Their transition from appearance to disappearance was seamless, whisked to some dark corner of the building. Perhaps a room behind a mirror where they could observe the hoi polloi having less fun than them, or, more likely, back to their waiting vehicle and off to their penthouse in the sky to enjoy athletic, marital sex, the likes of which mere mortals may only imagine.

Diddy, however, remained. As the DJ spun his new single, which relied heavily on the Clash’s “Straight to Hell”, recently sampled in M.I.A.’s “Paper Planes,” he wandered around prominently, a hospitable host, a consummate politician, smiling warmly and making folks feel welcome. In fact, I was the only person he didn’t speak to. Every time he entered “my zone,” a 3 foot radius of void that encases me like a bubble, I looked nervously at the floor, afraid he would expose my fraud, not “down” enough to be in his presence, not rich or fabulous enough to fan him with a palm. My roommate, however, made a point of approaching him and thanking him on our behalf for having us as his guests. She explained that I was shy, which, I guess, I am, but I was, also, disinterested in making small talk with someone so completely unrelatable to my narrow neurodivergent field of interest.

He smiled, thanked her and told her to enjoy herself. As she returned to me, he approached the DJ. She was excitedly recounting their completely generic exchange when I heard a familiar song. It was a melody from my not so distant youth by the Puff Daddy produced New Jack Swing quartet Jodeci.

Come and talk to me.
I really want to meet you.
Can I talk to you?
I really want to know you.

He was facing me, vibing with one arm. I immediately inspected the floor.

When that track faded out, he took the mic to introduce his gorgeous, young protege, a neon yellow clad goddess named Cassie. She lip-synced to “Official Girl,” her collaboration with the unfortunately absent Li’l Wayne. Diddy lip synced Wayne’s verse, and the party continued. Alas, it was a Tuesday night. My roomie and I were, apparently, the only people who had jobs to fulfill Wednesday morning. As I collected my things, King Combs shouted an invitation with a period at the end, “You coming to the after party.” “Thank you, but I’ve gotta work in the morning.” “You don’t gotta work ever again,” he replied, flatly deadpan. Tempting, but I abstained with a smile and dismissive wave. “No, but thank you, though.” I liked my job, and hard work, in general.

16 years later, I’m acutely aware of the odds I escaped. The stakes were far higher than I could have ever imagined then. In retrospect, I understand why I received the invitation. There was no shortage of available women present who were objectively more attractive than me, and decidedly more eager to engage in the protocols of that brand of fame, but I was the most vulnerable, the most awkward...the most expendable. I was a perfect victim, on the surface. If it had been a Saturday night, I may have joined the entourage. I may have sipped a drink and woke up with no memory of the the events that had bruised my body. Thank god it was a weeknight. There are some invitations a girl can’t turn down…and there are those I’m grateful I did.

My mother made sure I would mention her every time I’m introduced by giving me a name that has proven to be both blessing and curse. It’s immediately the topic of conversation. That said, at least I know the script, so my social anxiety is easier to hide.

”You must be Irish, huh?” Genetically, yes. Culturally, no. I was raised identifying as Spanish and Basque.

”Like Flannery O’Connor?” Yes, you read! Well done.

Surprisingly, only one man on a dating app has ever been well read enough to open with, “A Good Man IS Hard to Find, huh?” We became great friends.

I was, in fact, named for the midcentury American master of the Southern Gothic Short Story, a disabled Peacock keeper from Milledgeville who died of complications from Lupus at the age of 39. She set her sardonic sites unswervingly on the hypocrisy of both cultural extremes regarding the issues of her day. Her legacy as an integrationist is complicated by the views expressed in letters published after my naming, but this metaphysical mentor grants me an acute awareness of the brevity of this mortal coil, at the very least. Her fallibility reminds me to maintain my integrity in both my public and personal presence. Since first reading her at the precocious age of 10, her influence on my life cannot be denied.

My name has proven significant to my persona beyond the association with my nametake, though. My mother, a brunette, had no idea she’d birth 3 redheads with 3 brunette fathers. She had no idea my name meant “redhead“ in Gaelic, either.

Neither of us could anticipate that my raison d’être would prove to be wandering the Earth in perpetuity, so the fact that my name is a homonym for the French word “flânerie,” the act of strolling and wandering aimlessly, surprised us both. It derives from the noun “Flaneur,” one who engages in flânerie, a term popularized in the 19th century for a type of urban male “stroller”, “lounger”, “saunterer”, or “loafer”. A female “Flâneur” is a “Flâneuse.”

Pejorative or not, the loafer fits, and I’ve chosen to wear it with pride. I outgrew my old brand ages ago. Having focused my energy toward this singular obsession, I’m ready to surrender to what feels like fate. I AM, after all, a wandering redhead, so Flânerie it is.

People have told me I’d be pretty if I got a nose job. I’d have a great career (in acting) if I got a nose job. My mother told me I had her nose…“Before I got it fixed.”

I take neither pride nor shame in my genetics. I had nothing to do with it. My body is my vehicle, my tool, to do good. I do what I can to keep my one and only body healthy for as long as possible. I have A LOT to do on the earth.

I promise: a face is the least interesting thing about anyone.