“God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
Courage to change the things I can,
And wisdom to know the difference.”
In the small bedroom I slept in when visiting my grandmother’s house, at the foot of the bed, was a wooden panel inscribed with these words. Simply carved, decorated only with the raised image of a pair of hands, clasped in prayer. The simultaneous simplicity and depth of those few, short words has never failed to astound me.
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about what it means to be autistic, and to be me. Which parts of me are immutable, and cannot change? Which parts of me are not? And even if I could change those parts of myself, would I want to?
There are things about me that make other people uncomfortable. The way I speak. The tone of my voice. The way I use my hands. These things are different, alien, and open to misinterpretation, but they are not in themselves harmful.
The language of autism is not something I would ever wish to change. It is beautiful, emotional and expressive. It does not tend naturally to hide or manipulate. Rather than change myself, where I can, I seek to ensure that those I interact with regularly have the correct understanding of these mannerisms. Then I can express myself safely, comfortably and freely in my own language.
There are other parts of myself that I would seek to change. The defensive barrier that rises in response to constant anxiety. The ever-deepening need to protect myself from criticism, moving gradually from legitimate dismissal of unreasoned negativity, to refusal to accept any form of feedback that challenges my fragile self-esteem. The relentless erosion of ability to take risks, learn or grow for fear of destroying the tiny, brittle, frightened thing that I have somehow become.
In changing this part of myself – this figment, whittled down by fear – I need a strength that it does not have. But it is not the only part of me. My autism is my strength. I need to stand up for myself, to challenge the inevitable pressure to conform to a pattern that is not me. My autism can do this, and will not be ashamed. The power to fix myself is already inside me.
Looking back at those words tells me I am not broken. I know myself as I am now: accepting the parts of me that are mine and beautiful, and looking to change what I can. Things will not always be this way – couched in this quiet place where everything is clear. But for today, I am serene. I am courageous. And perhaps, if only in this, I am wise.