Other kids played Harry Potter with sticks for wands, casting imaginary spells against each other. I would sit in the closet under the stairs for hours, immersed in darkness with only myself for company because that was the life Harry lived away from Hogwarts. It was simply how I preferred to play pretend as The Boy Who Lived. No noise, no chasing. Just silence and a book by the glow of a flashlight.

He's shy, my parents would say of their youngest son who didn't engage in recess activities.

He enjoys the structure of class routine, my teachers would beam with pride over their model student who never strayed from what was expected.

He'll grow into socialization, seven therapists would reassure my parents after meeting me post-divorce.

Summers were spent riding my bike to the nearest library to pick up a dozen new books, just to devour them cover to cover while the neighbourhood kids held daily water gun fights in the street. It wasn't out of exclusion. More than once a knock at the door would be followed by, “Can Max come outside and play?”

Could I? Yes, it was physically possible. Would I? Under no circumstances.

I wasn't oblivious to the lonely behaviours I exhibited. Often I considered the reasons why I wasn't like the other kids in my class. When they acted out against the teacher, I grew quieter and anxious at my desk. If they played a round of soccer at recess, I sat along the fence and spectated instead of joining in. Gym class group play? That was enough to send me to the office with a stomach ache, begging to go home. Quiet was my haven, routine was my protection.

Autism was not something affiliated with my habits as a child. I didn't check any of the boxes associated with the diagnosis at the time. At thirty years old, seated across from yet another therapist, the vast spectrum of symptoms was revealed, right along with a diagnosis of my own.

I cried. Not for the label, or for a societal stigma. I cried because for the first time I understood the brain inside my own head. One word and my entire life made sense. The lack of desire to be around people, the panic of change. It wasn't born of total irrationality, even as an adult. Months of testing with professional psychologists had given me the validation I had sought; the knowledge that I was not broken, simply neurodivergent.

Max Girard works in public relations after graduating from the University of Windsor with a bachelor's degree in Communications. When not reading or writing, he enjoys spending time with his three cats and hiking with his dog.