My dad's friend was the first person who noticed my early signs of autism. Whenever they called my name, I wouldn't respond. I wouldn't communicate with them like kids my age did and I'd isolate myself from my classmates. I wouldn't even let my own father hug me because every time someone tried to, my entire body felt like pins and needles. I felt claustrophobic. I felt like television static. I would either tense up or push anyone who tried hugging me away. This was mistaken as bratty behaviour during the first few months and people would constantly attempt to push my boundaries. Dad would regularly hug me and tell people that if he did it enough times, I'd eventually warm up to him. This was false but I cannot blame him. I cannot expect people to understand me. I fail to even understand myself. 

Dad's friend had a daughter who grew up with autism and he said that though I wasn't exhibiting the same signs that she did, since she was on the extreme end of the spectrum, father should still take me to a doctor. That was when I was diagnosed with Autism Spectrum Disorder. The doctor referred to what I had as 'Asperger's' but said it's more fitting to call it autism. I refused to refer to what I had as autism. This is partly because I wanted to be more specific with my diagnosis but mostly because the kids in my neighbourhood saw autism as something bad. Something to frown upon. I saw it in the way they called each other 'autistic'. I saw it in the way they used the 'r-word'. I didn't see my autism as something negative until that very point. Dad said I shouldn't see at as something negative, but if that were the case, why is it used so negatively? Do people usually call each other 'neurotypical' in an attempt to insult them? 

The answer to this is no.

After my diagnosis, I switched schools and began attending a school for special people like me. People who had sparkle syndrome just like me. Before that point, I believed everybody with autism behaved just like me. I believed that they, too, shared a fascination with colours. I believed that they, too, shared an obsession with Kirby. But they weren't like me. 

They were all different colours on the spectrum.

Some of them liked numbers. Some of them liked specific animals. Some of them liked colouring. Some of them would never respond when I called their name. Some of them were super smart and could memorize random pieces of text. Some of them would have regular meltdowns. Some of them would have trouble deciphering emotions. Some of them showed barely any signs at all. But that didn't make any of us any less autistic. We were all on the spectrum, just different colours. 

I wasn't too interested in making friends  there either. I did feel more comfortable, this is true. However, I found that all of us preferred doing our own thing. Some of us formed little groups whilst some of us preferred being alone. I belonged to the latter.

I wasn't on the extreme end of the spectrum. I wondered what it was like to be super smart and be able to memorize anything after having read it just once. I've heard about people with autism accomplishing great things and it made me feel guilty that I wasn't like them. 

Another thing people assume about people with autism, I've found, is that none of us have emotions. This is false. We do have emotions. We feel things the same way other people do. Some of us just have a difficult time figuring out what these emotions mean. 

When I was younger, to help myself with emotions, I'd assign them colours.

Red is anger.

Orange is confusion.

Yellow is happiness. 

Green is jealousy. 

Blue is sadness and guilt.

Purple is confidence.

I find myself feeling blue very often. 

However, these meanings hold no significance when I'm assigning people colours. I still do not know what they mean. I just know that when I am in the presence of a person who feels warm, like a ray of sunshine, I assign them yellow. 

Dad said I should start journaling and write down the names of the people I know under the colour I've assigned them. I ended up losing the diary when I moved out and for some reason, I couldn't recall what I'd written. Perhaps because I never bothered making a connection between the colours and the people. 

I asked my dad for the diary. He said he had it in his room. I figured I'd look at it later.