Image shows a woman in watercolor painted in black, with a blue shadow. She is stretching her arms

I am not a man. I do not have an interest in train schedules or fruit flies (like my high school biology teacher). I am not a savant. I have a sense of humor, and most of the time I will get your jokes.

I can make eye contact, but it feels completely unnatural and often times way too intense. I can be a social chameleon, taking on the persona I think might fit best — mimicking others who seem to effortlessly float in and out of conversation. I successfully talk to people all day long and it looks “normal” because I have mastered the art of looking “normal.” But it’s not. It’s exhausting.

Words sometimes come so fast, it feels like bullets whizzing by my head. I don’t have enough time to process them because there are more on the way. Or perhaps I understand the words, but can’t determine the intention, and therefore how to respond. Am I supposed to be annoyed for you, happy, curious, concerned?

I can’t filter out noises and other conversations close by, so everything gets jumbled into a big auditory mess in my head. I don’t even hear you talking anymore. Even conversations I enjoy take some work.

I study people who I really want to know and engage with. I catalog their facial expressions and their tone of voice over time so I know what they mean.

I have a difficult time seeing things from someone else’s point of view. I feel everything in my body — often as physical sensations first — and I can’t explain it in words. I have a limited emotional language.

I have strict routines and absolutely hate disruptions or changes.

My body requires almost constant motion of some kind. If I have to sit, I am moving my fingers or tapping my teeth. I am physically addicted to repetitive, continuous, aerobic exercise, where I can determine what will happen next and my breathing is rhythmic.

Sometimes at the end of the day I am mute, overwhelmed and exhausted. The anxiety and tension wears me down. I am always trying to reserve energy so I can be a wife and a mom.

I am a woman with Asperger’s. I always knew I was different and struggled to connect with people, but couldn’t explain it. I have been misdiagnosed, improperly medicated, and misunderstood (even by myself). I didn’t believe it at first because I didn’t fit the stereotype, but then I researched women on the spectrum. To my astonishment, I read story after story of women who sounded just like me. I do not want attention or encouragement. This is real, and I want to create more awareness.

I want people to see another picture of what Asperger’s can look like. I feel as if I spent my entire life trying to fit into a social system that doesn’t work well for me. Now, for the first time, things are starting to make sense.

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Hi, my name is Richard Coffey and I’m a Leafaholic. What I mean by that is I live and breathe the Toronto Maple Leafs, therefore I live and breathe hockey. My friends call me a sports encyclopedia because I can tell you any hockey, baseball and basketball stat/fact you ask. So I want to take a couple of minutes to tell you why I got so invested in the Leafs and what I’ve learned from making sports knowledge my life.

You see, I have Asperger’s syndrome. What that means for me is I often struggle with social interactions or in understanding things like body language, sarcasm or subtle things most other people do. So, growing up I struggled when it came to making friends because I didn’t understand how to start and have conversations, or how to play with others or anything like that.

All that changed one day about eight or nine years ago. I was watching TV with my older brothers and my dad when “Sports Center” came on. I had seen the occasional hockey game but I hadn’t gotten into sports that much. But that day, I watched the anchors of “Sports Center” set up a clash between the Canadians and Leafs excitedly, making this seem like the key game of the regular season (it was mid-January). I was instantly hooked.

When I went to school that week, I started listening to people’s conversations whenever they talked about sports. I would hear things like, “Are you gonna watch that (fill in random regular season game)? It’s gonna be epic!” And there it was, my ticket to making friends. I learned I could walk up to someone who liked hockey and say, “Hey are the Leafs gonna make the playoffs?” and bam! I had a conversation starter. This proved to work wonders for me as I started my dive into understanding sports, I started to pick up new friends because they were impressed by the knowledge I had.

I’ve managed to make hockey become my entire life. I can’t play for the life of me, but I spend a lot of time studying plays and working to understand hockey. Couple that with my new job as a play-by-play man on “Rogerstv Toronto” and I’ve made hockey and the Maple Leafs my whole world (I’m wearing a Maple Leafs sweatshirt whilst writing this).

Why would I choose the Leafs as my team? Why not the Hawks or the Pens (Crosby had just started)? I’ve thought about this, and I think it really starts to make sense now, but for the longest time the Leafs were a team that struggled with the right way to do things. For years, it has been a bad trade after a bad signing after a missed opportunity. The point is, the Leafs are sort of like me, struggling to figure out the right way to get by in the world and by chance they found that lucky break that helped them find their path. For the Leafs it was Auston Matthews, and for me, well, the Leafs! I like to think I found the team I related to the most, and that’s why I stuck with them through the last nine to 10 years.

What the Toronto Maple Leafs did for me, what Leafs Nation did for me, is something incredible. In this community, I found my place. I was no longer the guy who was different. I wasn’t the little kid in love with the weather network or the kid who randomly cried whenever he got slightly upset (I don’t do that anymore). I was the voice of understanding, I was the one who was respected because I knew what I was talking about. The Toronto Maple Leafs gave me a self-worth I never knew I possessed.

Find your passion, find whatever inspires you to look further than the surface. Find what excites you and invigorates you to try and do something greater. Because when you find that passion, you find that purpose, and you find communities you connect with. These communities can help you, listen to you, help nurture your passion whether it be hockey or something else. Then it won’t matter whether you’re different or whether you see yourself as different because you will have others who help you and support you in whatever you believe in. Find what you’re passionate about and don’t be afraid to follow that passion. I wasn’t afraid to follow my passion for the Leafs, and it truly changed my life for the better.

If you would like to watch my TEDx Talk I did in October 2016 about my experience with Asperger’s you can check that out here.

A version of this originally post appeared on the Centre of Leafs Nation blog.

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In the summer of 2011, I was looking for a job. I received an email from a friend whom I used to work with. Elizabeth was now working at a different office, and she invited me to meet her co-workers and apply for an open clerical job.

The next day, I showed up wearing a beautiful navy blue suit, and armed with copies of my resume. My friend hugged me and introduced me to a coworker. The co-worker asked me how I knew Elizabeth, so I told her we used to work together and how great Elizabeth was. The co-worker said, “Oh she’s not that great.” I countered, “Yes, she is.” The co-worker responded, “In fact, Elizabeth is kind of a slacker.” I told the co-worker she must be misreading Elizabeth. After we went back and forth a few times, I realized the co-worker was kidding and now seemed impatient. I quickly added, “Yeah, Elizabeth really isn’t that great.” I felt everyone was relieved. Then the co-worker said something about what she was working on, but I kept talking about Elizabeth, until I realized the co-worker had turned away. I’d missed the signal that she was done talking.

Later, I met Elizabeth’s boss. We also talked about how great Elizabeth was. Again, I kept talking and realized too late that she had already signaled we were done with our conversation. She seemed annoyed.

Afterward, Elizabeth and I sat down to eat our sandwiches. Again, I was slow in interpreting her signals, constantly trying to catch up. By the end of the lunch, I felt exhausted. A dense fog had settled in my brain.

I drove home and thought about how I’ve never been able to keep a job for long, despite being bright, skilled, conscientious, resourceful and eager to help. At work, I felt as if people inexplicably became irritated with me. It felt as if they were watching me and looking for more evidence to support their dissatisfaction with me. Then it seemed as if others would notice and adjust their perception of me. Sometimes I felt people would go out of their way to openly ridicule and harass me. Even clueless me couldn’t help but sense the growing number of hostile co-workers, but I could never figure out what happened, much less what to do. I could almost hear my gentle, grouchy dad yelling, “Don’t you have any common sense?”

My childhood was no better; I was ridiculed at school. In sixth grade, a girl asked me, dismayed, “Why are you so goofy?” I read countless psychology and self-help books, searching for the right formula on how to interact with people. Sometimes, I would share my difficulties with family or the occasional friend, but they said I brought it on myself or I had a “persecution complex.” So I learned to keep my mouth shut. Yet I kept reading books, trying to figure out what I was doing wrong. Deep down, I was terrified I’d never be able to fix it or figure it out. I thought I was doomed to be an outcast, never understood and never loved. As more and more years passed, I eventually let go of the wistful hope that people would be nicer once they got to know the real me.

After I got home from visiting Elizabeth, I made coffee to help with the brain fog and tried to make an inventory of past job failures. This time, however, a new piece of information was emerging: I was missing social cues, and people were continually getting angry or irritated when I missed them.

With this new information in mind, I thought of all my previous experiences; suddenly, they made sense. I started to see a bigger picture and felt relief from finally understanding how, over the past 50-plus years, people misunderstood and disliked me. But I also felt an overwhelming grief as I tallied all the losses. Why had I never done the mental math to see this?

I already knew the answer. I stopped doing the math of adding all my failures over 30 years ago. At the time, I was in my 20s.

Because of my poor people skills, I could only get temp jobs at what seemed like the worst dysfunctional corporate environments. I got the jobs nobody else wanted. One day, my supervisor — speaking in what sounded to me as incomprehensible code — seemed to condemn me for something I couldn’t figure out, and two of my co-workers ridiculed me in the elevator. I had no clue what was going on, or even what to ask.

That night, like every night, I lay awake, tensely sifting through the day’s poisonous failures — my daily futile search to understand what happened. Cringing, feeling the years of shame and failure eating away at my life force, my life spiraling downward. The way people treated me seemed to be getting worse and I had no idea why; I felt very alone and scared. I wondered how I was going to keep heart and the will to keep going.

I’d start a new job thinking, “This time, someone will finally notice how much I give.” But eventually they’d forget all those times I’d eagerly volunteer my help without hesitation, gladly share my skills and knowledge, and work hard to get things done. It was as if they never noticed how I treated everyone with kindness, pitched in with my best ideas, volunteered for the most unpleasant menial tasks, even acknowledge my clumsy attempts to be friendly. I was afraid eventually my self-esteem and hopes for a new beginning would be destroyed by the constant and unrelenting misunderstanding and scorn from others. My psyche would be scrambled and confused, and depression and shame would affect my ability to do a good job. By then, they’d be justified in firing me.

So that night as a young 20-something, I thought of an ingenious solution: If I ignored all the abusive words, acts and attitudes from other people, I could keep moving. Even better, I could pretend that my shame and failures did not exist. I must never look back. If shame or failure dared to creep into my mind, I’d quickly shove them out, close my mind, and refuse to listen. They were banished, just like that.

From then on, it was a Sisyphean task to shut up those evil twins: Shame and Failure. Although they kept grabbing at me, night and day, I never allowed myself the slightest peek, knowing that my spirit wouldn’t survive. If there were ever an Olympic contest for shutting things out, I would have won.

To help drown out jeers and accusations from the “twins,” I began to live for tomorrow, looking only at future possibilities where I could squeeze out bits of borrowed hope and happiness. If someone was rude to me, I’d focus on kinder people or things to come. If I lost a job, I’d get another one.

From that night on, and for the next 30-plus years, I was always running — constantly one step ahead, frantically trying to stay out of reach from the poisonous clutch of Fear and Shame.

So there I was, sitting and drinking coffee, looking over the past wreck of my life and my failed experiment in tunnel vision wondering, “What the hell am I going to do?”

I couldn’t simply tell everyone up front, “Hello. Pleased to meet you. By the way, I miss cues so, if I piss you off, I apologize in advance.”

That wasn’t going to cut the mustard.

I didn’t yet know about autism. In the mid-90s, in my experience, most people in my generation were only somewhat aware of autism. I was over 30 years old, and I was thrilled that I’d finally figured out most of what I was missing; it was only a matter of time before I’d have the formula for how to interact with people. My search was almost over. It buoyed the hope that someday my life might get better. I was tired of running away. But how could I fix my life? I felt like the solution — and a wonderful new life — were just beyond reach. If I could only figure out what to do with the new puzzle piece of missing social cues. What else was I missing?

To find the solution, I needed to figure out exactly what the hell was going on. I looked more closely at the problem.

I remembered back to when I was 19 years old, working as a clerk. Even back then, I was under siege every day, a typical day for me was filled with confusing moments. In a rare, beautiful moment — before I messed it up — a kind, older woman told me about how her job was being posted for application, although she wanted to keep it. I immediately told her I’d apply for it, because I knew I was expected to be competitive. She gave me a strange look. I was already accustomed to strange looks by then, so I just mentally tossed it into the ever-growing pile of “inexplicable stuff I’ll never figure out.” A week or two later, however, I realized that I had betrayed her gesture of friendliness. She shared something with me about her life, and I threw it back in her face. I wanted to apologize, but by then, I could see in her face that familiar look of estrangement and wariness I had come to expect from everyone. Besides, what could I say?

I reviewed the incident even more closely, I said something thoughtless although I knew better. Also, I noticed her strange look, which gave me a signal. However, I didn’t interpret her signal until much later, when it was far too late to prevent it. Bingo! There was a delay in my central processing unit.

I realized there would never be a solution to this problem. My wonderful new life came to a grinding halt. I realized I would continue to miss literally millions of moments to connect with others. Relating to other people was always going to be difficult and perilous. My SAT scores were among the top 5 percent in the U.S; my people skills, the lowest 5 percent.

I looked at all the devastation and waste spanning all the years of my life. At least the shame was gone, it could no longer grind me down and tell me, “it’s your fault,” for all the times I said and did the wrong things and made bad decisions. The shame had lost its power, and for the first time in my life, my spirit felt lighter, freed from the Sisyphean task of smothering the cries from so many bad experiences. I simply wasn’t going to swallow all that blame and shame any more. Plus, I knew what to look out for, so I could take steps to reduce the damages.

The job at my friend’s office never materialized, but that was OK because I had a new job — to repair my life. For the first time in years, I felt hope for my future. In order to get help, I besieged my HMO with countless requests. Finally, in 2013, I was diagnosed with Asperger’s, ADD and post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD).

These days, I’m training myself to recognize more social cues. I still struggle daily to speak up so my silence or ill-chosen words are not interpreted as uncaring or even harmful. I also struggle to filter out what I shouldn’t say.

However, I no longer wake up in the morning dreading another onslaught of sneers, snubs, slights, dislikes and insults. I’m slowly beginning to trust people won’t inevitably turn on me. Now I console myself and say, “Hey, maybe you missed it this time, but you’re getting better at responding to cues.”

Unfortunately, my diagnosis came too late for my 27-year marriage. I had thought that, aside from the occasional tiff, we got along beautifully. My husband’s departure was a complete surprise. How did I miss all the clues? Was it because I had become a master at tuning out the lifelong parade of negative feedback and setbacks? One thing I understand now is that I never shared with him the details of my daily living hell, because I never wanted him to see me through the eyes of others.

I hope when others encounter people like me, they look beyond our silence and our clumsy words.

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“Mom, do you think Alexander Hamilton had Asperger’s?” my 12-year-old son asked while we drove and listened to the soundtrack of the musical, “Hamilton.” At first his question surprised me, I’d never thought about it. There were no diagnoses back then for autism.

I responded, “Well, Jack, what do we know about him?” We talked about the things we knew about Hamilton and his life: how driven he was, how stubborn he was, how keenly focused he was.

The “Hamilton” soundtrack has been playing continuously in our home, car, and iPods for the past 10 months. My son, Jack, who has Asperger’s, has embraced the musical and Alexander on a deep level. That’s what a good musical does — it touches something inside of us. What was remarkable to me about this particular conversation was hearing how my kids described the positive characteristics of Hamilton, because it aligned with how they think of themselves.

Jack, who was diagnosed at the age of 7, has known about his diagnosis for several years. He accepts his autism. For him, it’s like having blue eyes — a feature of who he is.  But this was not how we started off; at the beginning, I felt it was a lot harder for Jack to acknowledge his disability. Due to circumstances that led up to Jack’s diagnosis, he thought he was a bad kid. When we told him he had Asperger’s, he took it as, “something was wrong with him.”

He was not alone in seeing his differences. Prior to his diagnosis, I was jotting down, examining and reporting to the many professionals how Jack was different. His differences were highlighted at school and at home. Unknowingly, we were making him feel the pressure of trying to be someone he was not. Once we had a diagnosis of Asperger’s syndrome, professionals could now help him understand his internal wiring and address the underlying causes for his behavior. Once I saw the full picture of Jack, I educated myself and found compassion and understanding. My anxiety lessened, and I could see his strengths. In so many ways his differences were not deficits, they were assets.

Fast-forward to the present moment, after years of learning about his diagnoses, (autism, attention-deficit hyperactivity disorder, sensory processing disorder and dyslexia), he has integrated these features about himself, pulling out good things. What he sees in Hamilton — he may see in himself. He’s driven, perseveres through challenges and says what’s on his mind. He’s passionate and has a profound belief in right and wrong. We were not really diagnosing Alexander Hamilton, but talking about him was a way for my son to see worth in himself.

I can see how Jack has reached a level of self-awareness and self-acceptance that seemed like a dream three years ago. It’s a powerful example of how we can change our perspectives on how we view differences by shining a light on the positive aspects. I believe this has given Jack confidence and permission to be who he really is — an amazing young man with endless possibilities.

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Photo credit Hamilton: An American Musical Facebook page

For 19 years, I felt like a pufferfish in a pond of goldfish. Always defensive of myself, always trying to stay out of trouble, and for the most part not playing with people on the playground.

I was teased for my huge obsession with the Jonas Brothers, and my consistent talking about them pushed people away from me. No one seemed to want to hang out with the girl who only wanted to talk about this one subject. I never quite understood why people didn’t ask me to hang out as often as they asked their other friends to hang out. A lot of times they didn’t put any effort to hang out with me at all. I was always the person asking and constantly being turned down because they already had plans or they had to do something with their family. Somehow I was never able to ask at the right time.

Although I got along fine with adults, and could get along well with students when I wasn’t obsessing about the Jonas Brothers or something else, I often found myself turning to adults more than kids my own age to engage in conversation. I struggled to see when it was becoming too much.

After having struggled through my first semester of college both socially and academically, I was diagnosed with Asperger’s. I finally had an explanation for my intense interests and my social struggles. I chose to embrace my Asperger’s and learn more about it. I wanted to be fully aware of my struggles and my strengths, and I wanted to make people more aware of what it means to be an Aspie.

I don’t want people to feel sorry for Aspies and other people on the autism spectrum, I want people to accept and learn from people on the spectrum.

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Thinkstock image by Marjan_Apostolovic

I have always felt I was “different.” Different in the way I think, the way I feel, and the way I act. My life has been a roller coaster, having the anticipation as I climb the hill and the rush of adrenaline as I race down. There have been times when I have been so stressed the world seemed to have ended, and other times when I have been so calm the world seemed to have escaped from me. This has been my life, but there is more to it than just that.

Throughout my life, there has been affection and there has been rejection. Bliss and despair have contrasted themselves so divinely. These memories have both haunted me and delighted me in every sense. And in my short 16 years, I have witnessed many things, some of which no one should ever go through.

My life was just beginning; I was in preschool, and I considered everyone to be my friend. I was naïve, but so were my classmates. No one was quick to judge, and everyone seemed to care. But as my preschool life ended and I was sent off to grade school, my spirit started to change. After that point, I didn’t really have any close friends. I was a loner, independent in my school work and in my social life, whether I wanted to be or not. People may have avoided me because I was different, or maybe because I couldn’t look them in the eye, and it seemed like whenever I started getting into a relationship with someone, my family would move. When I became a second grader, my family moved into the house that we have lived in since. That was the point where I learned how cruel people can be.

Then eventually, middle school came. In middle school there were communities, each a separate group, a separate clan. If, by chance, someone was not a part of a particular clan, that person would be unknown by them, but hated just the same. Because of this, every day was an eternity for me. Everyone was changing around me, and I was finally exposed to the bona fide cruelty that can be harbored in people’s hearts. Judgment came and I was alone, singled out because I was alien to others; some even called me by that name. But middle school came and went; the clans were broken up, and life went on.

Now that I have completed two semesters in college, which occurred while I was in high school, my life is being transformed. All around me, things have been changing, and there are new things to experience. There is still disgust for those who stray from the norm. But despite that fact, my familiarity with being face-to-face with this kind of shunning has made me no longer afraid of what people think about me. I always speak my mind — about injustices, about my beliefs, and about my intimacy with life, not worrying about being judged or about being hated; I just want to be me.

Some people may believe I cannot be successful in life because of “what I am,” without thinking about “who I am.” Growing up with Asperger’s syndrome has been rough. When I was diagnosed in the fall of 2007, all of the pieces finally came together. I desire to convey that those of us with autism spectrum disorders are not a “one size fits all” kind of thing; we are all different and unique. Many people may try to understand what I go through, or what others who are under the veil experience, but, in the words of Emerson, “To be great is to be misunderstood,” and that rings true in every part of my soul.

Image via Thinkstock.

A version of this post originally appeared on The Monty Freak.

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