To those who knew me for my “number thing” as a teenager

Not sure why I did it, but I am glad I have phased it out on my own terms. Not because it was strange, but because it wasn’t who I really was. I never intended my number thing to be for people in real life. It was only supposed to exist in a fictional art universe where two-digit numbers existed as cartoon animals. This was before realizing I have OLP synesthesia, or even my autism Dx.

One day in sixth grade, I called a bully “63.” Other kids started asking me “what’s my number?” I went along with it, and it became a thing. It gave me a false sense of popularity, even though I was faced with further bullying. At least I now became famous!

It carried on in high school, as a few middle school friends/acquaintances came to high school with me. Everyone asked me for numbers, and even when they didn’t, I assigned them anyway. I numbered crushes I never talked to, and the people they hung out with. It helped me cope with the intense anxiety of seeing them around.

Then I started college. The first few weeks, I scrambled to meet as many people as I could. I told them I give numbers to everyone, so I numbered all of my “new friends.” As time went by, though, I found myself sitting alone at lunch nearly every day. All these “friends” I thought I made, have formed their own cliques, and trying to join was painfully awkward, so I gave up. Numbering people no longer made me special. It just made me “the weird kid”, like my family warned me (they were never fully supportive).

The whole time I did the number thing, there was always a tiresome amount of explaining to do. Questions ranged from “how do you remember all that” to “what does my number mean?” Never could really answer the latter. The best I could do was draw out a blob of colors that I associated with that number. I’m sure it was not flattering, just confusing. I tried to be thoughtful with the synesthesia connections, but the “demand” was too high. I got lazy, so I just assigned random numbers to make sure everyone felt “included.”

Over the last 5 years, I have been trying to rediscover my original “number universe” I have long abandoned ever since trying to recover from the trauma of bullying and family dysfunction. It has not been easy. Watching cartoons to remind me what inspired my characters. Reading Calvin and Hobbes. Listening to sixties music that inspired 64 and her best friend 66. Now listening to 90s music and developing 91, 92, 95, and 96.

I never learned the art of masking, because I resisted it growing up

And that is okay. I never should have have been forced to appear “normal” without having other options to cope with ableism. I should have been allowed to judge for myself if and when fitting in was worth it. My peers who ostracized me should have also been held accountable.

Many #ActuallyAutistic folks talk about their experiences faking neurotypical in public, and the toll it has taken on their mental health. They have spent many years trying to fit in, only to find that it is not sustainable in the long run. Meanwhile, I had the opposite problem; I made being the weird kid my identity and I exaggerated my quirks for attention. As a child of the ’90s and early ’00s, the cartoons I watched encouraged viewers to be themselves, and I took that message to heart. I also had one great special ed teacher who set my expectations of others high. She fostered a positive environment for my classmates and me – no matter how different we were, no matter what supports we needed.

But things were about to change as soon as I was transferred into a “regular ed” classroom. My family’s expectations of me were changing, too. They felt it was time that I start toning down my imaginative world so that others don’t label me the weird kid. I hated that advice right away. They were basically asking me to keep the things I enjoyed and loved hidden for the sake of being more like everyone else. But no matter how upset it made me, they continued to argue. Soon our relationship was about to go downhill. It made me feel as though their acceptance of me was conditional.

During my first few years of regular ed, none of the kids were particularly mean to me, but they never fully included me in their activities either. We only said “hi” to each other and talked for a few minutes, then I went off to play alone at recess. I saw no problem with that. I still hung out with my special ed friends while I continued to take the short bus. Because I rarely hung out with “regular” kids, my family was concerned that I was missing out on learning important social skills.

They were not completely wrong. Due to the segregation between mainstream and “special needs” children, neither group knew how to interact with each other. I continued to act in ways that were expected for special education students, and had no concept of why NT children would find it weird. I never had any problems making friends while I was still segregated in those classrooms; in fact, many of the students there loved my company and we had great times together. It did not occur to me why neurotypical students would not be able to enjoy my company the same way. It took two years of mainstream inclusion before I learned how fickle my peers truly were. Then it hit me like a ton of bricks as I entered junior high. Every interaction with my peers triggered a fight or flight response. But I stuck to my values, and there were a small number of teachers and students who supported me for who I was. But even as I transitioned to a more accepting high school, the trauma of severe bullying never left me. It took me a long time to regain the confidence to talk to crushes, thinking I would never have a chance with anyone I wanted to be with. I fooled myself into believing that it was actually my thing to assign numbers to people, rather than others pinning that role onto me. I loved the attention anyway, so I continued to do it just to feel like I was a part of something. But the idiosyncrasy did not last in college – while it made me stand out to my peers, it never helped me accomplish what I was truly after, which was connection.

So I withdrew for many years, convinced that I would never make any friends unless I learned to master the art of normalcy. I may have been right the whole time. But I sure hope the next generations of college students have better options.

Allowing stuffed animals at school

Anyone who has been to a public school may know that children are not usually allowed to bring their toys. Adults are concerned that the items are distracting, get lost or stolen easily, or could carry germs. Older students are expected to outgrow toys eventually and may get bullied if they hold on to them for “too long” by their peers’ standards. Staff at are a loss of how to teach children to be more tolerant of quirks.

No matter the reasons, I opposed that rule then and I still do today. I felt it did more to limit my social development than it did to keep me focused in school (the former is much more important than the latter, by the way). My life revolved around my Beanie Babies; they were one of the few things I enjoyed talking about, and it would have meant the world just to have my classmates and me share our toys on a daily basis, instead of wait for special occasions off campus. Furthermore, school was stressful enough environment with all its other forms of rigidity. The last thing I needed was to have my comfort items taken away from me.

While I was still on Twitter, I ran a poll to ask #ActuallyAutistic folks what their thoughts were on bringing plushes to school. The majority of voters said yes, and many commented on the ways stuffed animals benefitted them. It may seem insignificant to privileged adults, but allowing toys can make a huge difference in the lives of children who need the extra support.