In the 80s, I knew that autism mostly could be diagnosed when you noticed a child who banged their head against the wall repeatedly, rocked back and forth, or did repetitive tasks like lining up toy trains or quoting baseball facts, calendar dates, or train schedules. This did not fit me, so I knew that I was not autistic.
What I wasn’t paying attention to was the many repetitions that I loved and thought of as normal. I enjoyed waking up at exactly the same time every day, weekday or weekend. I liked going to the same church building and seeing the same people there, singing the same songs on a regular basis, depending on the season. I liked putting up the same decorations for holidays year after year, and celebrating birthdays with the same rituals. Of course, people who are neurotypical can enjoy these kinds of rituals, but I think autists are often on the extreme edge of enjoying sameness. I am one of those people who will order the same dish at a restaurant every time I go there, because if I’ve found the best item on the menu, why would I want to “try something new” just for the sake of novelty.
Things that other people found enjoyable were difficult for me, like going on vacation. I hated hotel rooms, which smelled and sounded different than home, had the wrong blankets and pillows, and made me feel less like myself. I didn’t like meeting new people. Why would…
