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What It Was Like Growing Up Black, Female, Autistic and Undiagnosed

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I always knew something was “wrong,” or as I prefer to say, “different” about me, but I didn’t know what, and nobody else did either, including my parents, family and educators.

I didn’t speak much. People would say hello to me and I would ignore them or just turn away. I would go sit in the corner and draw for hours because it was an easier way for me to communicate than speaking.

People would ask, “What’s wrong with her?” Most of the time, I would just be called “crazy,” moody, shy or a brat, but I was far from any of those things.

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