After spending most of my life feeling different and alone, an autism diagnosis gave me the kind of relief that was impossible to resist. But it was based on a lie.
In 2019, I was 30 years old, living in Los Angeles, sharing an apartment with my two cats, and working remotely as an artist. Most of the people my age I knew at the time were setting down roots: getting married, building families. Meanwhile, I spent almost all my time alone, surrounded by plants, animals, and murals. I had no desire for anything else. I enjoyed having a space where I could keep the world, and other people, at a manageable distance.
Continue reading the entire piece here at The Free Press (paywall)
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Christina Buttons is an investigative reporter at the Manhattan Institute.
