Diagnostic Revelation

After a couple of months of complete radio silence from the neuropsychiatrist's office—the kind of professional quietude that suggested either intensive deliberation or administrative abandonment—she decided to take matters into her own hands. She wrote to the psychologist with the polite urgency of someone trying to determine whether her cognitive assessment had been lost in bureaucratic purgatory.

The psychologist replied that she had completed her portion of the evaluation but was still waiting for results from the other team members. This felt suspiciously like the academic equivalent of 'the dog ate my homework' but our heroine decided to exercise patience with the mysterious collaborative process.

After waiting another month without any communication—a period during which she could have completed several marine biology courses, learned a new language, or solved minor mysteries of the universe—she decided to request just the psychological results rather than wait for the complete interdisciplinary assessment.

The psychologist seemed distinctly uncomfortable when they finally met to discuss the findings, displaying the nervous energy of someone who had to deliver news that didn't match anyone's expectations.

"You see" she began with the careful delicacy of someone defusing an explosive device, "you do not have learning disabilities."

"Well, no, of course not!" our heroine replied with the enthusiasm of someone stating the obvious. "I'm autistic! That's why I came here for assessment."

"Oh, no" the psychologist said, her discomfort becoming more apparent. "You were actually tested for learning disabilities. That's why we administered the IQ test—to determine if there was intellectual impairment first, and then assess for specific conditions like dyslexia, dyscalculia, and similar processing disorders."

Ah. The acronym catastrophe had finally been revealed in all its bureaucratic glory.

"But it's clear that you don't have any of those conditions" the psychologist continued. "Instead, your cognitive profile clearly matches the autistic pattern. You excelled in almost every section of the test."

She paused, consulting her notes with the expression of someone about to deliver information that defied conventional understanding. “Let me read my assessment for you.”

Me appears anxious, probably due to the examination. Her face is expressionless, and she cannot maintain eye contact. Her speech and reactions also seem noticeably slowed, likely as a result of the medication she is taking....

"There was one area where you scored 9, while the average is 10—that was verbal intelligence. But the section that tested your ability to solve problems that had never been presented to you before... you scored 14, 15, 16 in different subsections. Those are extremely high scores. I have never personally encountered someone achieving such results."

Me absorbed this information with the satisfaction of someone whose suspicions about her own exceptional nature had been scientifically validated. She was not just autistic—she was autistic with cognitive superpowers that placed her in statistical territories most professionals never encountered.

"But why did you only realize now that you're autistic?" the psychologist asked with genuine curiosity. "And what problems do you actually experience with your condition, given that you've not only survived but achieved a PhD and established a career?"

"Oh, well" she replied with the matter-of-fact tone of someone explaining basic physics, "I have significant problems reading people's emotions and understanding how to respond appropriately. My reality is constructed entirely from rationality. Every irrational element must be broken down into component parts and systematically organized. That's how the universe operates—through progressive arrangement of chaos into ordered structures."

She gestured expansively, warming to her philosophical theme. "Everything that happened in my recent life occurred because I'm autistic and completely unable to read societal dynamics. I interpret everything literally and miss all the subtext that apparently governs human interaction."

The psychologist nodded with the expression of someone finally understanding a complex puzzle. "You know" she said thoughtfully, "with your IQ and cognitive skills, I'm not sure you could even qualify for disability classification. And even if you could, they certainly wouldn't provide employment opportunities proportional to your actual intelligence."

This observation hung in the air like a diplomatic way of saying: You're too smart for the support systems designed to help people like you, but too autistic for the world that might theoretically appreciate your intelligence.

"By the way" the psychologist added almost as an afterthought, "you may have some comorbidities."

But she didn't specify which ones, leaving our heroine to wonder whether this was mysterious additional neurological gifts or simply more complications to navigate.

She left the appointment feeling vindicated and scientifically validated. Her suspicions about her exceptional neurological architecture had been confirmed by professional assessment. She was not just different—she was measurably, statistically, impressively different.

Naturally, she immediately texted various friends about her newly documented condition and IQ scores, sharing the news with the enthusiasm of someone who had just discovered they possessed previously unrecognized superpowers.

One friend's response gave her pause. He was someone she had long suspected of being autistic himself, based on his systematic thinking patterns and social awkwardness that felt familiar.

"Keep it to yourself" he advised with uncharacteristic seriousness. "Don't seek official diagnosis. We're living in dangerous times for people like us."

The warning felt ominous and oddly prescient. What did it mean to live in "dangerous times" for cognitively exceptional but socially impaired individuals? Was there something about official autism diagnosis that created vulnerabilities she hadn't considered?

But the advice came too late. She had already been professionally assessed, documented, and categorized. Her neurological status was now part of the medical record, permanently archived in systems she couldn't control.

Sitting in her apartment that evening, she reflected on the day's revelations with mixed emotions. On one hand, she finally had scientific confirmation of her exceptional analytical abilities—scores that placed her in cognitive territories most people never reached.

On the other hand, she was beginning to understand that being simultaneously highly intelligent and socially impaired created a unique set of challenges that existing support systems weren't designed to address.

She was too smart for disability services but too autistic for conventional employment. Too analytical for neurotypical social dynamics but too literal for the subtle manipulations that seemed to govern professional advancement.

Her friend's warning about 'dangerous times' suggested that there might be risks to being officially documented as neurodivergent that she hadn't anticipated. In a world that was becoming increasingly automated and systematized, what happened to people whose minds worked differently from the majority?

The diagnosis had answered her questions about her own nature, but it had also raised new concerns about how that nature would be perceived and potentially exploited by systems that valued conformity over capability.

For the first time since beginning this diagnostic journey, she wondered whether some kinds of self-knowledge might be more dangerous than ignorance.