Every day, I dress in my casual school attire of a beige pug face sweatshirt and basic blue jeans—displaying my undying obsession with dogs. As soon as I go to school, I stroll through the hallways until I arrive at American Problems. I pass by students having average teenage conversations, while I stand by the door— waiting for the key to grant my entry. When they look at me, they assume that I am just an average teenage girl. However, there is one quality that differentiates me from everybody else—my Autism.

Growing up with Autism has created challenges at times. Skills that other children grasped quickly, like holding a spoon, took me longer to master. I participated in physical and occupational therapy to help me with daily tasks such as eating. In school, I occasionally had special/adaptive physical education classes which helped me with my coordination and balance—in addition to giving me exercise. When I was younger, I had some sensitivity to noises and often experienced sensory overloads. The jumble of conversations in an ordinary classroom was difficult for me to process; as I often requested it to be silent. For other kids, recess was a time to release the wild energy buried within—but for me, I stood alone in my fourth-grade teacher’s classroom. At times, she gave me papers to work on, relieving my boredom. Most of my recesses were spent sinking into the fluffy butterfly chair; waiting for the children to rush in.

The lunchroom was an obstacle for me—the buzzing conversations, the overwhelming smell of pizza were impossible for me to handle. My teachers encouraged me to try earplugs, which only worsened my fears. The unbearable background noises were relentless, triggered an overload. I frequently ate lunch in a separate room, embracing some peace and solitude.  Occasionally, one of my classmates would join me—an escape from loneliness. The majority of these issues vanished once I started middle school.

Similar to most students with Autism, I struggle with social cues. I see things in a “black and white” sense, meaning that I don’t see the whole picture. When someone makes a joke, I might not get it at first. Once I am told it was a joke, I will occasionally understand. But most of the time, I do not because I take them seriously. Secondly, I struggle to interpret body language. I am unable to tell how people are feeling through their bodies. If someone seems sad, I won’t be able to see it. Through my eyes, I only see a person.

Social interactions are a major obstacle for me as well. For example, making friends is like a maze—running into endless possibilities and conflicts. I had a large group of friends in middle school; although, it all changed when I got to high school. They started to discover their individual selves, trying to figure out where they fit in society. It has never been easy to find someone with my common interests as me—such as Big Brother, Survivor, pugs, and watching youtube videos. One day, I hope to meet a person who will make a significant impact on my life. The students who I am currently friends with... we have few interests in common.  The social aspect is hard for me to understand and makes it difficult for me to build relationships.

Understanding abstract concepts such as symbolism is challenging for me. For example, If someone were to ask me what the color white represents in The Great Gatsby, I wouldn’t know how to answer. My interpretation of white is that it’s mentioned an abundance of times—it doesn’t represent purity, innocence or honesty. Abstract concepts are taught in my American Problems class, and it’s Wednesday, which means there is another reading assigned. I unzip the back pocket of my backpack, reaching for my black and busted laptop I have had since freshman year. I patiently wait for the school Wifi to load so I can start a new adventure. On Google Classroom, an assignment appears on the page—a series of black and white cartoons waiting for me to analyze them. These illustrations seem meaningless to me—defeating a tedious task to scramble for their messages. I see those cartoons as like pictures— Information that is literally said in the context is not as difficult for me to find.

My Autism has blessed me with a talent—an outstanding memory. My parents discovered my memory when I was around five years old. I started looking at yearbooks—studying names. By the time I was finished looking at the yearbooks, I had memorized everyone’s names—including the students and teachers. “I only know one kid who knows everyone’s name and that’s Caroline!” the principal declared. I knew the names of the students and their cousins. My memory specializes in my interests such as names, dates, birthdays, years. “Who’s that Duggar kid?” my dad sometimes asks me. I always have the answer to those specific questions. I’m like a human dictionary—everyone can rely on me for information.

My autism doesn’t define my life. I don’t let my autism stop me from achieving my lifelong dream: a career in the nursing field. I perceive my autism as a hidden gift only certain people would find—me.