When did you first know or start to think you were autistic?

When I began sixth form, I quickly realised that I was not coping with the change. The new work was overwhelming. The new teachers didn’t know me. There were new students I was expected to work with, and gradually I began to develop intense anxiety. So intense that, after ignoring it for months, one day it all just fell on top of me, and I lost the ability to do so much I used to do. 

My mum, who works with neurodivergent children in a primary school, one day said to me: “Have you ever thought you might be autistic?” 

At first, I wasn’t sure. I didn’t feel ‘autistic enough’ to have ever considered it, but as my mum told me the things that she had noticed about me, I began to think, actually, it explained the way I had been feeling.

What was the diagnosis process like for you? What did it mean when you got your diagnosis?

With my A-level exams looming, and no way of getting the adjustments I needed without a diagnosis, we decided to pay to diagnose me privately. My mental health was so precarious without a diagnosis. I was struggling to cope, and we hoped it would help explain myself back to me, returning me to what I felt was ‘my old self’, even if it meant changing the definition of what that meant. 

When I got the diagnosis, I was very occupied with the idea that I wasn’t just autistic now that I had been diagnosed, but had been autistic all my life, and never known. It very much altered the way I defined myself and thought about who I was as a person. I am considered a high-masking autistic person. Meaning that, even after my diagnosis, some people still did not believe me, furthering the frustration I had begun to feel about how long it took for people to notice I was autistic, after years of struggling alone.

My research led me further into Victorian medical history, where I learned that all these signs would have been reason enough to have a woman sent away from her life, isolated and institutionalised. I felt it was of the utmost importance to think of these women’s stories, even if we can never know them, as it may help people today to better understand the experiences of autistic people and why equality for us is so important.

Disciples of Anatomy is not just written and fronted by an autistic woman. But designed, built, developed and acted by other autistic individuals from across the UK. As a group, we strive to create and develop theatrical spaces for autistic individuals, finding ways we can cater theatre to autistic people, from process to performance. We are completely crowd-funded, and work hard to raise the funds we need to bring autistic fronted theatre to modern audiences.

What is it about writing and performing that you love and are passionate about bringing to other people?

I have always enjoyed theatre because it allowed me to experiment with the detailed ways I observed the people around me. As a child, I found people always laughed the most when I impersonated the adults in the family, and I slowly realised I was very good at it. 

The feelings I want to invoke in people are those of familiarity and recognition. I feel it is dangerous to think of ourselves as far away from history. I wanted to challenge myself to bring familiarity to our modern experience, especially as period dramas can often be unintentionally elitist in the language that they use or the events they reference. 

I wanted to explore the idea of a Victorian wife navigating being autistic in the patriarchal household, as a way to remind people how far we have come and have left to go. As well as an act of catharsis for myself, creating a character that I know would have helped me understand myself when I was younger.

What does being autistic mean to you?

Almost three years after my diagnosis, being autistic now means being truly me. I know myself now in a way that I never could without my diagnosis. Being autistic represents me as a whole person, as opposed to a small part. 

Being autistic also means forgiving myself. Before, I would expect perfection and scold myself when I couldn’t deliver it. Now, I have learned that in order to fulfil my passions and responsibilities, I deserve that little bit of grace I never used to afford myself. 

What is one thing you would like more people to understand about autism?

I would like people to understand that they will not always know what autism ‘looks like’. Sometimes, neurotypical people believe that they can diagnose an autistic person just by looking at them or seeing them communicate. But many autistic individuals, like me, often go undiagnosed and unbelieved. 

Before my diagnosis, people used to be cruel or derogatory about autistic people in front of me because they felt safe in the knowledge that there was nobody to criticise them. This made my relationship with my autism diagnosis much more fraught and difficult at school. Autism can often be hidden, and I would like people to understand that they may not be as adept at ‘spotting’ it as they think. And that trying to diagnose strangers online or in public, whether in good faith or as a joke, does more harm than it could ever do good.

What does autism acceptance mean to you?

To me, acceptance and curiosity go hand in hand. Curiosity about myself and the way I am really helped my acceptance. In present politics, legislation is presented and passed without the care, delicacy and curiosity into autistic people’s experiences that is required to make our lives happier and easier.

It is rare that autistic individuals are afforded the luxury to speak for themselves, often being spoken over or spoken for. Curiosity and care about the experience of autistic people, I believe, will lead to greater understanding and subsequent acceptance.