“Ah, the actress,” the psychic said. “Yes, I am an actress,” I replied. “Oh, no,” she corrected. “You’re a writer. But you’re an actress in your day-to-day life. Always performing. No one really knows who you are. Not yet, anyway.”
Eight years ago, at the time of that reading, I didn’t know I was autistic. I had no idea that the way I experienced life was different from the way others did. Nor was I aware that, in order to cope, I had become exceptionally skilled at playing the role of someone else – to the point that I had even fooled myself.