Elsa, "Into the Unknown" Power of Not Being Normal

When Disney released Frozen in 2013, it was more than just a family-friendly box office hit. It created a firestorm about the stories we tell and the characters we value. And Elsa, the central character, became an instant icon of the Disney canon. While the Snow Queen of the original Hans Christen Anderson tale was a villain, Elsa in Frozen makes a powerful journey from shutting people out because she feared how she affected them to opening up to those she loves and accepting her inner nature. Even in the conception of the film, “Let It Go” transformed from a villain song to an empowerment anthem worthy of celebration. (Not to mention the go-to song for so many toddlers it created feelings of overkill on James Cameron’s Titanic-levels.) And in the end, the true villains were the fear and demonization of the different.

A lot has been said about Elsa as a character. A rare Disney female character without a love interest. A rare Disney female character who is defined by her relationship with family, particularly the women. An even rarer Disney female queen who isn’t some kind of evil. Many people have taken Elsa to heart as a personal heroine and power media figure. Google “Elsa Frozen thinkpieces” and there will be a bazillion articles about her being a stand in for the LGBTQ experience. I understand and respect that take, although the original didn’t affect me in some profound way upon its release.

The 2019 sequel though? That hit me to the core of my very being.

The last time a film did that to me was the 2016 Pixar movie Finding Dory. Like Finding Dory, I spent the entirety of Frozen 2 with tears streaking my face. Like Finding Dory, it spoke to my experience as an autistic person. And like Finding Dory, I felt the immediate urge to write about the millions of feels I had about what this movie meant to me.

So like Elsa, let us journey “Into the Unknown” together. (And of course, spoilers here on out.)

How Do You Handle Autism, Anxiety, and Depression?

Earlier this week, one of my favorite actors Kristen Bell revealed that she suffers from depression and anxiety. In an interview with "Off Camera with Sam Jones", she talked about how her mother told her at a young age about a hereditary serotonin imbalance in her family and taking medication to help ease the hormone. You can watch the interview here:



It was shocking to me to hear this from Bell. She's known for being a very bubbly and positive personality, which makes her one of the most likable personalities in Hollywood. To hear she apparently has purposely worked to cultivate this to compensate for her mental illness is something I would've never expected. But it ultimately made me love her more for her honesty and willingness to be open about herself.

And it particularly hit home for me because aside from being autistic, I too suffer from chronic depression and anxiety.

Autism Does Speak, But Who Exactly Is Talking?

I'm relatively new to the autism world. Having only recently begun to accept my diagnosis, I can't claim a long history of sharing my autistic life story let alone advocating for myself on a large scale. And sharing my diagnosis with people is still somewhat tough for me - I don't know whether or not they'll A) believe me, B) not believe me, or C) judge me harshly for it. I'm playing a brave but dangerous game in disclosing my autism because I don't know what the outcome will be. And if there's anything I fear most in the world, it's uncertainty.

I should feel like this is a baseless fear. Life has taught me that when I tell someone I'm autistic, they tend to take me at my word. I'm not entirely sure why this is - is it because I come off just quirky enough for someone to think something's up with me? Is it because I've developed enough language skills to pinpoint my condition? Am I perpetually surrounded by liberally-minded people? Or is it because I've come up with a basic script for explaining my autism:

"I'm autistic. This basically means I have trouble socializing, looking people in the eye, and can be an overall socially awkward penguin."

Whatever it may be, it's seemed to work out well for me. My entire family knows and has been supportive of me and my efforts. My friends are all eager to learn from me about autism and show complete understanding. And most remarkably, I've gotten opportunities at work because of my open disclosure of my diagnosis - I write for my workplace's blog, participate in community meetings around laws and services affecting autistic people, and have recently joined and publicly presented on behalf of my local regional center's Board of Directors. To say I've gotten extremely lucky is an understatement - I've largely been met with nothing but support for being autistic. And I'm forever grateful that people in my day-to-day life presume that I know what I'm talking about when I talk about autism.

So why is this generally not the case in public conversation about autism?

So This is the New Year or Learning to be Autisticly Open

Last year was not my easiest year. I had my challenge in many areas – love, driving, school, living independently – but none has been more challenging than being open about my autism.

It started with a school project. I was taking a class on social work for large-scale social change and the final project was a presentation addressing a grand social challenge and proposing some methods of change. I chose to address providing work and school opportunities for autistic young adults, as services for that population are largely unmet (50,000 people on the spectrum turn 18 every year in the US). It was a subject that hit close to home, as I didn’t know where to turn for support when I left high school almost a decade ago. God knows I still feel I need a lot of help transitioning into adulthood.

Throughout the semester, I began to wonder if disclosing my autism diagnosis to the class (and later the faculty at the final presentation) would help me give a more rounded and effective presentation. It was a weighty decision as in the past I had selectively told only a few people I felt I could trust. There’s a lot of pressure on autistic people to present themselves as “normal” (whatever the hell that means) and I wasn’t sure how people would react to a disclosure of my diagnosis. And I’ve constantly been afraid that people would hold my being autistic against me. I have long believed we live in an ableist world, and that people often don’t take kindly to those different from the norm. I had mini nervous breakdowns over the decision and almost dropped the class because of it.

In the end, I stayed in the class and I disclosed my autism in my final presentation. My professor, classmates, and faculty expressed admiration at my openness and commended me for a great presentation. And yes, I got an A in the class.

With that experience behind me, I started to think about the value of being openly autistic. I haven’t had any bad experiences since I started telling people about my being on the spectrum (something that still surprises me) and being able to be honest has been kind of freeing. Before last year, autism was something of a personal burden – I was Sisyphus pushing a giant autistic boulder up a hill, trying to prevent it from rolling down on top of me. I was so frightened of judgment and so ashamed of being different and certain that I’d be seen as a problem rather than as a person. But after that presentation, I began to see that there was a benefit in being open – I didn’t have to lie or hide, I could advocate for myself, and I could share my experiences and perspective to demystify what people think autism is.

I don’t have to be Sisyphus, or at the least I can let my boulder roll down without fear.

(Oh hey, a metaphor! Weren’t expecting that, were ya?)

Diagnosed at Two, Told at Thirteen

You read that title right – I was diagnosed with autism when I was two but I didn’t know about it until I was thirteen.

Let me attempt to explain how this happened.

As detailed in my last post, I was acutely aware that I was different from others for most of my life. And from my childhood perspective, that difference was a bad one – I was easily provoked into meltdowns when I didn’t understand things, constantly under a more-than-average level of adult supervision, I had difficulty making and keeping friends, and I recall feeling ostracized by children and adults alike. This isn’t to say I didn’t have any friends or positive relationships with adults or kids– I made some good friends during elementary school, and my second and third grade teachers as well as my sixth grade humanities teachers were supportive and encouraged my love of history – but I still felt like I was inherently a bad kid because of things I couldn’t control. I would constantly ask my parents “what’s wrong with me” and they would say things like I just had a hard day and they loved me and things will turn out alright, but I’d never get a straight answer. I basically thought I was descending into madness.

Then when I was thirteen, everything changed.

I remember that day clearly – I’d had another incident at school (these were especially common in seventh grade, as some of my fellow schoolmates figured out how to push my buttons and make me explode-typical middle school interactions, as I am now aware). I was asking my mother that familiar “what’s wrong with me” question when we pulled up to our house, and she stopped the car, turned to me, and said the words that changed my life forever:

“You have autism.”