At the age of 4, Jérémie was diagnosed as autistic with attention deficit hyperactivity disorder (ADHD). But he didn’t learn it until he was 12.
“My parents didn’t want to put that label on me. He didn’t want me to start blaming all my problems on my autism. This is something that can happen when you say this to a very young child because they don’t understand what it implies. It’s natural for children,” explains Jérémie.
He also remembers the day his parents told him he was autistic. Jérémie was crying. Not because he was sad, he clarifies. But because he thought it was the right reaction in this circumstance.
For Alaska and Simon, the diagnosis arrived at adulthood.
Alaska made a first attempt at diagnosis at the age of 7. By this time, his parents had separated. So they forced him to break his routine every two weeks, she explains.
“The neuropsychologist I consulted at the time saw nothing, even though I was having an autistic crisis. So I didn’t have any resources for a very long time. My father could never convince my mother that I was autistic either until I was 16,” says the student.
Afterwards, everyone agrees on a diagnosis: Alaska is very probably autistic. It was only recently that she wanted to seek confirmation. Partly, because she was moving to Sherbrooke for studies. Alaska has autism and ADHD.
“Sometimes, combinations attract,” says Jérémie. “Sometimes the two diagnoses also contradict each other,” replies Alaska.
And for Simon, the confirmation of his diagnosis came following an internship failure. He remembers that in 2016, he did the tests to the public, which turned out to be inconclusive.
“I looked the doctor in the eyes and it was over. I was not autistic, according to him. I got confirmation later, when I decided to pay $1,600.”
—  Simon
Picking up the pieces
Mathilde is awaiting a diagnosis. And it was the dinner talks that comforted him with the idea of a new label.
“I feel normal here. I always feel like I’m abnormal, like I’m missing a piece or something.”
—  Mathilde
Elle se sent acceptée, validée.
“It makes my process easier because it’s difficult. In the end, the people I met here are human, friendly and empathetic,” she continues.
“We’ll try,” Jérémie tells him. Laughter echoes in the room.
Attention to detail
This session, studies are going well, the students agree. Jérémie is pursuing a bachelor’s degree in microbiology. Alaska is a doctoral student in literary and cultural studies. Simon returns to law studies. Mathilde is pursuing a master’s degree in health.
But there have been challenges.
Jérémie says he found the transition between CEGEP and university difficult. It was also the first time he lived alone. It didn’t go the way he wanted.
“I’ve been at university for five years. Initially, I was in biotechnology engineering. It didn’t work. I had too many courses to retake, the workload was too heavy. I didn’t have enough time to do everything I wanted,” he describes.
And now it’s different. Jérémie feels that he can study more easily and continue to be involved within the UdeS Autistic People Group (RADUS). He must still be careful with his time management, he emphasizes.
Mathilde spent her baccalaureate in survival mode, she shares. She remembers not always being taken seriously. Once, for a clinical workshop during the pandemic, she asked the teachers that her patient remove his mask to better decode his expressions. He was refused.
“I was told I was going to be capable. Finally, during the exam, I said to the patient, you look good… and he started to cry,” says Mathilde.
She also often had workshops in small working groups. It exhausted him. She was gone in the afternoon to recover. She remembers that she experienced several conflicts during her teamwork. Her teammates made her feel like she was slowing down the group, she believes.
“I was reworking certain wordings of sentences. I found that they were not clear, that they did not express the right things. They told me: well, it’s going to take another four hours,” she remembers.
“I too tend to rephrase my colleagues’ sentences. These are suggestions, but they are still quite relevant,” adds Simon.
They understand each other.
“Like everyone else”
Jérémie, Alaska, Simon and Mathilde say that it’s routine that helps them regulate themselves. They need predictability, it’s true.
But there are stereotypes that they don’t adhere to.
“Rigidity,” says Jérémie. “Restricted interests,” continues Mathilde. And Alaska has already been told that she “doesn’t look autistic.”
“I learned to hide my features a little because society forced me to hide them. With the label, I allow myself to free these traits.”
—  Alaska
And then, they are also capable of adapting “like everyone else”.
“We have ways of regulating ourselves and living with autistic crises. We are learning to better prevent them. It doesn’t hurt anyone if I prefer to sit at the front of the class,” Jérémie.
“I also have traffic jams in class. I warn my colleagues. It’s not because they’re not interesting, it’s because there are too many stimuli,” adds Alaska. The other students in his class accept him well too.
In the end, it’s their way of responding to events that is simply different. “We are able to say things as they are,” adds Jérémie.
And the proof that they are adapting well is that they are now at university, adds, at the end of the discussion, Christian Dumas-Laverdière, counselor in psychosocial intervention and co-founder of the dinner talks.
