saying "piss off" to pretending

a bite-sized q&a with author marian schembari

Marian’s email was eerily timed.

“Omg Erin! I have no idea if you remember me,” it began, as all good reunion emails do. She had been a freshman when I was a senior at Davidson College. We were both involved with the earnest but floundering Gender Resource Center. Some years later, she discovered that I had written a book and now she had written a book and her book just so happened to be about adult autism. “Um,” I began, as all good response emails do, “your book looks amazing and timely and, WTF, I just made an appointment for an autism assessment a week ago.”

It’s true. Thanks to the ongoing distress that “it’s not okay to be me” paired with a growing cultural awareness about autistic masking in adult women, I’ve started wondering if a diagnosis might legitimize some aspects of my seemingly “hard-to-love” personality. So, I took a few online self-assessments. I began a running list of “autistic traits I identify with.” I asked an autistic friend how she officially got assessed and emailed her provider to set up an appointment. When the provider responded, “Preference for Zoom, phone, or live chat?” I cried.

Why seek an official diagnosis at all? I’ve asked myself and been asked by others in the days since. There are plenty of good reasons that could fall out of my mouth like marbles: a desire for self-understanding, community, and/or coping strategies. But, truthfully, I’m also longing for the legitimacy of a “Piss Off” card. I’m looking for permission to say “piss off” to the shame and “piss off” to the social pressures and “piss off” to pretending to be anything other than I am: sensitive, blunt, obsessively detailed, and perennially overwhelmed. This is the work, I know, regardless of labels.

I haven’t read Marian’s new book; it’s hot-off-the-press today. But I love how in the bite-sized interview below she says it’s not just a book about autism. It’s about all of us “tearing down the expectations that tell us we have to pretend in order to be accepted.” May it be so, for you and for me and for brilliant Marian.

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Marian, looking at home in her skin

Erin Lane: What is your favorite thing about being an adult?

Marian Schembari: God, I know so much more about myself. I spent the first 30 years of my life trying to fit into shapes I thought other people wanted: the perfect daughter, the cool girlfriend, the fun friend. But now (thanks to both time and an autism diagnosis at 34), I do what I want without apology. Tell my friends at 9 p.m. it’s bedtime and I need to cut dinner short? Done. Refuse to work myself to the bone just because that’s how my mom did things? Done. Paint a colorful mural on my front wall instead of making my home Pinterest perfect? Done. Hopefully, I’ve got decades ahead where I can waste way less time doing what’s expected and just do what feels right for me.

Erin: You wrote a book. (See A Little Less Broken: How an Autism Diagnosis Finally Made Me Whole.) Tell us! What shitty script were you trying to tear up?

Marian: I wrote a book!!!! It’s about my autism diagnosis at 34—a story of feeling like I never quite belonged, like everyone was just waiting to reject me. It’s also about the friendships and romances I messed up along the way because I was constantly pretending to be someone else. For decades, I believed terrible things about myself: that I was lazy, weird, deficient, annoying, disagreeable, moody, sensitive, a liar, or just broken. Turns out, I was autistic, and that diagnosis legitimized my distress in a way that mandates to “love myself” never could. The shitty script I’ve been tearing up is the one that told me I was the problem—that if I just tried harder to fit in, everything would be fine. It was a lie, and now I’m done with it.

Marian’s new book, A Little Less Broken

Erin: Okay. Now flip the script. What truer, weirder story did you set out to write instead?

Marian: This is a book about autism, yes, but it’s also about something much bigger. The truer story is that it’s about how all women—neurodivergent or not—are taught that to be loveable we have to hide who we really are. From birth, we’re enrolled in an intensive, lifelong training program of putting others first: Sit still. Be quiet. Be helpful. Be agreeable. Keep tidy. Be pretty. Be friendly, but not too friendly—that’s flirting, don’t be a slut. We can’t walk down the street without strangers ordering us to smile.

And on top of suppressing any unladylike behaviors, neurodivergent girls double down by suppressing our stims, our sensory needs, our interests. We force eye contact, grit our teeth through the noise and lights, and endure the itchy tags, sock seams, and underwire digging into our ribs. Because why the hell not? We’re already shoving it all down anyway. What’s a little eye twitching when you’re already caked in layers of makeup, Spanx, and exhaustion?

When I first shared my autism diagnosis, the response was overwhelming. Women with ADHD, OCD, sensory issues, even endometriosis, reached out saying, “I relate to this.” They’d spent their lives feeling alienated, a little “off,” or overwhelmed by the world around them. A diagnosis felt like a key to a locked door.

So, no, this book isn’t just about autism. It’s about tearing down the expectations that tell us we have to pretend in order to be accepted.

Erin: Writing—like the season of Fall—is about the risk of letting go. What did you have to let go of to write this book?

Marian: Autism is such a polarizing topic. I was terrified I wasn’t "autistic enough" to speak about my experience. I haven’t parented an autistic child, I’m not a doctor, a researcher, or a journalist. I’m not an autism expert—I’m just one person with one individual experience.

My first essay on this topic received some backlash from parents who felt my autism wasn’t debilitating enough—that I was taking space away from “real disabilities.” It made me want to shut up, stop talking, and stop taking up space. But I had to keep reminding myself that my experience is valid, too. Writing this book meant letting go of the fear that my story wasn’t "enough" or didn’t deserve to be told.

Erin: Publishing a book is a shiny milestone! What is something less shiny about a life well-lived you’re celebrating this week?

Marian: Every morning, I walk my seven-year-old to school, and there’s this little dead-end street on our route. The neighbors cut a hole in the hedges just wide enough for kids to file through. This morning, as I was walking home, waving to parents whose names I don’t know but whose faces I’ve seen for years, with the leaves just starting to turn, I felt that familiar tug—the one where I knew that in 10, 20, 50 years, I’ll wish I could take this exact walk one more time. My daughter was chattering away about who she’s sitting next to in class, her favorite colored rocks, and what she hoped we’d packed in her lunchbox, and it hit me that these are the sweetest moments. It’s my favorite time of day, and we’re so lucky to have it, however fleeting.

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P.S. Want to celebrate Marian for doing her work and sharing her story? If so, consider joining me in donating to The Divergent Gift, a documentary being produced in Oregon by the autistic community that highlights the positive sides of autism. The Portland Art Museum and the Center for an Untold Tomorrow are their nonprofit fiscal sponsors, which means all donations are tax deductible.

P.P.S. Curious about whether an autism diagnosis could legitimize or ease your distress? My therapist recommended this website, Embrace Autism, as a place to begin exploring. It’s chock full of free assessments and demystifying explanations, all with a dash of humor. (A joke with some truth to it: The willingness to take all or a multitude of tests may itself be indicative of autism, the authors write.)

P.P.P.S. What have you stopped pretending to be? Tell me your tiny kazoos (a.k.a. tiny celebrations) in the comments.