Hannah Gadsby

In 2014, making fun of hipsters had become something of a comedy hack subject, though to be fair, I’d been hostile to the “hipster aesthetic” long before it was cool, but I don’t like to brag about it because that is such a hipster thing to say.

I hated the way hipster businesses would steal survival strategies from the economically helpless and then charge a fortune for whatever service they were hocking—in this case it was serving food on chipped and mismatched plates, and hot beverages in mason jars. When I was a kid, we drank out of vegemite jars because I was one of five kids, and when glasses broke there was not enough money to buy more.

I hate to be startled, which is unfortunate because I startle embarrassingly easily

Optimism for my own future was not a privilege I had experienced very often in my life

At the time, I was working under the assumption that I had a responsibility to keep my audiences up-to-date with the bits and bobs of my life, which I absolutely did not.

I wanted to be in a partnership more than anything. I come from a family of marriers. It’s all I knew, and I always did my best.

The myths around ASD and ADHD have wasted enough of my life, so I don’t really want to waste any more of my time thinking about them, much less writing them down. These diagnoses have given me a pathway to understanding myself, and for the first time in my life, I am able to like who I am. If that’s not enough for you, if you want me to convince you that I am autistic, or prove that ADHD exists, then you can just go fuck yourself.

I was right to be cautious, because when I finally did start telling the world of my diagnosis, the dismissals came thick and fast. I was told that I was too fat to be autistic. I was told that I was too social to be autistic. I was told that I was too empathetic to be autistic. I was told I was too female to be autistic. I was told I wasn’t autistic enough to be autistic. Nobody who refused me my diagnosis ever considered how painful it might have been for me, and it got real boring real fast.

When I told Mum that I was autistic, she said: “Yeah, that makes sense. I always knew that there was a lot going on inside you, but I just couldn’t get in. You were like a tin of baked beans and my tin opener wouldn’t work on you.” It’s a tidy metaphor, especially if you know that Mum does not like baked beans.

I used to fret about fitting in at school, not because I wanted to, but because I knew I was supposed to. I was at my happiest in my own company, which I took to be an abnormality. It never occurred to me that it could be the epitome of normal behaviour—for me.