My brain isn’t broken | Tashi Baiguerra | TEDxLondon

In March 2018, 21-year-old Tashi Baiguerra received a diagnosis that would finally allow her to understand why she wasn’t always able to make sense of things that everyone else seemed to find straightforward. Symptoms and characteristics that she had previously thought of as "failures" were actually traits of her Asperger’s syndrome. At first, Tashi believes her diagnosis, along with feelings of fear, loneliness and shame, often projected onto people with autism, would dictate her career and life choices. However, through her own powerful journey, she encourages us to see and understand individuals with neurodiversity and other disabilities radically differently.

As an actress with Asperger's syndrome, Tashi Baiguerra is proud to be a voice for the autism community through her work. A dreamer, with accolades for both autistic and non-autistic roles, Tashi moved to work in the thriving London theatre scene after graduating from the Howard Fine Acting Studio in Melbourne, Australia, in 2017. In London, she trained with Frantic Assembly Theatre Company and currently works as a physical theatre performer and folk musician.

This talk was given at a TEDx event using the TED conference format but independently organized by a local community. Learn more at https://www.ted.com/tedx

I'd like you all to take a second,

and I'd like you to imagine
someone on the autism spectrum.

Be as specific about them as you can.

How old are they?

What do they look like?

What's their gender?

How do they stand

and walk

and behave?

Are they happy?

Now, when I ask you to imagine
someone on the autism spectrum,

you probably didn't imagine
someone who looks like me.

There are more than 700,000 people
diagnosed on the autism spectrum

in the UK alone.

That means that, statistically,

25 of you here today
have been diagnosed with autism.

You're the lucky ones.

You haven't slipped through the cracks.

It's March 2018

in my home city of Melbourne, Australia.

I'm 21 years old.

I'm an actor,

nearly graduated from university,

my professional stage debut
already under my belt

and a bright future ahead of me,

and I've just been diagnosed
with Asperger's syndrome,

part of the autism spectrum.

After multiple appointments
filled with confusing questions,

lots of boxes to tick

and tests which I thought I aced -

and failed miserably -

I hold in my hands a stack of paper

confirming my shyly new diagnosis

and my clinically defective brain.

So much of my life makes sense to me now:

my strange intensity in social situations,

my weird obsessions that never go away,

my failed attempts at friendships,

my tendency to cry
and panic and hit myself,

and stay non-functional
for hours afterwards.

All these things for which
I'd always thought I was a failure,

they were just traits of autism

that had gone unacknowledged
all these years.

The autism spectrum seems so vast

and so scary

and so very lonely,

and in my work as an actor,

everyone that surrounds me
seems vibrant and open

and clever and correct,

all these things
that I feel autism is not.

I take the shameful papers
and I fold them,

and I place them in the back of a drawer,

and I promise myself that I will never,

ever,

talk about my autism to anyone.

It's an easy choice to make.

There are so many pervasive and harmful
stereotypes about the autism spectrum

that many people who don't fit those
stereotypes just slip through the cracks,

never getting the support
and understanding

that they need and deserve.

We aren't Rain Man.

We aren't Sheldon Cooper.

We aren't doomed to a life in care,
unable to function.

And when we aren't these stereotypes,

nobody sees us.

Nobody saw me for 21 years.

Everyone on the autism spectrum
experiences autism differently.

You might say I have mild autism,

but that's only because
you experience me mildly.

I don't experience my autism mildly.

Most people think of the autism
spectrum as a long line,

with 'not very autistic' down one end

and 'overwhelmingly
autistic' on the other,

but that couldn't be more wrong.

In reality, the autism spectrum
looks far more like the colour wheel.

Each colour represents
a different trait or experience

that is related to autism.

Red could be social communication.

Blue could be emotional awareness.

Pink could be auditory processing.

Every autistic person,
no matter how they appear,

has their own unique plot
of points across the wheel.

We might share similar traits
and experiences,

but we're not the same,

and I am so tired

of people thinking
that all autistic humans are the same.

The more that autistic people are pushed
into boxes that don't fit us,

the more we will struggle.

You see,

most autistic people
don't actually suffer from our autism.

We suffer from the way
the world sees and treats our autism.

To the world,

my brain is broken,

and when the world treats someone
like they're broken,

that person will slowly come
to accept that brokenness as fact.

Over half of the autism spectrum

will experience self-injury
at some point in their lives.

People with intellectual disabilities,

including autism,

are seven times more likely
to be sexually assaulted

than those without disabilities.

Young autistic people

are 28 times more likely
to attempt or commit suicide.

And these numbers, they also apply
to people when they're undiagnosed.

Because I've been autistic my entire life,

not just since my diagnosis.

I've been different
to everyone else my entire life,

and everyone around me could see
that difference just as easily as I could,

even if none of us had a word for it.

People don't really like difference.

It's so hard to be different.

Now,

when you think of autism,

I don't want you to instantly think

of all the negative stereotypes
that surround my brain.

Yes, autism does come
with its own set of challenges,

but it also comes with so many
individual and unique strengths.

My autism, it makes me insanely passionate
about the things that I care about,

and my autism makes me
brave enough to talk about them.

We need to make a future
where people who are different

are treated with the respect
and understanding that they deserve.

Our diversity, that's our strength,

and with a world full of different kinds
of brains all working together,

we can achieve goals, as a race,
that we never thought were possible,

and we can make a future
that is so beautiful, together.

I don't want you to see me
as a broken brain anymore.

I'm not broken.

I am just autistic.

I'm just me.

It's a few weeks
after my initial diagnosis,

and I'm sitting in the waiting room
at the autism clinic,

ready to talk about how to move forward.

I don't want to move forward.

I want to be normal.

There is a little girl
sitting on the carpet in front of me,

sorting the blocks on the floor
into neat piles.

I recognize something inside of her
that's inside of me as well.

I am suddenly overwhelmed
at the idea of her future,

this tiny child that I don't even know

having to go out and face a world
that treats her like she's a failure,

for her beautiful brain.

The girl looks up at me,

and she gives me
a funny little half-smile,

awkward and shy and cheeky all at once,

and she sees me,

and I see her.

What is she going to do

if nobody stands up for her?

I didn't choose this,

but it is my responsibility
to pave the roads that she will walk on.

The roads will be bumpy at first,

but when she's older,
she can help smooth them,

until one day, there will be children born

who will never know that the road
was bumpy in the first place.

Her name is called,

and the girl is gone,

and in that moment,
I have made a decision:

I am taking the papers
out of the back of my drawer

and I'm folding them
and putting them in my back pocket,

and I'm carrying them with me

because they're a part of me.

And I can't separate
my Asperger's from myself,

and I don't think I want to.

Not anymore.

And I'm standing here today,

and I'm paving the road,

and my arms are open
for all of you to join me.

Thank you.

(Applause)