Indeed, my first grade teacher was certain that I was struggling with some kind of disability, so certain that she called in a specialist to give me a battery of intelligence tests. When those tests identified me as more rather than less intelligent as my peers, that was the end of the story as far as most of my family or support system were concerned.

My father celebrated that his son was a "genius," and my school teachers got frustrated that I didn't seem to be learning things I was supposed to be learning, but it was way too long ago for anybody to think about autism, and I didn't have the classic symptoms anyway.

I don't know, I doubt much could have been done to help me in those days, anyway, but I'm certain people in my family knew something wasn't "right."

Unlike today, however, sending me to a therapist was out of the question. The stigma connected to mental health therapy in the early 70s was really intense, especially where children were concerned. It was something people whispered about in somber tones rather than talking openly about.

Looking back, I really wish I could have had some help. My childhood and adolescence were so difficult because things were so hard, and I had no idea why.