I was hiding in the tub room again.

Back in freshman year, I had this horrible roommate who was essentially a pet rock whose opinion of me, for whatever reason, I cared deeply about. The issue was, obviously, that pet rocks won't talk to you or act like mature adults and so, we were stuck in this suffocating silence in which neither of us would communicate. Every time I went into the room I got anxiety attacks. (I had been diagnosed with that, generalized anxiety disorder, at the time).

My solution to my terrible roommate? Run to the dorm's lavatory, lock myself in the single 10x10 room, and freak out as needed.

I was never good at social norms.

I realized that it came down to the fact that I was terrified of connection. And that didn't change after I left that dorm -- as I grew older, that terror became more pervasive than the typical social anxiety I was accustomed to lugging around. When I did manage to strike up a conversation with somebody in my dorm, even when I saw them day after day, I always found myself fleeing when they asked me to hang out or do normal friend things. I had no idea why.

I was on medications for my anxiety and had learned coping skills to beat it into submission, and they weren't working. I had a supportive family. So why was I still struggling to find friends?

The answer, as per my therapist: Autism.

The diagnosis, according to me: A death sentence.

I remember the day I was told I was autistic. It was a bracing, chilly Wednesday in mid-February of 2016. I don't recall much of the therapy appointment itself, but I have a clear image of standing on the Snelling Avenue light rail station, watching the five o'clock traffic toss up slush.

And crying.

Those three words, "autism spectrum diagnosis," might as well have been a nuclear bomb on the Hiroshima that was my identity. All my life, I had defined myself as simply "anxious." Anxiety was what I struggled with, not autism. I was just a high-strung kind of girl. My brain was just wired to perceive threats that weren't there. It fundamentally could do all the same things everyone else's brain could -- it just had a little bit of fried circuitry here and there.

Autism? That just felt like a death sentence.

I felt that my dreams of being a novelist were suddenly impossible and that I'd probably never learn to drive a car, as I'd been striving to do since age 16. I'd never amount to anything more than I was, really. I was no longer just anxious, I was autistic now, and that gave the lovely self-deprecating thing that was my conscience sweet new artillery. See! Here's the real reason you're so messed up!

I called myself dumb, stupid, the works -- even the dreaded "r-word" crossed my mind now and again. I never used it to describe other autistic people, oh no; they didn't deserve that sort of treatment. That was an insult my brain saved strictly for yours truly.

I'm just now, over one year later, seeing how unhealthy my thinking was.

When I was diagnosed, nothing changed about my brain. All those personality traits I'd worked so hard to cultivate -- my work ethic, empathetic nature, intelligence -- still existed. Now I just had a better explanation for why I was the way I was, a better explanation for why I struggled in some areas. I'd always been that weird kid who loved books too much and hid when the doorbell rang, and now I know why: I have a social disability.

I know this story is about neurodivergence, but I think that the moral applies to many labels that we adopt-- even sexualities (As a LGBTQ+ person, I've had to use this approach in that sense too).

Please, for my sake, do not beat yourself up about whatever names you receive or take. It's not worth the fight. You did not somehow mess up by being this way, and I know that seems obvious to a lot of you now, but when you're coming to terms with a new thing to call yourself it might not be.

Such is the dumb part about labels: our minds so easily take them and use them against us.

If you're like me, to cope with the amount of things you get called, you might have to wake up every morning and shove positivity down your brain's already label-encrusted throat. Getting something new to call yourself changes nothing about who you are because you've probably been that way for a long time.

You just now put a name to it.