Last spring, my family and I moved from our 22-acre farm in western Massachusetts to the center of Brattleboro. It was the beginning of a new life together.

Six months later, at the age of 50, I was diagnosed with Asperger's Syndrome, a high-functioning form of autism. Far from being a moment of heartbreak, my diagnosis was a cause for celebration. For the first time, my life made sense.

I had always felt very different from other people. I had always had a sense of apartness, of otherness, for which I could find no explanation.

The subject of autism had always fascinated me, but the idea that I might be autistic seemed absurd. I'd gone to college, made friends, and worked full-time. I was married and raising a family. How could I be autistic? After all, autistic people were locked into their own, strange worlds, unable to communicate or function in society.

Or so I thought.