A Raccoon Gave My Brother Autism

For those without the patience to read through to the end, I know that Autism and other neurodivergent-related diagnoses are not caused by animal attacks (nor prenatal Tylenol consumption).

A raccoon gave my brother autism.

Well, that’s what I told everyone at the time…

I grew up in a suburb in northern New Jersey. When my triplet brothers were born, I was thrilled. “THIS IS THE BEST DAY OF MY LIFE!” I exclaimed when my parents called to tell the good news.

I had one brother who let me put his hair in pigtails, one who we called “The Sheriff” because he tended to monitor everything and follow the rules, and one who wanted nothing to do with me or anyone else. One cried over nothing. Another could be persuaded to take the blame for almost anything. They all had very unique personalities.

I performed my duties as a big sister. I loved it. 

When I was almost nine, my brothers turned five. They were 

TALKING. 

WALKING. 

EATING BUTTER out of the fridge with their fingers in the middle of the night. 

And then there was Superman, the one who tried to fly down a flight of stairs in his Superman pajamas… (they had a velcro cape & we watched a LOT of Saturday morning cartoons).

Superman didn’t like hugs, was reading at an advanced level, and learned to walk long before his brothers. He stood out, but in a charming, precocious way. He had a LOT of knowledge about space and biology. He didn’t need to make eye contact with you to feel his frustration with your ignorance. If you were factually wrong, you would be corrected.

Boys like him were “gifted” or “quirky” and then “Asperger’s”. He was labelled brilliant and stubborn, which are socially acceptable euphemisms for “neurodivergent and sensory selective.”

Girls like me, though, were taught to adapt. I learned early that if I copied people well enough, no one would notice how confused I was by them. My special interest became entertaining others and understanding behavior.  I overanalyzed my classmates and interactions. I rehearsed conversations in my head just like how I memorized my lines for upcoming plays. At the time, that looked like a social skill. Later, I learned it was masking.

Then came the raccoon.

One summer afternoon, we heard screaming from the backyard. It sounded like someone got their hand stuck in the garbage disposal and turned it on. 

Superman had wandered too close to a mother raccoon and her babies. She attacked him, bit his head, his side, his thigh, and for good measure, his backside. Even nature knows comedic timing.

He lived, of course. But the hospital trip for rabies shots was followed by other appointments, other tests, and soon after, other words:

Asperger’s.

ADD/ADHD.

Occupational Therapy.

Social & Developmental delay.

Autism.

And in my nine-year-old logic, that meant cause and effect: 

the raccoon gave my brother Autism (formerly Asperger's).

I thought I was being perceptive. The equation made perfect sense to me:

Raccoon attack + Asperger's diagnosis x the noticeable differences between Superman and his triplet brothers = a raccoon gave my brother Autism.

(Math was never my strong suit)

But this logic was pattern-seeking, connection-making, and trying to decode something complicated… Like, trying to solve an equation with half the variables missing.

The raccoon wasn’t the cause. She was just the moment our parents started taking Superman’s difficulties and differences a little more seriously.

Years later, I realized my brother and I were speaking different dialects of the same language.

His was louder, made of facts and refusal to make eye contact or verbalize emotions.

Mine was quieter, made of mimicry, fawning, and exhaustion. He had “meltdowns”, I had “panic attacks”. He stimmed; I studied. He withdrew; I performed.

Both of us were trying to find safety in a world that constantly misread us.

When I was diagnosed as neurodivergent years later, the irony didn’t escape me. The girl who had spent her life narrating her brother’s quirks for confused adults was living a subtler version of the same story. The difference was that he got a raccoon, and I just got good at pretending.

So no, a raccoon didn’t give my brother autism. Even though it would be hilarious, that’s not how this works. But that raccoon did give me a hilarious metaphor, A metaphor for how people only notice difference when it’s dramatic enough to draw blood.

This is a call to action for more awareness around how autism, ADHD, and neurodivergence in general, present differently depending on the child and social expectations. It seems confusing. But it doesn’t have to be.

If you have ruled out raccoons and you are still confused, let us figure out what is going on. I provide neurodivergent affirming therapy for children, teens, and families who want support that actually reflects how their brains work…

Not how they are supposed to work.