In this op-ed, Haley Moss describes what "benevolent ableism" is, and how it can be a form of bullying.

When I roamed my high school hallways, I was usually alone with my headphones in, or I was with one of my few school friends. I was okay being mostly alone because I was always self-confident, and I knew it could be worse: I could be surviving constant beatings on my self-esteem through others criticizing the way I looked, acted, and existed. I may have felt socially isolated, but I wasn’t being bullied — at least that’s what I thought at the time.

To me, bullying was straightforward: It was name calling, putdowns, rough and tumble physical aggression, and overt, cruel tactics that can impact somebody’s sense of self-worth. Almost half of all school-aged autistic students in one study reported being bullied at school, and as far as I was concerned, I was one of the lucky ones who wasn’t bullied under my formerly rigid definition of what bullying was.

I am autistic, but I wasn’t one of the “weird kids,” as bullies and popular cliques alike would quickly label. I had developed a sophisticated set of masking and coping skills to use in social situations, especially at school. I would learn everything I could about the neurotypical social landscape and pop culture so I could assimilate and pass in order to avoid bullying. I read teen magazines religiously. I memorized hit songs, saw the latest movies, and devoured the most popular young adult book series out there. I dressed in accordance with what was trending and ended up gaining a special interest in fashion. I picked up on cues that name calling, gossip, rumor spreading, and taunting was reserved mainly for individuals who physically stood out, or whose interests were considered "strange" — so I avoided those things.

I didn’t see my evolving pop culture and style education as masking or passing so much as I considered myself a social secret agent. I felt the secret agent approach made it fun for me to understand the nuances of pop culture so I could try to make friends and avoid detection as "different" enough to warrant fear of becoming a target for adolescent cruelty. I am still amazed how much knowing the depths of the Twilight saga had provided me with conversation fodder during my freshman year of high school.

I made it out of school unscathed from traditional bullying, other than one or two girls who spread rumors that I can’t remember the content of today. What I didn’t realize, or perhaps I chose to ignore it, is bullying isn’t always overt cruelty like a punch on the playground or calling somebody a loser. It was more like Mean Girls, where the fighting had to be sneaky. It existed not from the popular kids or the bullies, but amongst friend groups. The sneaky kind of bullying had a name and a feeling: exclusion.

Exclusion is a form of bullying that continues to happen to me as an adult, at the hands of those who continuously let me know how much they love and care about me. When I was younger, a friend hosted a trip for her birthday, and it turned out my entire friend group was invited except for me. I was hurt when all I heard about was how much everybody was looking forward to the trip, and how much fun everybody had afterwards. Seeing photos of everyone on the trip except for me hurt even more with the advent of social media.