Voices in the Spectrum: James and Rosa
A Childhood Misunderstood
James Leisle was born in 1968, during a time when differences in communication and behavior were often misinterpreted as defects. At age three, he had only six words in his vocabulary. Early evaluations labeled him as aphasic and intellectually impaired.
His first days of school was traumatic, marked by nonstop screaming—a sensory overload few understood, and even fewer tried to accommodate. He was placed in special education and eventually attended the Gerhard Koln School in Long Beach. His father, a dedicated advocate, fought for his rights and tried everything he could to help. Despite his diagnosis, James showed sharp intelligence—especially when it came to math, logic, and observation.
I didn’t really read the National Geographic articles. I mostly looked at the pictures and read the captions.
From a young age, James loved learning, but the structure of traditional education failed to match his style of thinking. Attempts to mainstream him in public schools began in fourth grade but didn’t go well. Coordination issues, processing delays, and social difficulties placed him in remedial classes, even though he often passed tests—when given the time he needed. His peers didn’t understand him. His topics of interest were far beyond what most kids his age could relate to. He spent much of his time alone in his room, finding comfort in documentaries, sitcoms, music, and books.
I was always talking about things the other kids didn’t understand. I didn’t really fit in.
Faith, Reflection, and Redemption
In his teens, James found refuge in rock music and the paranormal—but more importantly, in faith. After moving next door to a minister, James became a born-again Christian at age fifteen. It gave him a framework to understand himself and the world.
I still had spectrum issues. I still do. But Christ gave me a way to deal with them.
Even as an adult, emotional regulation remained a challenge. He would sometimes spiral into fear or anger before recognizing what was happening internally.
I call it Chicken Little Syndrome. I hear bad news and think the sky’s falling. But I’ve learned the real problem is usually me, not them.
He dropped out of high school during his senior year. His first attempt at college yielded a GPA of 0.54. Still, he didn’t give up. Years later, he returned to school, earned a bachelor’s degree, and then a master’s. His journey wasn’t linear—but it was his.
I give credit to God. He gave me the ability to think and reason.
Meeting Rosa
In 2012, James met Rosa online. She claimed to have a PhD—she didn’t—but something about her photo in a blue dress caught his attention.
I couldn’t stop thinking about her. So I went back into my profile and contacted her.
Rosa, born in Mexico, had also been diagnosed with autism as a child. Her family immigrated to the U.S. when she was six in search of support and services. She had lasting cognitive and developmental challenges stemming from a traumatic birth involving a breech delivery and a prolapsed umbilical cord. Most of her education took place in special education programs, and she experienced emotional and physical abuse from family members who misunderstood her.
Rosa moved through life with a heart that felt everything too deeply, her stories painted in strokes of emotion that often blurred the edges of truth. She fought to be heard, but the way she stood up for herself didn’t always land in the ways the world expected. Still, James saw past the chaos—he saw a kindred spirit, shaped by the same ache of being misunderstood. In her, he recognized the quiet heartbreak of someone the world never made space for. They dated for two years before choosing each other fully, stepping into a marriage that neither of them had seen modeled, but both of them needed.
A Rough Start to Marriage
The early years of their marriage were marked by storms neither of them knew how to weather. Rosa’s emotions, often too big for the moment, sometimes erupted into anger that turned physical. James bore the weight of those moments—some in silence, some in scars. But through the wreckage, they never stopped hoping for calm. Healing didn’t come all at once, and it didn’t come from within. As James says with quiet conviction, the reason they’re still standing isn’t strength—it’s grace and faith.
Over time, something in Rosa began to dim. The passions that once lit her up—playing music, creating art—slowly faded. She stopped drawing. The keyboard sat untouched. When James asked, she would simply say the world felt too loud, too dull, too indifferent. Everything, she told him, had become boring.
Still searching for purpose, they took on a role as on-site managers at a Section 8 apartment complex in Moreno Valley. It seemed like a good fit—James knew rental law, and Rosa was skilled with computers. More than anything, they wanted to help. They poured themselves into caring for the tenants, building a sense of community among the 13 units. But their compassion clashed with a landlord who had little interest in people—only in profit.
All he wanted was to keep the money coming in and not hear complaints.
Eventually, they were let go. The loss hit hard. Not just because of the job, but because of what it represented—a space where they were needed, where they mattered. That, paired with the constant noise of freeway construction outside their home, became too much for Rosa to bear. About a year later, she experienced what James would come to call her first psychiatric episode.
In the years that followed, Rosa would be placed on five separate 5250 psychiatric holds—an involuntary extension of California’s initial 5150, which allows authorities to detain someone for up to 72 hours for evaluation if they are deemed a danger to themselves or others. A 5250 hold extends that detention to 14 days, often based on the belief that a person is unable to care for themselves due to severe mental illness. For many, these numbers 5150 and 5250, are just codes. But for Rosa and James, they represent nights of fear, confusion, and powerlessness. They represent a system that too often misinterprets autistic behaviors—like sensory overwhelm, emotional dysregulation, or fixations—as signs of psychiatric instability.
She has sensory issues. She gets overwhelmed. But they won’t test adults for autism.
Seeking Clarity in a Fragmented System
As Rosa cycled through hospital holds and shifting psychiatric labels, James found himself wrestling with the same question over and over again—did anyone truly see his wife… or were they only seeing her symptoms?
In the world of modern mental health, everything has a category. Behaviors are sorted, diagnoses are assigned, and once a label is given, it becomes the lens through which everything else is interpreted. For Rosa, that label was schizoaffective disorder—a complex hybrid that blends traits of schizophrenia with mood instability. But to James, that diagnosis felt like a shortcut. A box that explained just enough to make people stop looking.
He knew better. He had seen the real Rosa—the lifelong sensory challenges, the emotional flooding, the deep overwhelm in crowded spaces, and the struggles to read social nuance. These weren’t new. They had always been part of her. Long before anyone called it psychosis, James saw it as the quiet burden of a woman who had spent her life misunderstood. Getting her re-evaluated for autism wasn’t easy. Most insurance plans refuse to cover assessments for adults. But James didn’t give up. He found a workaround, carefully wording the request as a “neurological evaluation” instead of an autism screening. It worked. The testing confirmed cognitive and developmental deficits—but even then, the support stopped there. Further testing was denied.
Still, that sliver of validation mattered. For once, someone had looked past the behaviors and into the history. Someone had finally seen Rosa.
Now, as they prepare to meet with the psychologist who conducted the assessment, James holds onto the hope that they can begin rewriting the story—one that isn’t filtered through judgment or fear, but through truth, understanding, and dignity.
Because people like Rosa—and James—don’t fit into clean categories. And when we rely on boxes to define someone, we risk missing the most vital parts of who they are.
Labels, Frustrations, and Society’s Blind Spots
James holds a firm view on the removal of the Asperger’s diagnosis—because it was his diagnosis, the one that finally gave shape to a lifetime of confusion. Today, many professionals simply fold it into the broader autism spectrum, arguing that the term should be retired. But for James, it’s not that simple.
People say it doesn’t exist anymore. That makes me angry.
He understands the controversy surrounding Hans Asperger’s historical ties, but he questions the logic of erasing an entire framework because of the man behind it.
Should we throw out the achievements of flawed people? History is full of skeletons. That doesn’t mean their work didn’t matter.
But James’s frustration reaches beyond the world of diagnosis. For him, it reflects a deeper shift in how society engages with ideas—how it flattens nuance and discards complexity in favor of convenience.
They’re making classics into graphic novels. Vitamins are in gummy form. Everything’s dumbed down. Nobody wants to learn anymore.
To James, it isn’t just about the labels we use for autism—it’s about how we treat knowledge itself. In a culture that seems increasingly allergic to depth, truth, and historical context, he worries we’re losing something vital. We’re not building bridges—we’re burning them. And in doing so, we risk making people like James and Rosa even harder to see.
Living with Intention
James is methodical and thoughtful. He uses voice-to-text to navigate his slow processing speed. He constantly revises and corrects as he goes, even in casual conversations.
That’s how I live—I revise as I go.
He collects thousands of free e-books—many on autism, history, and theology. He still finds joy in math and solving puzzles. And though Rosa’s light dims more often these days, he hasn’t given up on her. They remain together—two people who have endured, misunderstood and mislabeled by a world that never took the time to look beneath the surface.
For James and Rosa, life isn’t about perfection or praise. It’s about showing up. It’s about holding space for each other when the world offers none. It’s about finding moments of laughter in chaos… and hope in the silence that follows the storm.
Their love isn’t picture-perfect. But it’s raw…it’s real…and it’s rare.
And in a world that so often fails to understand people like them—maybe the bravest thing they’ve done… is keep walking a road no one paved for them—together.
