It’s strange, the push and pull of wanting to write and the fear that silences me. For months, I’ve had thoughts swirling, stories begging to be told, but fear always slams the door shut, forcing me to bury them deep. I’m 28, and I’m still waiting for that mythical epiphany, the moment when self-love isn’t a daily chore of repeating affirmations, but the very air I breathe. Each night, sleep is a battle, and each morning, waking up is a war. The lucid dreams that have haunted me since childhood tighten their grip around my lungs, making existence feel like a constant struggle for air. There’s a weariness in my bones, a familiarity with the idea of non-existence that stretches back to my adolescence.
I know this isn’t the same crushing depression that used to define me (thank you, TMS therapy). But what is it? It’s a numbing… unknowing. A jumble of feelings that I know are there, lurking beneath the surface, but I can’t pull them out, name them, arrange them neatly in a row. I used to think I knew my emotions intimately. But then ADHD meds entered the scene, that rush of clarity as they kissed each neurotransmitter, and I realized I was just constantly overwhelmed by a cacophony of feelings. My moods are more stable now, but what do I feel? An emotional blankness that I know shouldn’t be there.
Logically, I understand what I should be experiencing. I should be furious about losing something, again. But my mind and body are on a different wavelength this time. Lost what? The mind-body is still here. I simply exist. A blob of skin, follicles, blood, and bits. I’m allowed to exist without feeling. This throws a wrench into everything I thought I knew about how I process emotions. Now that the fog has lifted, is this the real me?
To put it bluntly, I think my ADHD is finally being treated effectively. I’ve been thinking a lot about the “onion analogy” we use in mental health. When you start your journey, you’re an onion pulled from the ground, covered in dirt. Acknowledging your need for help is like washing off that grime. The first therapy session? That’s peeling the outermost layer, the onion’s tunic. Each step, each professional session, each act of self-care, is another layer removed, revealing the onion’s anatomy. But it’s not a clean peel. You damage the onion, you release those eye-watering, tear-inducing chemicals, the allyl sulfides. To me, those allyl sulfides are the breakdowns, the ego deaths, the shedding of old beliefs to make room for new ones. You might finally manage your PTSD, your ADHD, only to find another giant obstacle looming on the horizon. The path is never truly clear.
In this process of ADHD treatment and CPTSD healing, something profound has become undeniable: I am autistic. It’s always been there, this core of me, but as I grew, as I added those metaphorical onion layers, it became harder to distinguish which traits belonged to which part of me. I feel closer to my child self, and that feels safe. But in these recent months of recognizing my autism, I’ve struggled to accept this “me” again, even though, deep down, it’s all I’ve ever wanted: to just be me.
The reason for this resistance is my chameleon skin, that mask I’ve proudly cultivated over the years, my role as a self-appointed conductor of social interactions. These masked versions of myself were a form of protection, a way to navigate various social circles while never truly belonging to any of them. It was a defense against the crippling social anxiety that stemmed from years of being “othered,” of being told, from a young age, that I was weird, different. I learned to make it stop, or at least happen less often. Maybe it wasn’t that successful, because every couple of years, the mask would inevitably slip, and my neurodivergence, my autism, would erupt in meltdowns.
This post was supposed to be about my frustration with having fewer feelings, the way I used to when my ADHD was running wild. I was almost proud of being a chameleon, despite the immense suffering it caused. I never imagined someone would call me out on it, someone else with autism who saw right through my act.
But as I write this, the rationality of it all is starting to make sense, and it’s almost comical. I’m upset that I was “found out,” that my performance was, in a way, a failure. All those years of struggling to be acceptably weird, to be less noticeably different, and then someone I care about gently calls me out for being a fraud? That’s messed up. I poured my heart into that mask. I deserve a refund or a do-over, because it just wasn’t fair. It felt like the rug was pulled out from under me, and then someone said, “We know you didn’t actually clean, you just swept it under the rug!”
That’s some bullshit.
Well, I am autistic. And that’s fine. I’m probably still going to mask, because, honestly, it can be fun, and it really does shock people. I think people assume autistic people can’t talk, can’t feel emotions. They want us to fit the DSM stereotype, to believe that everyone with autism experiences it the same way. We don’t. Each experience is valid, and it’s all still autism. Fuck the “high-functioning” and “low-functioning” labels.
Anyway, now that that’s out of the way, I want to be more open about how I process emotions, something I’ve always known about myself, but now see so clearly with my ADHD managed. To be clear, some autistic people experience alexithymia, difficulty identifying or expressing their own emotions. Some may not be able to identify or express any emotions. It’s not an official diagnostic criterion, but it’s common. I can identify facial expressions in others, connect them to emotions, no problem. My struggle is with my own emotions. I have a delayed response. It can look like I’m having a meltdown out of the blue, but it’s actually the culmination of emotions I experienced days, weeks, or even a month ago. I don’t know if this is a result of childhood abuse and my tendency to suppress everything, but it’s permanently how my brain is wired. This was incredibly difficult because I tricked myself into believing my masked identity was my true self. I thought I’d outsmarted my mind and body, become a “new human.” Nope. So, I still experienced those delayed emotions, and I think that’s a big reason why I was raped and sex trafficked when I was younger. Because I couldn’t identify how I truly felt until it was too late, until the horrible things had already happened.
My younger, masked self (who, remember, genuinely thought that was the real me, the chameleon me) couldn’t understand why I suddenly developed panic attacks. I thought I was having a heart attack, because I also experience pain differently. Naive me was innocent in not recognizing and accepting that this was just another facet of my autism, and sadly, I was taken advantage of because of it, repeatedly. Just to drive this home, I didn’t pick up on the many red flags in a relationship with a man I supported, six years my senior, only to find out, three years later, that his ex kept showing up at his job because he was still married to her. And I never suspected a thing. He literally told me he didn’t know how he was married. And I believed him. That’s peak autism right there. I wish I’d known earlier that I’m incredibly gullible (back then, much less so now) because I’m a literal thinker. If someone tells me something, I believe it to be true. And it’s not just me; many autistic people share similar experiences of being used and abused because of our difficulty with social cues, literal thinking, and challenges with emotional identification or expression. This is just one of many, many autistic experiences I’ve had.
I think since I started recognizing how awful that situation was (because others pointed it out to me, my initial reaction was to laugh it off), I realize how much pain and hurt I was carrying. I’m strangely grateful for that trauma and the people who gave me perspective, because otherwise, I might have stayed that way, never realizing how wronged I was. Never learning to identify when a situation is harmful, even if I don’t feel it in the moment.
These days, I overthink everything. I have to. It’s a survival mechanism. Any future partner needs to understand that from my autistic perspective, it’s for my own good. I think into the past, present, and future, playing out every possible scenario to keep myself safe and informed. It’s what makes me a fantastic project manager. When something happens that should trigger an emotional response, I mentally schedule myself to feel those emotions 1-3 days later, because of my delayed processing. I also actively try to expedite the process, consuming media that evokes those specific emotions, trying to “fish them out” of me. I hope this might help me suppress less and maybe even rewire my brain to feel things closer to real-time.
Another thing I do is question the literal meaning behind what people say and do. I try not to get upset anymore when actions and words don’t align. I realize that many neurotypical people lie daily. How could they not, when our culture and language teach us to engage in meaningless small talk and avoid genuine connection? When “How are you?” isn’t a real question, and “Come grab me ASAP!” doesn’t actually mean drop everything and come pick me up.
I think I’m past the point of having to explain that yes, I’m autistic, and yes, I can differentiate between all those things that are considered “hallmarks” of autism, and still be autistic. I know I’m constantly performing learned interactions. Without those learned interactions, my mind naturally defaults to a place of misunderstanding.
I have to thank the scientific side of me that labels everything I hate an “experiment.” From a young age, I was acutely aware of my rigidity, how my opinions were unwelcome, especially for a girl. I was still opinionated, still serious about “unimportant” things, but when I realized it was hindering my ability to make friends, I started experimenting, finding ways to trick my brain into doing things it resisted. Like forcing myself to eat the last piece of food on a plate, even though it almost always triggered sensory aversions. I still do this, even as an adult. Until I met someone I loved, and still love (just differently now), who would get upset at my “wastefulness.” So, I’d force myself to eat it, every last bite, training my mind and body to endure the sensory discomfort. All for love, right? But that’s a story for another time, my obsession with love. More recently, I’ve decided to honor my sensory sensitivities. I no longer force myself to eat things I hate or feel shame for doing things differently.
Okay, I think this is long enough. I promise, my whole identity is not just Autism, but the more we learn it is hard to not link it back to see the whole picture.
Leave a Reply