Because I’m Autistic+ (Autism PLUS multiple NeuroTypes and co-occurring conditions that I don’t share), I spent most of my life trying to fit into a world not designed for people like me.
Growing up, I always felt alien, but for most of my life, I didn’t have the words to explain where this feeling came from (or why).
I saw things differently than most people I knew, and I often got in trouble because people would misunderstand or misjudge me (or because I had misinterpreted, misunderstood, or misjudged them) – a phenomenon that STILL happens to this day, but wreaks less havoc in my life (now that I am aware of it).
Looking back, with the wisdom of adult eyes, I can see that my negative interactions with other humans had left me hesitant to engage (worried I would somehow upset them), feeling like an outsider.
Dogs and animals were always great, though.
Though every Autistic Person is different, I’ve always been someone who enjoys their own company and solitude, happy to be left on my own with my hobbies and intense passions for hours, days, weeks, or months on end.
Don’t forget to throw in a good dose of object impermanence-Thanks, ADHD!
When I’m in a focused tunnel, time stops.
The world around me vanishes when I’m left to engage in one of my deep passions, especially if it is an activity I can hyperfocus on, pushing me into a deep and meditative mental flow state.
I forget everyone and everything, including basic self-care tasks (like moving so I don’t injure myself from sitting in one position for too long, taking off a sweater or coat while I am drenched with sweat because I’m hot and don’t realize I’m wearing it anymore, forgetting to eat until I am about to pass out, or to drink until I have a headache from dehydration, or failing to notice I am exhausted, or stressed, and need a break to rest).
If I’m REALLY focused and cannot find a stopping point (or don’t schedule one), I may only notice I need to go to the bathroom once it is urgent, and I have to RUN there.
It’s good that our facilities are only a few feet away (since we live in an RV).
This neglect of self-care can be dangerous.
Now that I know I am Autistic, I understand that I need to set reminders for myself and schedule times to self-care and take breaks when working on tasks, even if I’m urged to keep pushing on.
Depending on whether I apply states of hyperfocus mindfully, they can be a tool I use to recharge myself or (when I get stuck on bad thigns or don’t pace myself) it can completely deplete me.
Done right, hyper-focus can be a great self-care tool; when done wrong, it can take over and wreck one’s health, relationships, and other life areas, leading to shame, burnout, isolation, and sometimes anxiety, stress, as well as physical, and sometimes mental health issues (if the topics of focus are taxing one’s health – such as stressful current events, or worries over the future).
Being left on my own in hype-focus is an excellent way for me to quickly pass lots of time.
As the hours fly by, in the end, I am often left with something to show for my tolling away – a piece of artwork, a story, or a video, which takes MANY hours of production (all in the hopes I can make myself useful to other people who are struggling or educate an ally who wants to know how to support Autistic People better).
People confusing online and in person. However, online, I have the time and space to ponder and evaluate things that would be expected instantly of me face-to-face.
I’m happy not going out, having as few social interactions as I can get away with, and only meeting and engaging with “safe people” as much as humanly possible. The best way I’ve been able to accomplish this personally is by keeping to myself and staying home (or recently taking our home with us to remote locations as far away from civilization as we could get internet).
Engaging with other people is like playing Minesweeper (an old Windows 95 PC game I grew up with).
At any moment, one miscalculation could blow up a situation, ruining the moment, an event, or even an entire relationship—or worse, multiple relationships all at once.
Often, it isn’t worth the risk, effort, or the resulting exhaustion.
Before learning the truth about my brain, burnout was my normal.
I was in survival mode, and I didn’t know any better (because I’d been in survival mode my entire life).
My life was a constant balancing act.
I had learned to mask my Autistic and other NeuroDivergent traits (such as stimming, hyperactivity, scripting, sensory discomfort, and cognitive differences) behind a mask of neuro-normative conformity.
I struggled in school (both in conduct and my grade average).
Because I was treated (by many people) like the problem, I assumed (based on pattern recognition and observation) that I must actually be the problem (or multiple people wouldn’t have a problem with me) since I WAS the common denominator -not knowing that the REAL common denominator was my undiagnosed Autism and ADHD (or AuDHD).
The expectation to conform, make myself small, less NeuroDivergent, and not “make waves” or “disrupt others” was put into me at a young age.
When my guardians sent me to school (a public school in our small central Texas town), they assumed I would be in good hands, with a loving teacher who would understand and care for my needs while keeping me out of trouble.
My mission was to “be good” and “do what the teachers told me,” parting words imprinted in my brain as I ventured to school. “Be good” and comply.
Once in class, I wanted so badly to “be good” but didn’t understand my teacher’s expectations of “good” (because the expectations in school were much different than they had been at home).
Eventually, I learned to ignore my needs and comply, but it took years for my spirit to be broken.
As I grew older, it was easier for people to focus on my strengths and forgive (or ignore) my weaknesses – which worked in my favor just as often as it worked to my disadvantage.
On the outside, I seemed well-adjusted (especially compared to my elementary school self). However, beneath the surface, the weight of masking and conforming was already dragging me down.
The effort of constantly adapting, pretending, and performing was taking a toll on my mental and physical health.
Looking back, I can see the early signs of burnout that were missed (or ignored) throughout my lifespan.
As a child, I would spend hours alone in my room, escaping into books and imagination to cope with the overwhelming experiences of school and social situations.
Growing older, in my teens, I developed anxiety, depression, and an intense rage and anger at the world, which I did not recognize or understand (thanks to a complete lack of access to mental health education and services).
I felt like I was living a lie when I did not know myself.
I was constantly “on,” never allowing myself to relax or be authentic.
For a while, it got to the point where I didn’t even know how to be genuine with others (because I was lost in the expectations of who I was “supposed to be” and didn’t really know who I was anymore). Yet, I couldn’t imagine any other way of being because I’d never known anything else.
When I didn’t know I was Autistic, I thought this difficulty and pain were just what it meant to be human – to always be struggling, always hiding, always pretending.
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