My Battery Was Draining Faster Than It Could Charge. My Needs Weren’t the Problem. Ignoring Them Was.

When I was diagnosed Autistic, more than 9 years ago now, I was at a low point in my life.

I was in crisis, depleted, ready to end it all.

I was physically and mentally ill, burned out, and ready to give up.

Looking back at my life, I can now see that in not knowing myself, I’d built a life that was expected of me, instead of a life I wanted, or that supported my needs as an Autistic person.

The life I was living, that may have fueled and supported a non-autistic person just fine, was slowly draining my life-force without recharging me enough so that I could keep going.

I was being drained faster than I was being refilled.

Every day, I was exhausted, starting from a deficit.

Each day, I would muster all my energy for work, then come home and crash, with nothing left for the rest of my life.

One by one, the things that had once brought me joy outside of work (my relationships and hobbies) began to slip away, as I fell into survival mode, and began living for a job that treated me, and my energy, like an exploitable resource.

Finally, I’d landed that “respectable” corporate office job, the one I was told all my life I should strive for, but it wasn’t all I thought it would be. This job was never really my dream, but one implanted in my mind by the lies our society sells us about what we should do and who we’re supposed to be.

Over time, this job that drained me became an inescapable nightmare, even as others insisted I was lucky to have it.

If this job was “so wonderful” and I was doing “so well,” why did I feel a massive urge to burn it all down and run away screaming?

Being diagnosed Autistic, a few months before my 30th birthday, was an eye-opening moment, because it answered that question (and many others) for me.

Learning about my Autistic brain was validating because it explained so many things.

It explained why school had been so difficult for me growing up, why I’d been bullied and picked on so much, and what my teacher had meant (to act like a non-autistic) when she told me to “act normal” so people would leave me alone many years ago.

Suddenly, I knew why my life had been so hard – because the life I’d built took very few of my needs into consideration.

I’d been encouraged to ignore my needs for years by the people around me (who had very different needs than I did) and assumed, falsely, that our needs had been the same.

When I tried to explain to my teachers that the classroom lights were causing me pain, I was told, “Nobody else was complaining.”

When I asked clarifying questions because I needed more information or didn’t understand how I was expected to, I was called “difficult.”

When I’d frozen with fear, anxiety, or executive functioning buffering, I had been told I was “refusing” to participate.

I now know that none of this was true, fair, or right.

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