Another Step

Having admitted to myself that I was autistic, and having already approached the doctor to be referred for diagnosis, I knew there was something else important that I had to do. I had to let my family know what I’d discovered, and the obvious place to start with that was to call my mother.

I recorded my feelings about doing this:

Deep deep breaths. That was a biggie. Told my mother.

And then noted some of the things that she had immediately said when I’d told her that I would need information about my early childhood and please could she start thinking whether there were any incidents that occurred in my early life that she could remember, or any ways in which I differed from my brother (who is not autistic) when we were young, and could she possibly just start thinking back to the time of my early childhood and triggering memories because the assessment people would want to know.

And without even a pause for breath, my mother remembered being summoned to my primary school (as I’ve described in Circles) when I was 4 years old. She recalled me learning to read at age 3. She recalled my nursery teacher commenting on my behaviour at nursery. She recalled something about a hearing test at 7 months that went wrong because I didn’t behave like a 7 month old should and the person administering the test telling her off about it. She told me how I didn’t respond to spoken words as a baby, only to singing, and how I hardly slept and constantly fidgeted in my pram.

And all this was instantaneous recall, the moment I asked, with no pause for thought. Memories from over 40 years ago. Little things, none of which seemed significant at the time, and none of which was ever followed up (because it was the 1970s and I seemed healthy as far as anyone could tell and when my mother asked what babies were supposed to do (I was the first child and my parents were young and inexperienced) she was told that all babies develop in their own ways so not to worry about anything), all started to indicate that my development when I was very young was, in fact, rather a long way from what would be considered “normal” by most people.

This first conversation was, it turned out, only the “tip of the iceberg” as far as my childhood was concerned. There were further pieces of information to follow, and I’m still, really, in the process of absorbing them all and trying to go through the questionnaires that we did as part of the assessment process. Maybe I’ll manage to write about it all thoroughly at some point, but that point is not yet.

My instant reaction to these revelations was to make a bunch of hashtags:


I subsequently went through a phase of finding these discoveries about my early life really rather odd and weird, and in many ways, traumatic. It was strange to think that there were things I’d never have discovered about myself and my early life if I hadn’t been going for an autism diagnosis. My husband and I had started to document my own memories of childhood a couple of weeks earlier, but this phone call to my mother took things to a whole new level, because I started to discover things that weren’t part of my existing life narrative.

Furthermore, since I was never able to have any children, I didn’t know whether the things my mother was telling me about my early life had any resemblance to any sort of “normal” childhood development or not, and I ended up having to do a lot of really triggering research to find out, research that brought back horrible memories of infertility clinics and pain and heartbreak and failure, so it turned out to be a triggering and difficult experience from that point of view too.

And, of course, my own memories of childhood had to be activated. And many of them weren’t that much fun either – I was bullied consistently through school and even when teachers tried to find out why things weren’t as they should have been, they weren’t able to come up with any answers, despite sometimes trying, as I described in Head’s Office.

These things are things I still haven’t yet worked through, things that still upset me, things that I know would have been picked up if I was a child today. I can’t help feeling that had I known that I really was different when I was growing up, not just naughty, that I would have felt less bad, been less self-blaming, and not become the suicidal burnt out adult I now am. I’m still not really in a place where I can consider all the things I want to consider – I have to do it a bit at a time, because it is difficult.

My mother, somewhat comfortingly, said to me a few months after that first conversation, that she wishes she had a time machine. Of course, there are so many factors at play that it’s impossible to say that changing one thing would have produced this result or that result (I KNOW all the stuff about autistic kids being “written off” and told they’d never be able to get anywhere in life – I had exactly the OPPOSITE problem and was consistently told how bright I was and given massive expectations accordingly, expectations that I could never fulfill so I was doomed to failure). However, maybe I’d not have been chastised for meltdowns, not been forced to wear wool polo necks which hurt me and so on, and not have learnt, through my early years, to behave and to internalise everything because I was frightened of the consequences and the punishments.

Furthermore, because I learnt fast and turned out to be academically able, by the time I was at secondary school exam stage nobody worried about me. I was succeeding academically, top grades of my year, therefore I must be happy. What nobody knew is that I hardly bothered revising for my O-levels because I assumed I’d be dead by the time the results came out. I didn’t tell anyone because I’d learnt by then that you just didn’t talk about that sort of thing. You worked hard, you behaved, you churned out the exam results, and everyone was happy. It was all part of the act.

Except that the act had a massive cost for me – the thing that had eventually made me as well-behaved a child as I was able to be, turned me into a mentally ill twentysomething and a burnt out thirtysomething. And nobody really knew why until I was in my mid forties.

Getting an autism diagnosis late in life is a weird thing. It opens all sorts of cans of worms that have been sealed shut for decades. I had long since closed the door on my childhood, and on everything to do with children in general, sealed away in a place in my head marked “Do not open – just move on with life!” but I was forced to reopen the door, to take the cans off the shelves, and to let the worms loose all over the place. It was part of the assessment, and it is part of coming to terms with why my life has turned out as it has. It’s something that needs to be addressed as best I can in order to move on and try to build some sort of future with whatever life I have left. I’m not sure it was something I particularly wanted to be doing at this point in my life – having just moved away from all things child-related after my own failure to have any, the last thing I needed was to go back to my own early life – but it turned out to be necessary, and perhaps going through the painful stuff now means that there will be less of it buried and I’ll eventually be less mentally ill as a result, more at peace with it all, and maybe, possibly, more at peace with my own childlessness and consequent response to children, which is something I still struggle with terribly.

And, as I have read in so many places and am experiencing for myself, getting an autism diagnosis late in life is not only about the future, and learning how to live from now on, but also about reframing past experiences, reviewing all of life that has gone before, looking back at so many times when things have gone wrong, or been inexplicable, and looking at them from an autistic perspective. It’s part of the process of making sense of life, and, of course, the later the diagnosis, the more of life there is to go through.

And in my case, it’s not just me who is reframing past events. Many of my friends have now made sense of experiences they’ve had with me over the years. My husband now understands things that have long been slight oddities in our marriage. And my family are trying to understand the whole thing.

I made the first phone call to my mother a year ago today. It had taken nearly 45 years for her to find out why her non-sleeping fidgety baby had messed up a hearing test at 7 months old. As soon as I asked the right questions and explained what I’d recently discovered, it became obvious.

I didn’t even know I’d had a hearing test at 7 months until I started gathering information for an autism assessment!


Typing The Words

Although the notion of me being autistic had been suggested by several people throughout the month of August 2016, and I’d started to research the idea seriously on the 23rd August, and then been to see my GP to get some sort of outside opinion on 16th September, by this time last year I hadn’t yet actually admitted to myself that this whole “autism hypothesis” thing was anything more than, well, a hypothesis!

I had, however, assembled a really tiny chat group on facebook, because I needed somewhere to be able to talk about what was going on, and the thought of declaring myself autistic on my main facebook wall (where most of my social life takes place) was WAY too much for me at that point. Furthermore, nobody outside of my immediate “every day” circle, or who hadn’t been there over the summer, knew what was going on. I was still getting used to the idea, and trying to explain to other people something that I barely understood myself would have been utterly impossible.

So, a few days after seeing the doctor, I set up the tiny chat group, and added just a very few people – really those who had happened to be in the right (or maybe wrong) place at the right (or wrong) time. Several were people who already knew what was going on, some had already helped me in some way, some had been through the same process, and some were folk who I simply knew I could count on because I’d been able to in the past.

The group became a sort of journal for me, although this time a year ago I didn’t know it was going to be that way. It was also, between September and December 2016, an absolute lifeline. I needed to talk about what was going on, and not just to my husband, and, thankfully, I found a way of doing so. There were around half a dozen people who endured hour after hour of me going on and on, and propped me up and kept me going through those times. I shall be forever grateful to them.

I hadn’t, at this stage, even discovered that there were autistic groups on facebook, neither had I found blogs by other autistic adults. That would come later, and even then I joined one or two groups and lurked silently, not even daring to comment, because somehow I felt like I wasn’t allowed – the groups were evidently full of “proper autistics”, real grown-up ones, not like me, who was just some random person who was a bit odd! They all seemed to know stuff I didn’t, so I silently read and learnt, because that was all I could do at that stage.

When I eventually did discover blogs, the best I could do was to follow their facebook pages if they had one. I didn’t, at that time, have a blog account that I could use, because I hadn’t set this one up yet, and, again, like the facebook groups, I wouldn’t have dared to comment. I’m still struggling a bit with the interaction element of blog commenting and even responding to comments on this blog – I need to have a very high energy day to be able to respond to comments (which, I assure those of you who have made them, I have read and will respond to) in the ways that I’d like as it takes many more spoons than simply writing a post and putting it up. This is my equivalent of presenting a paper, which I can do relatively easily on about 50% of days, but taking questions afterwards I’m still finding challenging, as I mentioned in Responding and Communicating.

So, for the time being, it was my tiny group of trusted allies, some autistic, some not, and, of course, the ever growing pile of books – once I’d bought the first couple from Amazon, the Amazon “suggestions” did much of the rest of the work, and buying books from Amazon was something familiar and easy, so that was what I did!

And, it was one year ago today, in that tiny group, that I first typed the words quoted at the bottom of The Discovery, and, after just a few weeks of suggestion and investigation, started to identify as autistic. It’s almost as though today is the first anniversary of me disclosing to myself!

I actually accepted the idea rather easily, mainly because, once I started to discover what being autistic actually was, it became really obvious that I was it. Although only months earlier I’d still just had some vague notion that autism was mainly something to do with small boys who didn’t talk or brainy computer geeks who took things rather literally or some sort of special educational needs thing or savants (yes, I was as susceptible to absorbing the stereotypes as many other people are, and I certainly didn’t believe any of the above related to me in any way, and neither had I ever had reason to wonder), as soon as I started to investigate and learn the full reality, it was obvious that it applied to me.

Interestingly, looking back, what I didn’t know a year ago was just HOW MUCH autism applied to me. I had yet to discover things that my mother was eventually to remember about my early childhood – things that I would never have discovered had I not gone for an autism diagnosis. At the time there was still a long way to go with the process of discovery (and I suspect there still is – I’m still getting moments where I suddenly realise something I’ve always done is not just “me” but is an autistic trait).

And although it felt weird because it was new, I had no problem with the idea of the identity “autistic”. I pick up from various places online that there is, apparently, some sort of stigma attached to the word, but I didn’t feel anything bad about it. I suspect that’s partly because of where I live and the people I come into contact with (there are very few of them and many are also neurodivergent or allies), partly because I had already had two decades with several mental illness labels so “autistic”, although new, and different, was, to me, just another thing to add to the list, and partly because I’d been used to being different from other people for so long, that actually it seemed pretty cool to have a name for the sort of different that I was! Furthermore, discovering that I wasn’t naughty and lazy, as had previously been thought, was such a relief that I embraced “autistic” with open arms!

And so, a year ago today, I typed the words that I’d realised, only a few weeks after the first suggestions, were absolutely correct. It did feel strange, unfamiliar, and new, in the same way that “I have bipolar disorder” had felt strange nearly a decade earlier, and “I have depression” had, a decade before that, but it also felt right, and still does. However, a year later I don’t have to type the words on a tiny chat group on facebook, and I don’t then need to then jump up and down going “fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck” to recover from the experience. I can type them on open facebook, on a public blog post, and I can even, now, relatively easily (as long as my words are working) just tell people.

That feels like quite a big change in the past year. And it had to be a gradual process, while my brain adapted to the new identity and I got used to the knowledge of what sort of brain I have. But the same words still apply, and these days they’ve lost almost all the “this feels a bit weird” stuff, and are now just a factual description of my neurology coupled with a big part of my identity.

I am autistic.


Today has been an OK day.
Not amazing,
Nothing much achieved,
Just clothes
And a bit of lunch,
But fine, OK
Perfectly contented
Just to be.

Yesterday was miserable.
I didn’t want
To exist
At all.
Really depressed,
Really low.
Not seeing any value
To my life
Nor any point
In staying alive.

The day before was nice
I visited my best friend
Had coffee with my husband
Bit of shopping
Good stuff
Nice dinner.

The day before was impressive
Coffee and breakfast
First thing
Cheese and mushroom toastie.
Two lots of shopping
Trousers, washing powder,
Bath foam, food.
All good stuff.
And then a 12K run.
Successful, good day.
If all days were like that
Life would be worth it

The day before that
Tried to make tea
Drove to town, parked.
After three different coffee shops,
All too busy, frightening,
No words, even to ask for
A latte, which is what I always have.
No hope of buying food.
Returning home
In tears.
Fighting the urge
To damage myself.
Not able to eat.
Seeing no hope.
I’m a jobless, childless, useless
Person in their 40s
Who cannot even
Get a hot drink for myself.

This is the variability of my life.
This is the difference in capability
From day to day.

And I never know
How the new day will be.

And I struggle desperately
To imagine how life
Could be any different
From how it is
In that moment.

When it is good
I make plans
Based on the good persisting
And I imagine
Things will improve
And I can achieve
So much.

When it is bad
I see no way
It is worth staying alive
And I have to fight the urge
To give up.
Taking it
One hour, minute, second,
At a time.

This is the variability
Of my life.

(And is also why
This blog
Is so unpredictable.)

Still Here

It’s OK
I keep telling myself.
People take holidays from things
All the time.
Maybe I haven’t failed
At this blog…

…I’ve just had a break.

There is so much still to say
And I need to respond,
To messages and comments and so on.

But this last week or so
I have been a bit broken.
The price I pay
For doing things
That sap my energy
And require me
To be out in the world.

And there have been other stressors
I tried to list them yesterday
But couldn’t.
I might manage today:

Washing machines
Our living situation
Bills and so on
More forms (triggering)
Childhood, children
Gender identity
Suicide awareness
And ideation
Further anniversaries
My biggest breakdown
(16 years ago today)
Starting to examine my childhood
(1 year ago today).

I have been low
I have been expecting too much.
Pushing too hard.

Accepting the limitations
On my life
Is not easy.

But I risk my recovery from burnout
If I don’t take things gently.
I have to keep reminding myself
That I am disabled
And that’s OK.

And it’s OK to take things gently.
And nobody will tell me off
If I don’t blog for nearly a fortnight.

I am still here
I still have many posts to write
But life has been a bit of a struggle recently
So I’ve been a bit absent.

But I’m still here.


Advice often seems
To tell me
To consider
“The positives”
And to focus on
What I

If I’m honest
This strategy
Isn’t always
Terribly helpful.

I’m perfectly well aware
Of my strengths
And achievements.
They’ve been pointed out to me
Many times
Over the years
(Because people seem to like
This sort of
“Feel good”
I think).

I don’t need this information
Again and again.
I already have it.

What I am finding


And capitals,
For emphasis)

Is to learn
What my

I have been told
All my life
About working hard
And succeeding.

But the things
That I
CAN’T do
Have rarely been

Or have been ignored
Or have been thought
To be the result
Of me being lazy
Or wilful.


I have continued
To blame myself
For my failures.

I have struggled
To learn strategies
To compensate
For my difficulties

I have never learnt
How to ask
Other people
To help me.

(Because I have always been told
To focus on my abilities
And strengths
And how strong
I am).

If I’m honest (again)
Then allowing myself
To admit
What I CAN’T do
Is a sweet blessed relief.

To learn that I am disabled
Means that I’m not bad and lazy.
It’s Not. My. Fault.

To focus on my struggles
Means I can start
To work out
How to cope.

To drop the “strong” act
Means that I have permission
To ask for help.

(And it’s even OK
To admit
That there are things
I will give up
Even TRYING to do
Because they use
Too much energy
For me).

It is relief.
Really really big

After 4 decades
Of trying
To live up
To the high expectations
That so many people
Have had.

Can I stop now?

Can I give up the quest
To be impressive,

And just be me.

Not impressive.
Not special.

Just me.

And allow myself
To consider not my strengths
(Because I’ve done that
For too long
Because that’s what people
Have told me to do)
But the things I cannot do
The things I need support to do
The things I find difficult
And the problems I have.

Because I need to do that.
I need to learn
I need to discover
What I CAN’T do,
What I’ve been faking
All these years,
And where I have been
To be capable
And where that pretending
Has damaged me.

I need this time.
I need this space.
I need to be allowed
To be weak
And to learn
How that is
For the first time in my life.

Because that is new to me

It was never part of my mask

Or my plan

Or any plan anybody else
Had for me.

I was never taught
How to give up
Or to let go
Or to rest
Or to relax

Or to accept
That there are things
I cannot do

And that it’s OK
To stop trying
To be strong.

I believe
That only
Once I have examined
My weaknesses,
Accepted them,
And worked out
What to do about them,

Will I know
What my true strengths
Really are.

How To Be

I’m aware that this blog is becoming a bit erratic. There is still the story of my diagnosis to complete. There are hanging bits of part stories about discovering I was autistic. There are still random bits of semi-poems intermingling with journal entries. And I have yet to write about significant topics in a way that I eventually hope will be properly useful to others. It’s all a bit of a mess really. And I still have comments to respond to, and so many times where I’ve stated that I need to write a whole blog post about something and haven’t yet. But I can only do what I can do. My spoons are often somewhat limited and I work pretty much to capacity at all times, so I can’t do more.

And that’s just on the actual blog. Inside my head it’s even worse. There are fragments of posts, ideas, notions, concepts and so on. I have note after note after note on my phone, half-typed half thoughts about various things. It feels like I need a year or more to go through them all and construct coherent writings from them. There is so much to do, I’m so behind with things that I need to do to keep my life just about ticking over. And there never seems to be enough time, and by time I mean the sort of time where I’m functional enough to achieve things.

Maybe, however, this erratic situation, this state of chaos, is actually reflective of my own state of mind and my own current situation, which is also erratic and chaotic. Over a period of 24 hours last week I went from hating being me and not wanting to exist, to being content and still feeling this huge relief of realising who I am. I am still struggling to speak or get out of bed some days, but can be quite capable on others. And I have also realised over the last couple of weeks, that when I am out of the flat, in public, with other people, I have a situation that is still not resolved, and not even close to being resolved.

I do not know How To Be.

The problem is this:

I have always been regarded as somewhat “eccentric”, and even, maybe, some would say, a bit weird. That’s OK, I’m cool with that, it’s not a problem to me, I’ve dealt with it long since. After over 4 decades of being a bit on the interesting side of things I’m pretty used to it. I got really upset about being bullied and so on at school until I was around 15, but by then I’d largely learnt that it was just part of life and although it wasn’t much fun, I’d learnt to act “normal enough” to survive out in the world. I’d learnt to live with it, to cope.

The problem, of course, was that in learning to act “normal enough” and in learning to cope, what I’d actually done was literally learnt to act. I’d built a mask, and a pretty effective one at that. And the mask that I built was one of a rather strong and confident person. I wasn’t the stereotypical autistic girl “flying under the radar” by sitting quietly in the corner in the class, unnoticed. I wasn’t failing exams or dropping out of school. I was strong-willed, brash, and externally confident (even internally confident to an extent, because however much of a failure I was at friendship and sport and so on, I could learn things and pass exams reasonably easily, so that was what I did). I was told that I was capable and could achieve great things (largely because of the exam results and my capacity for learning things), and so the mask that I built was one of a high-achieving confident young woman.

However, this mask came at a price, and that price was my mental health. Constantly “being strong” and “achieving” in the way that I did in my early 20s was breaking me inside, and by the time I got to my late 20s I was very very ill indeed, heading for the serious episode of burnout at around age 30, from which I never really recovered, and my life was falling apart.

Up until last year I continued with the masking process to a considerable extent while out in the world. I continued to believe that the strong me was the real me, and once I’d recovered from being mentally ill (I really believed I’d get better at some stage) I’d be back to full strength. However, that continual masking was breaking me yet again, and, perhaps inevitably, I fell apart again completely, in the summer of 2016. And by that time the world had caught up sufficiently for the events to occur that eventually led to me being diagnosed autistic.

And, because of the sort of person I am, having discovered I’m autistic I’m determined to BE autistic. I don’t consider it something to hide away, I don’t consider it something to try not to be. It’s a huge part of my identity, and after over 4 decades being “somebody else”, the relief at being a more authentic version of me is huge. I suddenly realise it’s OK to allow myself to eat the same thing day after day after day if it makes me feel better, I’m allowed to stop forcing myself to take part in group conversations until I’m so sick I’m at the point of collapse, I can stim and fiddle with things and know it’s not me being wilfully annoying but is just part of my neurology, and I’m finally learning how to be myself after decades of trying to be the person society expected me to be and failing at it.

Which is all very well when I’m at home, or with tolerant friends or someone who can care for me and explain. And is absolutely fine when I’m in safe environments and have enough spoons to take care of myself. All very lovely – in theory all I need to do now is to be my fabulous autistic neurodivergent hand-flappy rocking-back-and-forth sunglasses-wearing eye-contact-no-longer tell-it-like-it-is self! Neurology explains everything, no more need for acting! Yippeeeee!

However, I’m a grown up person. I have to live in the world. I have to go out to shops to buy food. I have to be able to deal with other human beings if I want a life beyond the television and the sofa. I want to participate in activities that will be full of neurotypical folk who think it’s great to have a spontaneous chat about nothing at all and that such a thing takes no effort, who sit and stand too close to me for comfort, who are irritated by my stimming, who will expect me to use polite social niceties that mean something to them, who don’t even know what being autistic means, and who mistake my lack of social finesse, my sometimes inability to speak, my lack of eye contact, and so on, for rudeness or disrespect or similar, which, of course, it isn’t, it’s just that my natural way of being is different from theirs.

And so I come up with a dilemma. As I’m starting to emerge from burnout and beginning to go out into the world again a bit more, I’m finding that there are times I slip back into the old mask, which is probably inevitable after 4 decades of living that way and it becoming such a practised part of my act. It’s very obvious when I do though, because I start to feel very ill and bad rather quickly and I don’t have the stamina to maintain it for very long. There are also times when I catch myself doing something really obviously autistic (like losing speech or flapping my hands or something) and realise that if something went wrong or somebody challenged me, I’d be in deep trouble without being able to explain properly what was going on and with no carer on hand to help. And how DO you deal with a stranger who is standing so close to you that their “person vibes” are making you feel ill, when they don’t even understand the concept of “person vibes” (which, incidentally, is a term I just invented now)? They think you’re being awkward, but you’re not, it’s just that you can’t cope with that much person that close in that time and place.

I have no answers at this stage. But I’m coming up against the same problem that I read about from the parents of autistic children, but for myself, not a child. I’ve seen discussions about the extent to which autistic children should be pushed and made resilient and able to cope in life, and the extent to which they should be encouraged to be their fully autistic selves with all that that entails. I’m now considering to what extent I need to continue to use the mask I’ve developed in order to survive in the world and to what extent I can allow all my autistic traits and tendencies to dominate. On the one hand, trying to make autistic people “look” neurotypical can be massively damaging to mental health (don’t I know this from bitter experience), and how well we “fit in” or “look normal” is no measure of success in an autistic life because it denies who we are and can cause huge burnouts, but on the other hand we have to survive in the world somehow and that needs a certain amount of resilience and coping ability, especially given how little support there is in most societies for autistic people, particularly those of us who are adults. Add on to that the complications of late diagnosis and the concomitant identity crisis that arises from this huge change in life, and it’s easy to see how difficult it is to know how to proceed from here.

And this is not just about societal attitudes, but about practical survival and physical health. I’m not at the stage where if the supermarket discontinues my usual food that I don’t eat at all, but I did sit and cry for half an hour the other morning and declared that I wouldn’t eat or drink that day because we’d run out of the milkshake that I usually have when I first get up. My autistic brain said NO in big shouty letters, and I had to use my rational “learning” brain to argue with it. I had to allow myself to recover from what was basically a mini-meltdown over a milkshake, and then gently persuade myself that I was going to eat and drink and it would be OK to drink something different until my husband could get to the right shop to get the right sort of milkshake. This all takes energy (and, in my case, a very understanding husband), and it’s nobody’s fault – it’s just the way my brain works being at odds with what I know to be good for my body and overall health!

And going out into the world and coping with everything that the external world throws at me takes even more energy, even when people are trying their utmost to understand and be helpful. I’m quite good at it because I’ve been practising for a long time and I’ve learnt a lot of social skills which I can maintain quite well for the duration of most social events as long as I get enough downtime in between, but I’m also determined to be as autistic as I need to be where possible, because it’s so much easier, more relaxing, and SO much better for my mental health.

Also, while knowing I’m autistic is an amazing liberating relief, and while I really like being autistic me because it’s so natural and right and comfortable, I also rather liked the strong capable mask person (which is possibly understandable – since I created a persona it probably made sense to create one of someone I liked rather than someone I hated). I don’t want to lose some of those strong bits (being “tough” is something I enjoy in many contexts), and I still need some of that resilience to survive and to live any sort of sensible life.

However, I know that, aside from the briefest of interactions, I have to be open about being autistic. I read of people who hold down jobs and don’t tell their employers that they’re autistic – that wouldn’t be possible for me as I’m too obviously different, and at my best I can maintain that level of mask for only about 3 days absolute maximum, even when I’m going home in the evenings. In the past the jobs have just failed, and I’ve lost them. Without significant and noticeable adaptions there are things I simply can’t do. At the moment I’m not even close to being able to work, but if that ever changes then there’s no way I could hide such a big part of me. I can currently act neurotypical for an hour or so at most these days, certainly not long enough to hold down a job!

So I’m now stuck in a bit of an inbetween state, trying to work out where to go from here, trying to work out how I can take this new discovery, be myself, be openly autistic, enjoy the benefits that brings to me, even manage to advocate for other autistic people and educate others about autism, but still manage to live a life that doesn’t mean I’m sidelined for things, or unable to participate in many of the sort of events that make life interesting and worth living.

This post has turned out to be more a list of questions, of musings, of ponderings, than anything else. Maybe, a year on from discovery, six months on from diagnosis, and slowly emerging from burnout, this is a phase I have to go through. I have to ask the questions before the answers will start to emerge. I have to consider how I’m going to live my life, what I’m going to push myself to do, how much I can ask for adaptions to do things I’d be unable to do without them, how much I’m going to give up on some things because it’s too much, and where the balance will eventually lie. Maybe there will never be a full balance, but some sort of compromise between the bit of me that craves adventure and activity and the bit of me that needs solitude and peace.

And after two thousand words of analysis and consideration…

I still don’t know How To Be!

I am still having, consciously, to make decisions about whether to present the old mask to people, which is practised and known and I can do only for short lengths of time, or whether simply to “be myself”, which is new and unfamiliar to me and others and requires explanation and education but is so much more relaxing and feels so much more honest and authentic.

I suspect I’m still learning, trying things out, sometimes getting it wrong, sometimes getting it right, discovering what works and what doesn’t. I suspect that learning How To Be as an authentically autistic person who can actually manage to do things out in the world without getting constantly broken will be an iterative process, and I’m still very much at the start of that process.

Lost Day

I woke early, feeling exhausted, and not a proper sort of sleepy exhausted, but an odd sort of depleted exhausted, like all the energy had drained out of me somehow and I could hardly move. I could hear birds, very very loud birds, wood pigeon calls burning the insides of my ears.

I knew I had to be somewhere today. I knew also that getting there would be difficult. I looked at the schedule for the rest of the week, which I had photographed and saved on my phone. I tried to work out what I might be able to skip without causing too much inconvenience or annoyance. My head wouldn’t think very well, so I started to try to type into my phone:

If this were real life and I’m at sensory levels of now and tiredness. Would be schedule looking.

This was how the language emerged from my finger. I knew it was wrong and that it needed editing. And I also know that when WRITTEN language becomes difficult and starts to go wrong in that way, that I’m heading into shutdown. This is something I’m starting to learn, now that I’m actually observing myself with some knowledge, rather than just declaring myself “ill” or declaring that “my head went wrong” as I have done in the past.

I attempted to speak. There was nothing. No surprise there. If the written words are starting to go wrong then the spoken ones are almost certainly non-existent.

It was still early. I still had to get a message to the outside world that I wasn’t going to be where I was expected to be. The best I could do was to message my husband a few words and hope he could interpret what I was trying to say in order to convey some sort of message to those who needed to know that I wouldn’t be appearing for rehearsals this morning. He received the following messages:

Fail now. Is. Words. Morning. Not.

Now. Schubert. Prob. Can’t.


Write hard. Speak not. Food not. Later.

And because he has long experience of such communications, he was perfectly able to send a message saying that I wasn’t able to get to the Schubert rehearsal and had asked him to pass on the message and that I didn’t need food and wouldn’t be able to communicate for a while.

At some point during the morning someone brought me a cup of tea and left it outside my tent. I was unable to respond, unable to move from where I was curled up under the duvet, unable to do anything at all for a while. This is all absolutely normal for me at such times, which have been happening since my early childhood. My mother observed the behaviour, still remembers it well, going right back into my early childhood, and even had a word for it, zonking, which I mentioned in Losing The Words.

Having successfully conveyed a message of sorts to the outside world, my brain then simply closed off. I slept a bit. I lay there staring at the side of the tent, a bit of plain fabric being as much visual input as I could take. I didn’t move. I couldn’t move. I don’t usually remember much from these times, just a feeling of being utterly drained, no energy at all, and something like a deep depression, not being able to form thoughts properly, no ability to translate things into words, nothing. My head is simply closed for business and my body follows it. There is nothing to do at that point except wait – it’s like some sort of reset is required before my overstimulated and exhausted brain will function properly again. I don’t respond, I don’t communicate, I just lie there and breathe, nothing more.

After a few hours I regained the ability to type and to form words and typed some of the thoughts that had by then started to emerge from my head into the notes app on my phone. Having established that I could once again produce proper typed sentences, I was then able to contact the outside world by facebook without my husband having to make the sentence structure for me. It was lunchtime. I was aware that I hadn’t eaten or drunk anything all morning (and couldn’t have – something else my mother had observed about zonking was that food was an absolute no during those times, and when I have attempted to eat or to keep functioning I have simply ended up physically sick and it’s been assumed I had some sort of bug or similar).

Somebody brought food and left it outside my tent. I was unable to thank them except online, but was able to eat by mid-afternoon, and was, it seemed, by this stage, quite hungry – even though I didn’t feel any sort of hungry, once I started to eat it was obvious that I was.

It took another couple of hours for the shutdown to be properly over and a further hour for spoken words to fully return. Although I can’t always tell when I’m going IN to shutdown, or that that’s what it is (though I am getting better at recognizing it as I’m learning), it’s really obvious when I’m emerging because I start to stim again, I start to rock and to move and get back to what for me is “normal”, a state of dynamic equilibrium as I like to think of it. For me, being still either means I am masking furiously and working hard to stay still, or I am ill and in shutdown, or I am asleep, or, occasionally, that I am relaxed under a weighted blanket or completely immersed in something or similar. The rest of the time I move, and that movement restarting is always a good sign – it’s the feeling that you didn’t know something was wrong until it was solved, and the minute it’s solved it was obvious how wrong it was before!

My sensory system remained on high alert for the rest of the day – I managed to go and sit in the audience to hear some of my friends singing and playing music, but used earplugs against the applause and was deeply grateful to a friend who asked others to move away from me to give me some space during the performance.

By mid-evening I was able to drive home, where my husband had “the food” (whatever I’m currently eating we call “the food” – I have cyclic obsessions with food where I eat the same thing every day for months, and always have done) ready and waiting for me, and I spent the evening doing all the familiar routines and being with the animals and recharging properly ready for the next day.

But what should have been a day participating was basically lost to a massive shutdown, and there was nothing I could do about it. I would have liked to have been in the rehearsals that morning. I would have liked to go to tea that day. I would have liked to join in the celebratory feasting and dancing (although I knew that the feasting would have been a non-starter anyway and I’d have been eating alone somewhere quiet), but I couldn’t.

But at least I know what causes these times now, and I have a word for them, shutdown, which makes sense to me and enables me to understand what’s going on. At least I have people who are willing to understand it too and to bring me food and so on and to help me out when it happens. And I know that I’m not getting some sort of illness (as has been suspected on many occasions in the past) and that I will feel better in a few hours’ time – I just need to wait, to be on my own, and to have as little input into my system as possible.

Last year, when the same thing happened, all I knew was that I felt inexplicably awful and couldn’t even tell anyone how or why. I spent a night silently crying in my tent in the dark, without food or help, with nobody even knowing where I was because I’d lost all ability to communicate and wasn’t even able to type a message to my husband. And short of “something mental health related or maybe a virus”, I had no idea why I was like that.

This year wasn’t ideal. It’s not really how I want to live my life, missing out on good times, having to skip rehearsals, having to sit on my own because my system can’t cope with much social interaction or noise, and so on. But it is better than the distress of previous years, than the anguish of desperately trying to function, trying to make things work, having to call in with some “unknown illness”, making myself worse by continuing to try to speak or function as I “should”.

I don’t like having to live this “half life”, which is what it feels like. But knowing why these things happen means I’m much less self-blaming, much kinder to myself, gentler to myself. And simply allowing the inevitable shutdown to run its course and not trying to push myself out of it means that I actually recover more quickly and am generally healthier as a result. Maybe once I’m more fully recovered from the recent burnout I’ll be able to do a bit more – I do hope so.

It does still all feel very much like a work in progress still. I have my answer as to why these things happen to me, but I now have to work out the best way to live, which I haven’t quite managed yet.