Let’s clear some things up.
There is so much misinformation about autism out there, it could fill a book. Actually, probably a library. And I’m tired of watching people learn about autism from Facebook memes, RFK Jr. conspiracy theories, or the cringiest portrayals on TV. (Please, for the love of god, stop referencing Rain Man.) So here it is. A real, honest look at what autism actually is—and isn’t—from someone who lives it every single day.
What Autism Isn’t:
- It’s not a disease.
- It’s not a tragedy.
- It’s not a childhood-only thing.
- It’s not caused by vaccines. (RFK Jr., please sit down.)
- It’s not something you can always “see.”
- It’s not bad parenting.
- It’s not the same for every person.
- It’s not a phase.
- It’s not just a male thing.
- It’s not something you can “fix” with a diet, discipline, or detox.
What Autism Actually Is:
It’s a neurodevelopmental difference. A way of experiencing the world that’s wired differently, not wrongly. It affects how I communicate, feel things, process sensory input, interact socially, and just… exist.
For me, autism means:
- I take a long time to tell a story because I include every detail. That’s not rambling—it’s how my brain works.
- I can feel deep physical pain when certain sounds happen (like modern country music. No offense, but if someone puts on Morgan Wallen, I might scream). Thank goodness for my noise-cancelling Beats and guided meditations.
- I’m hypersensitive and hyper-empathetic to other people. I literally feel their emotions in my body. But I also have alexithymia, which makes it really hard to identify or explain my own feelings. So I absorb others’ pain and get lost in my own.
- I have a nonstop internal monologue. My brain is either narrating, imagining, or spiraling 24/7.
- I have a high-pitched, fast-talking voice and tons of energy. People have called me sunshine. That’s nice. Until I feel like I’m “too much.”
- I have a strong sense of justice. Which is pretty typical for neurodivergent folks.
And while we’re talking about justice, let me say this loud: Today’s Republican Party has done so much damage to my nervous system. Trump’s cruelty—especially when he mocked a disabled reporter, or bragged about grabbing women by the pussy—was deeply traumatic to me as a rape survivor. That is not just gross. It is illegal. But women still get shamed or disbelieved for calling it what it is: assault.
Autism and Mental Health
I’ve been through deep depressions. I’ve battled suicidal ideation. I’ve even attempted. Why? Because masking who I am—pretending to be “normal”—is exhausting. It made me hate myself. I’d apologize constantly for being “too weird.”
I’ve self-medicated with alcohol, weed, and even taken more Adderall than prescribed, just trying to numb out the emotional overwhelm. That’s called self-sabotage, and it’s not unique to me. It’s what happens when people aren’t given the support they need to process hard emotions.
I’ve struggled with disordered eating too—either not eating at all because I forgot or hyperfocused, or bingeing on entire boxes of cookies or mini Snickers. My nutrition tanked. My mental health tanked harder.
And Still—I’m Here
I love art and nature. I collect plants like they’re treasure and try to make my space more beautiful wherever I go. I feel joy like it’s electric when I’m allowed to be fully, freely myself.
But just as often, I crash. I burn out. I dissociate. I question everything about myself. That’s what living in a neurotypical world can do to a neurodivergent brain.
The worst is when I feel like I’m not enough and too much at the same time. That combo? That’s a killer.
And yet, here I am. Writing this. Painting. Healing. Unmasking.
Shout out to my neurodivergent therapist Sharla (you’re amazing), my mom for getting me autism workbooks, and all the voices out there helping me understand myself. It’s been work. But it’s working.
One More Thing
Just because I’m different doesn’t mean I’m broken.
Think of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. Or Einstein. Or Emily Dickinson. Or any of the brilliant, sensitive, creative minds that shaped this world. Many of them were autistic.
I’m not trying to be one of them. I’m trying to be me.
When people understand me, I light up. I feel it in my nervous system—the calm, the connection, the joy. It’s electric.
So please, make space. Ask questions. Show compassion.
And don’t call me broken.
I’m just different. And honestly? That’s a good thing.
**If this resonated with you, I’d love for you to share it. Whether you’re neurodivergent yourself, love someone who is, or you’re just here to learn—thank you. Leave a comment, start a conversation, or simply carry this perspective with you into your next interaction. Every small moment of understanding makes a difference.
This post is part of my blog’s Understanding Neurodivergence series—where I write openly about autism, ADHD, masking, unmasking, and everything in between. If you want to read more about what it’s like to live in a neurodivergent brain (the hard, the beautiful, the misunderstood), head to the full section on my blog and stay awhile. There’s so much more to explore.**
