Autistic Me, 10 months later

April is Autism Acceptance Month, and I have been meaning to write this for the last 26 days, but it's been hard to know where to start.

10 months ago I wrote a blog post introducing myself as autistic. I found myself really needing to say it ‘out loud’ in order for it to sink in properly, but at the same time I was unable to articulate all the nuances of what it meant to be autistic me. To an extent, the Clinical Psychologist who diagnosed me made me aware that the report she had written was only the beginning of the journey into rediscovering myself, but nothing really prepares you for the reality of it all.

Once you open the box, there’s no way that box is ever shutting again - I don’t think I’d fit back in there even if I tried.

Nearly a year later I feel like I’m only just scratching the surface. It has taken such a long time to just ‘be’ with, and accept, a new reality and to start opening myself up to this intrinsic way of being that had been hidden inside of me for so long. The more time that goes on, the more crazy it feels that this part of myself has had such a huge impact throughout my life journey, but has gone almost completely unnoticed. My unconscious has worked immensely hard to keep my autistic self safe and hidden from the world. And, although it might sound counter-intuitive, I really want to honour that part of me. Without it I don’t think I would have achieved a lot of the things that I’ve managed to achieve. While it wasn’t always - or ever - easy, I have been able to learn so much about myself and the world around me, and I don’t know that I would have tried so hard if I’d known why I felt so different from the beginning. Learning to exist in a neurotypical world has taught me such a lot and yet there is still sadness for the little girl who didn’t know why everything always felt so difficult.

There have been dark points during this journey, as there is with any journey of discovery, and although it does feel hugely empowering to have this massive puzzle piece to explain so much about my life and being, it isn’t always fun, easy or comfortable. I continue to peel back layers of adaptation and masking, only to find that things I once thought I liked, I no longer like. And things I thought that made me who I was, were really masks from other people. I no longer find the same jokes funny - realising how much my responses are automatic and controlled by those around me. I find myself being offended much more often and have begun to allow myself this gift; to be able to say “no, I don’t find that okay”, and to realise that I don’t have to just accept everything that happens to me.

I have also become much more sensitive to sensory issues, and at times I find myself becoming quite overwhelmed by things that I didn’t really ever notice before. Sounds, in particular, can become quite painful depending on my mental capacity. I have even found that the foods I reach for, and feel comfortable eating, resemble my childhood diet more and more. My sensory needs seem to be requiring ‘simple’, at least for now.

Skill regression is very real for lots of people, but notably for those of us who have been faced with a late diagnosis. I recently found a really interesting theory as to what might be happening in our brains, and that it doesn’t always mean we lose those skills forever. That being said, I am still very much figuring out the things that I have lost that I would like to keep, and those things that were never mine to begin with. It is a very slow and arduous process and can feel extremely confusing, not just for me, but for those around me as well. With every realisation I shift as a person, and never return to who I was before my eyes were opened to it.

Some realisations that I’ve made are less about my inner world and more about the way I hold myself and portray myself outwardly. In the last few months I have begun to realise how much my body needs to move almost constantly. I have been able to explore this a lot during the NeuroSomatic Flow training (with NaiAsa Institute) that I’m currently taking and there have been huge breakthroughs in the way I understand myself. I have realised how much my unconscious kept me small and unnoticed as a child and that meant being still. If you are small, quiet and still, then you don’t draw attention to yourself and people wont know that you’re different.

As a young child I was so painfully aware of being different, but also aware of the way people perceived differences. I saw it first-hand in the way people stared, pointed and laughed at my brother. If only it had just been children, then I might have been able to rationalise it away. Instead, I often experienced adults reacting in quite shameful ways towards my brother and his ‘odd’ behaviours. I know now that I very much internalised that, and made a promise never to draw attention to myself in the same way. It feels quite apt that I ended up developing a condition that literally causes fusion in your spine and sacroiliac joints, thus almost taking away the possibility of letting my natural state, of needing to move, slip out. I know that there are many reasons why I might have developed Axial Spondyloarthritis, but this connection with my early life has been a powerful realisation for me and one that has given me even more of a desire to embrace my true self. I want to make a new promise to myself: to allow my body to move as it needs to and to not be trapped by these external (and internal) expectations of the way we are supposed to hold and move our bodies. Sometimes I'm not even sure how or where to start learning this new way of being - it can sort of be easier when masking, as you often just mirror what other people are doing. But that also requires large amounts of energy, as you constantly have to change and alter your behaviour to meet the people or situations you're around. It feels pretty scary to be paving a new path for myself in this way and knowing that it might not always look ‘normal’ or be expected behaviour.

I am beginning to learn that these expectations confine more than just our limbs, but the great possibilities that moving our bodies freely can bring. Feeling more free inside my own body is allowing me the opportunity to move emotions through myself in a much more natural and healthier way, instead of holding on tightly and contracting around them. That kind of thing embeds itself somewhere deep where it begins to take root. And yes, that also means that my emotions are more free, along with my limbs. I cry more often than I have done in many years, and feel an anger and passion that I don’t think I’ve ever been able to hold comfortably inside of myself. It is a struggle to learn to let my body lead me, and to trust that it knows best. It is a struggle to embrace all the quirks and nuances that I have done so well to hide for the majority of my life.

Once you open the box, there’s no way that box is ever shutting again - I don’t think I’d fit back in there even if I tried. I can only continue to take up space in the way that I was always meant to. I can only continue along the path I’m on, having the utmost faith that this is exactly where I am supposed to be; wandering and wondering; being and becoming. Most importantly, always honouring the person that I have always been, underneath it all.

Please do comment, if you feel called to. I love to hear other peoples experiences, especially those of you who are discovering your neurodivergent selves!

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