I Thought I Was a Monster

Content note: this piece talks about autistic meltdowns and includes brief mentions of self-harm.

I used to think I had anger issues.

It felt like something else would inhabit my body. I’d throw things. Scream.
I’d lose all control. Slap myself in the head. Pound my fists into my thighs.
I’d be terrified of myself. Terrified of what I might do.
The culmination was a comedown of grief. Violent shaking. Full body wailing. Sobbing in bed under the covers.
I thought I was a villain. A monster.

I remember talking to a therapist about it a few years ago. She was my health insurance-assigned therapist while I was attempting to get an autism diagnosis. She knew I was trying to get an assessment and yet she never mentioned autistic meltdowns. Instead she gave me classic anger management suggestions. Most of them were more harmful than helpful, because if they didn’t work then what was wrong with me?

I feel like autistic meltdowns in adults are rarely talked about. I hear about them in children, but much less from adults themselves. Even among my autistic friends, it doesn’t come up. And because of that, I wonder how many of us are moving through this alone, not realizing these reactions aren’t our fault.

An autistic meltdown is an intense, involuntary reaction to being overwhelmed, whether by sensory input, emotions, or too much mental strain. In those moments, the nervous system essentially goes into overload, and a person can temporarily lose their ability to regulate their behavior. It’s not intentional or controlled, and it isn’t about getting a desired outcome. It’s closer to a fight-or-flight response, and can show up as crying, shouting, physical agitation, or needing to escape the situation.

I know this now, but knowing can’t change everything all at once.
Shame is a beast I used to keep in a cage in my chest.
I’ve opened the doors, but it thinks it’s my friend now.

I just had a meltdown.
And now I feel wrung out, drained of all emotion.
The only thing I can do now is dissociate. I have no capacity for anything else.
My face aches, hot and swollen.
My body hurts, my muscles sore from latent tension.

I tell myself, it’s ok little one.
It doesn’t feel ok.
But maybe not feeling ok doesn’t mean I’m broken.

Sometimes a lifetime of brokenness takes another lifetime to fully dislodge from your body.
I know it’s not my fault, but I’ve been hiding so long.
And when you hide your whole life, you’re sure there was a reason.
Long after you realize it’s no longer necessary.

I think naming it here helps.
I’m trying to treat myself the way I would treat a friend.
Gently.
Like I’m worth staying with.

What did you call your meltdowns before you had language for them?

Leave a comment