Words have always held a special kind of magic for me. They aren’t just tools for communication; they are vibrant entities that move and flow within my mind, creating intricate patterns of meaning and understanding. Like a dancer, words possess a rhythm and grace, weaving together to form a rich tapestry of thoughts and emotions. For someone who feels deeply and experiences the world in vivid detail, finding the right words is like discovering the perfect choreography to express the nuances of inner experience.
From a young age, I was captivated by the world of literature. Reading became my sanctuary, a place of refuge where I could lose myself in fantastical realms and explore the boundless landscapes of imagination. My childhood bedroom transformed into a portal to countless worlds, especially at night under the covers, where the author’s carefully constructed narratives came alive in my mind. These imagined worlds were often more vibrant and captivating than the reality around me, offering an escape and a deeper understanding of emotions and experiences.
Words That Dance
However, as I grew older, the very traits that had once been seen as charming and unique started to be labeled with less flattering terms. Instead of being seen as imaginative, I was described as ‘off in her own world’ or ‘not paying attention.’ My sensitivity was deemed ‘too emotional,’ and my deep thinking was dismissed as being ‘too sensitive.’ These labels, like poorly chosen words, began to shape how I perceived myself and how I interacted with the world.
The Weight of Unspoken Emotions
I have always felt emotions intensely, experiencing them throughout my entire being. I remember, as a child, being profoundly affected by a video in school about logging. The pain of the trees felt real and visceral to me. This deep empathy extended to everyday life, inspiring poems about the seemingly mundane but surprisingly profound feelings of chores like folding socks – a task that mirrored the frustrating sense of loss I felt as my carefree childhood slipped away. It was a feeling of being lost, of not quite fitting in.
This empathy could be overwhelming. I recall writing a poignant story about a puppy in a pet store, capturing the ache of longing and repeated rejection as potential owners passed him by. Each time, the puppy held onto hope, thinking, “Maybe this time, maybe they will love me enough to stay.” Looking back, I recognize the depth and complexity of these emotions in such a young child.
Now, I look back at that bright, imaginative child with both fondness and compassion. It has been a long journey of healing to truly appreciate and nurture that part of myself. To have been around such a responsive, eager, and connected mind would have been a joy. And in some educational settings, I thrived. I learned to adapt, to become the “good girl” that was expected in my family environment.
Masking: Becoming a Chameleon of Expectations
I became adept at identifying and mirroring the characteristics that seemed to please others most. It was a complex act of camouflaging, a series of learned behaviors that I am still consciously unlearning today. Yet, amidst this performance, words, stories, and language offered glimpses of my authentic self. Through creative expression, my true essence could peek through, offering a glimpse into the intricate and captivating landscape of my mind – another world, a true escape.
But the external pressures to conform grew stronger, the rules of social engagement became more intricate and subtle, leading to a sense of existential dread. I had lived primarily within my inner world, in the unrestrained freedom of my imagination. Then, my physical body became “an object,” attracting unwanted attention and imposing expectations on my behavior that felt alien and disconnected from my inner experience. Inside, I was still very much a child. I didn’t want to navigate the complexities of teenage life; the social games were confusing and draining. I preferred the sanctuary of my inner world.
However, the constant sense of “getting it wrong” became increasingly apparent. It was as if a light had been switched on, exposing my vulnerability and making me feel like a target. Everything about my natural self seemed to be deemed wrong, requiring constant improvement and correction. My own instincts, once blissfully followed, were now questioned and invalidated as immature and inappropriate. Words became weapons, sharp and cutting, demanding conformity: “do better,” “be better,” “stop that.” Crippling perfectionism became my driving force, pushing me to achieve and conform. And in some ways, it worked. The high grades provided fleeting moments of validation, making me feel momentarily worthy.
I managed to “pass” as normal enough to navigate adolescence and piece together a semblance of functional adulthood. But this came at a significant cost, leaving deep emotional wounds and a state of constant hypervigilance. To escape the pain of being different, I disconnected from my true self, adopting masks and becoming what others expected.
The Exhausting Act of Pretending
The ability to mimic – to adjust my tone, voice, and appearance – became highly developed. Coupled with constant reading, observation, and analysis aimed at perfecting my persona, this adaptation became almost reflexive. I transformed into a chameleon, capable of fitting into almost any social situation, as long as I remained on the periphery, observed enough, and performed adequately.
Looking back, the sheer mental energy required to maintain this level of adaptability is astonishing. And all the while, I drifted further and further away from my own body and my authentic self. Trauma after trauma crashed into my being like relentless waves as I stumbled from one instance of “failed adulting” to another. It felt like the rules of the world were written in a language I didn’t understand, and I was constantly exhausted trying to decipher them. My capacity to regulate my emotions dwindled as the demands of maintaining this facade intensified. The plates kept spinning, endlessly requiring my energy to keep them in motion. It was a state of constant flight, a trajectory towards inevitable burnout.
Then came a misdiagnosis of bipolar disorder and the introduction of mood stabilizers. These medications effectively muted everything – every aspect of who I was, dulled and suppressed.
Silencing Creativity: The Loss of My Inner Dancer
The very passions that defined me, the urge to write and draw, were now pathologized as signs of mania. The medications, intended to “fix” me, shut off the creative wellspring that had always been my source of comfort and solace. I remember this loss vividly, experiencing it as a profound grief.
Like Van Gogh, whose genius was often attributed to “madness,” I felt I had to sacrifice my creativity to be considered “sane.” My coping mechanism, my dancer within, was now viewed as a trigger, something to be suppressed whenever it tried to surface and offer me respite.
Ten more years followed, filled with medications, masking, and a relentless struggle to regulate emotions, all without understanding that sensory overload, meltdowns, and shutdowns were normal responses for my neurodivergent brain. Eventually, burnout arrived, leaving me an exhausted, hollow version of myself, stripped of all adaptive capacity. It was then, in the aftermath of collapse, that the truth became undeniable.
Rediscovering My Authentic Self: More Than Just Words
It had been autism all along. I wasn’t broken or damaged; I was simply different. Born different. Now, after a long and arduous journey back to myself, I am reconnecting with those lost parts, reaching out to reclaim the vibrant, imaginative child I once was.
It’s a joyful pursuit, a delightful game of rediscovery. And it’s a game I cannot truly lose, because these are all parts of me – the younger self, the hidden selves, the authentic core. They can playfully run and hide, but they are always within me, waiting to be embraced.
I am finally learning to be okay, just as I am, with all my unique “weirdness.” I am reuniting with that young part of myself who was exiled for so long. I owe her my unwavering devotion, a commitment to make up for the years I kept her hidden away. I am learning new words to describe myself, words that celebrate my neurodiversity, words that dance with authenticity and truth.
Linda is a late-diagnosed AuDHD ciswoman with C-PTSD. She is a PACFA-certified Counsellor and Educator who is passionate about nurturing and supporting Autistic wellbeing and empowerment for fellow neurodivergent adults. She is the Founder of Neurokindred counselling support for Autistic adults (also on Facebook and Instagram) and the Facebook pages Quirky Musing from a Neurodivergent Mind and Rainbow Hub. She is also a mother of two and loves World of Warcraft, journalling and multi-media sculpture.
Image credit: ‘Misunderstood gypsy child’ by the blog author and artist, Linda Tuxford-Adams
