Are you lonely?

Have you noticed an epidemic of loneliness among autistic adults? So many of my clients struggle with loneliness, even while they ache for positive relationships in their life, and I see this all over the autistic corners of the Internet as well. But why?

Hi, this is Heather from Autism Chrysalis.

Let me see if I can encapsulate this.

As an autistic coach, I see this pattern all the time, (as well as having lived through it myself as an Autistic person).

Disclaimer, this is going to be over-generalized, and not everyone is going to fit all of these specifics, but the pattern is pretty consistent, allowing for variations among individuals.

Here goes:

Growing up unaccepted

Most of us grew up in a less than 100% unconditionally accepting environment, and were taught, explicitly or implicitly, that we needed to suppress some of our natural traits, or to conform in order to gain acceptance, teaching us to mask or camouflage parts of ourselves. Sometimes that was autistic traits, sometimes other parts of personality or special interests.

(To be fair, there’s a certain amount of learning to fit a culture’s expectations and societal norms for politeness that is reasonable and healthy for people living in groups to get along. But we tend to get more than the usual dosage.)

So when we did make some friends as kids, it wasn’t us being fully genuine, or to the extent that we were, it was only with a very limited set of people, and often friendships ended in painful and confusing circumstances.

This leads to a complex and painful history with relationships, and means that we often didn’t have more than a few experiences of genuine friendship, and so we have very little basis for what a healthy interpersonal relationship is like. So we don’t develop comfort with healthy relationship skills, like how to make friends (which takes repeated, frequent practice to get good at, just like any other skill).

And because our senses and attention and interests tend to be more intense than the perceived norm, things like attending college, or holding down a job, parenting, or pursuing a personal project, tend to be all-consuming. We don’t have a whole lot of capacity left for more than one major focus in our life at a time. And relationships get sacrificed.

Finding yourself alone

But at some point, often at several points throughout life, we look up from our all-consuming daily routine and notice that we don’t have the kind of close connections that people talk about, and that we’re really pretty lonely. And yet the thought of spending the energy to go out of our way to take a chance on maybe finding a new friend at some social gathering, seems like a huge gamble of our limited energy for very low chances of success.

And even if we do take the gamble, and get lucky and find someone who we might be friends with, we don’t have a lot of experience with starting new friendships, and so have poor skills in that area. We tend to either come on too strong, or misinterpret things, like how long it takes them to return a text, or grant them the benefit of every possible doubt, explaining why it makes sense that they did or said whatever, and ignore red flags. Either way, we don’t have a great experience, and it reinforces the belief that there’s something fundamentally wrong with us, or that people can’t handle us.

We may even form part of our identity around being a loner, a maverick, an introvert, someone who doesn’t need many people. Which I believe is at least in part a defense mechanism to comfort the pain of loneliness by trying to make it out as a virtue.

And at some point, we may try unmasking, hoping that, counter to our lived experience, the Autistics on the Internet who say that it’s so wonderful to be accepted for who you are might be right, but despite attempts at therapy over the years, we still have all of these old trauma responses, and when we’re unmasking, it’s not unmasking a healthy and healed and quirk-ily wonderful version of ourselves, it’s unmasking a whole mess of trauma responses, and we end up spewing our pain onto the unsuspecting potential friend. So of course it goes badly and reinforces the belief that it’s not OK for us to unmask.

And so it feels safer and easier to stay home and be lonely and complain about being lonely, and how unfair the world is to Autistics, and that people will never accept us, and to fill online autistic groups with this kind of negativity, because it’s the only place where you find other people agreeing with you, but it also reinforces these beliefs that it’s just the way it is and it’s never going to change and we’re doomed to be lonely forever.

I’m curious, how much of this resonates with your experience?

Finding acceptance

And yet, I do want to end with a word of hope.

The way I see it, the real problem is not that we are “weird” or different from the perceived norm, or even that there are a lot of people who won’t accept us for who we are (that is true, and will probably always be true, but it doesn’t mean that we can’t find people who will accept us and have close and supportive friends).

I think what most gets in the way of forming those relationships is that, because we have this complex and painful relationship history, and the associated trauma responses, and because it’s so painful to look straight at that trauma and deal with it, it’s so much easier to avoid it and to blame then to do the work of healing.

Here’s another post I made that gets into that idea in more depth, it’s called “Why Finding Your Autistic Community Didn’t Fix Your Loneliness (The Truth No One Talks About)”.

But when you do that hard work (and yes, it sucks, but usually not as much as you expect it will), it becomes possible to start to learn healthier relationship skills, and to be able to unmask in healthy ways, to the right people, and then when you do encounter people who have also done their own healing and have the capacity to accept and enjoy people with your flavor of differences, there’s a real possibility for a healthy relationship to start and to build, and it works so much better than it ever has before.

And this is where you get those positive stories of people who have unmasked and it’s been a good experience.

If you want more on that idea, here’s a post on that: Don’t Look For New Friends Until You Do This.

I hope this helps understand what’s going on. What are your thoughts?

Wishing you a neurowonderful day.

The post Why Autistics Are Lonely appeared first on Autism Chrysalis.

Are you still lonely?

I want to talk to you about something that might be difficult to hear, and this might be controversial, but I think it needs to be said.

There’s a pattern I see happening with adult-identified Autistics that’s keeping them trapped in cycles of loneliness and social isolation, and we’re not talking about it honestly enough.

So many of us spent our entire lives being misunderstood, and then we finally figure out we’re Autistic, there’s finally an explanation, a reason why, there’s relief that it’s not just me, it’s not that I’m broken, but that I communicate differently, because I’m Autistic. And there’s this hope that this will be the key to unlock better relationships, and finally finding community. But sometimes, they’re feeling more isolated than ever.

And sometimes there’s even an unfortunate sort of reverse backlash, where you unmask in an Autistic group or community, or on socials, and someone else has a trauma reaction, and says that you need to phrase things better, and be more understanding of their trauma, and it feels like you’re being told you need to mask even by the Autistic community. But because you thought you should be able to unmask here, it feels even worse, it’s even more hurtful. And reinforces those old messages that you’re really not OK to be around. That it really is you after all.

Is any of this familiar?

What I want to talk about is why this is going on.

This is a pattern that is rooted in trauma responses that have become so automatic, so “normal,” that we’ve stopped recognizing them for what they are.

And here’s the hard truth: the desire to accept ourselves and our Autistic communication style, rather than blaming ourselves for socializing badly, can sometimes disguise that there is something for us to work on.

We can become so committed to the idea that there was nothing wrong with us, and it’s all because of what was done to us, that we’re not broken or wrong, that it can feel very all-or-nothing. If we’re not broken, then there’s no part of it that I need to work on.

The trauma response pattern

Let me paint you a picture. Someone finally figures out in adulthood that they’re Autistic, after decades of feeling like they don’t fit anywhere. They’ve spent their whole life being misunderstood, having their needs dismissed, being told they’re “too sensitive” or “too much.” Their nervous system has been in constant survival mode.

Now they know why social interactions felt like navigating a minefield. But they’re still hypervigilant. Every social interaction is still loaded with trauma responses from years of being misunderstood.

Figuring out the why doesn’t automatically undo decades of negative self-talk, of hypervigilance, defense mechanisms, and trauma responses. In fact, it can ironically get more intense after figuring out the why.

For example, someone says something as seemingly simple and innocent as, “how are you?” and you feel this intense, immediate need to scream, “how the hell should I know, I’m Autistic, I don’t know what’s going on in my body, and I hate your stupid neurotypical small talk, and why can’t you just say what you mean, do you really want to know how I am, or is that just a way to say hello?! How am I supposed to know?!” You probably don’t actually scream all that, but something like that is flooding your nervous system—and there’s no firewall—and you’re doing massive mental gymnastics just to process what was actually meant in order to give a reasonable answer, that doesn’t come across as “too much,” while trying to shield yourself from everything that’s coming up. And this is exhausting.

And when you’re tired or burnt out, this intensity becomes uncontrollable. You might get angry or confrontational over anything. The way something is phrased. The nuances of a word. A potential slight difference in intention. The thing that you think that they’re implying.

Have you had a conversation like this:
“When you used the word this way, it made me think this.”
“No, I didn’t mean that at all.”
“But now I have that in my head, and I can’t get rid of it, why did you say it like that? Now I’m going to be ruminating about that for days.”

Even when you’re essentially in agreement with the other person, it really doesn’t feel like it at all. You might end up arguing over hair shades of meaning or connotations.

Or if someone gives you praise for something you did well, or mentions your burnout, or asks what you’ve been up to lately, it might feel like they’re tying what you did, or the implications of what you didn’t do, to your worth, or reinforcing capitalist ideals of productivity. And you want to say, “fuck you.”

These are all trauma responses.

Again, is this at all familiar?

What this looks like

Here’s the hard truth: this trauma response pattern is what makes such people exhausting to be around, even for other neurodivergent people.

It’s not our Autistic communication style, which, minus the trauma history, is perfectly fine. It’s the trauma pattern.

Yes, we have a tendency to info dump, but it’s the trauma pattern that ends up monologuing for hours about “everything is going to shit and I can prove it to you.” Or masking so hard they’ve gone completely silent. It’s all-or-nothing.

They require massive amounts of accommodation. They need people to speak in very specific ways, avoid certain words, predict their triggers. They’ve essentially made themselves socially high-maintenance while simultaneously being hypersensitive to any feedback about it.

And because they’re also trying to accept themselves and their Autistic communication style, it gets disguised as, “this is just who I am, you need to accept me the way I am, or I can’t be around you.” Or “If you can’t take all of me, unmasked, unfiltered, you’re not a safe person.” Or, “Nope, I’m not taking that, I don’t need to be friends with this person. I’m done putting up with any shit from anyone.” Or, “I’m not going to change to suit other people or people’s preferences. If you don’t like me, I’m just going to move on to the next person.”

And then they wonder why even other Autistics seem to drift away from them.

Even when they think they’re being authentic, it’s not the kind of authenticity that leads to connection and healthy relationships. It’s authenticity bathed in trauma. Not the authenticity of a healed nervous system.

Their impossible social standards

Let’s be honest about what’s happening here: this is holding people to an impossible standard, of knowing and predicting how you might interpret every possible thing that they might say, and then getting upset, or triggered, or depressed when something goes wrong—and it will, because this is an impossible standard—and then feeling misunderstood.

But of course you’re misunderstood. Because it’s impossible to understand everyone’s particular traumatized lens, through which they see the world.

Do you even understand, all the time, what you’re going to react to, or why you react to it the way you do? How is it possible for everyone else to always say the right thing? To always be gentle with you? To always understand. They are whole people with their own histories and triggers, and stresses and burnout.

And the Venn diagram of your trauma reactions and their trauma reactions is going to have some overlap. With some people it’s going to be a lot of overlap.

And some people react to this impossible situation by pulling away, avoiding social interactions as too much work, and not worth it, blaming themselves for being fundamentally broken (you’re not, it’s trauma), or blaming others for everything, but either way, being and feeling more isolated.

And some people respond by demanding that everyone else accommodate them. They place an enormous amount of emotional labor on everyone around them, so that people are walking on eggshells, trying not to say the wrong thing, trying not to trigger them.

The avoidance that follows

This creates a predictable pattern: the trauma responses make social interaction difficult, which makes them harder to be around, which makes social interaction even more stressful, which burns through their energy faster, until they just don’t have any energy left.

That’s when the all-or-nothing thinking intensifies. Social avoidance becomes the solution because it feels easier, or maybe it’s the only thing they feel capable of when they’re this depleted.

Even in Autistic and neurodivergent spaces, they find themselves struggling. They’re looking for curious, wonderful neurospicy minds who will understand and accommodate their specific needs. But these people mostly also have a complex trauma history with other people, and so the Venn diagram is going to have some overlaps. There are going to be moments of someone saying the wrong thing and someone getting hurt, when the pattern is this entrenched.

The hard truth

Here’s what we’re not saying in Autistic spaces: sometimes these trauma responses are keeping us isolated, not just because the world is cruel to Autistics—though it often is, and that’s what created the trauma responses in the first place—but because people’s unprocessed trauma has made them genuinely difficult to connect with, even for other Autistics and neurodivergents.

And what I see in many of my clients, and what I did myself for many years, is to blame it on other people not understanding us, and on bad neurotypical communication styles. And there are plenty of unhealthy neurotypical communication dynamics that I hate and are genuinely a problem. But it’s not all-or-nothing. Some of what’s going on is unhealthy communication, but some of what’s going on is our own defense mechanisms getting in the way of making connections, even when real connection could happen.

Yes, you spent decades being misunderstood. Yes, your needs were dismissed and invalidated. Yes, you learned that social interactions were dangerous. Yes, you learned to mask, or be “on,” or people please, or became ultra sensitive to any perceived rejection, or to think through every possible way that someone might take what you’re saying, and to hyper-explain to try to avoid all of those, or to blame yourself when miscommunications happened, or to avoid uncomfortable situations, and there were so many uncomfortable situations. Your nervous system was trying to protect you.

But those same protective responses are working overtime, and they’re exhausting you. And not just you, they’re exhausting everyone around you, including the Autistic community you thought would finally accept you.

This isn’t about blame. This isn’t about shame. This is about recognizing what’s really going on. This is a pattern that can change. But only if you’re willing to look at it honestly.

I’ve seen this cycle up close, I’ve lived it myself, and I’ve watched it play out countless times in my clients. And here’s what I know: it doesn’t have to stay this way.

Breaking the pattern: an analogy

But breaking this pattern requires acknowledging something uncomfortable: what happened to us wasn’t our fault, but the people who are responsible aren’t going to be the solution.

Here’s an analogy. (FYI, trigger warning about a hypothetical automobile accident.)

Say you get hit by a car, through absolutely no fault of your own; the car swerved onto the sidewalk where you were walking, where it had no business being, and it breaks your leg. It’s the driver’s fault, but you’re the one with the broken leg. You’re the one who has to do the work to heal.

No matter how the driver reacts, no matter whether they are sorry, or don’t take any responsibility for it, you have to do the work of healing.

Maybe they’re an asshole about it. They blame it on the person who distracted them, and won’t take any responsibility for it. That sucks, and you might be angry or resentful or hate them. But that’s not going to change the fact that you have a broken leg and you have to go through the recovery process.

Maybe the driver is actually really, really sorry. But no matter how much they apologize, how terrible they feel, even if they pay for all of your medical expenses, they bring you meals in bed until you’re fully healed—I’m taking this to the extreme to make a point—they drive you to doctors appointments, pay you a huge lump sum for your pain and suffering. You’re still the one who has to do the healing.

It’s your bones that need to knit together again. You’re the one who has to do the physical therapy exercises. It’s up to you to strengthen the tender muscles again. You can get help along the way, you don’t have to do it alone, but no one can do the healing work for you. Not the driver, not the physical therapists, not the doctors. No matter how sorry the driver is, no matter how many people help, no matter how many resources they provide, no matter how supportive they are in your healing process, they can’t do the healing itself for you.

Either way, whether they take responsibility and do what they can to help, or whether they never acknowledge their part in it at all, the healing work is still up to you.

This is how nature works

That might suck, it’s their fault, why should you have to do all that work, but that’s how all of nature works.

(FYI, trigger warning for natural disasters.)

An avalanche or flood or earthquake can change the entire landscape in a matter of minutes. A lightning strike can fell a tree that’s been around for a thousand years. A hungry fox can change a rabbit’s life forever in an instant. There’s no cruelty in these things. They’re not evil. As in, there isn’t malicious intent behind them. The earthquake isn’t mad at the landscape. The fox doesn’t hate the rabbit.

But there are consequences. And they’re irreversible. As in, they can’t go back to the way things were before the change. And our lives are full of these moments, where we can’t go back to the way it was before the change. And we have to deal with what it is now. The damage can’t be undone, but it can be healed.

The damage can be healed

The damage can’t be undone, but it can be healed. What do I mean by “healed?”

I mean that we can come to a new normal where the trauma is not constantly raising our defenses or getting triggered, where it’s not controlling our actions and decision-making. Where it’s an integrated part of our past, and it has affected us, it has shaped who we’ve become, and may influence the path that we choose for ourselves, but it’s not controlling every thought and word and decision anymore. For example, what I’ve been through has directly influenced the work that I do now, but I’m not being constantly triggered anymore.

Does that distinction make sense?

It took me several years, of both therapy and processing my Autistic identity, to heal enough of my old wounds from complex relationship trauma, that I was ready to start socializing a little bit more again, and with new people, where I started having different outcomes. Better outcomes. Enough that I started believing that it really could be different. That those old trauma responses and defense mechanisms weren’t as needed anymore. That I could unmask and be safe. That some people liked the unmasked version of me. And to be genuinely OK when people didn’t. A lot of that was working on me-stuff. Working on my issues.

It took a long time for those trauma responses to calm down, but they did calm, and melt away, as they saw that I had new skills to be able to deal with difficult situations when they came up. Which of course they did. That’s always going to happen when people interact. There’s no such thing as a “completely safe person” who is never going to ever say the wrong thing. But I could deal with it better than I ever had before.

And I was getting a lot better at telling when these were the minor misunderstandings of two people interacting, but this person is worth repairing the relationship for, and investing in, and when these were the red flags of someone who is not going to be safe around, and I should cut my losses now and get out.

I was dealing with these issues in healthier ways. Not the old automatic defensive ways. Or, not nearly as much. I don’t want to pretend like all of that is gone and that I’m some kind of saint or relationship expert now. That’s far from the truth. But it’s sooo much better now.

Is this making sense?

The pattern, in review

What I’m trying to do here is differentiate a few different things. Here’s a concise version of the pattern that I’m trying to elucidate.

You were hurt by unhealthy relationship dynamics, and neurotypical socialization that didn’t account for your Autistic communication style, and that created defense mechanisms and trauma responses and made you some version of avoidant or prickly or uncomfortable to be around, and finally recognizing that you’re Autistic and simply have different communication patterns and needs, and you’re not fundamentally broken or wrong, can be a huge relief, and way out of a lot of the shame and blame that others have put on you, and you’ve put on yourself, and that doesn’t mean that you have no responsibility whatsoever.

There’s still these trauma responses and defense mechanisms, and this is the part that you can do something about. In fact, it’s the part that no one else can do anything about, it’s completely on you to take responsibility for healing that part. I’m not saying to take responsibility for it happening, but to take responsibility for the healing.

And until that happens, you’re going to continue having unfortunate social encounters, and that’s why unmasking can be so painful, because you’re not unmasking a calm or happy authentic autistic version of your, it’s showing the traumatized version to the world, and of course that’s uncomfortable to be around, that’s how trauma tries to keep you safe.

But it’s only after you’ve dealt with that trauma, and healed enough of those old wounds, that you can start learning healthier skills for dealing with difficult emotions, and healthier communication patterns, and embrace your authentic Autistic communication style, while also bridging the gap to neurotypical communication styles, and to get better at spotting which relationships in your life are worth keeping and investing in, and which are full of red flags and you need to get out of because they’re not going to get better with just you making an effort.

And after all that, that’s when unmasking is going to feel good, and be responded to positively by other people, in general. And then you’ll be around other people who can respond to you positively, because they will be able to take in the authentic, trauma-healed version of you, quirks, weirdness, special interests, directness, and all. And you’ll be embraced, and a pleasure to be around for those people.

And interacting with those people will feel good. And you’ll start to have more and more positive experiences with other people, which will overwrite those old stories, and it’ll be possible to believe that it can feel good, because you’ll have evidence that it can. You’ll be living it.

One tiny step at a time

This may seem like a lot and, honestly, it is, but you don’t have to do it all at once. This is a slow process, of tiny steps, one at a time, that add up over time. Right now, there is only the one tiny step in front of you.

And that one tiny step might be acknowledging that there is something for you to do. That part of what’s going on in all these unfortunate social encounters is within your realm of control. Taking responsibility for the healing process.

And I just want to reiterate that this doesn’t mean that there’s something “wrong with you”, you’re not “broken”, and you’re not “fundamentally flawed”. This is trauma. And the trauma has shaped who you are, but it isn’t fundamentally who you are. And it can be healed.

OK, I’m curious what your response is to this. Please share in the comments, if you feel like it. Maybe you think I’m full of shit. Maybe you think I’m spewing ableist dogma. I don’t think I am, but I can understand that reaction. That’s a reaction that a trauma response could generate. And I’m expecting some pushback on this.

But I’m not putting it out there to be controversial. I’m not trying to stir anything up. I am saying this because I believe in what I’m saying. I honestly believe this is what’s going on. I’ve lived it myself, and I see it over and over in my clients. I’ve helped a lot of people through this, when they’re at a point in their healing journey that they’re ready to take the next steps, to try and work through some of those old wounds.

For some people, depending on the nature of their particular trauma history, it might take a lot of work with a really good therapist, preferably someone who’s neurodivergent or at least supportive. Especially if there’s what I might call big T trauma.

A lot of my clients have the kind of complex relationship trauma that I had, where it wasn’t a specific horror they lived through, or sustained, intense abuse, but the buildup of thousand small things over years and decades, that created a pattern of defensive reactions, like avoidance, or people pleasing, or lashing out, or ranting about the system, or demand avoidance, or rejection sensitivity, or defaulting to overwhelm. These are the kinds of things that I help people with on a regular basis.

They don’t always need therapy. Although if you have a good relationship with a therapist, that can be wonderfully helpful, it was life-changing for me. But it doesn’t have to be that. I’m saying this because I want to acknowledge that a lot of Autistics also have painful histories with therapists, and I’ve helped a lot of people without having to go into the original trauma itself. In fact, I’ve had a number of clients tell me that working with me was better than therapy. I appreciate the compliment, but I’m also sad about what kinds of therapists they were subjected to.

Okay, I think that’s enough for now. What do you think about any of this?

Oh, and as a friendly executive function reminder, if you want all of my new content, click the subscribe and notifications buttons. And if you would like to help me spread this message of hope, clicking the “like” button helps the algorithm know which videos have good content that people like, and that should be shared more. So I’d appreciate it if you help me spread the word in that way.

If there’s someone specific that you know who might want to hear this, you might consider sharing it with them. If you’re thinking of someone that probably needs to hear this, but they wouldn’t take it well, don’t bother sharing. It won’t matter to them unless they’re receptive.

Okay, I wish you a neurowonderful day.

The post Why Finding Your Autistic Community Didn’t Fix Your Loneliness (The Truth No One Talks About) appeared first on Autism Chrysalis.

Masking versus sensitivity

I’ve had three different clients this week bring up roughly the same issue, and I thought I might address it, because it’s something that I see coming up over and over. And it’s this.

Sometimes as Autistics, when we go through one of those phases where we’re going to try not to mask as much, or we just don’t have the energy to mask that day or that moment, or we’re wiped out, or we’re in burnout, or whatever reason, we’re just being a little bit more ourselves, a little less masked. And sometimes other people can have kind of a big reaction to something that we say, and yet what we said is entirely the truth, and it wasn’t actually mean.

It wasn’t that we were genuinely being hurtful. And we know intellectually that this reaction from the other person really was their issue. It was something in them that was coming up that was creating this big reaction.

So we have this situation where we’ve said something that was really probably just fine, and the other person had a big reaction to it, but we know that if we had masked more, the situation would have gone very differently and it wouldn’t have become an issue.

So what’s happening here? A lot of times, when my clients come to me with these situations, the message that they’re taking away from it is basically, ‘Oh, I guess that means that I need to keep masking. Unmasking is not okay.’ I’m taking a different message from it.

I’ll admit that when I was first unmasking, I took that same message from it, but I’m thinking about it differently now that I’ve had a lot more experience with it and have processed through more of what’s going on.

And I think that the core of it is this. There is a difference between unmasking and being insensitive. And I might phrase it the opposite way as well. Masking is not always sensitive, and sensitivity is not necessarily the same thing as masking.

Okay, I’m going to explain this more. So when we’re masking, we’re putting in a lot of effort to try and present ourselves in a way that the other person can handle, that will go over well, that they will see as appropriate, and that the things are going to work well, and they’ll take us seriously, or they will be okay with what we’ve said, or whatever it is.

So we’re putting in a lot of energy to manage that, to structure the situation, to come off in a certain way. And as we’re doing that, we are actually taking a lot of information into account about the other person.

We’re thinking about what they’re thinking, and how they’re going to take something, and their background and their history, as much as we know about them, and how things have gone with other people that we know that might have similar situations. And we’re trying to take that into account in order to get it just right as much as we can.

Masking less

When we play with masking less, one of the goals of that is to use less energy in our social interactions, and a completely normal transition phase of that masking less is using less energy and just not thinking about all of those things, because it feels like all of those things are what masking is, and masking can be that.

But there’s another phase that after we practice just not using quite as much energy for every single interaction, which I think is a very good thing, being more authentically ourselves – which I think is a very good thing. What I started incorporating back into my interactions with people, at some point – because I also went through that phase where things didn’t always go as smoothly because I was masking less – what I’ve started incorporating back in is more sensitivity, more attunement to the other person.

Thinking about what’s their history? What is it that they need? What will go over well? Things like that.

Not in a way that is covering up who I am, but in a way that is just responsive to wanting to be kind to the other person, to knowing, “Oh, this topic is sensitive for them. Oh, they have a history around this issue, so I want to tread lightly there because I genuinely, actually care that they’re okay right now. And if I say this, then they will not be okay. But if I say this, they’ll probably be okay.” And I can still be completely honest. I can still be entirely myself, and I’m noticing how I come across to them and what will affect them. And what they need to be okay right now.

I can negotiate that and navigate that. And it’s not always the same, and I’ll admit, I don’t always do it perfectly, but it’s improved my relationships so much. And it’s genuinely not masking because I’m not putting up a false front. I am not compromising who I am or what my truth is, and I’m not saying things just because society demands it. I’m saying something because it is the truth, and I can give a portion of it that is what the other person can tolerate at the moment.

I can maybe even give more of it, or all of it, if that’s what they can tolerate at the moment. But I’m a little bit more aware of that. I’m still using some energy to do this, but because I’m not masking myself, I have more energy available to me so that I can use some energy to be more aware of the other person.

Is this distinction making sense? I’m not sure how well I’m expressing this. I just wanted to float this idea that there is a version of being sensitive to the other person, to being aware of the other person, to being attuned with the other person, that isn’t the same thing as masking. It takes a little bit more energy than being very raw with someone, but I find that that little bit of upfront energy usually is less than the amount of energy that it takes to handle or mitigate the bad reaction and the break in the relationship that happens in time when I’m not sensitive to who they are and what they need.

The post I Upset Others When I Mask Less appeared first on Autism Chrysalis.

Do you people please?

I’d like to talk for a moment about people-pleasing behaviors and fawning responses, and the autistic experience of that. So, in general (not just for Autistics, but for most people), people-pleasing behaviors or fawn responses are a kind of social trauma response. It’s “please be okay with me, so that I can be safe. I’m going to do whatever you want, make myself into whoever you want me to be, in order for me to feel safe.”

For Autistics, how that usually develops is basically when the people around you are either telling you explicitly or kind of subtly giving you the message over and over and over, that your natural autistic reactions to things aren’t acceptable. It’s not okay for you to react like that. It’s not okay for you to talk like that, to ask direct questions, to be sensitive to your environment in the way that you are.

Oh, “that’s not a big deal”, they’ll say. “That’s just a noise.” “You’ll get over it.” “Just live with it.” “It can’t bother you that much.” “It’s not that big of a deal.” “Don’t say things like that.” “Can’t you just be normal?”

You get those kinds of messages, and how some people respond is by learning to hide their reactions so they don’t get those reactions from other people. To try and please them, to meet their expectations, to be who they’re implicitly told to be. But this has a couple of significant disadvantages.

It doesn’t really work. You don’t actually learn to get over it. You don’t actually learn to be normal. You just pretend enough, but that pretending takes an enormous amount of energy, and it’s energy that we don’t have then for all sorts of other things. For all the things that they’re telling us to do, usually, but it also denies us having permission to deal with whatever it is that’s bothering us.

If it’s sensory stuff, as I’m talking about at the moment (like if there is some loud noise), we don’t have permission to try and adjust our environment to make it better. So yeah, we do deal with it. We learn to live with it, not well, not pleasantly. It’s just that we take it all in, but we don’t actually learn how to respond to the situation, how to adjust the external thing when that’s possible. Sometimes it is, sometimes it isn’t.

We don’t learn how to deal with our own internal reactions to things in a more positive, useful way. All of the intensity just gets stored up and we brace ourselves against it. But we’re not learning how to move it through our body, or not learning how to use some of our other senses to help ourselves regulate, so that it’s not as intense.

We’re not learning how to integrate the experience. We’re not learning how to use it to our own advantage.

Allowing yourself to improve

There’s so much that we can do, but when the only message that we get is “just deal with it, get over it. Don’t bring it up. I’m tired of hearing about it. You’re always whining.” We don’t learn positive skills. We just learn how to please the people around us.

So after you’ve figured out, “oh, what’s going on is I’m autistic, and I have all of these sensory needs, and I approach social stuff in different ways than other people do, etc. etc.” You have all of these personal revelations of why things are happening – it opens doors to be able to learn better ways of approaching the same situations.

It gives you permission to try and improve things. It’s like, “Okay, so now that I know that this noise is bothering me, what can I do about it?” “Can I mask the noise? Can I put on headphones? Can I turn off the thing that’s making the noise? Can I engage another sensory system in my body to take some of the energy away from it?” There’s so much that’s possible. It doesn’t always make it perfect, but it can improve the situation.

So there are options. Once you have permission in yourself to try and make things better, to try and figure out what’s going on, and find ways of dealing with it.

And there are options, options that you’ve perhaps never been introduced to. Because the people around you didn’t know that they were available. Didn’t see the value. Didn’t understand what was happening in the first place. Because they’ve been taught so much throughout their lives that their own reactions are inappropriate, impossible to deal with.

Whatever it is, they’ve been conditioned so much and then they pass it on. That happens a lot with intergenerational autistic families, or people who are just so socialized to ‘here’s the ideal of what’s expected’ that they can’t see any other options.

But there are other options. There are many other options that work quite well.

Okay, that’s what I want to say for now. I’ll leave it there. I hope something in this sparked some useful ideas for you. And if you’d like any of my other videos, I talk about a range of topics all related to that later-identified autistic adults who’ve figured out that they’re autistic.

I’ll leave it there and wish you a neurowonderful day. Take care.

The post How People Pleasing Prevents Positive Relationships appeared first on Autism Chrysalis.

Do you find reflecting, either via journaling or in other ways, helps you process and understand yourself, others, and the world better?

Here are a few questions to reflect on how your autism, and not knowing you were autistic, may have influenced your interactions with others, or them with you.

The prompts

• How did being autistic effect how you got along with people in your grade school years? 
• How did not knowing that you were autistic effect how you got along with people in your grade school years? 

• How did being autistic effect how you got along with people in your middle school or high school years? 
• How did not knowing that you were autistic effect how you got along with people in your middle school or high school years? 

• How did being autistic effect your relationships with your parents, siblings, or other family members?
• How did not knowing that you were autistic effect your relationships with your parents, siblings, or other family members?

• How did being autistic effect your relationships with friends, teachers, employers, co-workers, strangers, or other people? 
• How did not knowing that you were autistic effect your relationships with friends, teachers, employers, co-workers, strangers, or other people? 

• How did being autistic effect your intimate relationships? 
• How did not knowing that you were autistic effect your intimate relationships? 

I hope these spark some interesting thoughts.

Feel free to share any reflections in the comments, with others you trust, or to keep them to yourself.

The post Relationship Reflection Prompts appeared first on Autism Chrysalis.

Healthy communication is a lot like being a safe driver.

Recently I was driving and another vehicle was coming up quickly behind me as we were approaching a curve in the road and I needed to slow down a bit. I got the impression that they wanted me to speed up because they were coming up on me so quickly, and so close, so I lightly tapped the brakes. Not enough to actually brake the car, but just enough to turn on my brake lights so they would know that I was not going to speed up and they could adjust and we could both stay safe. At that moment, it occurred to me that this is a lot like a healthy conversation.

In both safe driving and healthy communication, each person sends signals to the other person about their intentions in time for the other person to adjust what they are doing.

Unsafe drivers, and unhealthy communicators, maneuver without warning, too fast for the other person to make useful adjustments. This often leaves the other person confused, anxious, or injured.

Here are a few driving signals as metaphors for healthy communication. (My apologies to every other country, as all of these references are using US-centered driving standards.)

Turn signals — small adjustments

Turn signals are indications of our wants, needs, and other things that are going on inside that other people can’t see.

They let others know your intentions far enough in advance for them to adjust what they are doing. For example, as a driver you might need the car behind you to slow down so that you can slow down to make a safe turn. 

In relationships, it’s not that something big needs to change, or that you need to completely get out of a relationship, an event, a responsibility, etc. but you might need to tweak something. 

That might involve telling someone that a sensory issue is bothering you, and asking for an adjustment. 

Or telling someone that what they’re saying is not coming across well, and talking about that early on rather than waiting until it’s bothered you enough that you can’t deal with it anymore.

Brake lights — big changes

Brake lights are hard stops with another person. It could mean the end of a conversation, or leaving a situation, or even the end of a relationship, and can come abruptly if there haven’t been turn signals beforehand to give adequate warning.

When you’re in a relationship and everything seems to be going just fine, and then all of a sudden the other person tells you that you’re too much and they need out of the relationship, they weren’t giving you useful turn signals early enough for you to do anything about it. 

Or when you’re dealing with some sensory stimulus that is hurtful and overwhelming, and you’re dealing with it and dealing with it and dealing with it and not saying anything, and then all of a sudden you can’t stand it anymore, and you explode, or lash out, or leave in a panic, or make a proclamation that you “can’t deal with this anymore!” and the other person is like, “where did that come from?” You weren’t giving turn signals early enough for the other person to make useful adjustments. Hence the buildup became a brake light.

Steering wheel wave — “I’m a safe person”

As a driver, I’ll give the two finger steering wheel wave to other drivers or pedestrians to let them know that I’ve seen them and that they don’t have to be as concerned while they’re walking down the side of the street, or driving by me on a narrow road, because they have more confidence I’m not going to run into them. 

This is giving signals to the people around me that I am a safe person and that they have reason to trust my intentions, at least in this limited circumstance. 

In relationships, there are lots of ways you can signal to the other person that you see them and are aware of them and are not trying to hurt them; that you’re a safe person. At least in this circumstance and for this moment. Signals like that might be: 

Responding to someone with openness and curiosity when they tell you that something you said or did hurt them.

It could be accommodating someone else’s sensory needs, even when it’s not an issue for you.

It could be asking about their day or about something that they’re interested in, even when the topic isn’t of interest to you, as a way of showing that you care about the person.

It could be doing something nice for them as an outward sign that you were thinking about them and care about them.

When you give signals that you are a safe person to be around, and especially when you follow that through with actions consistently over time, it helps communication and relationships both in the moment and in future encounters.

Headlights — identity and needs

At night, or in low-visibility conditions, drivers turn on headlights to signal to the drivers around them, “this is where I am” so they can make adjustments and stay safe. 

The relationship equivalent is providing identity signals in situations where relevant information may not be obvious (to others). It’s letting people know, “this is who I am,” or “this is what I need,” so the other person doesn’t have to guess, wonder, or assume the wrong thing, hurting feelings in the process.

This could be things like providing pronouns up front.

Using your own preferred language if, and when, you choose to disclose something about yourself. (Identity-first language, etc.)

It might be explaining that you have a tendency to be particularly direct because you’re autistic, or that unexpected movements are Tourettes tics. (If you choose to disclose, and you never have to.)

It could be letting people know you’re sensitive to fluorescent lights, and are wearing this hat to block some of the light that is giving you a headache.

Or explaining that you’re looking away to reduce stimulation so you can think about what they said, not to be rude. 

You don’t have to get into all the reasons, or explain any more than you are comfortable with; even a partial explanation often helps.

These signals let people know what is going on when you act, look, communicate, or move in a way that is different from the perceived norm.

When you veer from what people expect, they are going to try to make sense of it in the best way they can, and the easiest way is to jump to conclusions and fill in missing information with assumptions. That’s not evil, that’s a normal part of how our human brains work. 

However, if you can offer them information to fill in the gaps, they will make fewer assumptions, and things tend to go better. (That doesn’t work in toxic relationships, but I have a different driving metaphor for that.)

These signals help people navigate our needs and ways of being in the world so they can feel more comfortable around us, and we can have better experiences with them. The alternative is assuming that they should just know, and getting disappointed, frustrated, or angry, when they don’t.

Backup beep — abusive or toxic relationships

Oh, the backup beep. Sigh. My auditory sensitivities would love to banish the backup beep into another realm. However, grudgingly, I do admit that there is a safety-oriented purpose to it.

Disclaimer: I’m not talking about the versions they’ve lately been putting into small passenger vehicles to let the driver know they’re in reverse (those I hate). I’m talking about the backup beep on large vehicles as it was originally designed.

The driver of a large vehicle often does not have a complete field of vision around the vehicle, so the beep is a signal to people nearby that the driver is about to make a maneuver in which they will not be able to see everything, and may not see you, so you need to take care of yourself and get out of the way.

Tying this to relationships, backup beeps are the signs of an abusive or toxic relationship. And like that bleeping beep, those signals are often painful experiences.

When you see such signs, they are indicators telling you to backup, get away, that this person is not going to take care of you so it’s up to you to take care of yourself and get out of their way.

There is a lot of good info on the Internet about how to tell if you’re in an abusive or toxic relationship, so I’m not going to get into that here. My point is about what to do when you see these signs: take care of yourself!

Lane markers — setting boundaries

Painted lines on the road give information to drivers about where they can expect to drive safely, so that everyone can navigate the road with more confidence that they are not going to hit someone, or be hit.

When everyone drives within the painted lines, and moves between them at agreed-upon intervals (dashed lines, intersections) and in agreed-upon ways (turn signals, etc.) it takes far less energy to navigate the road and everyone has less anxiety.

Of course, not everyone always follows those expectations and accidents happen, but they are significantly reduced by having these visible boundaries that all drivers agree to try their best to follow.

In relationships, we can let other people know what is okay to us, and what’s not okay. At its essence, this is all setting boundaries really is.

It’s not being controlling, making grand pronouncements, or imposing huge requirements on other people. It is simply giving indications of what you’ll put up with and what you won’t, what you need, what you’ll do for others, when, or how, or under what circumstances, etc.

If you’re interested in more about setting healthy boundaries, Dr. Faith Harper has helpful perspectives with practical guidance that is ND-affirming.

Relationships are a skill you can get better at

All of these healthy relationship skills are skills that we can learn and get better at. I’ve gotten soooo much better at all of these since my autism diagnosis. 

As I sought to understand how relationships actually work through these types of cognitive explanations, rather than people expecting me to “pick it up” and complaining when I didn’t, I learned more in the two or three years following my diagnosis than in the 3.5 decades before that. And now, 7 years post-dx, I have significantly better relationships than ever before in my life.

No doubt we could extend this metaphor to other driving and relationship situations, and if you would like to, feel free to leave comments below with your own thoughts. I hope something in all of this has been intriguing.

The post Healthy Communication is Like Safe Driving appeared first on Autism Chrysalis.