I was 19 the first time a doctor suggested medication. Not for autism—because, newsflash, there isn’t a pill for that—but for anxiety. At the time, I was too busy pretending I wasn’t autistic to admit I was unraveling. So instead of saying, “Yes, please, I’m drowning,” I nodded politely and ghosted the psychiatrist.
Here’s the thing about autism: it’s not something you fix. There’s no cure, no magic potion to make your brain work like everyone else’s. And honestly? I wouldn’t want one. But anxiety? Depression? The occasional midnight existential crisis? Those, I wouldn’t mind medicating into oblivion.
But not all medication works, and not all of it feels right. For autistic people, figuring out what helps and what doesn’t is less like choosing from a menu and more like throwing darts at a wall and hoping something sticks.
What About Actual Autism Drugs?
There aren’t any. Let’s just get that out of the way.
Sure, there are meds for the stuff that comes with autism—anxiety, ADHD, irritability—but nothing targets the core of it. Which is fine, because we don’t need to “fix” autism. What we need is support, understanding, and maybe a weighted blanket or three.
Anxiety Meds and Emotional Flatlines
So, back to 19-year-old me: a few years after ghosting that psychiatrist, I finally tried an SSRI. The first week, I felt like I’d been hit by a truck. The second week, I felt… nothing. Not “calm” nothing—just nothing. Like someone hit the mute button on my entire personality.
I stayed on it for six months before I decided I’d rather be anxious and alive than a flatline version of myself. But I’ve met other autistic people who swear by their anxiety meds. For some, they’re a lifesaver. For me, they were like wearing someone else’s shoes—functional but deeply uncomfortable.
Stimulants: Friend or Frenemy?
Adderall was a whole other adventure. Picture this: me, three hours into a hyper-focused cleaning frenzy, reorganizing my bookshelves by color and genre while my laundry languished in the washer. It was great—until it wasn’t.
The crash hit like a sensory meltdown on steroids. I could feel every noise, every wrinkle in my clothes, every wrong thing about the world, all at once. For some autistic people, stimulants work wonders. For me? They were like putting out a candle with a blowtorch.
The Weed Experiment
Let’s talk about weed. Because of course we’re going to talk about weed.
The first time I tried it, I was 25 and on a camping trip with friends who promised me it would “totally chill you out.” Instead, I spent 45 minutes staring at a tree, convinced it was judging me. The second time was better. I didn’t find enlightenment, but I did find the couch and a profound appreciation for nachos.
Now, weed is my go-to for sensory overload. Just a little—not enough to send me spiraling into paranoia, but enough to take the edge off a rough day. Does it work for everyone? No. But for me, it’s like a pressure valve for my brain.
And Alcohol?
Alcohol is tricky. On the one hand, it’s great for pretending you’re a social butterfly at a party. On the other hand, it’s basically a ticket to a hangover full of sensory regret.
In my early 20s, I thought drinking would make me normal. Spoiler: it didn’t. It made me loud, overly honest, and prone to falling asleep in random corners. Fun at the time, but not exactly sustainable. These days, I keep it to the occasional cider—anything stronger, and I’m just asking for a sensory meltdown wrapped in a headache.
So, What Actually Helps?
If you’re expecting a neat answer, sorry. There isn’t one. What works for me might not work for you. Medication, weed, alcohol—it’s all trial and error. What I do know is this: the real game-changers aren’t in a bottle or a pillbox. They’re in the things that help me be me without apologizing for it.
Weighted blankets? Yes. Noise-canceling headphones? Absolutely. Therapy? Only if your therapist understands autism (seriously, that’s non-negotiable).
And sometimes? Just having the space to say, “This is hard, and I don’t know what I’m doing” makes all the difference.
The Bottom Line
There’s no cure for autism, and there doesn’t need to be. But the world isn’t exactly designed for us, which means finding ways to cope—whether that’s meds, weed, therapy, or an absurdly soft hoodie—is a deeply personal journey.
For me, it’s been a mix of trial, error, and learning to stop beating myself up for needing help. So, whatever your path looks like, know this: it’s okay to need tools. It’s okay to say, “This isn’t working.” And it’s more than okay to keep searching until you find what does.
Because we’re not here to fit in. We’re here to figure out how to thrive—and maybe eat some really good nachos along the way.
