Sometimes I describe autism like static—a relentless hum in the background that drowns out the melody of everyday life. It’s not bad or good; it’s just there. But some days, that static builds into a deafening roar, and suddenly, I can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t even exist without it taking over.
Let me tell you about last Tuesday. I was in the grocery store—nothing unusual about that. Just a mundane chore: grab oat milk, eggs, and cereal, and get out. Except the fluorescent lights were buzzing like angry bees, the freezer section hummed with a low, menacing growl, and someone’s toddler was shrieking three aisles over. I froze in the bread aisle, clutching a loaf of sourdough like a lifeline. My heart was pounding, and my skin felt too tight for my body.
I whispered to myself, “Just grab the bread and go,” but my brain was screaming, “EVERYTHING IS TOO LOUD.” I abandoned the bread (sorry, sourdough) and bolted for the parking lot. I sat in my car for twenty minutes with my hands over my ears, tears streaming down my face.
That’s what sensory overload feels like. It’s not dramatic; it’s survival.
The Politics of Autism
You know what makes all of this worse? The debates—constant, endless debates about what autism is and why it exists. Is it genetic? Environmental? Did your mom get a flu shot in 1992? I have a running joke that if I’m not careful, someone will suggest I got autism from eating Pop-Tarts as a kid. (For the record, I did eat Pop-Tarts. They were delicious. Unrelated.)
People love to argue about vaccines, but here’s the thing: I’m autistic. I live this every day. Autism isn’t a tragedy, and it doesn’t need a cure. It’s not caused by bad parenting or your kid watching too much Bluey. Autism is a neurological difference, and instead of throwing blame around like confetti, how about we talk about actual support and accommodations?
The Crazy Things I’ve Done to “Fit In”
I didn’t know I was autistic until I was 27. Before that, I just thought I was weird. I once practiced fake facial expressions in the mirror for weeks because someone told me my “resting face” looked annoyed. (Spoiler: it still does.) I memorized jokes and funny stories so I’d always have something to say at parties. I even Googled “how to walk naturally” after someone commented that I “walked funny.”
Looking back, it’s heartbreaking. I wasn’t trying to be someone else; I was just trying to survive in a world that felt alien to me.
Visual Snapshot
Right now, I’m writing this from my favorite spot on the couch. The sunlight is streaming through the blinds, leaving stripes across the carpet, and I’m wrapped in my weighted blanket. It’s a sensory cocoon—soft, warm, and heavy enough to keep me grounded. My favorite fidget toy, a smooth obsidian stone, sits next to me. I’m twirling it between my fingers as I write.
The house is quiet except for the low hum of my laptop fan. This is my safe space—a bubble where the static fades and I can finally think clearly.
What About Autism and Girls?
Let’s get one thing straight: autism in girls doesn’t look like autism in boys. That’s why so many of us go undiagnosed for decades. We mask, we mimic, we hide. I remember being praised as “polite” and “well-behaved” as a child, but what no one saw was the hours I spent in my room afterward, exhausted from pretending to be “normal.”
Girls are taught early to smile, nod, and fit in. So we do. But it comes at a cost. By the time I got my diagnosis, I’d spent years battling burnout and depression, wondering why everything felt so much harder for me.
FAQ
Q: Do vaccines cause autism?
A: No, they don’t. The idea originated from a debunked study by Andrew Wakefield (who lost his medical license, by the way). Major health organizations, like the CDC and WHO, confirm that vaccines are safe and do not cause autism.
Q: Is autism genetic?
A: Likely, yes. Current research shows autism has a strong genetic component, though environmental factors may also play a role. (Here’s a Harvard article if you want to dive deeper.)
Q: What does sensory overload feel like?
A: Imagine every noise, light, and texture turned up to 11—simultaneously. It’s like trying to read a book while someone blasts music, flashes a strobe light, and throws sand in your face.
Q: How can I help someone with autism?
A: Ask what they need, respect their boundaries, and be patient. Small things, like dimming the lights or giving them space, can make a big difference.
Final Thoughts
Being autistic isn’t a tragedy or a gift—it’s just my reality. Some days, the static is overwhelming. Other days, it’s manageable. What helps the most is creating a world where I don’t have to apologize for being myself.
So here’s my advice: next time you see someone stimming or needing a quiet moment, let them be. We’re all just trying to survive the static in our own way.
