A meltdown is a storm. Sometimes, I can see it coming—dark clouds gathering on the horizon, my chest tightening like the oppressive humidity before the rain. Other times, it hits me like a flash flood: sudden, overwhelming, and completely out of my control.
I hate meltdowns for their chaos, for the way they strip away my carefully constructed façade of “keeping it together.” But—and this is a truth I’ve only recently come to accept—I also understand their purpose. They’re my body’s way of saying, “You’ve had enough. Stop.”
What a Meltdown Feels Like
Imagine being trapped in a room with blaring alarms, strobe lights, and a hundred people shouting different things at the same time. Now imagine there’s no way to turn it off, no exit, no relief. That’s what sensory overload feels like.
A meltdown is my brain’s way of escaping the chaos. It’s not a tantrum. It’s not about wanting attention or being dramatic. It’s a full-body rebellion—a last-ditch attempt to survive the onslaught of sensory, emotional, or cognitive overwhelm.
During a meltdown, I feel like a passenger in my own body. My heart races, my breathing becomes shallow, and I might cry uncontrollably, rock back and forth, or pace in circles. It’s raw. It’s vulnerable. It’s everything I work so hard to avoid showing the world.
Why I Hate Meltdowns
1. The Loss of Control
I like to think of myself as composed, maybe even stoic. Meltdowns shatter that illusion. In the moment, I feel powerless, like I’m watching myself fall apart from the outside. It’s terrifying.
2. The Aftermath
After a meltdown, I’m left drained, like someone pulled the plug on my internal battery. But what’s worse is the shame. I’ve spent my life masking—pretending I’m fine, even when I’m not. Meltdowns rip that mask away, leaving me exposed and embarrassed.
I replay the events in my head: Did anyone notice? What did they think? Did I ruin something? The social anxiety kicks in, compounding the exhaustion.
3. The Misconceptions
People don’t understand meltdowns. They think I’m being childish or overreacting. They offer unhelpful advice like, “Just calm down” or, “Why don’t you take a deep breath?” (If I could calm down, don’t you think I would?)
Why I (Reluctantly) Appreciate Meltdowns
Here’s the paradox: as much as I hate meltdowns, I also know they serve a purpose.
1. They’re a Release
A meltdown is my body’s way of hitting the reset button. It’s messy and uncomfortable, but afterward, I feel lighter—like I’ve let go of something I didn’t even realize I was holding onto.
2. They’re a Signal
Meltdowns force me to confront my limits. They’re my body’s way of saying, “You’ve pushed too hard. You need to stop.” In a world that constantly demands more—more productivity, more socializing, more “normalcy”—meltdowns remind me to listen to myself.
A Meltdown Memory
Once, at a work event, I felt the storm brewing. The room was loud—laughter, clinking glasses, music turned up too high. The fluorescent lights felt like daggers in my eyes, and the fabric of my blazer itched against my skin. I excused myself, slipping away to the bathroom.
I locked myself in a stall, sat down on the closed toilet lid, and started rocking back and forth. The tears came fast and hard, and I bit my lip to keep from making noise. I sat there for what felt like an eternity, letting the meltdown run its course.
Eventually, I emerged, splashed cold water on my face, and rejoined the event as if nothing had happened. No one said anything, but I could feel the weight of their eyes, the unspoken questions: What’s wrong with her?
It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t graceful. But it was necessary.
How I Manage Meltdowns
Over the years, I’ve learned a few strategies to cope:
1. Prevention
I plan ahead. If I know a situation might be overwhelming, I set boundaries: arriving late, leaving early, or skipping altogether. I also keep a “sensory survival kit” with me—noise-canceling headphones, sunglasses, a weighted lap pad.
2. Safe Spaces
When I feel a meltdown coming, I try to find a quiet, private place. Sometimes it’s a bathroom stall. Sometimes it’s my car. Sometimes it’s as simple as sitting in a dark room with a blanket over my head.
3. Self-Compassion
This is the hardest part. I remind myself that meltdowns aren’t failures. They’re not something I should feel ashamed of—they’re part of being human, part of being me.
What I Wish People Knew About Meltdowns
1. They’re Not Tantrums
A tantrum is a choice; a meltdown is not. I’m not doing this for attention or to manipulate anyone—I’m in crisis.
2. They’re Not Controllable
Once a meltdown starts, there’s no stopping it. The best thing you can do is give me space, stay calm, and let it run its course.
3. They’re Not the End of the World
Yes, meltdowns are overwhelming. Yes, they’re messy. But with time, patience, and understanding, I bounce back.
Final Thoughts
Meltdowns are part of my reality as an autistic person. They’re not something I enjoy, but they’re something I’ve learned to accept. They remind me to slow down, to listen to my body, and to take care of myself in a world that often feels too loud, too fast, and too much.
If you’ve experienced meltdowns, know this: you’re not alone. You’re not broken. You’re just human. And if you’re someone who loves or works with an autistic person, remember: meltdowns aren’t a problem to be solved—they’re a part of who we are, and they deserve compassion, not judgment.
Resources on Meltdowns:
- Autistic Self Advocacy Network (ASAN)
- National Autistic Society: Understanding Meltdowns
- Devon Price’s “Unmasking Autism”
Have you had similar experiences? How do you manage meltdowns—or support someone who does? Let’s share and learn together.
