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Why I am Autistic only after hours
Why I am Autistic, yet only allowed in fragments. A self divided, a truth half-told — masking to endure, dreaming to be whole.
Autism, they say, is not a costume one wears, nor a role one plays — it is the essence of being, stitched into the fabric of thought, woven through the sinews of self. And yet, I move through the world as if I were only part-time autistic, as if my neurodivergence clocks in and out like a reluctant worker, present in some hours, absent in others. But the truth is simpler, and sadder: I do not change. Only the world’s tolerance for my existence fluctuates.
The Art of Disappearance
To be autistic is to master vanishing acts. In the company of others, I become a well-rehearsed illusion, smoothing out the rough edges of my nature, curbing the instinct to stim, steadying my gaze to meet theirs — though it feels like staring into the sun. Conversations become scripts, memorized through trial and error, performed with the precision of an actor who knows that forgetting a line means the audience will turn on you.
But illusions are exhausting. And when the curtain falls — when I am alone, or with those who understand — I step back into my unvarnished self. The mask slides away. The world does…
