My “occasional” anxious stomachaches became a daily occurrence, taking literal hours out of my day and leaving me scrambling to keep up with responsibilities. Instead, things really started to catch up with me when I went off to college, as if my brain and body said, “enough is enough.” The brain fog I’d experienced off and on got so much worse. And I hoped things would get easier, now that I was on the path to mastering adulthood. I believed that my increasing chronic mental and physical pain signified that I was finally working hard enough. I figured that everyone prioritized success and acceptance the way I was trying to. It left me feeling exhausted, empty and without a sense of identity – but I thought that was just a part of growing up. By the time I got to high school, I’d learned a host of other masking skills as well: how to hide my intense interests in Neopets and K-Pop by passing them off as ironic, how to maintain basic surface-level friendships, and how to earn respect by showing off my intelligence while hiding basically everything else about me. And since I wasn’t regulating myself the healthy way, repression and dissociation quickly became my coping mechanisms of choice. I was determined to figure out how my world was supposed to work.īy elementary school I’d observed that uncommon movements brought unwanted attention and scrutiny, so I suppressed the urge to stim. Instead, the lessons were in the details: I paid attention to every facial expression, every change in vocal tone, every positive and negative social interaction exchanged between those around me. But it may surprise you to hear that no one had to consistently scold or punish me to accomplish this. Here’s something I came to terms with recently: being an undiagnosed, extremely anxious, extremely observant, “gifted” child meant that I quickly learned to prioritize achievement and social acceptance over just about everything else. And I have a hunch that plenty of my fellow former “gifted” kids have a similar amount of unpacking to do. Whew boy, there was a lot to unpack there. But after I got my autism diagnosis at age 22 and started educating myself about neurodivergence, I discovered an equally accurate and important descriptor: burnout. Then I called it depression, once I realized this would happen despite trying my absolute best, always. First I called it laziness, when my self-esteem was effectively nonexistent (so, like…up until the past couple of years). It’s followed me in one form or another for most of my life.įor a long time, I didn’t have an accurate name for it. But I’m also acutely aware of how familiar this feeling is. And really, in these times of constant stress and uncertainty, me feeling this way probably shouldn’t come as a surprise – I think a lot of people are in the same boat. I made rice in a rice cooker earlier today and it felt like a serious victory. It sort of feels like I’m wading through this…soul-sucking fog, one that’s left me disconnected, achy, irritable, et cetera et cetera. I’ll be honest with you: I’m having a very hard time putting words together these days.Īctually, I’m having a hard time doing a lot of things.
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