About two years ago, we sat our then nine-year-old son down to review test results from the child psychologist he’d visited a few weeks earlier.

“Did she say I’m autistic?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. “You are Autistic.”

He was silent momentarily and finally replied, “But I don’t want to be Autistic. The kids at school will just make fun of me more.”

He was only in third grade at the time and was already experiencing bullying by other students.

I know any child could experience bullying, but Autistic children are more likely to experience bullying than non-autistic children. Bullying is defined by the CDC as “a form of youth violence and an adverse childhood experience” and can be:

• physical — pushing, shoving, kicking, etc.
• verbal — name calling, threats, etc.
• social — excluding another person or avoiding them
• damaging personal property

The painful part is knowing that it won’t end anytime soon. He will always be different and differences are targets.

My son’s first bully actually came in the form of an adult: his second preschool teacher. She was a staunch stiff-necked British woman with a permanent sour face.

We didn’t know at the time that my son was Autistic, but the traits were present. Like many Autistic people, he had a hard-wired need for fairness. I remember one issue brought up in a conference session with the teacher. My then three-year-old had a meltdown because he didn’t want to wear his jacket on the playground. I sensed that she wasn’t telling us the whole story, so I turned to my son and asked him why he refused to wear his jacket.

“Because Lilly doesn’t have to wear hers,” he said. Lilly’s mom worked at the school, and Lilly was allowed to run down to her classroom and ask permission not to wear her jacket. My son wanted the same treatment. He wanted to call me and ask if he could not wear his jacket.

“…unfairness is irrational and is caused by prejudices, dislikes and ulterior motives that don’t appear reasonable. Many autistic people see the unfair behaviour as fundamentally irrational and therefore pointless…autistic students can present as very tricky to manage in class as they won’t do things ‘just because’ — they need things explained and teachers don’t often like having to do this.” — Pete Wharmby

Sour face also said he asked “Why?” too much when she gave them instructions. And, in true Autistic form, he’d refuse to follow those instructions without an answer. Autistics don’t grasp authority figures the way neurotypicals do. The instructions need to make sense to us.

His first preschool teacher believed in answering children’s questions, so when my son asked ‘why,’ she explained. She praised him for not blindly following orders and being inquisitive. And he always followed her directions after she answered him.

But this lady only saw this behavior as being naughty. She’d refuse to answer him, and he’d have another meltdown.

“When I say ‘jump,’ the children should jump,” she said.

We moved him into another preschool and warned the new teacher about his behavior.

A week in, the teacher at the new school pulled me aside, “That woman was a bully. Your son is wonderful. He just needs to understand the why behind things and adequate transition time. Any good teacher would know how to handle him.”

He thrived there through kindergarten.

But friction between him and authority figures started again once he entered public school. Like many Autistics, my son had a bluntness and directness about him that made others uncomfortable. His teachers thought he was disrespectful, and his constant need for ‘fair treatment’ in the classroom and calling out to students who touched or bumped into him gave him a reputation for being a difficult student.

His bluntness also contributes to his peers misunderstanding him — maybe even fueling the bullying. Of course, his other Autistic ‘quirks’ surely play into the negative impression other kids have of him like his need to information dump about his special interests, missing jokes, and starting every conversation with “Did you know?”

One kid in his second-grade class discovered he could make fun of my son quietly, out of earshot of the teacher, and my son would externalize his overwhelming frustration with a verbal outburst. The teacher would hear my son, not the instigators, and she’d assume he was starting the ruckus. So, he’d get into trouble, not the other kids.

For example, I remember one call from the principal about my son having an outburst at recess. He “yelled at the teacher for no reason.”

When my son came home, I asked him to explain what happened. When the teacher turned away, this bully threw a large rubber ball at the back of my son’s head. He told the kid to stop several times but it continued.

Frustrated and overwhelmed by the repeated abuse and the teacher not paying attention, my son yelled, “MS. SO-AND-SO! WHY IS [BULLY] ALLOWED TO THROW BALLS AT ME?”

The bully told the teacher it was once, and it was an accident. She didn’t believe my son and sent him to the office for disrespect.

Occurrences like this continued. The bully and his pals would purposely kick my son’s chair during class. He’d tell them to stop. Then he’d tell the teacher who believed the bully’s excuse about it being an accident. Then, he’d finally explode with a loud verbal meltdown.

And off to the office, he was sent while his bully got away with it.

We’ve spent so much time at home working with him on how to process his anger. We’ve talked to him about the appropriate way to respond to these kids — ask them to stop and then speak to the teacher. Unfortunately, the teachers already had it in their heads that he was the problem child. Getting to the root of his outbursts was not a priority. They wouldn’t listen to him.

At this point, we realized a diagnosis could become our most valuable tool.

We figured out early on that he was Autistic. But my son didn’t need academic support, so going through the expense of a diagnosis didn’t seem necessary. That is until we needed to force the school to see my son differently.

He is different, and they need to understand it.

Submitting the diagnosis to the school triggered a series of evaluations. While it was determined (like we knew) that he didn’t need academic support, they did see the need for a behavior plan.

So that’s what we did.

We worked with the school and its teachers to put in behavior accommodations. A few we included:

• When frustrated and overwhelmed, he can ask to stand outside the room to recenter and avoid a meltdown.
• When he gets a little too blunt or direct, the teacher will speak to him privately about why it was inappropriate.
• And most importantly, the teachers had to pay closer attention to how other kids treated him.

Armed with a diagnosis, his teachers had a better view of him — they understood his differences, and started to notice how other students treated him.

Things improved dramatically.

His fourth-grade year was the first full year with his behavior accommodations. And his teachers — we’ve been blessed with teachers that take it to heart — used it well. Once they started to use the accommodations instead of sending him to the office, they got to know him better — the real him. One teacher said that he became her favorite student after figuring out how to work with him.

It wasn’t until the teachers realized that comparing him to the ‘normal’ student wasn’t the right way to approach him. He was different — he’s Autistic.

But the teachers can’t stop all bullying from happening. They can’t prevent the other kids from excluding him. All the other kids receive invitations to birthday parties, but he doesn’t. The other kids hang out on the weekends but don’t invite him.

He noticed.

We noticed.

And as he enters junior high next year, we are worried that it will only be worse.

Since Autistics don’t communicate as neurotypicals do, they don’t meet society’s expectations for ‘normal.’ The communication differences become increasingly noticeable throughout adolescence. Other kids will start to navigate the social nuances of communicating and pick up non-verbal communication skills, while Autistics rely on direct and honest communication. Even when Autistic children attempt to communicate like others, their inability to grasp all the social nuances can prevent them from fitting in.

Like all moms, I wish I could protect him from the hurts and pains of growing up. I remember what it’s like to be bullied for being different, for being Autistic. While it breaks my heart that he doesn’t want to be Autistic, I understand why.

Though, his life, I tell myself, will be different than mine. I didn’t have a diagnosis and grew up in an abusive family — where being different made me a target. I always thought something was wrong with me. As a result, depression and anxiety clouded my childhood.

But he has a diagnosis and a family who reinforces that nothing is wrong with him, just different.

His family loves him as he is.

His teachers have a better understanding of him now.

We have plans in place to help him.

But I want him to have friends. I want his peers to see how wonderful he is and give him a chance. It’s overwhelming to think of the isolation and exclusion he may continue to experience.

While chaperoning a field trip for his gifted class, one of his teachers leaned across the bus aisle and said, “My son is just like yours. Kids picked on him, and he didn’t have friends. But in high school, he found his people, other kids just like him. So will your son.”

I’m grateful to her for those words. Does it make it easier? No. But it does give me some hope? Yes. High schools around here are HUGE. There have to be kids he can connect with.

I’m still holding out hope for a positive junior high experience.

All we can do is support him and help him embrace who he is.

Facial expressions are a form of non-verbal communication that accompanies a verbal message and can help convey the intent behind the message and the speaker’s emotional state. In short, it rounds out the complete picture for the receiver. And for neurotypicals, a conflict between a person’s words and facial expressions can lead to misunderstandings.

For autistics, this conflict is a way of life. We often rely on words only to communicate.

There is a stereotype that autistics can’t produce or read facial expressions, which isn’t true. Let’s take a look at what it really means to be autistic when it comes to facial expressions and where the challenges lie:

Autistics are not the “expressionless robots” we’re assumed to be.

We can unconsciously produce facial expressions, though it’s less frequent than neurotypicals. People around us may expect to see a facial expression only to be met with an expressionless face. When we do produce them, they can be inappropriate or ill-timed.

The “wrong” facial expressions can cause further challenges in communication. You aren’t – essentially – speaking the same language. The differences, though subtle, can make other people feel lost about your emotions.

But the challenge is…

We don’t know what our faces are doing.

I have memories of being scolded for rolling my eyes as a child. But I didn’t know that I rolled my eyes. I wasn’t annoyed or irritated. So, why did my eyes roll? Probably because I didn’t know what my face was doing.  

Unintentional eye rolling is only one of my unconscious facial expressions. Another one, my “resting face” is often confused for anger or irritation.

My face and tone of voice never clearly expressed my excitement about a new gift when I was a child. And the list goes on.

Feeling one way but being read by those around you another way is a way of life for us. We often catch ourselves apologizing for confusing people about our intention and feelings.

Like all autistic traits, the ability to produce facial expressions and their accuracy can vary from one autistic to another. Some are relatively expressionless, and others’ abilities are so similar to neurotypical expressions that a difference is hardly noticeable.

Some of us do mask our facial expressions.

As an autistic woman, I know society expects me to be more expressive and bubblier than a man. I also want to avoid being misunderstood.

“The world still has no space for eloquent women with flatter facial expressions.  I am aware that autistic men share this trait with us, but time and time again, including in my own family, I have seen this trait excused and overlooked in brilliant men.  Apparently, this sort of intensity in a man is not as threatening.” – Wendy Katz Erwin

The social expectation that women are emotional and expressive places an additional burden on autistic women to mask their non-verbal communication. A man is respected and confident if his face remains firm during a conversation. A woman, however, is thought to be rude or a bitch if she doesn’t smile.

So, like many autistic women, I actively monitor my face during social situations. At times I’m so caught up in the conversation and suddenly realize I have no idea what it looks like. I have to take a survey of everyone else’s faces and adjust mine to copy them.

“Oh, they are all smiling. I better smile, too.”

For most of my life, I thought everyone consciously monitored their faces. It’s like a tiny film director in my head – “Okay. Smile……NOW!”

This little voice calls out directions throughout an entire conversation. It’s exhausting to monitor my face while processing a conversation and saying the right things.

Apparently, neurotypicals don’t actively monitor their faces like us.    

We can’t always read facial expressions which can make masking tricky.

I can read some facial expressions but it’s a conscious process and limited to obvious expressions like smiling, laughing, and crying. Reading faces is limited to extremes or a resting face. Everything else is difficult to interpret.  

Eye contact – or lack of it – also comes into play. Every autistic has a different comfort level with eye contact. For me, it hurts to look people in the eyes, making it harder to read people’s faces.

Even with masking, we are unable to completely hide our difficulties with nonverbal communication. So, we lose friends (or can’t gain them, to begin with) and aren’t hired for jobs. Just think of the issues this can cause in an interview.

For fun, I’m throwing in the most anti-autistic career interviewing advice article. It even has a section dedicated to – dum, dum, DUM! – facial expressions. Go figure.

Obviously, there are no easy solutions beyond awareness and getting to know someone. If you’re interviewing someone with limited facial expressions, push past your initial reaction. Recognize that not everyone will be as expressive as others. Listen, instead, to their words. And if you are in a relationship with an autistic, get to know them. You will eventually understand how they share their feelings beyond facial expressions.

As autistic women, communicating is difficult, but we want to socialize and have friends and jobs. We don’t want to hide who we are all the time. For neurotypicals, communicating with an autistic isn’t easy. But communication is a two-way street. You will only discover the benefits of having an autistic coworker or friend if you make an effort.

The natural communication style for autistics tends to take a straightforward approach. We know what we want to say, and we say it. But there’s more to communicating than words for non-autistics. Words are just one piece of the puzzle, and the non-verbal communication accompanying a verbal message can significantly influence how others interpret the message.

Autistics’ limited ability to grasp non-verbal communication skills can cause misunderstandings. We cause conflict and lose friendships and jobs, often not realizing why. There are many types of non-verbal communication, but the three types that have been more problematic for me growing up are paralanguage, facial expressions, and eye contact.

My earliest memories specifically address paralanguage, so I’ll start there. I’ll discuss my experience with facial expressions and eye contact in upcoming posts.

Paralanguage, a new term for me despite a long history of being confused by the concept, is the nonverbal qualities such as the natural rise and fall of the voice and tone when speaking. These things can help convey emotions and nuanced meaning behind our verbal message. However, autistics often don’t hear what our voices are doing. Many of us have a flat or monotone delivery or an unusual vocal pattern, often emphasizing sounds unexpectedly.

How many times did people tell you, “It isn’t what you say but how you say it,” as a child?

My parents often said this – or some variation – in my childhood.

I distinctly remember my mother leaning over and whispering in my ear at my birthday party. As I unwrapped my gifts, I’d thank each gift giver. But she’d say, “You don’t have to like the gift, but you do have to convince them that you like it when you say, ‘thank you.’”

I was confused. I liked my gifts. How was it possible that saying thank you meant that I didn’t? But apparently, my “thank you” wasn’t delivered with enough emotion to show my excitement.

Even in my young adult years, as I entered the workplace, coworkers told me several times that I was being rude. I had no idea why because my intention wasn’t to be rude.

I’ve tried my whole life to figure out this “tone of voice” thing, and while I can somewhat figure out other people’s tone of voice and what they mean, I do not know what my tone of voice is doing at any moment in time.

Autistic Science Person

Like many adult autistic women raised not knowing about our autism, I spent a lot of time studying other girls and women around me. I’d practice their sentences and attempt to sound like them. Society expects women to be friendly and have a pleasant voice. To compensate and avoid misunderstandings, I consciously overdo the emotion in my voice. But it feels weird and unnatural. And cheesy. It’s sooooo awkward to me.

Now, I have a checklist in my head as I open gifts. I tell myself to smile and then say, “I LOVE my GIFT!” And follow it with one reason I love the gift – just to emphasize that I love it. As I hear myself say it, it sounds so cheesy and over-the-top. I worry that over-exaggerating the emotion in my voice can be taken as sarcasm or a backhanded insult.

It takes effort and concentration. And I still don’t always get it right. My voice can rise and fall in unusual ways, emphasizing syllables that can confuse others. Autistics can identify tone in other people’s voices but not in our voices as we are speaking. (Sometimes I have to record meetings at work so I can refer back to information presented during the call. I hate listening to myself in recordings because I can pick up the unusual and over-exaggerated sounds in my voice.)

Although facial expressions don’t come naturally to me, I find they are a little more predictable and use them to help emphasize my verbal message and cover up my paralanguage mistakes. (But that’s an article for another day.)

As an autistic, I specialize in hyper-focusing. Once I’m deep into my project, I cannot quickly switch focus. It takes a good minute to do that. If someone interrupts me while I’m hyper-focused and asks a question and I don’t take to reorient my mind, I’ll respond without effort to exaggerate my tone. It’s direct and flat – and apparently, sounding rude or argumentative.

My tone of voice is the most challenging skill to mask. And, quite possibly, the biggest reason I can’t seem to keep most of my friends.

Looking back on my suddenly lost friendships, I wish they’d asked about my intention. There is nothing wrong with asking for clarity. “Hey. I was a little upset by what you just said. Did you mean it to come across as rudely as it sounded to me?”

If you have a coworker or friend who is autistic, please keep this in mind: we don’t know what our voices are doing or not doing. Please give us the benefit of the doubt and listen to our words. We usually say what we mean.

Seeking to understand goes both ways. Too often, autistics are expected to pick up the total weight of adapting to a non-autistic communication style. But it’s a two-way street. 

When sharing my autism diagnosis, it’s not unusual that I hear a variation of this phrase: “We’re all a little autistic.” (I distinctly remember my boss using this exact phrase.)

Um, no. Of course, not everyone is a little autistic. If everyone is, then there wouldn’t be a need for a diagnosis, would there? Autism would be the norm. But it’s not. It’s called the autistic spectrum disorder (ASD) for a reason – it’s a spectrum of autistic traits collectively representative of autistics, not neurotypicals.

Usually, comments like this are directed toward autistics whose traits present mildly and are highly skilled at masking them. 

But responses such as this only belittle us by dismissing our autistic experiences. Essentially, the person is saying that they don’t believe that our experience is any different than others. 

Some people may have good intentions behind using this response. By declaring that everyone has similar lived experiences, they hope to show an understanding of our struggles. Perhaps it’s an attempt to say, “I know what you are going through. I have social anxiety, too, so I can relate!” 

Whether they don’t believe us or are misguided in their efforts to relate, falsely claiming that everyone is on the spectrum is harmful to autistics. 

The dismissive nature of the response can cause us not to seek out the support we need. Because everyone is “a little autistic,” we experience similar struggles. Since everyone can overcome them without support, we are expected to do the same.

It can also lead us to question our diagnosis – specifically for late-diagnosis autistics. We’ve spent so much of our lives living with imposter syndrome because of the need to mask our traits. Too often, our ability to mask is fused with our true selves. We’ve pretended to be someone else for so long that it becomes difficult to distinguish ourselves from the mask. 

If everyone else is a little like me, then am I really autistic?

We need to remember this: neurotypicals see the mask and not the struggles behind the mask. To the outside world, the authentic autistic is the imposter because that is the side of us they have not seen. While for us, the mask is the imposter and our autistic traits are a part of our authentic selves.  

Yes, a neurotypical can indeed have one or two overlapping symptoms – but that doesn’t mean they are on the autistic spectrum. Anyone can be diagnosed with OCD or social anxiety, or a sensory issue. But these diagnoses are separate from autism. 

As stated by the Center for Disease Control, “To meet diagnostic criteria for ASD according to DSM-5, a child must have persistent deficits in each of three areas of social communication and interaction…plus at least two of four types of restricted, repetitive behaviors…” 

To be diagnosed with autism, you must exhibit a collection of autistic traits. Although each autistic has a different autistic trait profile (because, you know, it’s a spectrum), we still need to exhibit a collection of traits within the categories identified in the DSM to be diagnosed with ASD. 

So, let’s take a look at social anxiety. You can be autistic and have social anxiety…or just have social anxiety. 

The autistic trait is the limited ability to pick up on non-verbal social cues like tone, body language, and facial expressions. This can cause an autistic person to have social anxiety. A neurotypical person can have social anxiety but not be autistic. The trigger for neurotypical social anxiety is usually the fear of being judged. 

Healthline states that “while some symptoms between [ASD] and social anxiety, like social behaviors, may overlap, [Rochelle] Whittaker [Ph.D.] emphasizes that the causes of the symptoms are not the same.”

So, why do neurotypicals believe everyone is on the spectrum somewhere? 

They may not see the level of nuance in the distinction between autism and other overlapping symptoms. Quite simply, it comes down to a limited understanding of autism. 

To be honest, I’m not sure they intend to be insulting. As I stated before, they are expressing, albeit poorly, the discrepancy between what they see (the masking) and the autistic traits. Or it’s their attempt to make us feel connected: others can relate to our struggles. 

Either way, don’t allow someone else’s disbelief to make you feel like an imposter. You are the only person that knows where you end, and the mask begins. Only you know your lived experiences. 

If you can, take this opportunity to educate them on autism. Explain why they didn’t “notice” your traits and why everyone isn’t somewhere on the spectrum. Hopefully, they are open to learning more. 

Ultimately, every person’s lived experience is different from our own. We need to be open to giving space for each person to represent themselves authentically and not dismiss their experiences in disbelief or in a misguided attempt to relate. It isn’t limited to interacting with autistics; it’s for anyone with an unseen disability or condition. Many conditions and disabilities can not be seen. But we need to listen to and believe the person living with it.

My mom often related my childhood reading habits to devouring food. From my mother’s perspective, I was speeding through books as though my eyes were a machine with a conveyer belt tongue feeding me one after another. Convinced I wasn’t actually reading them, she required me to write book reports to prove I retained the information.

I never liked my reading habits described as devouring. Devouring gives the illusion that the information, stories, and characters only passed through me like a meal. But books never passed through me. The relationships I built with the characters were as real to me as the girl next door.

What she didn’t understand – and how could she since I wasn’t diagnosed with autism until adulthood – is that books were not fun stories to entertain me. Books were my friends. Within the pages of my books, I understood the art of communicating without a mask or filter. I created a friendship with the main character. Every word they said was shared with me; every thought was shared with me. And their circle of friends? Mine, too.

As a mother of an autistic girl was quoted in Sarah Hendrickx’s book, Women and Girls with Autism Spectrum Disorder, “She loves books and plays with them as well as reading them – almost like they have their own personalities.”

Books have a life of their own.

Standing stiff in a perfect salute along my bookshelf, the spines of my books offered a doorway into communication and friendship I couldn’t find in the real world.

As an autistic child, I fell behind in understanding the subtle art of non-verbal communication. I’d misread facial expressions; most jokes fell flat at my feet. I’d force laughs when others would laugh. Hide behind a chameleon’s mask, copying the facial expressions of others in the group. Quite simply, stepping into the friendships within the pages allowed me to go in bare naked – no mask, just myself. My whole self was fully exposed but entirely accepted.

In books, motivations and intentions are laid out in black and white. There is no need to read facial expressions; the book tells me what each character is doing.

A pattern of social predictability emerges in every book. Friendships break, but I know they will reconcile in the end. Characters’ personalities are less fluid and complex than in the real world. Behind each action is an intent – a purpose. Every character’s actions fall into a box based on their personality. There is a truth and comfort to this predictability.

In my pre-teen years, when social skills suddenly took a more significant role in defining social cliques, The Babysitters Club was my jam. Through my books, I could safely observe the social dynamics of teenage girls and, in a way, be a part of them.

Mary Anne, Dawn, Kristy, Claudia, Stacey, and Mallory were my closest friends for a few years.

I even attempted to recreate the relationships in the real world. I started my own babysitters’ club and convinced a few girls to join and take up the roles of each girl based on similar personalities. We never picked up babysitting gigs, but we did hold meetings.

I took up the role of Mary Anne.

Looking back, I remember the desperation and panic when the other girls broke out of character. In character, in my mind, the dynamics were predictable. I was accepted because Mary Anne was accepted. But out of character, the real world set in. I would, again, be the outcast: rarely invited over, often left out of conversations and made fun of. It was the ultimate masking attempt I’ve ever tried. And it failed.

Within two months, the real world set in. The play-acting was no longer novel to the other girls. They moved on to the next thing, and I was left behind. Allowed to tag along at school but rarely invited for sleepovers or to ‘hang out.’

Books, unlike people, have always been there for me. Accepting. Understanding. Thrilled to invite me in.

They also teach me about relationships. As Sarah Hendrickx puts it, “Not only does reading offer a solo escape from a chaotic world, it also provides knowledge and data that may help that [autistic] girl to manage that world once she has to return to it.”

For the past week, I’ve had morning coffee with Matt Haig. I intently listened as he shared his Notes on a Nervous Planet. Brené Brown and I are tight. She drops by in the evenings to share her latest success in researching shame.

I was there the day Scout beat up Cecil, and she taught me a few things about not accepting an unjust world. I imagine her when I’m looking for the courage to be myself. Bilbo helps me face my fear of the unknown; Mary Oliver allows me to tag along on her walks through the field next to her home.

These are the most honest and deep friendships I have. They show up when I need them to. They never have an excuse not to meet up with me.

I’m always welcome and there is always an open invitation.

Along with my autism diagnosis, I received another diagnosis: depression. 

I don’t remember when I started my personal battle with depression. It always seemed to be there – like those memory balls on Inside Out tinged with the color of emotion. Most of my memories are tinged with blue. 

It was a constant companion. 

Since my mother was abusive, therapy in childhood was never an option. As an adult, I entered therapy on and off again – when I had the money and time. It didn’t matter when I went or who I saw; their answers were the same: take an antidepressant. 

But medication didn’t work for me – it made my depression worse. 

It wasn’t until my autism diagnosis at the age of 39 that I discovered the truth about my depression. The antidepressants didn’t work because the depression was related to how I interacted with the neurotypical world. 

Here are some statistics from the Autistica site to consider: 

1. More than 5 in 10 autistic adults have had depression.
2. Autistic adults (without an intellectual disability) are over nine times more likely to consider suicide than the general population.

For many autistics, depression can stem from our interaction with a society that doesn’t accept us for who we are and requires us to hide our autistic traits. 

Masking

Masking is what autistics do to hide or suppress our autistic traits and, speaking for myself, is the most significant contributing factor to depression. Although masking occurs in both women and men, it is found more often in women, which may explain why girls are undiagnosed. Hiding our autistic traits makes it more difficult to diagnose us. 

Girls and women feel pressured to be more social and often mimic other girls or women. Speech patterns, tone, inflection, body language, special interests, etc., can be masked to a certain extent.  

You probably wonder what this has to do with our depression discussion. Well, several things.

Let’s start here: 

1. Masking is an exhausting process. 

I’ll start with a conversation between two people: one neurotypical and one autistic. For neurotypical people, much of their unspoken social cues are automatic. But for the autistic person, most of the conversation is a conscious effort. 

As described by Healthline, “Masking consumes huge amounts of energy. In a 2016 study, Trusted Source, women who used masking to satisfy neurotypical standards said they felt exhausted by the constant effort.”

The neurotypical can focus on the conversation and give little attention to everything else. Not only does the autistic person try to participate in the conversation, but they must also actively regulate their facial expressions and body language while also monitoring the flow of the conversation and the topic covered. 

While attempting to focus on what is said, we are also processing this in our heads: 

• What are my arms doing? Are they crossed? 
• Am I looking at the person? 
• Is that a pause for my turn to talk? 
• Was that a joke? 
• She made a weird face. Is my tone off? 
• Perhaps I should nod my head, so she knows I’m listening. 
• And much, much more. 

This extreme exercise in mental processing and multitasking is exhausting. 

The overwhelming burden of masking while socializing can often lead autistics to take breaks from socializing or avoid it altogether. This can increase our isolation and decrease our ability to make friends, both of which influence our levels of depression. 

2. Masking means we are living a lie and not being our authentic selves. 

Growing up without an autism diagnosis made me feel like I was leading a double life. And many autistics – especially the late-diagnosed women – feel this way. 

To be socially accepted, we must pretend to be someone we are not, but the mask we put on is at odds with our authentic selves. 

The more pressure we feel to mask our authentic selves, the less we know about ourselves. 

When I received my diagnosis, I felt like I had to look in the mirror and introduce myself…to myself. I didn’t know who I was and finally understood why. But, more importantly, how could I expect others to accept me for who I am if I don’t know who I am? 

When you feel that you must constantly hide who you are from the world to be accepted, your mental health will suffer. We need deep connections with friends and family to feel like we belong. 

Communication Misinterpretation

Our communication style is quite different from neurotypicals. We are more direct, blunt, honest, and don’t pick up on the smaller unspoken social cues like tone, body language, and facial expressions. It’s not uncommon for an autistic’s body language or facial expression to be mismatched with our emotional state or the tone of our voice. 

Think about it: If you can’t effectively decipher social cues, you can’t effectively use them. Mimicking others can only go so far.  

This apparent mismatch can cause neurotypicals to misinterpret what we are saying. 

For a quick example, let’s look at the response to unwrapping a gift. I can be thrilled about my gift, but my neutral face and flatly delivered “thank you” will undoubtedly, be misinterpreted as not happy with the gift. My parents accused me of not showing enough excitement and appreciation for gifts as a child. “You’re being rude,” was often said to me by my mother. 

Now, when I receive a gift, I consciously make an effort to express my gratitude outwardly. But this is hard. Am I overdoing it? Do they understand how excited I am? Do I come across as fake in my enthusiasm? 

Even when masking, our autistic traits can sometimes leak through. And in a highly standardized world, our differences make us stand out from the norm. We all know what happens if you aren’t ‘normal’ enough. 

Being different or ‘weird’ makes you a target for bullying and gossip.  

Because our brains don’t work ‘normally,’ we can often be told that our actions, words, and thoughts are wrong. 

Believing everything you do and say will be wrong can cause you to hold back and not participate in life and significantly affect your self-confidence. 

Autistics struggle to balance masking for acceptance and maintaining our authentic selves. We need access to appropriate mental health services to help us through these issues and depression.  

More than anything, we need affordable access to therapists specializing in autism. Therapists with the expertise to support adult women are hard to come by (there are only three in my city) and very expensive. 

More than anything, we need affordable access to therapists specializing in autism. It’s not uncommon for autistic adults – especially women – to be misdiagnosed with depression, and the source or reason for that depression is completely missed, overlooked, or ignored. Medications may help some, but we also need support in addressing the underlying causes of depression and anxiety related to our inactions in society.

As an autistic person, I hate the question, “How are you doing?”

When I say that I hate the question, think Grinch-loathes-Whoville-and-Christmas level hate.

Seriously, it’s a horrible question. Why haven’t neurotypicals figured this out yet?

As most autistics do, I learned about the insanity of this question the hard way. People may ask this question, but they don’t want to hear the answer.

No matter how you actually feel, neurotypicals expect to hear, “I’m fine. And you?” in response. This doesn’t come naturally to autistics, and it isn’t a habit to learn quickly.

An exhaustive thought process occurs from hearing the question to verbalizing the response.

Want to know what it’s like? Peek into my head. Come on; I won’t bite. Get in here:

A co-worker walks by and says, “Hey, Sarah. How are you?”

My thought process:

Ugh. THAT question. I don’t know. How am I? I’m hungry, but he doesn’t need to know that. I’m depressed because I hate my job. If I say that, does it make me a Debbie-downer? Maybe I should avoid that subject since he is a co-worker. But perhaps he feels the same way, and it would be nice to know someone else hates this place, too. How well do I know him? I think he has kids. Should I tell him that I was excited about my son’s promotion in swim class last night? Does he want to hear about my son? Probably not…What part of my life is he asking about???

Oh, yeah. He probably doesn’t want an answer. Why do people even ask this question if they don’t want the answer? What’s up with not telling the truth? They ask me how I feel but don’t want the answer. They want everything to be fine – let’s lie to the world and say everything is fine. Why ask the question if you don’t want the truth? Geez. 

Okay, slow down. Sllllloooooowwwww down brain!

Just tell him you’re fine – isn’t that what people expect. Quickly. Before too much time has passed. He’ll think I’m ignoring him. 

“I’m fine.”

There. I said it. Wait. He’s just staring at me. Shit. I forgot something. He’s looking at me weirdly. What did I forget? Oh, yeah…

“And you?”

Okay, he’s fine as usual. But wait, he can’t be fine. His face is red, and he’s gripping his pencil so hard his knuckles are white. Dude, you aren’t ‘fine.’ Why would you lie about that? I know you are lying to me. 

Is it his mom? She was in the hospital for a while. Maybe his wife? Is he sick? Did his boss chew him out? Is he mad at me? Was my tone off? Did I come across as rude? Too abrupt? Am I smiling to let him know I’m not annoyed at his question? What else am I forgetting here?

Seriously, WHY IS YOUR FACE SO RED????

Shoot. Did he just ask me another question? I missed it…

So, why is this a big deal to autistics?

• Cognitive Empathy 

According to Sara Hodges and M.W. Myers, cognitive empathy is “having more complete and accurate knowledge about the contents of another person’s mind, including how the person feels.”

Unfortunately, mindreading isn’t in the autistic skillset. Neurotypicals can weigh the type of relationship they have with someone to predict what’s in their head.

But for me, the expectation of invoking cognitive empathy adds another round of wheel whirling in my head. There are too many variables to consider.

If I’m too tired to go through this thought process, I’ll start answering. I’ll pour out the details or stumble my way through as I attempt to shorten the response. All this takes energy to reign in the details because the question isn’t specific enough. How am I? There are so many paths to go down for this, and I have no idea which one to take.

• Literal Interpretation of Language

I remember the first time I heard the phrase: it’s raining cats and dogs. My mother was standing at the front window with the curtains open. I ran to the window to look because, you know, cats and dogs are falling from the sky, right? Gotta see that!

To my disappointment, there were no cats and dogs – just rain. That was my first lesson in idioms.

To this day, I go through a translation process in my head when I hear that phrase and many others. Same with the greeting, “How are you?”

Autistics take language at face value. What you say is what we expect you to mean. If you ask, “How are you doing?” then answering the question honestly should be the expectation. It feels fake otherwise.

If you don’t care to hear the answer, then a simple “Hello,” is greeting enough.

The point of sharing this is: If one greeting can cause this much anxiety to an autistic, can you imagine the anxiety and exhaustion of an entire conversation? We’re expected to communicate by neurotypical rules. It’s complicated, exhausting, and confusing.

For many neurotypicals, all of these “unspoken” rules come naturally. Neurotypicals can read an interaction and relationship enough to respond to this seemingly simple question.

But for autistics, it isn’t apparent. How do I know if someone is willing to hear the honest answer? When is the “I’m fine” response expected?

I just want people to mean what they say….or ask in this instance. Is that too much to ask?

We all know that interrupting someone is rude. Our parents taught us that. Our teachers taught us that.

It’s frustrating to be engrossed in a task or conversation and be interrupted. Just about anyone, neurotypical or neurodivergent, is irritated on some level.

I envy the person that can pick up a conversation with, “Now where was I? Oh, yeah! So, as I was saying…” I’ve never been that person. The person that can take a few moments to remember and pick it up the conversation again. Me? If I’m interrupted, I need to start the thought process over from the beginning.   

For autistic people, interruptions are on another level. Forget irritated – try emotionally shattering. I’m so involved mentally in the task that when someone interrupts me, I’m ripped out of my body. I’m thrown off and expected to pay attention to the interrupter. But my attention doesn’t want to let go of the original task. It’s mentally and emotionally jarring.

Masking is virtually impossible at this moment. Attempting to stop the look of frustration and avoid a terse response is hit or miss.

The response to being interrupted during a task at work is amplified. The interruptions aren’t a sometimes thing, they are excessive. It’s exhausting to shift focus to the interrupter then shift back to the task at hand. It’s like spending all my time sorting coins only to have someone come along and throw them all around the room. I can’t jump into the task where I left off, I need to start at the beginning to reorganize the information in my head and follow the thought process all over again.

On top of frequent socializing, task interruption is probably one of the main causes of exhaustion for me. At the end of the day, I’m frustrated and on edge. I can’t focus on anything. And I take all that home. Sustaining this work method just throws me into meltdowns and burnouts.

Notifications for chats, phone calls, email dings, meetings, and people randomly stopping by my cubicle. For much of the pandemic, I’ve worked remotely – desk drops are replaced with Teams chat notifications or unexpected calls.

Even though meetings are scheduled, they too interrupt my work. I don’t have the time to focus deeply on a project before shifting over to another meeting. When autistic people focus, we can lose all track of time and miss a lot of our own body signals until the last minute. When I’m focused, I don’t know when I need to go to the bathroom until it becomes an urgent feeling. Even though I know a meeting is coming up, I’m so focused and lose track of that time that the notification reminding me of the meeting is a frustrating interruption.

Lately, I started exploring a few options to reduce the interruptions. Blocking large chunks of time on my calendar, turning off notifications, and silencing my phone help a little. But they don’t stop the persistent co-worker or boss in an environment where every employee is expected to jump at any moment’s notice. I live in fear of being fired because I set up boundaries that others don’t.

If we really want to create inclusive work environments for autistic people, the entire way companies work will need to change. That’s what companies don’t understand.

It isn’t a few accommodations for the autistic person – it’s how everyone in the office works. Although interruptions effect autistics at a much greater intensity level, they do negatively affect the overall productivity of everyone at the office.

According to University of California Berkley, “The length of our recovery time depends on the complexity of our task; ranging anywhere from 8 minutes for simpler tasks to 25 minutes for more complex ones,” and, “Frequent interruptions can also lead to higher rates of exhaustion, stress-induced ailments, and a doubling of error rates.” 

Avoiding interruptions isn’t just good for autistics, its good for the entire workforce. If only we could rely less on accommodations (which many companies do not approve or support anyways) and more companies overhauling the way they work.

When the entire company culture is aligned on reducing task interruptions and maximizing productivity, autistic employees – and employees with other neurodiverse conditions – benefit as well.

If only, right?

Is LinkedIn promoting its polling feature? I must have missed the memo. All I see as I scroll through LinkedIn these days are polls. Polls about leadership and jobs and benefits. Polls about inclusion and interviews and, well, it turns out you can make a poll about any topic. Just scroll through your LinkedIn feed; it’s all there. 

Sometimes I play along to see how everyone else voted (you only see the updated results if you vote or wait until the vote closes but I’m too impatient). But every so often, a poll comes along that fires a few synapses in the old grey squish ball. 

Earlier today, I scrolled through a poll asking about language preference, specifically autistic self-identification. 

It comes down to “an autistic person” or “a person with autism.” 

If you know anything about autism awareness, there is a lot of discussion around this topic and some heated debates.

Strange that there is so much chatter out there about language choice. But believe it or not, your language choice influences how you think. (Lera Boroditsky gave a powerful Ted Talk about the influence of language choice on this subject.) So, how we choose to be identified reflects how we think of ourselves and the role autism plays in our identity.

In the end, it’s personal preference; each autistic person (or person with autism) has reasons for their choice in language. My own choice is identity first: autistic person. 

The poll I mentioned above led me to think of an experience with a coworker who asked me this same question. Wanting to avoid insulting autistic coworkers, she asked me what language was appropriate. 

Of course, I said, each person is different. I prefer “autistic person,” but not everyone does. 

Every autistic person is passionate about their language choice. 

But, looking back at the experience, it never occurred to me the importance of explaining why that is. 

Why did I choose to identify myself as autistic first? Why is language so important when discussing autistic identity?

Autistic awareness is essential, but that isn’t my goal. My goal is to help people understand autism. If I can’t articulate my reasons, I lose authority when explaining autism to others. While it would be nice to write off our choices as – it was MY choice; therefore, you must respect it – that isn’t how others learn from us. Respect branches from understanding. 

Many neurotypicals don’t understand why autistic people are so passionate about the language around autism. The most important takeaway from this for neurotypicals is understanding why language preference in autistic identification is so important and being respectful of our individual choices. No, we don’t expect neurotypicals to read our minds and know every individual’s language preference. But once our choice is shared, it should be respected.

After gnawing on my thoughts for a bit, I am ready to articulate my “why” in choosing identity first language.  

I recognize the weight of our society’s impact on me because of my autism. Being autistic becomes an obstacle in the world at large. Our systems and social experiences are defined by neurotypical standards and not aligned – nor accepting – of my autism. I’m expected to adapt to neurotypical standards instead of being myself.

When I step outside my door, my autism, whether or not I want it, defines me.  

Friendships fall away because I say or do “weird” things or need breaks between social events. 

For those who don’t know I’m autistic, I’m “a little off” in their eyes.

Stores, my office, and other public places are sensory bombs. The sights and sounds and buzz of voices and noises are overwhelming. 

My job operates counter to my brain. 

Because society is not inclusive of autistics, my autism does define my place in it. 

And that is why I choose to be called an autistic person. 

That said, I would like that to change. With education, understanding, and acceptance in our society, perhaps it will. 

One day, I’d like to identify myself as a person with autism. But to do that, society will need to not only accept me but INCLUDE me as I am. When society no longer forces my autism to define me, I can identify myself as a person with autism. 

Until then, I prefer “autistic person.” For me, it accurately represents me.

I’d love to hear from others on their language preference and why. Feel free to leave a note in the comments. There is no right or wrong choice.

Just like most things in our society, we’ve structured the employment process around neurotypical social skills. Unfortunately, autistic social skills do not align with these expectations. It’s disheartening to read in Forbes that “a staggering 50-75% of the 5.6 million autistic adults in the U.S. are unemployed or underemployed.” 

As an autistic, I know how difficult it is to get–and keep–a job. We are expected to transport ourselves to a neurotypical world 8 or more hours every day. So much of the employee experience operates against brains on the autistic spectrum. This includes the social skills needed to maintain long-term relationships.  

Most workplaces are ripe with social nuances. Learning and participating in them can improve career success. But operating in an environment that runs counter to our innate social skills inhibits our ability to succeed in the workplace. 

Companies are not prepared to shift the current formula for success to include autistic employees. It would require an overhaul of the entire hiring and promotion process.  

Autistic employees don’t “fit in.” 

As the saying goes, it isn’t what you know, but who you know. Networking begins the day you start your new job, and the first step in this process is to build relationships with the coworkers you see every day.

Inter-office relationships are challenging to build. Think about it. Our coworkers must interact with us every day, even if we aren’t, shall we say, their cup of tea.  

As Marcia Scheiner said in her book An Employer’s Guide to Managing Professionals on the Autism Spectrum, “Although autism is considered a ‘hidden disability,’ the observable behavior of colleagues with autism is often described as annoying, odd, rude, and uncaring. While many people on the spectrum may want to socialize with others, their social-skill deficits can make these interactions awkward.” 

Basically, our coworkers don’t see why autistic employees socialize the way we do. Instead, they experience autistic traits that are difficult to hide, and misinterpret them. To them, autistic coworkers are awkward. In response, they may limit their social interaction with their ‘awkward’ coworkers. They will avoid inviting them to lunch or stopping by their cubicle for a quick chat.

Sometimes, autistic employees will be the subject of water-cooler gossip and inter-office bullying. Autistic employees may see the restricted interactions by others. And, recognizing that they are not included in the inter-office relationships building up around them, can cause autistic employees to further withdrawal from office interactions.  

That autistic employees don’t “fit in” according to neurotypical social expectations. In the workplace, this can hinder our ability to keep jobs and promote. 

Autistic individuals’ strong sense of fairness works against the social expectations of the workplace.

Probably the first thing young adults learn when entering the workforce is that hard work isn’t enough to push them through the ranks. Mastering inter-office politics is a skill needed to succeed. 

Unfortunately for autistic employees, it isn’t that simple. 

We can’t wrap our heads around the unfair concept of hiring and promoting based on favorability instead of job skills. Favoritism is “when a person (usually a manager) demonstrates preferential treatment to one person over all of the other employees for reasons unrelated to performance,” as defined by Susan Lucas.

Being the boss’s favorite usually means better annual reviews and raises, the first choice of projects, and improved chances for promotion, even if the favored employee’s work is mediocre. This does not sit well with autistic employees.

We can’t see the purpose of the favorability over work quality and skill.

Office politics is a challenging concept to grasp. In addition to favoritism, employees need to learn to read social situations – not a natural skill for autistics. When should an employee be honest with my boss and when should I tell the boss what they want to hear instead? What does the boss want to hear instead of the truth? Why can’t I be honest?

“Office politics and ‘sucking up’ to the boss are not in (an autistic woman’s) social toolbox and this can cause others to dislike her socially, despite being skilled at her job.” – Sarah Hendrickx, Women and Girls with Autism Spectrum Disorder

Between our social skills and inability to navigate office politics, we are not held favorably in the eyes of bosses. Unfortunately, some bosses will do more for the “socially favorable” and find reasons to drop the “socially unfavorable.”

Autistic employees can do a few things to help maximize their success in the workplace.

Office politics won’t go away. Depending upon the job, some inter-office politics and social skills will always be required to maintain employment and promote. But there are things autistic employees can do to support themselves.

1.      Choosing careers that align with our strengths and preferred working environments.

Choosing a career that doesn’t heavily rely on social skills and aligns with our strengths can improve our chances for success. Also, understanding the type of working environment can maximize our resiliency.

“The main problem for most of us (autistics) is that we have a hard time holding onto jobs for social reasons. I cannot stress enough how important it is to work with your strengths and acknowledge your triggers – things that push your autistic buttons – so that you choose the right career path.” – Rudy Simone, Aspergirls

An office environment may not be the best place for some autistic people. Fluorescent lights, cold temperatures, white-noise machines, and impromptu hallway meetings can grind on our senses. Working from home may be more appropriate for some.

I know an autistic person that loves food and can hyper focus on cooking. He is now a chef. The hustle and bustle of a commercial kitchen gives him the excuse to avoid most socializing. Hyper focusing on the plate in front of him propels him forward.

We can increase our chances of success by pursuing opportunities that align closely with our needs and strengths.

2.      Become a Subject Matter Expert (SME).

Generally, autistic individuals can focus intensely on a subject; often researching it until fully knowledgeable. We love details. Understanding the details gives us some level of control and order in the subject. Typically, self-learning is an autistic strength.

These skills can help us become SMEs. Thus, becoming a source of valuable information for coworkers. 

Professional conversations are a great opportunity to know someone. As subject matter experts, we can share valuable knowledge with coworkers and build a rapport through these interactions.

Autistics find small talk challenging but can talk endlessly about areas of interest. These types of interactions involve less pressure to socialize casually. The focus is on the professional subject matter, not the weather or what-was-Pam-thinking-wearing-that-outfit-to-work gossip. 

Building a reputation as a “go-to” person across departments can help boost your career internally. Leaders talk. Make sure they are talking about your skills and expertise. 

3.     Find a mentor.

There are many benefits for anyone–autistic or not–to having a professional mentor. A mentor can shorten the learning curve, help mentees navigate the office environment, and improve their professional network. 

Many companies offer mentorship programs. Autistic employees can benefit from the professional support an inter-company mentor can offer. The one-on-one support for autistic employees can be invaluable.

We all have the right to pursue career ambitions and earn a living. Unfortunately, the workplace wasn’t built with an autistic or neurodiverse brain in mind. It doesn’t mean that autistics can’t be successful in the workplace. Being more purposeful and self-aware can help us align our career goals and working environment to our strengths.