I have a collage of Morgan Harper Nichols affirmation cards on the wall opposite my bed.
Since I stopped drinking, my Friday night ritual consists of buying a dopamine-boosting houseplant, laying my painfully overstimulated self down in bed, demanding silence, lighting a candle, breathing deeply, and staring at Morgan’s words until my nervous system settles naturally.
One of the most difficult and confusing parts of life as a sober autistic person is navigating the workplace. I work in a loud, crowded, fluorescently lit warehouse, all of which are sensory triggers for neurodivergent brains. Not only do I experience crippling headaches, my body also hurts after a couple of days in this environment.
Additionally, picking up on social cues doesn’t come naturally for folks on the spectrum. My brain is way too literal to comprehend simple jokes. I don’t understand the yelling or violent language used by those in positions of power. I don’t understand the normalized shit-talking behind people’s backs. Why do people do this? Is it a projection of their insecurities? Do they find peace or a sense of superiority in bonding over the shortcomings of others? Whatever it is, it makes me uncomfortable.
Masking, another symptom of autism, became my go-to coping mechanism at a young age. I believed nobody could speak poorly of me if I hid my real self away. Appearing perfectly put together felt like the only approval pathway. As a result, I find myself, at thirty-six years old, so consumed with being a hard worker that it makes me physically ill. I overcompensate for my social awkwardness (aka autism) with performative antics. It feels impossible to show up without masking because society taught me that quirky outspoken autistic queer women are direct targets of bullying.
Last Friday, on my way home from work, I caught myself in a spiral of self-berating thoughts. Sometimes, it feels like I am the only one who experiences debilitating overstimulation. I don’t understand how people go out and do things after work. What is wrong with me? Why can’t I just be “normal?” Will I be like this forever? What is the origin of this inferiority story?
After spending some time in silence staring at my Morgan Harper Nichols wall, I remembered that being a person in recovery from an eating disorder, alcohol addiction, and internalized homophobia + misogyny means I face triggers on a daily, sometimes hourly, basis. It’s no secret that thinness, clean eating, excessive exercise, alcohol use, gossiping, toxic masculinity, and compulsive heterosexuality are all praised in the workplace. Constantly and silently fighting against those harmful norms is hard work. My end-of-week fatigue is expected.
The story in my head that says it’s unsafe to unmask originated in middle school when I learned that being attractive to men was more important than being myself. It started in church, where I learned that women must be submissive and pure. It started at backyard gatherings, where my mentally challenged cousins were the butt end of jokes. It started with an engrained conservative notion that my only outwardly queer cousin was a bit off.
Learning to unmask is the hardest part of my journey at the moment. Unmasking means going against the grain. It means that certain people won’t like me because my quiet “weirdness” brings out their insecurities. It means leaving my people-pleasing tendencies at the door. It means wearing bright colors and loud patterns when muted wardrobes are the norm. It means being real, even if I don’t appeal to men. It means staying in my lane and not engaging. I keep my side of the street clean. You wouldn’t know what I mean.
On the flip side, unmasking also means I will effortlessly attract the people who matter. Unmasking will allow me to build a community of people that celebrate the real me.
I was drawn to Morgan's words long before I knew she was autistic. Something inside me intuitively knew that she was speaking my language. The best quotes from my wall collage are:
“Day after day your strength shows up in miraculous ways.”
“She is making the mindful decision to be kind to herself today.”
“You belong in this world just as much as anyone else. No matter how others see you, or how you see yourself.”
“Keep creating in the waiting.”
“I hope you know that even here, you are loved.”
“You are not alone in this.”
“There is no shame in being proud of the smallest amount of progress.”
For many years, alcohol and bulimia were my go-to nervous system soothers after a long day or week of overstimulation at work.
Now, I stop at the grocery store on Friday night for a dopamine-boosting houseplant instead of booze.
Now, I allow my nervous system to settle naturally by lying down, lighting a candle, breathing deeply, and relishing in silence.
Now, I have Morgan’s words to get me by.
Progress.