Behind the Mask

My secret identity…

In my first post I said that I didn’t know who the “real” me was. I still don’t.

Autistic people often feel the need to hide their autistic traits and have developed skills which mimic normal behaviours. It’s our ‘game face’ and it may mean that people with ASD appear to be much more socially confident or adept than we really are.

I learned to hide my traits at school. I’ve become very good at it.

Masking, or camouflaging, is a social survival strategy. People may mask for a variety of reasons, such as feeling safe and avoiding stigma, avoiding mistreatment or bullying, succeeding at work, making friends and other social connections, fitting in or feeling a sense of belonging. Many of us appear ‘normal’ to protect ourselves when we’re around people we don’t know well. We know that we are vulnerable and so defences need establishing.

I have spent 50 years watching people around me, seeing how they react, what gestures they use. When in company I will, unwittingly, imitate these expressions and gestures or prepare what I am going to say, as though learning a script. No matter how hard I try though, I will never feel and think like a neurotypical person.

I don’t know how not to mask

I have, for most of my life, hidden my personal feelings and interests, including from myself and my loved ones. I will be jolly, joke around, laugh and hope that I appear to be just like everyone else. Whilst masking makes me feel like I fit in with neurotypical people, it comes with a cost which affects both my physical and mental health.

I described earlier the need to have a short sleep after a day in the office and before lockdown I would do this every evening. This is an example of autistic fatigue. It’s hard to explain how exhausting masking can be except for me to say that I am more tired after a day in the office than I am after a 15-mile hike, and the hike is only physically tiring.

Meltdowns occur from a desire not being met or even inability to adapt to a change in environment. They are, to a certain extent, like the fight or flight aspect of a common panic attacks, however, once a certain point is reached in my meltdown, the ‘fight’ in me has evaporated and nothing will be able to satisfy my needs until the situation is over. Consequently, my standard response is to flee the trauma. I leave the venue I’m in when the meltdown starts, because I know I no longer have the capacity in that moment to continue to pass as neurotypical. I know that I would simply shutdown completely and I really don’t want people around me when that happens. Being embarrassed and drawing attention to myself are the very things my mask is meant to prevent.

Burnout, on the other hand, is more like a nervous breakdown. Looking back, I can identify occasions when the constant pressures of everyday life, having to navigate social situations and sensory overload, became so completely overwhelming — as a pre-teen, in my late teens, mid-twenties and twice in my forties — that my life was put on hold.

Like many aspects of autism, burnout varies greatly from person to person. Previously I experienced long-term physical exhaustion along the lines of chronic fatigue syndrome where just getting up and dressed was an ordeal. I had difficulty managing my emotions and had a feeling of profound sadness, in effect I had depression and suicidal ideation. The lowest points in my life.

With my ASD diagnosis, I’m now able to shed new light on my past, my masking and this has given me the permission to try and just be me. To stop trying to meet an achievable standard of ‘normalcy’.

I am now, with the support of my partner, trying be true to myself.

“I feel trapped. I have a weird tension in my head or my arms I want to get out. Everything around me suddenly feels extremely real like I’ve just come out of the water, I feel all sorts of emotions all at once and I want to run away from them all.” — Chi

“At school I feel like a crumpled piece of paper. When I get home, I can unfold myself but the marks are still there from when I was crumped. Like scars.” — Libby, aged 10

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