Let’s get honest—really honest. The kind of honest where it’s raw, gritty, sometimes funny (because if I don’t laugh, I’ll probably cry), and way too real for a pamphlet. This is my neurodivergent reality. It’s messy. It’s misunderstood. And it’s mine.
This post actually came out of some homework my therapist gave me. I was asked to write out everything I experience related to ADHD, Possible Autism, chronic illness, and sensory processing. What you’re reading here is the condensed version (yes, really). I figured since I’d already done the work, I might as well open up and share some of it with you.
Because let’s be honest—sometimes it just helps to know someone else gets it. In doing this work, it felt like an intense shadow session I’d been avoiding for a long time. I thought I had a grip on my feelings, but as I started to write, I found layers of emotions that were tangled up like a messy ball of yarn. Each thread representing different experiences: the frustration of not being understood, the exhaustion from constantly trying to fit into a box that feels too tight, and the relief of realizing that my quirks and struggles are valid.
As I poured out my thoughts onto the page, the act itself was both cathartic and overwhelming. At times, I felt like I was peeling back the layers of a very complex onion. I encountered memories filled with sensory overload, moments of social anxiety, and times I felt like a misfit trying desperately to blend in. But with every word, I began to understand myself better.
It was like clearing mental clutter I didn’t realize I was carrying. I rediscovered parts of myself that had been sidelined by societal norms or my own self-doubt. By sharing this, I don’t seek pity; rather, I want to foster community and understanding. We need spaces where we can be unfiltered and raw, where our experiences aren’t just accepted but embraced.
So here I am, sharing this condensed version of my journey. I hope it resonates with you, or someone else who might be navigating similar paths or someone who simply wants to understand. Let’s keep the conversation going, because we all have stories worth telling, and knowing we’re not alone can be incredibly empowering.
Oversharing Is My Love Language
I was told most of my life: “Don’t tell everything you know.” But see, I don’t have a gauge for that. I don’t know when I’ve said too much until it’s been said, processed, and repeated three times, often in the quiet moments when I’m lying awake at 2AM, analyzing every word and every reaction. Oversharing? It’s a compulsion, a restless urge that bubbles to the surface, often before I even realize what I’m doing. It’s me trying to connect, to reach out and bridge the distance that sometimes feels insurmountable. It’s a vulnerable act, exposing parts of myself that I think others may find relatable or comforting. Yet, it’s also me trying to be understood in a world that rarely pauses long enough to listen, where everyone seems preoccupied with their own narratives. In this relentless rush, I often wonder if these fragments of my thoughts and feelings resonate with anyone else, or if they simply vanish into the void of unreciprocated conversation, leaving me feeling more isolated than before.
The ADHD/Autism Cocktail
I’m a walking Venn diagram of ADHD, Autism, chronic illness, and trauma responses. I have executive dysfunction that makes basic tasks feel like quantum physics, transforming even the simplest actions into monumental challenges. Routines are holy; they provide a much-needed structure in a world that often feels chaotic. Surprises, however, are a full-blown emergency, sending my mind spiraling into panic as I struggle to adapt to the unexpected.
I start tasks, full of enthusiasm and intention, but often find myself stopping halfway. The allure of new ideas or distractions pulls me away, only for me to come back later—or sometimes not at all. I hyperfixate on projects with the passion of a caffeinated super toddler, diving deep into creativity and innovation, only to drop them like they insulted my grandmother once the initial excitement fades. This cycle can be frustrating, not just for me but for those around me who may not understand the ebb and flow of my focus.
I need constant praise, reassurance, and sometimes a buddy just to sit with me so I can function—thank you, body doubling. This practice of having someone nearby helps ground me, assisting in the monumental task of merely existing in a space that often feels overwhelming.
When it comes to communication, literal thinking is my default mode. I appreciate sarcasm when it’s present but need clarity in instructions. Please give me exact directions, in writing, presented in three different ways if possible. This tri-fold approach not only aids my understanding but also helps me feel more secure as I navigate tasks that can sometimes seem insurmountable.
My Sensory Universe: Soft Things Good, Wet Socks Evil
Touch is a big deal. Give me soft, plush, squishy textures and I’m in heaven. There’s something incredibly soothing about the gentle caress of a warm blanket or the comforting embrace of a cuddly stuffed animal. The textures of velvet, chenille, or even a well-loved cotton fabric bring me a sense of peace and joy. But Gods help us all if I touch microfiber—its abrasive feel against my skin makes me shudder. Wet grass with its clammy touch is equally distressing, leaving me anxious and on edge. And magic erasers? They are the epitome of sensory nightmares, with their unforgiving texture that triggers a sense of panic within me. I will spiral if forced into contact with such things.
There are certain boundaries I need when it comes to touch—particularly, my face, feet, scars, or the curls on the back of my neck. These areas are incredibly sensitive, and I find it hard to cope with unwanted contact. It’s a strange mix of vulnerability and discomfort, which only those closest to me, like my husband, can navigate. The only exceptions to this rule are moments when someone is actively saving my life, as that kind of urgent touch feels justified.
Then there’s sweat on my skin. The sensation of it clinging uncomfortably to me is more than just annoying; it can lead to a meltdown. I can’t handle the sticky feeling, and it only adds to my overall sense of unease. Hot breath under a blanket? That’s a form of torture I never care to experience. It feels invasive in the worst way possible, and I would much prefer the cool, refreshing air instead. Fluorescent lights, with their harsh glare and overwhelming brightness, create an overstimulating environment that feels like buzzing demons attacking my senses from all angles. The dull hum of those lights combined with their stark illumination makes it nearly impossible to focus or relax.
Reflecting on my childhood, I often said I felt sick when we went to stores, and that resulted in being yelled at for what others perceived as a tantrum. However, the reality was much different. It turns out that what I was experiencing was actually sensory overload—a chaotic swirl of stimuli that my young mind could hardly process. Each new sound, movement, and touch collided within me, leaving me feeling overwhelmed and disoriented. Understanding that now, I can appreciate how deeply these sensory reactions are ingrained in my experiences and how they shape my interactions with the world around me.
What Overstimulation Actually Feels Like
People think overstimulation is just being annoyed. No. For me, it’s full system shutdown, a complete breakdown of my ability to process the world around me. My thoughts stop; it’s as if a switch has been flipped, leaving me with a profound silence inside my mind that contrasts sharply with the chaos happening outside. My hearing muffles; sounds become distant and distorted, as if I am submerged underwater, and I struggle to catch even the faintest echoes of conversation or noise. My vision blurs, losing clarity and color, making the environment seem surreal and overwhelming.
In these moments, I instinctively close my eyes and cover my ears, trying to block out the stimuli that are assaulting my senses. If the source of the stimulation doesn’t cease, my body responds with an intense fight-or-flight reaction. The feelings of panic and rage can be overwhelming, often leaving me engulfed by my emotions, or alternatively, I may resort to complete shutdown, retreating inward as a survival mechanism.
And then the physical reaction kicks in: excess stress hormones surge through my body, bringing with them a cascade of alarming symptoms. Skin eruptions like hives appear, and I can feel my throat constricting, making it difficult to breathe. This physical manifestation of my distress is alarming, signaling that my body is in a state of emergency. If I don’t take my stack of meds—Benadryl, Pepcid, antihistamines, prednisone—we’re calling 911. It’s not dramatic; it’s biological. The need for my medication is critical, as it acts as a lifeline to regain control over my physiological responses, allowing me to slowly stabilize and emerge from this overwhelming state back into a more manageable reality.
Social Stuff Is Weird
Sometimes I laugh at the wrong time. Not because I’m heartless, but because my brain is buffering. Social cues are like pop quizzes in a foreign language, and I often find myself caught off guard. Eye contact? Nope. It feels like staring into the sun—too intense, too vulnerable. Crowds? Please don’t stand near me in a store unless you want to witness a full sensory lockdown. The sounds of chatter blend into a chaotic symphony, and the bright lights can feel blinding, making it all too easy to retreat into my own bubble.
I can come off blunt or disinterested when really, I’m just trying to survive the conversation. My mind is racing, evaluating every word, every facial expression, and decoding the intention behind them. I genuinely care, deeply and profoundly, which is why I often take on the role of a caretaker, mothering everyone around me in an attempt to ensure their comfort and well-being. Hyper-care and hyper-empathy—it’s my thing, but this constant vigilance can be exhausting. I find myself drained after social outings, needing time to recharge and process.
Navigating the complexities of social interactions can often feel like walking a tightrope. I’m over here juggling my thoughts while managing my emotions and trying not to fall into the abyss of miscommunication. The irony is that my heart is in the right place, even if my expressions sometimes miss the mark. Understanding this about myself has been a journey, reminding me that it’s okay to take a step back, breathe, and not take everything so seriously. It’s all part of the intricate dance of human connection, one awkward misstep at a time.
Jobs, Authority & Doom Piles
Holding a job long term is tough when your body is in constant rebellion, throwing unexpected challenges my way, and my brain doesn’t obey basic time or order, leaving me in a spiral of confusion. Authority? I have a hard time with it—especially when it’s rigid, unkind, or dismissive. The interactions that should be straightforward can feel like climbing a steep hill, each command or expectation weighing heavily on my already frazzled mind. I need autonomy, flexibility, and ideally, a lavender aesthetic that wraps around me like a comforting blanket.
My environment is either meticulously color-coded and flawless, an oasis of lavender and teal supremacy that soothes the chaos within, or it descends into full-on chaos, where neat little doom piles collect in corners, a personal code only I understand. Each pile tells a story; it’s a system of organization that may not make sense to anyone else but is crucial for my survival. The moment someone moves my stuff or disrupts the delicate balance I’ve created? Oh no. Instant meltdown. That order is how I navigate the complexities of daily life. Losing that stability feels like losing my footing on solid ground. Each piece in its place has a role in my overall well-being—keeping the chaos at bay and providing a sense of control in a world that often feels overwhelming.
Hygiene? Eating? Oh Yeah…
Let me be overly clear about this: Executive Dysfunction does not mean someone is lazy! In fact, it is a complex neurological condition that affects one’s ability to plan, organize, and execute tasks effectively. Individuals struggling with Executive Dysfunction may genuinely desire to accomplish their goals, but their brain’s unique wiring can create significant challenges that impact their daily functioning. This often leads to misunderstandings from others who might mistakenly perceive these individuals as merely unmotivated or indifferent. It’s essential to approach this topic with compassion and understanding, recognizing that the struggles faced by those with Executive Dysfunction are real and require support rather than judgment.
Sometimes I forget to eat. Or drink. Or pee. Hygiene comes in phases, often dictated by the ebb and flow of my mental clarity. Not because I don’t care, but because my brain forgets my body exists, as if there’s a disconnect between my thoughts and my physical needs. It’s a strange feeling to be so engrossed in my own head that basic self-care slips away, replaced by a fog of tasks unperformed and needs unmet. And when executive dysfunction hits, self-care becomes a fantasy concept, a distant idea that feels both necessary and unattainable, as if I’m watching a movie about someone else living in a world where these basic acts of care come so effortlessly. The days can stretch on endlessly, and the reminders to engage in these vital routines become mere whispers lost in the chaos of my thoughts.
I Over-Explain Everything (Including This)
I will tell you all the things because I need you to get it. Not the surface-level “oh yeah, that must be hard” but the deep, messy, nuanced truth that lies beneath the surface of everyday conversations. This journey isn’t just a simple sharing of my thoughts; rather, it’s an intricate tapestry woven from experiences, emotions, and struggles that shape who I am. That’s why this post exists. That’s why I info-bomb and overshare, laying it all bare for you. It’s not merely about being known—it’s about being understood, about connecting on a level that transcends superficial pleasantries. By opening up, I aim to create a space where vulnerability is welcomed and acknowledged, where we can both dive into the complexities of life and reflect on the shared experience of being human.
And If You’re Still Reading…
Thank you. For real. This is just one version of what neurodivergence looks like. Mine. It’s tangled, layered, frustrating, and beautiful all at once. It’s full of contradictions, sensory battles, emotional avalanches, and inexplicable laughter that often emerges in the most serious moments.
And it is because of these contradictions that Autism has been brought to the table as a possible source of why my brain feels so torn sometimes, why it feels like we are battling everything all the time from every angle. The complexities of navigating daily interactions can leave me overwhelmed, as each unexpected sensory input or social expectation adds layers to the struggle. It’s as if my thoughts are constantly in a tug-of-war, competing for attention and clarity, leaving me exhausted by the end of the day. In moments of reflection, I realize that this internal conflict isn’t just a personal experience but resonates with many others who find themselves in a similar predicament, each seeking to understand their unique perspectives while grappling with the world’s often contradictory demands.
It’s a unique journey that many might not fully understand. There are days when the chaos feels overwhelming, when the world seems too bright, too loud, or simply too much to handle. In those moments, navigating through daily life can be a challenge. Yet, amidst the struggles, there lies an incredible depth of experience that shapes who I am.
But it’s also full of resilience. Of humor that surprises even myself on the hardest days. Of creativity that fuels my passion and drives me to express my thoughts in ways that words sometimes fail to capture. It’s about finding joy in the details—those little things that others might overlook, but that bring a burst of light and inspiration into my day. There’s a compassion that grows through understanding both my own experience and the experiences of others, forming connections that are rich and meaningful.
In this layered existence, I continually discover new facets of myself, pushing the boundaries of what it means to perceive and interact with the world differently. If any of this sounds like you, if these emotions resonate on any level? Remember that you’re not alone. There is a community out there filled with individuals navigating similar paths, all bringing their unique perspectives to the tapestry of life. Together, we can celebrate our differences while embracing the extraordinary beauty that neurodivergence brings.
We’re not broken. We’re wired differently. And we’re allowed to take up space.
Much love and many blessings,
Mrs. B
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