Unmasking:

This one… is going to be hard to write.

Unmasking was a term that began, for me, as a process neuro-divergents go through when we decide to stop doing all the little things we do to convince other people we’re not weird. Weird is the word used the most to describe us, pre-diagnosis or pre-identification. Weird was my identity as a teenager, a kid, a young adult. Weird is my worst nightmare. Weird means over emotional, and sensitive, and different, and embarrassing. It means ‘special’ said in a sarcastic and demeaning tone. It means unwanted. Unacceptable. Available for criticism.

These are the associations which kept me from embracing my Autistic self, even when I first realized I was on the spectrum. These feelings and words built a wall in my head, and smudged it out so I didn’t realize it was there. I couldn’t accept Autism, or embody it. Because, on some level, I didn’t want to.

During the identity crisis which allowed me to sit with Autism with peace and acceptance and understanding, and even excitement, unmasking became this painful hyper-speed self-actualization. I spent days feeling like a stranger in my own skin. I had always prided myself on knowing myself, only to realize 27 years into life that most of what I knew about myself didn’t fit. The words were wrong. The explanations fell short. I had unanswered questions, sure, but everyone does. I didn’t realize some of what I held with certainty wasn’t actually certain. It was like erasing whole pages of my book and re-writing the story. Cleaning the mirror to find it covered in paint. I was alien. I was unknown. My history and thoughts and feelings were forever changed.

That was almost a year ago. When I was googling about spectrum experiences, when I was reading books about Autism, nobody mentioned that I might feel this way. Nobody warned that unmasking, as crucial as it is, doesn’t always mean you’ll recognize the person under the mask. Doesn’t mean you’ll like them. After years spent working hard to love me - my body, my mind, my future, and my past - so many of it changed, and I cannot love what I do not know. Memories would intrude on me in the middle of the night or washing dishes or even while I was working. And I’d see it all with new light and clarity - why I said that thing, why that person responded the way they did. ‘I’m Autistic’ became a daily affirmation used to explain and forgive all these embarrassing memories I had unknowingly kept shut-up in a box. Autism became the defining feature of my awkward interactions, of my troubled relationships, of my confusion about everyone and everything. My hopes and expectations for the future shifted - I had new needs and new limits and new desires. My mind became clear but my outlook got so muddled - I realized I will never reconcile my view of the world with the actual world, because the world is mostly shaped by people who do not think (or feel or learn or observe) the way that I do. My body became a symbol, a home, for all of me that is different, and therefore easy for others to reject or diminish. My body became a mystery which is always uncomfortable in ways I cannot always explain or identify. 

But it settled. The intrusive thoughts and memories lessened. I gained new insights and hopes for the future. I got to know my mind and how to take care of it. I re-learned my body and how to love it. And as time went on… I evolved. I know now when I’m too cold and when I’m too warm. When I need my hair down and when I need it up. What clothes to wear out and what clothes to wear in. And to always check the weather before I dress and stand outside before I leave - just in case. I know when to put in my headphones, when to have them silent or when to have music. I can ask for others to change the lighting or the sound level in a room. I can refuse food for no other reason than I don’t want to eat it that day. And most importantly, I can say all these things to make it easier to be understood and feel understood. Things like checking in with ‘does that make sense’ or qualifying like ‘this might just be me’. I can admit it when I’ve forgotten the script and don’t know what to say. Every single aspect of my life has improved since I have allowed Autism to reframe it: my communications (with strangers and with siblings), my relationships (friends and family both), my cooking, my sleep, my wardrobe, my apartment, my job (where and who and how - all of which adds up to a remarkable difference), my hobbies, the make up I put on, my therapist, my health, my travel. My autism is everywhere. And it is thriving - despite (what feels like) all odds. 

Pretending

I thought the first round of unmasking would be the end of it. But now I wonder if unmasking ever ends - being in a society and culture that is always telling me, in big and small ways, that I should conform. I still wonder if masking isn’t necessary - as a therapist, as a woman, as a person in a toxic culture. Can I truly tolerate the vulnerability of total and unapologetic authenticity? Authenticity that I believe in, radically and on a soul-deep level? Authenticity which has cost me so much but rewarded me so much more? What would it mean to truly stop pretending? This is the question I cannot get out of my head.

What would it mean to answer the question ‘how are you?’ honestly. Even though the answer is always long and rarely pleasant and I am asked it upwards of five times a day. Or to ignore the question entirely, to opt out of the useless social routines we have come to depend on. I feel like I am always lying. Implying to people that I am comfortable, that I am happy, that I am normal. Whenever I say ‘I’m good’ or ‘I’m fine’ without expanding on what that means I allow someone to learn about a version of me which does not truly exist. To stop pretending means to allow my hurt and anger and resentment to show to those who have played a part in causing it without resolving it. To allow them to carry the discomfort of my emotion despite the inevitable rise in their defensiveness. To initiate conversations and announce my needs and intentions, despite how awkward or off-putting it might be to others.

The truth is, I do not know how to do these things. Not in the comprehensive way I have taken to imagining them. I do not know the version of myself which would behave this way. Does she feel relieved? Does the awkwardness bother her? Does it save time? Waste time? Does she argue and fight, or does she walk away? Does she rage at the world? I am not sure. I believe I could love this woman, I even believe that she will be accepted by others who love me. But I am not so sure that I could go on living life as I have been without sacrifice or disruption.

I am learning that everyone masks. We do so to protect our jobs, our insecurities, our religious beliefs, our political stances. To be polite, to ease the tension, to avoid conflict. To stay the same or force a change. We lie in tiny ways to get our way. And in big ways to protect ourselves. And we lie constantly in order to avoid the things we do not want to think about. The more everyone else lies the more I have to lie to keep up with the pretending. I do not think this is wrong, or bad, for the most part. I believe it is human, and necessary. But it has become clear to me that I have not lifted the mask entirely. That there is more stranger underneath. And the more I pull at its edges the more society pushes back, and the harder it becomes to embrace the authenticity I am craving. I’m learning that too, that I am craving it. Enough to take the risk and accept the pain and live with the grief. I want to live up to the bravery I have already fought so hard for. I want desperately to know the person and life which is never restricted without consent. I want to know what she’s capable of. What joy and greatness she will create.