I Still Sometimes Think, “Am I Autistic?” — Then Days Like Today Give Me My Answer

There are times when I’m alone, sat at the computer, doing what I enjoy — writing, creating, researching — and I don’t feel autistic.
I feel… well, just me. Settled. Engaged. Flowing.

And so when people say, “You don’t look autistic,” there’s a part of me that gets it.
Because sometimes I don’t feel it either.

But then, I have a day like today. A good day, even. I’ve been working with kids, doing things I genuinely enjoy. But by the time I get home, I’m completely overloaded. My system’s fried. And suddenly the contrast is massive.

I can’t bear to talk to anyone. I’ve got this restless, trapped energy in my body that won’t go away. I’m stimming like mad. I’m lying on my front on the bed, noise-canceling headphones on, trying to bring my nervous system back down from red alert.

I didn’t used to have a name for it, but now I know — it’s sensory overload. A kind of post-social crash that hits after being “on” all day. Everything feels too loud, too fast, too much.

That’s when I really feel what it means to be autistic in a world that doesn’t always bend — when the noise, the pace, the sheer amount of everything tips past what I can absorb. The sensitivity, the overwhelm, the crash that comes after holding it together.

If you saw me in those moments, you’d probably go, “Ah, yes, I see it now.” Because it’s visible. Raw. Unmasked. But you don’t normally see it — because I’ve learned to keep it hidden. Not because it’s wrong, but because over the years, I’ve been conditioned to feel it’s something that shouldn’t be shown. Something to tuck away. Something to manage in private.

I used to deal with this dysregulation differently. I’d go down the pub or open a bottle at home and drink — sometimes a bottle and a half of wine, sometimes more. Towards the end of my drinking, I wasn’t regulating — I was numbing. I’d get smashed just to shut everything off. It worked, in a way. Until it didn’t.

I haven’t done that in nearly ten years now. And what I’ve realised is, I still need a reset — I just have to find other ways to do it.

Right now, what I really need is a proper break. A two-week holiday where I don’t work. Where I don’t have to mask. Where I can just be — and let my nervous system breathe.

I still sometimes think, “Am I autistic?”
Then days like today give me my answer — YES.

The thing is, it’s not an option to just stay in my room. If I want to earn a living, I have to go out into the world. I have to show up, even when my system’s already running on fumes. And that’s the part that no one sees — the cost of functioning, the energy it takes just to pass as “fine.”

I also know that for some autistic people, working isn’t an option at all — not because they’re any less capable, but because the sensory overload, executive dysfunction, or burnout is too much to push through.
Autism doesn’t show up the same way for everyone. Support needs vary. What overwhelms one person might not even register for another. It’s all valid.

For me, I can work. Not always easily. Some days are rough. Some days take more out of me than I can really afford. But I manage it — just. And I suppose I need to remember that’s something to be thankful for. Not in a “look how well I’m doing” way, but in a “this is my version, and others have theirs” way.

I don’t take it lightly. And I have huge respect for those whose reality means rest, retreat, or opting out — because that, too, is strength.

I’m sharing this because I know I’m not the only one. I spent years thinking it was just me. That I was weak, or broken, or failing at life somehow. I wasn’t. I was autistic. I am autistic. And this is what it can look like — behind closed doors.

I’m still learning how to show up for myself in those moments. Still figuring out what works. But if there’s one thing I’ve realised, it’s this: regulation isn’t a luxury. It’s a necessity.

What helps you come back to yourself?
It’s something I’m still figuring out — but I know how important the question is.

So if you’re reading this and any of it feels familiar — the wondering, the shutdown, the masking, the confusion about whether you really seem autistic — I just want to say:
You’re not alone.
You’re seen.

This blog is a space where we can stop hiding.
And maybe, eventually, others will add their voices too.

Because I’m one of many.
And so are you.