The mask is slipping
It's getting harder to hide
I’m pulling some curious threads that relate to being a late-diagnosed autistic human. The cool thing about being human is the particulars of my story likely don’t look like yours (unless you happen to be in the growing number of my new autistic friends!). But there are universal threads winding their way through my story that might offer a question or thought for your story. Here’s to pulling some threads together.
The more I unmask in some areas of my life, the more I notice my mask in other areas of my life. What used to feel business as usual now feels heavy and clunky. Awkward and stilted. It doesn’t fit me anymore.
Which is quite unsettling.
On a macro level, this is a natural step in unmasking as an autistic human, but when many of the ways of being I picked up along the way to hide are coming apart at the seams, my nervous system feels the deep threat.
Which leads me to a late night conversation with my husband.
“It feels like they fell in love with my mask, not me.” Cue the tears.
What is autistic masking?
Autistic masking is a coping mechanism that involves autistic people consciously or unconsciously changing their behavior to appear more socially acceptable and neurotypical. It can happen in many situations, both formal and informal, and can take many forms:
Forcing eye contact
Mimicking others' behavior
Suppressing repetitive movements
Using rehearsed scripts or phrases to communicate
Analyzing body language
Exhibiting excessive accommodation and helpfulness towards others
Why do beloved humans among us do this?
To be accepted in society
To avoid prejudice, stigma, bullying, and discrimination
To blend in or "pass" in a neurotypical world
To meet social expectations and avoid social rejection
To hide discomfort in environments that are not autism-friendly1
Dr. Devon Price, in “Unmasking Autism” does incredible work helping late-diagnosed autistics (and those who love them) unravel the complexities of masking after a lifetime of constant adjustment in the presence of others. He reflects on why we mask in the first place. What core fear drives our need to adapt to the expectations around us?
“Autistic people frequently are stereotyped as immature, unintelligent, cold, or out of touch. And each of our masks helps to cover up the autism stereotypes we felt needed to resist the most. Behind each mask, there sits a deep pain, and a series of painful beliefs about who you are and what you must never allow yourself to do.”2
Do all autistics mask?
No. For some autistic humans, what you see is what you get. It might be very obvious to you that these folks are autistic because of how they communicate or behave.
This presents a challenge for the ones who do mask.
Oddly enough, psychologists have often defined autism by how the disability impacts neurotypical people. A more “severely” autistic person isn’t necessarily someone who experiences more internal suffering, but rather someone who suffers in a more disruptive, annoying, or disturbing way. The autistic children who present as the biggest hassle are the ones most likely to be referred to services, whereas those who can conceal their struggles are granted tentative approval — but risk never being understood or empathized with.
Get this — there was even a study done with a thousand families raising autistic kids and they measured symptom “severity” of the kids themselves. What the researchers found was that parents didn’t accurately perceive the level of their kids’ suffering. Instead, parents based their ratings of autism “severity” on how much their kids’ behavior bothered them and required a lot of their time and attention. Many kids described as “high functioning” were quietly coping with debilitating sensory pain, or falling behind academically or socially.3
I have empathy for the autistics who cannot mask. The world sees them and makes their own assessments. This is a unique kind of pain for them and those who love them.
I have empathy for the autistics who can mask. The world sees them and has no clue how they suffer inside.
I have empathy for those who identify as black, indigenous, people of color, or trans who must often mask as a form of safety as they juggle code-switching and autistic masking at the same time.
A third way
I talk about this with autistic friends. What’s the goal around masking?
Is the goal to re-learn who we are without the masks and communicate in solely neurodivergent ways? Which would likely alienate and confuse a ton of neurotypical humans.
Is the goal to continue masking while I destroy my mental and emotional health because I’m spending a ton of energy scanning rooms and people and dynamics and figuring out what’s expected in each space and then embodying it? This makes neurotypicals comfortable but is death for me.
As always, a third way breaks the binary of forced choices.
I want to make peace with my masks.
I want to use them on purpose to connect with people when needed.
I want to choose when to sink into the ways I most naturally communicate.
I want to cultivate relationships that welcome neurodivergent ways of connection.
I want to deconstruct and heal the trauma of masking for decades without knowing.
I want to love myself when I have to mask.
I want to love myself when I don’t mask.
I want to feel gratitude for all the skills I learned from masking.
I want to co-create a world where neurodivergent communication is simply seen as another way to be human instead of less than or wrong or weird.
Love from a friend
I recently went walking in the woods with a longtime friend. The friend to whom I first whispered, “I think I’m autistic.”
We sat by a river sharing about our lives. At one point, I heard myself say, “I still genuinely don’t understand why you want to hang out with me. I mean I’m glad that you do. I adore you. But friendship still feels so foreign and confusing to me. We go back and forth sharing about life and feeling less alone. This is it, right? Is this the script of friendship? I could never figure out how to do this when I was younger in a way that felt normal to me. It was always fragile and uncomfortable.”
She threw her head back and laughed in a way that made me feel fun to be around instead of mocked or bullied. (I was never quite sure which it was when I was younger).
She leaned in and said, “Jenny, maybe your mask is more porous than you think. Some of us slipped through long before you knew how hard you were working to keep us out.”
I’ve been sitting here thinking I fooled people. That they never saw the real me. But what if people didn’t fall in love with my mask? What if they fell in love with me?
From The Thread Archives
Chaos gets a new name tag - one of our first Thread reflections on fear & control
What if this is as good as it gets? - an essay on powerlessness & starting ADHD medication
Love was here the whole time - an essay on rewriting our stories
Books
Google’s Generative AI’s answer on this question feels pretty solid. Good job, AI. Also — Dr. Megan Neff’s summary of this is fantastic.
Unmasking Autism by Devon Price. I HIGHLY recommend this book. Highly.
Unmasking Autism by Devon Price.
I love your transparency. I can relate to it as I suspect many can in different ways, in different context, with different personal experiences. When an outer shell of self protection cracks open at any stage of existence there are important new discoveries. Your writing calls forth a receptivity to the wonder of self discovery and a meaningful human connection with existence near and far. It's wonderful.
Not only do I see myself in your writing, I also see a person who I cared deeply about and who would never consider themselves to be even remotely this person. It makes me sad to say that. Thank you for being so open. 💕