A fictional story about autistic masking.
I’m finding it harder to follow the conversations around me. It’s the Christmas party at work, and although I’ve enjoyed seeing people outside the usual routine, the music seems to have become louder as the evening’s gone on. Several conversations are happening at once, and I’m struggling to pick out what anyone is saying.
I’ve been to plenty of parties and busy places over the years, but I’ve always struggled when several people are talking at once.
Earlier, I’d been talking to someone from work near the doorway, where it was quieter, and I’d really enjoyed our conversation. But now I’m back with the main group, trying to keep up with what’s being said around me.
Someone says something, but I miss the last part. I smile and nod, hoping it wasn’t a question. I’ve done that a few times tonight. I wonder if anyone’s noticed how quiet I’ve become. Everyone else seems comfortable enough, laughing, chatting and moving between conversations. How do they manage to follow it all?
Eventually, I make an excuse and wander away. I find somewhere quieter to sit, far enough from the music that I can hear myself think. It’s a relief not having to concentrate on what everyone’s saying.
I remember feeling much the same at last year’s party. I’d spent most of the evening trying to keep up with everyone, even when I was struggling to follow what was being said. By the time I got home, I was exhausted. I remember feeling embarrassed about how difficult I’d found it. Everyone else seemed to manage well enough.
I’ve only been sitting here a few minutes, and I’m already wondering what everyone else might think about me leaving. But it’s quieter here. I can still hear the music, although I don’t have to struggle to follow all those conversations. I’m beginning to feel a little better.
I’d often wondered why I could enjoy being around people and still feel so exhausted afterwards. It was one of the reasons I’d started counselling, although I struggled to explain what was happening.
I got along with people at work, knew my job and had routines that suited me. Yet by the time I got home, I often didn’t want anyone talking to me. Even being asked what I wanted for tea could feel like another demand.
There was a session early on when I’d been trying to explain that exhaustion. I’d been talking for a while and suddenly ran out of things to say. I remember how uncomfortable the silence felt. Should I explain myself better? Was my counsellor waiting for something?
When they invited me to describe what was happening, I became aware of the tension in my stomach and how much I wanted to say something, anything really, just to fill the silence.
It was odd because I’ve always enjoyed spending time on my own. I can sit quietly for hours without needing to talk to anyone. Yet sitting with somebody else was different. I couldn’t have said what I thought they expected, only that I felt I should be doing something.
I’d felt that uncertainty about what people expected of me before. At school, I used to love talking about things that interested me. I could get completely absorbed in a subject and spend ages explaining something I’d discovered, sometimes without noticing when other children lost interest. There were comments about talking too much or being told nobody wanted to hear about it, and I gradually became more careful about what I shared.
I also watched children who seemed to know how to get along with everybody, noticing what made people laugh, how they joined conversations and what they avoided saying. Sometimes I’d try doing the same things. I don’t remember deciding to change how I behaved. It just became part of getting along with people.
Mum could become frustrated when I asked lots of questions or struggled to understand something. I knew she cared about me, and looking back I can appreciate that she was sometimes tired or had other things to manage. But I remember how uncomfortable her impatience felt, and how I’d sometimes stop talking, even though I still didn’t understand.
There were other times I’d hold back because somebody seemed impatient, or change what I was going to say because I wasn’t sure how they’d react. I couldn’t say exactly where those expectations had come from, but I recognised the feeling.
As I got older, I’d go to busy pubs with friends because that’s where everyone wanted to go. I’d usually have preferred somewhere quieter, where I could follow conversations without struggling with the noise. Sometimes I had a good time, but other times I’d miss parts of what people were saying and try to join in without making it obvious.
I’d smile, nod and hope nobody asked me something I’d missed.
I’d always thought of myself as easy-going, somebody who got along with everyone and didn’t make a fuss. I liked being that person. People seemed to like me that way too.
When I talked about going out to pubs with my friends in counselling, I realised I couldn’t remember anybody actually insisting I went with them. I’d just assumed they wouldn’t be pleased if I said no.
My counsellor was interested in what being easy-going meant to me.
I remember finding that a strange question. I’d never really thought about it. Surely it just meant I was easy to get along with?
As we talked, I remembered how much I enjoyed being included. I liked having friends, knowing people wanted me around and feeling that I belonged. Being someone who got along with everybody seemed like a good thing.
It was harder to talk about the evenings when I’d wanted to leave early, or the times I’d become irritated because I couldn’t follow what people were saying. I’d carry on smiling and joining in where I could, even when I desperately wanted to get away from it all. It could feel suffocating, but I couldn’t bring myself to leave. Then I’d go home feeling washed out. I was so drained.
I didn’t want people seeing me struggle. I wasn’t someone who made a fuss about things.
I’d known I was autistic for some time before starting counselling and was familiar with the idea of masking. I’d always thought it meant deliberately pretending to be somebody else. But when I remembered those evenings with friends, it hadn’t felt like pretending. I’d just been trying to enjoy myself and get along with everyone.
There were things I felt much more certain about. I enjoyed telling my counsellor about parts of my work I really liked. Familiar tasks, knowing what came next and being able to concentrate on the details. There were processes I could repeat for hours without finding them boring.
Some people at work thought it was strange that I enjoyed doing the same things over and over. I never really understood why. I liked the work, I was good at it, and there was something satisfying about knowing I’d done a job well.
Other parts of work were much harder, particularly when several people were talking at once, instructions changed unexpectedly or I was constantly interrupted. Sometimes I’d pretend I was managing rather than explain how difficult I was finding things.
I didn’t want to change the familiar routines that suited me. It was the effort of hiding the things I struggled with that could leave me exhausted.
What I hadn’t expected was to experience some of those familiar feelings in counselling.
My counsellor sometimes asked what I wanted, how I’d felt about something we’d discussed or what certain things meant to me. I appreciated their interest, but I often found those questions difficult.
Sometimes I knew what I’d usually say. I’d agree, go along with something or tell somebody it was fine. That was familiar enough. But when I was asked what I actually wanted, I wasn’t always sure.
I also began feeling that I ought to be doing something with what we’d talked about. I’d arrive at sessions wondering what I’d managed to do differently since the previous week. Had I said no to somebody? Expressed a preference? Asked for clarification instead of pretending I understood?
Usually, I hadn’t. Perhaps my counsellor was getting frustrated with me.
Sometimes a question would leave me feeling uncomfortable, but I couldn’t work out why. I’d nod or give an answer that seemed appropriate, then find myself thinking about it long after the session. Sometimes it took days before I understood what I’d been trying to say.
Eventually, I admitted that I sometimes felt I was letting my counsellor down.
My stomach tightened as soon as I’d said it. I watched my counsellor’s face, wondering whether I’d upset them, and began explaining that I appreciated our sessions, that I knew they were trying to help and that I wasn’t criticising them.
They asked what had made me think I was letting them down.
I wasn’t sure how to explain it. I wanted to feel that I was getting somewhere with counselling. I felt embarrassed about bringing back the same difficulties, especially when we’d already spent time talking about them.
I wanted to be able to manage things better. I’d always liked being seen as capable, someone who could get on with things without needing too much help. Yet here I was, talking about things I couldn’t seem to manage.
I found myself wondering whether I was making too much of everything.
I tried to explain that when we talked about what I wanted or how I might respond differently, I’d started feeling these were things I should already be able to do. I worried that coming back each week with the same difficulties meant I wasn’t doing enough.
My counsellor said they hadn’t realised I’d been experiencing some of our conversations as expectations. They’d understood things differently and hadn’t appreciated how much pressure I’d been feeling.
I felt relieved hearing that, although I was still wondering whether I’d made them feel they’d done something wrong.
We talked for a little longer, but there were things I couldn’t explain. I could feel myself agreeing at times, even when I wasn’t certain what I thought. I left feeling relieved that I’d said something, but spent much of the following week wondering whether I’d been unfair.
Would the next session be awkward? Would they think I’d made too much of things?
When I returned, I was still uncomfortable about bringing it up again. But my counsellor remembered our conversation and asked whether I’d had any more thoughts about it.
I told them I’d been thinking about the times when I went quiet or nodded during sessions. Sometimes I wasn’t agreeing with anything. I was still trying to understand what they’d asked, or work out what I was feeling.
My counsellor wondered whether they’d sometimes moved on too quickly. They’d taken my nodding to mean I agreed or accepted something when I might still have been trying to make sense of it.
I hadn’t realised that was how they’d understood my responses.
We talked about the questions they’d asked, the pace of our conversations and how I’d responded. I wasn’t sure we’d resolved everything, but I was glad we could talk about it.
Perhaps I’d misunderstood something. Perhaps they had. Perhaps neither of us had quite understood the other.
I still found myself searching for the right response in sessions. Once, when I was describing something that had happened at work, I lost track of what I wanted to say. I could feel myself becoming uncomfortable, wondering whether my counsellor was waiting for me to continue.
Usually, I’d have nodded back at a reflection or found something else to talk about. This time, I managed to say I wasn’t sure what I meant yet.
We stayed with it for a while. I still couldn’t explain what was bothering me, and part of me wondered whether I was taking too long. But we didn’t have to settle it that afternoon.
I thought about it afterwards and brought it back the following week. I wasn’t sure how to start, especially as we’d already spent time discussing it. But my counsellor remembered where we’d got to, and we carried on talking. I didn’t have to explain why I was bringing it up again.
I’d expected to feel awkward about returning to something I hadn’t managed to explain. Instead, we were just having the conversation. I still didn’t have all the words, but that didn’t seem to matter in quite the way I’d imagined.
We began allowing more room for that in our sessions. There were still times when I left feeling we’d missed something important, but I liked having more of a say in how we worked, even when I wasn’t entirely sure what I needed.
I’d spent a long time thinking that being easy-going meant not making things difficult for other people. But in counselling, I’d found myself saying something didn’t feel right, needing more time and even disagreeing with how my counsellor had understood me. It was uncomfortable, especially at first, but I was glad we’d been able to talk about it.
I still liked being the person who got along with everybody. I valued those relationships and didn’t want that to change. But some of the things I was beginning to recognise about myself didn’t seem to fit very comfortably with that. I wasn’t sure what to make of it yet.
Needing more time was one of those things. At work, I could spend ages concentrating on something that needed careful attention, and I never thought there was anything wrong with that. Yet when I struggled to find the right words in conversation, I could feel inadequate for not responding straight away. Afterwards, I’d sometimes replay what had been said, wondering whether I’d misunderstood something or upset somebody.
Recently, I’d agreed to take on another responsibility at work even though I already had enough to do. I liked being trusted to get things done, and it felt good when people had confidence in me.
But I was already struggling to keep up, and I knew the extra work would make things harder. I was annoyed that nobody seemed to have considered that, then felt uncomfortable about being annoyed. They’d asked me because they trusted me. Wasn’t that something I should be pleased about?
When we talked about it in counselling, I kept coming back to how much I liked being someone people could depend on. I didn’t want that to change, but I wasn’t happy about how much I’d taken on either.
I wondered what might have happened if I’d explained I already had enough to do, or even asked for more time to think. Perhaps they’d have been annoyed, or perhaps they’d simply have asked somebody else. I wasn’t sure. Even imagining it felt uncomfortable.
And then I caught myself thinking that asking for more time was something I ought to make sure I did next time, as though it was another thing I needed to get right.
Perhaps I’d still agree because I wanted to help. Perhaps I’d decide I didn’t have the time or energy. I didn’t know what I’d do next time.
A burst of laughter draws my attention back towards the party.
The music’s still loud, and I know I’ll struggle if I go back into the middle of the room. Having some time away has helped, though. I feel less overwhelmed.
I can see the person I’d enjoyed talking to earlier, still near the doorway where it’s quieter. I’d like to carry on our conversation, but I start wondering whether anyone noticed me leaving or what they’ll think if I go back.
There’s that familiar tension in my stomach. I feel like I could throw up.
I take a few breaths and sit a little longer. The tension’s still there, but I don’t have to do anything about it straight away.
I look towards the doorway again.
I think I’ll go over.
If something in this story feels familiar, you don’t have to arrive at counselling knowing exactly what it means. There can be room to explore your experiences, your relationships and what matters to you, without having to reach a particular conclusion.
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