As a child, I was often scolded for one form of inappropriate behaviour or another. I was too sensitive, too fussy, too lazy, too stupid—to name a few.

Admittedly, awareness of autism in children—especially girls—was poor when I was growing up. What I don’t understand, however, is why no one bothered to find out why I was so different. Instead, I was just scolded. I remember times when I complained about my clothes or the food; I’d be told to be quiet and that I was just being ridiculous. I remember being scolded for what I’ve since identified as an autistic meltdown—times when I just cried and cried. That is where my C-PTSD and depression stem from.

I didn’t go to school; I endured it. I’m quite smart, so the exams weren’t hard; the hard part was simply being at school. You were expected to go outside during breaks and socialise. There were so many things you were supposed to do, and if you didn’t, you were ostracised. Since awareness of neurodivergence was virtually non-existent, there was no help to be had, either. I felt terrible, but I just had to grit my teeth and push through.

In upper secondary school, I remember a friend pointing something out about my behaviour, and I reacted in a neurodivergent way. The friend got angry, and I tried to explain by mentioning my difficult home situation, to which the friend exclaimed, “But surely that’s not my fault!” What I learned from that was to keep quiet. So, I went through further education and my working life with a smile on my face, while spending all my free time drinking just to keep up appearances.

I was perceived as a very good employee—someone who did more than required, though I was a bit “quirky.” Despite this, I was accepted—more or less—even though I didn’t have much of a social life. I had acquaintances, but very few real friends. Most of the people I socialised with were people I’d met at bars. I was in a very bad way, and things only got worse, until finally, everything collapsed. Did I get any help? Well, there were well-meaning people who didn’t understand what they were doing; it didn’t actually help—it just prolonged the agony.

After finally putting a stop to my alcohol abuse, it was time to deal with the “baggage.” I knew I carried baggage from my childhood, but I had no idea just how deep it actually ran. As is common for women, I was initially misdiagnosed with a personality disorder, though I eventually received a proper diagnosis and therapy. I went to therapy, got to know myself, and thought, “Things are getting better now; now I can explain what this is.”

I learned the hard way that “normies” are quick to judge rather than be understanding. Since receiving my diagnoses, I’ve lost most of the jobs I’ve held. I’ve lost so-called friends who “can’t handle me.” I’ve lost family members who believed that “since they’re in the majority, I have to listen to them, because they know what’s best for me.” I do not feel like a full-fledged member of society, yet I am expected to fulfil my civic duties—even though my disability makes it impossible for me to do so.

For years, I have tried to raise awareness about invisible disabilities and mental ill-health. Instead, I have been accused of being dramatic and trying to gain an advantage. The world claims to be tolerant and understanding, but it is only so regarding behaviour it approves of—and it only approves of things that align with its own actions.