Hello, is this thing on?

‼️ CORRECTION: 2025.02.04

In the original version of this piece I erroneously stated that the average Autistic lifespan is 36 years. It is not. This was a misinterpretation of a 2018 study dealing with injury mortality. The actual average Autistic lifespan is a much more palatable 70-75 years according to a recent study from the UK.

O'Nions, Elizabeth et al. "Estimating life expectancy and years of life lost for autistic people in the UK: a matched cohort study"

Further, I originally stated the suicide rate among Autistics is up to nine times higher than average, but could not find where I got that number. Suicide rates _are_ notably higher in our community, although perhaps not quite to the degree I once claimed. Both of these errors have been corrected in the text below. My apologies.

Diagnosis was a huge relief: I finally had an explanation for myself, and it was signed-off on by a professional. However, it also raised many questions, chief among them: How did no one piece this together sooner?

It took me twenty-six years to figure out that I’m Autistic, but in all the time leading up to that realization I was keenly aware that I was somehow different and my struggles were a result of that difference. It’s obvious to everyone but the individual themself when they have a blemish upon their face, so am I really to believe that no one noticed anything in all that time? Why didn’t my parents catch on? Could my teachers not see there was something a little different about me? How is it that all the adults around me never once thought to question that there could be something worthy of concern going on beneath the surface?

If someone had paid attention and tried to find me help, perhaps I could’ve spent the first quarter of my life not hating every second of it. If I could’ve had accommodations made for me, if others could have tried to understand me; perhaps school could’ve been a place I looked forward to going every day. Or, at the very least, felt indifferent about.

In my elementary school years, I remember taking walks around the neighborhood with my mother and thinking about what life might be like if I were to no longer exist. I’m not sure if I was familiar with the word “suicide” at the time, but I certainly understood the concept. I desperately wanted to grow up, so I could be free of school and all of its uncomfortable situations I was forced into day-in-day-out. But I wasn’t even ten years old. To a child, “growing up” seems impossibly far away. “Not existing” seemed a much more enticing escape.

These aren’t thoughts anyone should have, especially not a child. I needed help. I needed guidance. But I never got that, at least, not until many years later.

One cannot love someone by ignoring their misery.

I can’t rightfully blame anyone for not discerning that I am Autistic. I didn’t even understand Autism until a little over a year-and-a-half ago. However, it should have been rather plain to see that I was not happy. Yet, either no one noticed, or no one cared enough to do anything about it.

“Sometimes people don’t want to believe or accept that their loved ones are in pain,” last year’s therapist says. Yeah, maybe. I have a very difficult time accepting this as a valid response, though. I have spent my entire life bending over backwards for friends—often at a detriment to my own health—because I cared about them. I’m not trying to flatter myself here; rather, this is simply the behavior one exhibits if they truly care for someone. One cannot love someone by ignoring their misery. That isn’t love. It’s callousness.

In high school, I wrote a “book” on Wattpad—a platform mostly known for fan fiction and teen romance—titled sadness behind the smile.¹ I discussed all the things I was facing at the time: leaving the Christian faith I’d been raised in, questioning my sexuality, loneliness, and suicidal ideation. It wasn’t written metaphorically or in some code; the only things I obfuscated were the names of the people involved. It was written very plainly, so as to avoid being misunderstood.

I shared it with my friends and family. I didn’t realize it then, but the book was a cry for help. However, the response I received was not what I had hoped. Those that read it tended to focus on defending their actions or arguing my conclusions toward religion—if they said anything at all. 

Maybe they didn’t know how to react. I often don’t know how to react to my own friends’ mental health crises, but I do know something is better than nothing.

Maybe they were made uncomfortable. Whatever discomfort anyone might’ve felt after reading my words surely paled in comparison to the discomfort I felt on a daily basis, though.

Or maybe my leaving the faith meant I wasn’t “worthy” of receiving the help I needed. I…am not going into that one.

Over the years, I’ve been described as a pessimist by both friends and family alike. If I just chose to see the world in a positive light, everything would suddenly be a lot better! However, no one ever stopped to consider why I might’ve held a “negative” or “pessimistic” perspective in the first place.² Is it not my right to react to my existence? Frankly, I think I’ve been keeping everything together remarkably well, considering the circumstances.

The signs were always there. In an interview with my parents I conducted pre-diagnosis, they clearly described me exhibiting an Autistic shutdown following us moving house. They mentioned I had always been quiet, that I had trouble making friends, that I didn’t handle spontaneity well… The signs were always there.

I’m not so naïve to think that if someone had recognized my struggles, that they could’ve magically made everything better. Did I fix the appalling home situations my friends were in? Did I stop them from cutting themselves or attempting suicide? I’d like to think that I helped them in some small way, but I didn’t fix things for them. I couldn’t. Just as no one could or can do that for me; ultimately, I am a square peg trying to fit in a round hole. But what I would’ve given for someone to just listen to me. What a difference that would’ve made! Maybe then I wouldn’t have internalized so deeply that my thoughts, feelings, and opinions are worth nothing.

Taylor Heaton from Mom on the Spectrum discussed the difficulty Autistic people often have with being listened to, in her video, “Do I Have to Set Myself on Fire to Be Heard?” She discussed how our concerns are frequently brushed under the rug, sometimes without any acknowledgment at all. This reflects my own experiences. Sometimes when I’ve been asked for my opinions on a subject and I offer my genuine thoughts in return, they’re met with an awkward admission of regret and a swift changing of subject: “Oookay then. Well, anyway…” Few things are quite so deflating.

The sure-fire method to being heard seems to be by asserting my (nonexistent) macho-masculinity: raising my voice, spewing out threats, and yelling over anyone in ear-shot. Essentially, bullying everyone around oneself into listening. But, I don’t want to do that. That doesn’t feel true to who I am, and it feels really shitty to do, anyhow. I immediately lose respect for anyone who decides to act like a man-child, even if a small part of me understands why someone might choose to do so. I just refuse to stoop to that level. I shouldn’t have to disrespect anyone or debase myself in order to be heard.

After all, if I have to force someone’s attention, are they really interested in listening in the first place? I do not believe I should have to fall at someone’s feet and beg them to listen to me. If they are interested in what I have to say—if they are interested in me—then listening should come naturally.

I like cats more than I like humans. That’s not a joke. Everyone always thinks I am joking when I say I like cats more than them, but I’m not. I’ve had far more fulfilling relationships with cats than I have with humans, and it’s because of one thing: reciprocity.

I provide a home, food, water, and an ongoing supply of toys. I offer pets and cuddles when desired, and solitude when they retreat to their cave. In return, I receive a cuddle-buddy, a playmate, a teddy bear; someone to laugh with, someone to cry with; a friend.

On one hand, I offer them more than they give back. On the other hand, they’re just a cat. It would be pretty stupid of me to expect my feline friend to help pay the rent or cook a meal, because they’re just a cat.

Yet, I never feel neglected by my cats. They do what’s within their means to show they care. I never have to beg (doing so would be met with indifference, anyway). It’s always very clear to me that I am valued and loved by my little furry creatures.

It’s a pretty damning indictment of my own relationships that I can find reciprocity among cats but not humans. I love the little guys to death, but they’re cats. If the cats can figure this shit out, what’s everyone’s excuse?

I know it isn’t quite as simple as I’m making it out to be. I know there are other things going on in everyone’s lives. Just as I am dealing with gestures wildly at all the things I write about, everyone else has their own unique blend of troubles they have to grapple with every day. Life’s hard whether one is Autistic or not. I don’t expect everyone to put me at the center of their lives; to demand such action would be incredibly conceited.

I’m just so tired of putting in all this effort to show I care, and getting little-to-nothing in return. I’m tired of not being taken seriously. I’m tired of being treated like I’m invisible.

Believe me, I don’t want to be negative all the time! I don’t mean to sound like I’m constantly complaining, but if I’m still in pain after I’ve expressed as such, what exactly am I expected to do?

Out of sight, out of mind.

I think because I am high-masking, people tend to think, “Ah, they’ll be fine. They’ll figure it out.” Perhaps because I don’t immediately appear miserable, no one really buys how much I say I’m struggling. It can’t be that bad.

I suppose this is the way Autism is handled, in general. We’re seen not as equals, but as pests; those cringey, overly-sensitive, socially-illiterate people. Autism is defined by its negative differences in comparison to the normal, good neurotypical brain. Things like ABA Therapy solely exist to bring us in line with “normalcy” and make us less annoying to our neurotypical peers.

It often feels like there isn’t so much a desire to improve our lives, but rather to keep us quiet. Out of sight, out of mind.

Fuck, I’m getting really worked up. Okay, timeout.

When I sit down to write, I approach the page with a vague topic in mind, but the details are unknown to me. It’s only when I rest my fingers upon home row that I discover what I actually have to say. The neat thing about the written word is that it allows me to cut through the fog Alexithymia creates. My English teachers probably wouldn’t approve of my lack of pre-planned structure, but I can’t plan for what I don’t know.

Writing about these topics is not easy. Sometimes I uncover feelings that were buried deep inside me, other times I unlock memories that were long forgotten. It’s very cathartic, but it can also be rather uncomfortable.

I don’t have a lot of control over what I write regarding personal topics—whatever my brain decides it’s interested in, is what I will be writing about that day. This piece originally started out discussing how I’d finally found my voice for writing again after being unable to write for the past seven or eight years. Perhaps I will still write that piece, but today my brain has other plans.

…it is now difficult to accept that I could be anything but Autistic.

Autism is everything. Autistic people understand this, but I don’t think allistic people do. I am the way that I am because I am Autistic. The way I think, speak, move—it’s all Autism. If I were to remove Autism from myself, Sage would cease to exist.³ Someone who looks like Sage would remain, but they wouldn’t be me.

The more I learn about Autism and how it relates to myself, the more I’m confronted with the overwhelming reality of how obvious it is. My Autism test scores don’t slightly hint at Autism, they point toward it overwhelmingly so. My list of Autistic traits is long, and it’s far from complete. It is so, so clear to me that I am Autistic.

Where once it was difficult to accept that I am Autistic, it is now difficult to accept that I could be anything but Autistic. It’s bewildering to me that I flew under the radar for a quarter-century. Truly, how did no one pick up on any of this?

The first time I went to therapy was in early high school. I specifically requested to go to therapy because I was in a bad headspace and it scared me. In my second session, I told my therapist I had been feeling a lot better in the past week. Given that I had been handed a space where I could freely vent—something I never had before—it shouldn’t have been surprising in the least that I had been feeling a little better in the days following. One would think a licensed therapist would understand this, and one would hope a licensed therapist could recognize that this does not necessarily indicate that everything was magically better. However, my therapist took this as a cue to end therapy—to reiterate, it was our second session—saying, and I quote, “I think you’re cured!”

Like every other Autistic person, I have been failed time and time again by those supposedly interested in my health. I accepted a long time ago that life was mildly-shit at best and there was no changing it. That’s no way to live.

For the roughly five years leading up to my diagnosis, I felt very strongly that if things didn’t change for the better, I was going to off myself. It wasn’t really coming from a place of mental illness; it was simply logical. If life is so wildly unpleasant, why should I be forced to continue to participate in it? I would argue it would be cruel to do so.

Now, with an explanation for myself and a realization that I’m not the only person like me, I feel I’m on a different trajectory—a more positive one.

But my story isn’t especially unique. Suicide rates are notably higher among Autistic people.⁴ Mental health issues go hand-in-hand with Autism; I am no exception.

Do you get it now? Do you understand why I’m angry? All the discussion of discomfort and pain and isolation that I do on this blog is not hyperbole. These issues are actually a matter of life or death. When Autistics are made to feel sub-human, unheard, and worthless the probability of whether we live to see tomorrow is directly impacted.

I’m not really angry at those specific individuals surrounding me as I grew up. I’m angry at the systems we’ve put in place to stop things like suicide from happening, yet fail to address Autistic needs time and time again. Were Autistic acceptance, awareness, and education not in a piss-poor state, maybe those around me growing up would have been able to provide the support I needed.

I’m lucky in that I was able to find answers on my own. But thousands like me were not and will not be so lucky.

The suffering will not cease until our voices are heard.