There are many ways to clear a room. Shouting “fire,” for example. Or announcing you’ve brought quiche to a barbecue. But perhaps the most effective—yet tragically underrated—method is this: tell people you’re autistic.
It’s magical, really. You can watch in real time as a person rearranges their entire facial expression into something they hope says “totally fine and supportive” but accidentally screams “how do I escape without looking like a monster?”
They’ll smile too hard, nod like they’ve just remembered how human heads work, and then, without quite making it obvious, begin to back away from your life like Homer into the hedge.
The Art of the Casual Sidestep
To the untrained eye, these people appear to be going about their day. To the autistic person who dared to share their diagnosis, it’s like watching an oddly choreographed escape plan unfold. I’ve catalogued a few classic moves:
- The “Let’s Definitely Catch Up Soon!” Vanish
No time frame given. No intention of following up. Just a promise floating in the social ether like a balloon slowly deflating. - The Email-Only Pivot
They used to chat in the corridor. Now everything’s formal, bullet-pointed, and emotionally neutered. You’re a LinkedIn connection now. - The Strategic Ghost
They reply in Teams chats… eventually. Seen-zoning as an Olympic sport. - The Surprise Calendar Clash
“Oh, I meant to invite you, but I wasn’t sure if you’d feel comfortable around noise/people/oxygen.”
What you’re witnessing is benevolent exclusion: the art of pretending to be inclusive while meticulously leaving you out. It’s not about malice. It’s about fear, awkwardness, and the neurotypical urge to handle difference like an unexploded bomb.
Things I Apparently Do That Scare Neurotypicals
Let’s be real: it’s not that I’ve changed. I’ve simply labelled what was already there. And that, it seems, is what people find uncomfortable.
1. I ask questions that go “too deep” for small talk
Small talk: “Busy week?”
Me: “Do you ever worry that productivity culture is just late-capitalist self-harm?”
Them: [sips drink nervously]
2. I pause before answering
Processing isn’t stalling. It’s thinking. But in a world obsessed with rapid-fire chatter, silence apparently triggers alarms. I’m not buffering—I’m just not wasting your time with knee-jerk nonsense.
3. I don’t pretend not to be autistic
The horror! I stim. I correct things that are factually wrong. I communicate directly. I don’t do the neurotypical charade of pretending everything’s “fine” when it’s clearly on fire. This makes some people… uneasy. That’s not on me.
4. I hold eye contact like it’s radioactive
Let’s be honest—eye contact is a bizarre social ritual. Too little and I’m “shifty.” Too much and I’m “intense.” It’s a no-win game. So I’ve opted out. If that makes you nervous, perhaps you should reflect on why you need constant ocular affirmation.
5. I notice things I’m “not meant to”
Apparently pointing out when someone changes tone mid-sentence or suddenly gets passive-aggressive is “reading too much into it.” No, I’m just not ignoring the weird energy shift like everyone else agreed to do at birth.
And no, before you ask — being autistic doesn’t mean I’m rude, abrupt, or incapable of self-awareness. That’s just Gregg Wallace, and he’s got his own PR team for that.
Field Guide to Avoiders: Social Taxonomy of the Well-Meaningly Useless
Since I’ve had time (and now, lots of space), I’ve developed a helpful taxonomy of those who suddenly vanish after you disclose you’re autistic. These are not enemies. Just highly flappable mammals.
- The Comfort-Manager:
Panics at the idea of saying the wrong thing. So says nothing. Forever. - The Oversharer:
Immediately confesses to knowing someone else autistic. Usually a cousin. Who liked trains. Somehow this is supposed to count as bonding. - The Amateur Diagnostician:
“Oh yeah, I’m probably a bit autistic too. I’m like so bad with eye contact.” (Congratulations. That’s not how it works.) - The Hyper-Friendly Fader:
Goes out of their way to greet you in passing but never invites you to anything again. Ever. But you will get a birthday LinkedIn notification. - The Disability Mystic:
“I just think neurodivergent people are so special and wise, like they can see things the rest of us can’t…”
Ma’am, I’m not a wizard. I just hate small talk and overanalyse bus timetables.
The Great Projection: It’s Not Me, It’s You
Here’s the kicker: I haven’t become colder, ruder, or more difficult. You’ve just found out I’m autistic, and now you’re projecting your discomfort onto my existence. You’re trying so hard not to offend me that you’ve ended up excluding me entirely.
You think you’re being kind. In reality, you’ve turned me into a social inconvenience to be managed.
Let’s be clear: your unease is not my responsibility. Your lack of understanding is not my burden to fix. I don’t need rescuing, tiptoeing, or covert distancing. I need you to sit in your own discomfort for long enough to realise it’s yours to deal with.
Silver Linings and Selective Extinction
There is, I admit, an upside. The sudden absence of vague acquaintances frees up time for more interesting pursuits—like reading about train signalling systems, or mentally ranking the fonts used in supermarket signage.
I now have fewer surprise interruptions, fewer guilt-laden group invites, and far fewer awkward chats about someone’s dog’s Instagram account.
The people who stick around tend to be the ones who already saw me—really saw me—before I put a label on it. Those people? Gold. Keepers. The rest? Enjoy your unnecessarily loud pub socials and insincere WhatsApp chats.
I’m Not the Awkward One…
If you act weird around me after I tell you I’m autistic, you’re not protecting my feelings—you’re dodging your own. I didn’t become less of a person. You just became less able to handle me being a whole one.
I don’t need tiptoeing. I need space. Not exclusion, but inclusion without conditions.
So next time someone tells you they’re autistic, don’t back away like they sneezed on your soul. Maybe ask a question. Maybe don’t. But at the very least, stay where you were—because I promise, I didn’t move.
AJ Wright is a quiet yet incisive voice navigating the surreal world of sociology, higher education, and modern life through the unique lens of a neurodivergent mind. A tech-savvy PhD student hailing from South Yorkshire but now stationed in the flatlands of Lincolnshire, AJ writes with an irreverence that strips back the layers of academia, social norms, and the absurdities of daily life to reveal the humour lurking beneath.
As an autistic thinker, AJ’s perspective offers readers a rare blend of precision, curiosity, and wit. From dissecting the unspoken rituals of academia—like the silent war over the office thermostat—to exploring the sociology of “neurotypical small talk” and the bizarre hierarchies of campus coffee queues, AJ turns the ordinary into something both profound and hilarious.
AJ’s unassuming nature belies the sharpness of their commentary, which dives deep into the intersections of neurodiversity, tech culture, and the often-overlooked quirks of human behaviour. Whether questioning why university bureaucracy feels designed by Kafka or crafting surreal parodies of academic peer reviews, AJ writes with a balance of quiet intensity and playful absurdity that keeps readers coming back for more.
For those seeking a blog that is equal parts insightful, irreverent, and refreshingly authentic, AJ Wright provides a unique perspective that celebrates neurodiversity while poking fun at the peculiarities of the world we live in. Also a contributor at Thinking Sociologically.
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