Autism Archives - untypicable.

Masking 101: The Hidden Curriculum of Being Socially Acceptable

AJ Wright — Mon, 22 Sep 2025 10:00:00 +0000

They say all the world’s a stage, but for some of us, the performance starts before we’ve even left the house.

Take last Tuesday, for example. I’d barely made it out of bed when I realised I was already rehearsing. Not for anything in particular—just for being perceived. The spotlight doesn’t wait for an invitation; it flicks on somewhere between brushing your teeth and wondering if cereal counts as a proper breakfast.

The morning started with the usual mental checklist: Shirt? On backwards, but passable. Smile? Set to “pleasant but non-threatening.” Tone? Calibrated through 17 pre-rehearsed scripts. Eye contact? Just enough to say “I’m listening,” but not so much that Sandra from HR accuses me of trying to read her soul.

By 9 a.m., I’d already given the performance of a lifetime—and I hadn’t even clocked in. It’s a miracle I don’t have an agent.

Learning the Lines

This, dear reader, is masking. It’s the subtle, exhausting, often absurd art of pretending to be the version of yourself that makes everyone else comfortable. It’s neurodivergent stagecraft at its finest: no script, no director, and definitely no union benefits. There’s no interval. No exit stage left. Just the relentless curtain call of yet another social scenario.

No one teaches you how to mask. There’s no school module titled “How to Not Make People Uncomfortable with Your Face.” You just… pick it up. Slowly. Painfully. Usually after a few dozen encounters where people look at you like you’ve just licked a light switch. One awkward silence too many, one “Why are you being weird?” and you realise: ah. There are rules. I just never got the manual.

So you start observing. Mimicking. Testing lines in your head like a stand-up comic workshopping material. You learn to smile when you’re supposed to. Nod thoughtfully. Laugh at jokes that make no sense. Stifle the urge to talk about your latest hyperfixation—even though Victorian sewage systems are genuinely fascinating, and frankly, people are missing out.

It’s the hidden curriculum of being socially acceptable, and neurodivergent people are expected to pass it without ever being shown the syllabus. Everyone else seems to coast through the group project that is human interaction while you’re clinging to your metaphorical PowerPoint slides, praying you remembered to include a conclusion.

Scripted Encounters

There’s a script for every occasion. At work: “How was your weekend?”
Default response: “Quiet one, you?” (Never say “I reorganised my LEGO by emotional colour wheel.”)

At meetings: Rotate through weather, traffic, coffee. Don’t mention how your brain staged a full mutiny at 3 a.m. over an email you sent in 2019. And when someone says, “Let’s touch base offline,” you nod sagely while your inner monologue asks, “Touch what, now?”

Even casual chats are rehearsed. You watch people for clues and cues, mirroring their expressions like you’re doing some low-budget improv exercise. All the while, your brain is running diagnostics: Am I smiling too much? Was that laugh too loud? Is this what interested eyebrows look like?

It’s not interaction. It’s performance. Except the costume is your personality, and the script keeps changing. One wrong move, one misread cue, and the illusion cracks.

The Comedy of Errors

Despite the effort, things go wrong. Often hilariously wrong. You say “you too” when someone wishes you Happy Birthday. You try to leave a conversation and accidentally become its host. You laugh at a statement that wasn’t a joke and then try to cough to cover it up, which only makes things worse.

You nod at a rhetorical question. You wave at someone who wasn’t waving at you. You misjudge the appropriate reaction and end up looking either disinterested or manically enthused—no in-between. Social nuance is less of a grey area and more of a black hole.

Idioms become landmines. Someone says, “Let’s circle back on this,” and you’re halfway through imagining two colleagues rotating in a car park before you realise it’s just office jargon. You spend an entire networking event pretending your drink is interesting so you don’t have to talk, then end up giving a five-minute TED talk on cutlery design to a passing intern who just wanted a sausage roll.

When the Mask Comes Off

The moment you get home, the mask slips off like a too-tight pair of shoes. Relief floods in, followed almost immediately by exhaustion. Masking fatigue isn’t just tiredness. It’s the kind of brain-deep weariness that makes you stare at a wall for twenty minutes wondering if you remembered how to blink. It’s crawling under a blanket, lights off, ears ringing from silence. You’ve performed all day. And now, the curtain has fallen. You just hope there’s no encore tomorrow.

And if someone texts you to go for drinks, you pretend you didn’t see it. Not because you don’t care. But because you’ve used up every single shred of your social capacity on nodding at the right moment and not saying something you’ll lie awake cringing about later.

Choosing When to Perform

We mask to fit in. To avoid awkwardness, confrontation, or becoming That Person in the office who gets quietly excluded from group chats. It’s about survival. And yes, sometimes it helps. Sometimes it keeps us safe. But it also chips away at us—little by little. Because masking means hiding the parts that make us, well, us.

We’re told to “just be yourself” by people who’ve never been punished for doing exactly that. They mean well. But they don’t get it. To be authentic in a world that demands conformity is a rebellious act. And some days, it’s a risk we’re just too tired to take.

Slowly, gently, we learn where we can unmask. In certain friendships. In quiet spaces. With people who don’t flinch when we stim, or ramble, or go quiet without warning. People who don’t need you to translate your joy into something digestible—who let you be weird, or blunt, or enthusiastic about moths.

Unmasking isn’t about rejecting people. It’s about reclaiming our own pace, our own patterns. Our quirks aren’t flaws—they’re fingerprints. It’s a slow process, like thawing. But it starts when someone sees you, really sees you, and doesn’t ask you to tidy up first.

So if you see someone who seems a bit “off-script,” give them a moment. Maybe they’re just taking off the mask. And maybe that mask was never hiding something broken—just something brilliant, waiting for air.

Cue the standing ovation.

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AJ Wright

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.

untypicable.co.uk

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The Neurotypical Vanishing Act: Or, How to Become Socially Radioactive in One Diagnosis

AJ Wright — Mon, 04 Aug 2025 10:00:00 +0000

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.

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The Tyranny of Eye Contact: A Neurodivergent Field Guide

AJ Wright — Mon, 28 Jul 2025 10:00:00 +0000

There’s a very specific kind of eye contact that says: “I read somewhere this is what humans do.” It’s intense. It’s slightly off. It’s me, in most work meetings, accidentally fixing my gaze on someone’s left eyebrow for so long they start to visibly sweat.

I didn’t mean to. I was just trying to look “normal.” The irony, of course, is that in trying to pass as socially competent, I’ve somehow ended up looking like a cross between a malfunctioning android and a suspicious owl.

Welcome to the eye contact paradox: expected, enforced, and deeply uncomfortable—especially if you’re neurodivergent and your brain didn’t come with the same firmware for face-based conversation.

Look at Me When I’m Speaking to You (And Other Childhood Threats)

From an early age, we’re taught that eye contact = good. It signals attentiveness, honesty, confidence. It also, apparently, prevents us from turning into delinquents, sociopaths, or mid-tier management.

Teachers wield it like a moral barometer. “He doesn’t make eye contact” appears on report cards as if it were a gateway behaviour to arson. I distinctly remember trying to maintain eye contact with a headteacher during a detention explanation and accidentally staring so hard I forgot how to blink.

I was twelve. I think I traumatised us both.

The Gaze Economy of Adulthood

As adults, the pressure doesn’t lift—it intensifies. Now we’re in interviews, performance reviews, networking events, and weekly meetings with biscuits that make your mouth feel like a dusty cupboard. And through all of it, the same expectation hums beneath the surface: make eye contact or risk being perceived as weird, rude, or dangerously incompetent.

Managers notice if you look at the table too much. Colleagues misinterpret a glance to the side as disinterest. Even on Zoom, people monitor where your gaze lands, as if your soul should be GPS-tracked via webcam.

It doesn’t matter what you say. It matters where your eyes go while you’re saying it.

The Accidental Boob Glance: Masking Gone Rogue

To survive this gaze-obsessed landscape, many neurodivergent people develop tricks. Masking, essentially. We simulate eye contact by looking at noses, eyebrows, the space between the eyes, or, in extreme cases, just above someone’s left ear.

Sometimes, it goes wrong. Spectacularly wrong.

Take the classic teen-to-young-adult miscalculation: in a panicked effort to avoid direct eye contact, your gaze drifts downward. Too far downward. And suddenly, you’re staring squarely at someone’s chest.

Not with intent. Not with malice. Simply because in trying to avoid one form of discomfort, you’ve stumbled headlong into another.

And here’s the worst part: you often don’t realise it—not until the other person shifts awkwardly, covers themselves slightly, or looks at you like you’ve just been uninvited from feminism.

Once, during a tutorial, I thought I was holding safe, polite, side-of-face level gaze. Turns out I’d been gently but unwaveringly fixated on a particularly low neckline for the better part of a group discussion. I was simply trying to avoid a panic spiral. I left with a profound sense of shame and a new hyper-awareness of collars.

This is the neurodivergent tightrope: appear normal, but not too intense. Avoid staring, but also avoid looking like you’re undressing someone with your eyes while internally disassociating over whether you remembered to lock the front door.

The Guilt of Looking Away

Then there’s the aftermath. You look away to collect your thoughts, or because your eyes need a break, and suddenly you’re avoiding them. Disengaged. Aloof. Maybe even dishonest.

People will ask if you’re upset. Or distracted. Or bored. Sometimes they won’t say anything at all—they’ll just file it away, silently judging you as not quite “present” enough.

Meanwhile, you were simply trying not to disassociate.

Alternatives to Eye Contact (Yes, We Have Those)

Here’s the thing: eye contact is not the only measure of engagement. Neurodivergent folks might:

Look at mouths, to better understand speech
Focus on shoulder movement, to track intent
Listen more deeply because they’re not distracted by visual overwhelm
Or simply focus their gaze on a neutral object—a coffee cup, a corner of the desk, a slightly judgemental spider in the corner of the ceiling

The Myth of Sincerity Through Staring

We’ve built entire cultures around the idea that looking someone in the eye means telling the truth. But the reality is more nuanced. Some of the kindest, most present people I know avoid eye contact because it’s overwhelming. And some of the most manipulative people I’ve ever met stare like they’re trying to hypnotise you into a direct debit.

It’s time to stop equating stillness with disinterest, and eye contact with authenticity.

Final Thoughts (And Where I’m Looking Now)

I’m still learning. Still unlearning, really. That pressure to perform eye contact never really disappears, but I’m starting to let myself off the hook.

Sometimes I look at noses. Sometimes at the floor. Sometimes, bravely, for a few seconds at someone’s eyes. But only if it feels okay.

The real connection, it turns out, doesn’t live in the staring. It lives in the listening.

So if you ever catch me glancing at your elbow mid-conversation, just know I’m doing my best—and it probably means I like you.

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Am I Autistic, or Am I Really a Cat?

AJ Wright — Fri, 02 May 2025 10:00:00 +0000

In a world obsessed with identity labels, personality quizzes, zodiac signs, and spending 45 minutes choosing between 300 varieties of oat milk, a simple question haunts me: am I autistic, or am I really just a cat?

Stick with me. It’s not as daft as it sounds. (Or perhaps it is, but that’s very on-brand for untypicable.) After all, stranger things have happened. Somewhere right now, there’s probably a man in Croydon who genuinely believes he’s a Victorian lamplighter reincarnated. Compared to that, feline confusion is practically sensible.

Signs Point to Cat

Let’s start with the evidence. I enjoy solitude with a level of commitment that would make a hermit blush. I despise loud noises—fireworks, doorbells, overenthusiastic humans—all equally unacceptable. I routinely stare into the middle distance contemplating the futility of existence, preferably from a perch slightly higher than everyone else.

I will accept social interaction, but only on my terms and preferably when it involves someone scratching my head and telling me I’m clever (words of affirmation are my love language; actual physical affection, less so). Also, if you rearrange my environment without consulting me, I will sulk about it for a minimum of 48 hours, adding passive-aggressive side-eye for emphasis.

Additionally, I have an alarmingly specific routine: wake up, stare into the abyss, coffee, ignore humanity, nap, repeat. If my routine is disrupted, I may react dramatically—perhaps with a metaphorical hiss, or by knocking metaphorical (or actual) mugs off the metaphorical (or literal) table. There may also be tactical retreating under a metaphorical bed.

If that’s not cat behaviour, I don’t know what is. I’m practically one dramatic flounce away from demanding my own heated windowsill.

Signs Point to Autism

On the other paw—I mean, hand—there are a few things that suggest I’m not merely feline. For instance, I didn’t learn to purr (although, after particularly good coffee or the discovery of a new stationery shop, I do make a small, involuntary chirrup). My brain is wired a little differently: I experience sensory information with the intensity of someone who has had every sense turned up to eleven.

I have a collection of “special interests” that could rival a Victorian butterfly collector—intense, specific, and lovingly categorised. I struggle with the subtle art of interpreting sarcasm unless it’s delivered with the grace of a sledgehammer and a neon sign. I rehearse conversations in my head like I’m directing a Shakespearean tragedy, only to forget all my lines when the moment actually arrives.

These are, as any diagnostic manual will tell you, textbook characteristics of autism.

But… have you ever met a cat who does get sarcasm? Or one that doesn’t immediately take offence when you dare suggest they are not, in fact, the supreme overlords of the known universe?

Exactly.

The Venn Diagram is a Circle

At this point, it’s clear that autism and “being a cat” share a worrying amount of overlap. Strict routines? Check. Aversion to bright lights and sudden noises? Check. Strongly preferring one’s own company to the frenetic chaos of society? Double check, and throw in a nap. Bonus points for disliking being stared at for too long.

Perhaps the only real difference is that cats don’t have to fill out an 87-page Access Needs Assessment to be permitted to have their special blanket at university. Nor do they have to smile awkwardly through team-building exercises, desperately longing for a quiet room and a snack.

And honestly, if a cat ever had to navigate the average university seminar—full of tangents, off-topic debates, and the occasional smell of soggy sandwiches—they’d probably opt to fake their own death within minutes.

Important Disclaimer About Dogs

At this point, I must clarify that while I identify strongly with cat behaviour, I do, in fact, like dogs. Quite a lot, actually. Especially mine, who I sometimes suspect has undiagnosed ADHD. (Jokingly. Mostly. Although if you’ve ever seen him chase his own tail for ten consecutive minutes before forgetting why he entered the room, you’d understand my suspicions.)

He’s all enthusiasm, zero executive functioning, and a genuine joy to behold. Perhaps he, too, is asking himself existential questions—”Am I a dog, or am I a slightly malfunctioning tumble dryer?”

Diagnosis: Schrodinger’s Autistic Cat

Maybe I’m both. Maybe I’m neither. Maybe I’m a neurodivergent human who has simply unlocked the ancient, sacred knowledge of cats: that the world is often too loud, too bright, and too demanding, and that sometimes the correct response is to knock things over, vanish into the airing cupboard, and take a nap in a sunbeam.

If you’re reading this and relating a little too hard, you might be wondering the same thing. That’s OK. Whether you’re autistic, a cat, a neurospicy human with excellent taste in personal boundaries, or something beautifully in-between, there’s no wrong way to exist. (Unless you’re a pigeon. Then you’re just wrong. And probably judging me from the windowsill right now.)

So the next time someone questions your quirks, just stare at them unblinkingly, yawn, walk away, and maybe knock over a pencil on the way out for good measure. If nothing else, it’ll leave them suitably unnerved and wondering what ancient power you wield.

untypicable: your trusted source for all the existential dilemmas, imaginary diagnoses, and self-indulgent ramblings you didn’t realise you needed…

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Diary of a Neurodivergent Supermarket Trip

AJ Wright — Sat, 21 Dec 2024 10:00:00 +0000

For most people, a trip to the supermarket is just another mundane chore—grab some milk, pick up bread, maybe splurge on a “two for one” offer you don’t really need. For me, as a neurodivergent thinker, it’s a carefully planned adventure into a swirling vortex of sensory chaos, social tension, and existential dilemmas. Each aisle is a minefield of unexpected challenges and moments of triumph. Here’s how it unfolds.

10:00 AM – Planning the Expedition

The first stage of any supermarket trip is reconnaissance. My list isn’t just a loose collection of items; it’s an intricate map of must-buys, ranked by urgency, with aisle numbers estimated based on previous visits. This isn’t over-preparation—it’s survival.

I mentally rehearse the route: in through the sliding doors (always too fast), start at sandwich meats (because it’s near the entrance), then the aisles in strict order, finishing triumphantly at the self-checkout. Timing is critical. Late morning means fewer crowds but also fewer social interactions with bored employees asking, “Can I help you find anything?”

10:30 AM – Entering the Arena

The automatic doors hiss open, and I’m hit by the supermarket’s unique sensory cocktail: fluorescent lights, distant pop music, and a faint smell of overripe bananas from the reduced-to-clear section. My brain starts calibrating—too bright, too loud, but manageable for now. I adjust my earbuds to block the worst of the din, armed with a playlist of soothing background music.

The first hurdle: the trolley. I grab one, carefully avoiding the sticky-handled renegades. It wobbles slightly to the left. No matter—this is my steed for the journey ahead.

10:35 AM – Sandwich Meats: The Meat of the Problem

I arrive at the sandwich meats section, but instead of efficiency, I’m met with a baffling array of choices. Sainsbury’s has somehow decided that a hundred types of ham is a good idea. Honey roast, smoked, unsmoked, thick cut, wafer thin, organic, budget-friendly, premium, or with a hint of maple syrup.

And yet, beyond the ham? Not much else. A token turkey slice, a sad pack of chicken tikka, and a single lonely pastrami. It’s like someone in the product department decided that the British public can’t survive without five different shades of ham but doesn’t deserve variety. I shake my head and grab the usual. The paradoxical choice overload leaves me questioning the point of it all. Don’t get me wrong, I like ham, but do other people eat it every day?

10:45 AM – Aisle 3: The Cereal Dilemma

The cereal aisle is where the real test begins. Faced with a dazzling wall of brightly coloured boxes, I feel like I’m navigating a social experiment designed to overload my decision-making circuits.

Do I stick with the usual or try something new? The cheerful mascots on the boxes seem to mock me with their oversized smiles. I finally grab my standby granola, but not before silently judging the overabundance of chocolate-flavoured options.

10:55 AM – Mid-Journey Fatigue

By now, the background hum of the supermarket is wearing on me. A child wails in the distance. Someone’s trolley squeaks incessantly. A cheery announcement about loyalty card deals blares from the loudspeakers. My brain, already processing at full capacity, starts to fray at the edges.

A quick glance at my list tells me I’ve deviated from the planned route. Aisle 7 was supposed to follow Aisle 5, but I’ve somehow ended up in Aisle 9. Panic bubbles. Do I retrace my steps or press forward? After a moment’s deliberation, I decide to adapt. Neurodivergence is nothing if not creative under pressure.

11:05 AM – The Social Gauntlet

It happens near the dairy section: the dreaded “someone I know” encounter. My heart sinks as they approach, trolley in tow, with a smile that says we must chat.

Small talk is my nemesis. Do I ask how they are? What if they ask me the same, and I respond too literally? We exchange pleasantries, during which I overthink every word I say. After three excruciating minutes, they wave and move on, oblivious to my internal exhaustion.

11:15 AM – Self-Checkout Showdown

I reach the self-checkout, my final hurdle. The machines beckon with their promise of independence but punish the slightest mistake. As I scan my items, the machine inevitably shouts, “Unexpected item in the bagging area.” I freeze, certain everyone is watching.

A kindly attendant comes to my rescue, but their well-meaning smile is almost worse than the error. They reset the machine. I mumble a thank-you, feeling a mix of relief and embarrassment.

11:20 AM – Escape and Recovery

The sliding doors part for the final time, and I step back into the world. No car waiting for me, just my feet and the cool air. The journey home is almost meditative, a sensory detox after the overload of the supermarket.

I adjust my grip on the shopping bags, enjoying the rhythm of walking and the relative silence. The sounds of nature—a bird chirping, leaves rustling—gradually untangle the knot in my chest. With every step, the sensory chaos of the past hour fades, replaced by a small sense of triumph. I made it through.

And relax…

A supermarket trip may seem mundane, but for a neurodivergent person, it’s anything but. From navigating sensory overload to decoding social interactions, every moment offers a unique challenge. Yet, it’s in these challenges that I find both humour and insight.

As I finally arrive home, unpacking my slightly excessive selection of ham and reliable granola, I reflect: it’s not about the destination—or even the groceries. It’s about finding joy in the journey, no matter how surreal it might seem.

No wonder I prefer home delivery!

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My worst nightmare: Trapped in a Lift and Just Trying to Survive

AJ Wright — Fri, 13 Dec 2024 20:07:15 +0000

Whilst we haven’t been publishing for that long you may have realised we tend to have a specific schedule, but something caught my eye and I just had to write something about it. On the BBC today there is an article about misokinesia which, for those who hadn’t come across it before, is a condition where the sufferer is adversely affected by other people fidgeting, experiencing intense feelings of rage, torture and disgust. I’d never come across that before, unlike misophonia which I have heard of, which is similar but regarding the intense dislike of other people’s noises, such as eating or heavy breathing.

As someone who is neurodiverse, in my case autistic, being caught in a situation with someone with misokinesia sounds like my worst nightmare (and I am probably theirs!).

Let me paint you a picture…

The lift stalls mid-floor. The lights flicker ominously, and the air gets heavy. It’s just me and another person stuck together in this box of doom. I’m autistic, and the stress has my brain screaming, “STIM NOW!” For those who don’t know, stimming is how I cope—tapping, rocking, fiddling, whatever works to keep me calm and regulated.

But here’s the twist: my lift-mate has misokinesia—a deep-seated loathing for repetitive movements. Basically, my stimming is their worst nightmare. Perfect, isn’t it? Welcome to my personal sitcom.

When Stimming Meets Misokinesia

I start tapping my fingers against my leg, a quiet, rhythmic motion to keep myself from freaking out. It’s not loud. It’s not intrusive. Or so I think.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see my fellow passenger twitch. They glance at my fingers, then away, then back again, their jaw tightening. I can almost hear their internal monologue: “Stop. Stop. STOP.”

But here’s the thing: I can’t stop. Stimming isn’t just a quirky habit; it’s how I keep myself grounded in stressful situations. And being trapped in a broken lift with a stranger definitely qualifies as stressful.

The Standoff

I’m trying to stay calm. They’re trying not to lose it. The tension in the air is so thick you could cut it with a butter knife.

They shift uncomfortably, and finally, the words tumble out: “Could you… not do that?”

Cue my internal panic. How do I explain that not stimming isn’t an option? That it’s like asking me to stop breathing? I take a breath and try to be polite.

“I need to do this to keep calm. Sorry if it’s bothering you.”

Their face softens a bit, but I can tell they’re still struggling. “It’s just… really distracting.”

And there it is—the classic sensory clash. My stimming, which helps me cope, is triggering their misokinesia, which makes repetitive movements unbearable.

Finding a Middle Ground

In that moment, I realise we’re both just trying to survive this nightmare scenario. So, I try to compromise. I switch to a less visible stim—tapping my fingers against my palm instead of my leg. It’s not as satisfying, but it’s better than nothing.

They close their eyes and take a few deep breaths. I can see them actively trying to focus on something else, probably imagining themselves anywhere but here.

We don’t speak again for a while, but the tension eases slightly. It’s not perfect, but we’re managing.

Lessons Learned from a Broken Lift

This experience taught me a lot about sensory clashes. Misokinesia isn’t something people can control, just like I can’t control my need to stim. Both are valid. Both deserve respect.

But the real game-changer was communication. When I explained why I needed to stim, they understood. When they explained why it bothered them, I tried to adjust. We didn’t solve everything, but we found a way to coexist in that claustrophobic little box.

The Takeaway

If there’s one thing I’ve learned as an autistic person, it’s that life is full of sensory clashes. But with a little empathy, a little patience, and maybe a touch of humour, we can navigate them.

So, to my fellow stimmers: keep doing what you need to do to thrive. And to the misokinesiacs out there: thank you for trying to understand. Let’s all just agree to carry noise-cancelling headphones, sunglasses, and maybe a good sense of humour—just in case we find ourselves stuck in a lift together.

Because, let’s be honest, it’s only a matter of time.

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untypicable.co.uk

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Why Autism Stereotypes Are Rubbish (But Some of Them Are Actually Hilarious)

AJ Wright — Mon, 02 Dec 2024 10:30:00 +0000

Autism stereotypes are everywhere—popping up in films, TV shows, and that one aunt who insists she knows all about autism because she once watched Rain Man. While most of these clichés are not just wrong but downright harmful, some are so absurd they veer into unintentional comedy. Let’s break down why these stereotypes are rubbish and poke a bit of fun at the ones that are hilariously off the mark.

“All Autistic People Are Mathematical Geniuses”

Let’s start with the classic: the idea that every autistic person is a human calculator who can recite pi to a thousand decimal places while solving complex equations on the back of a napkin. Sure, some autistic people are brilliant at maths, but so are plenty of non-autistic folks. For the rest of us, long division might as well be sorcery. What’s funny is how this stereotype leads people to say things like, “Oh, you’re autistic? Bet you’re great with numbers!” Nope, mate, I’m just here trying to figure out the tip on my restaurant bill like everyone else.

“Autistic People Are All Obsessive Train Spotters”

Ah, trains. For some reason, autism and train spotting have become inextricably linked in the public imagination. While many autistic people do have special interests, they’re as varied as the stars in the sky. Yes, some love trains, but others might be obsessed with prehistoric mammals, 80s synthwave, or the exact number of buttons on every historical military uniform. Still, the idea of a nation of autistic train spotters is kind of charming. Imagine the world’s most precise train timetable created entirely by people who just get it.

“We’re All Awkward Robots”

Apparently, Hollywood thinks autistic people are emotionless robots incapable of humour, empathy, or human connection. Spoiler: we’re not. Most of us feel things deeply—often too deeply—and have razor-sharp senses of humour. Sure, we might express emotions differently, but that doesn’t mean we’re starring in the next Terminator sequel. This stereotype does have its funny side, though. You could say, “Oh no, I can’t possibly cry at your sad story; I’m too busy calculating train schedules and reciting pi!” If only life were that simple.

“Autistic People Can’t Lie”

This one sounds great in theory—like we’re all moral paragons walking the Earth, spreading only truth and justice. But in reality, we’re just as capable of fibbing as anyone else (though we might be bad at it). Plus, lying is exhausting—why bother when you can just avoid the conversation entirely? That said, if you need someone to tell you bluntly that your new haircut isn’t quite working, we’ve got your back. Just don’t blame us for being honest when you asked for “constructive feedback.”

“We Have No Social Skills”

This stereotype suggests that all autistic people are wandering around making social faux pas left, right, and centre. While some of us struggle with social nuances (seriously, who invented small talk?), plenty of autistic people are excellent communicators. It’s just that we tend to prioritise meaningful conversations over idle chit-chat about the weather. Still, there’s something funny about the assumption that we’re out here constantly saying inappropriate things. “Oh, sorry, was it wrong to ask your entire life story on our first meeting?” At least it keeps things interesting.

“We’re All Men”

Apparently, autism is a boys’ club. For decades, most media portrayals of autism have focused on white, male geniuses, leaving out the vast spectrum of gender, race, and experience within the autistic community. Women, nonbinary people, and people of colour often get overlooked entirely, which is not just rubbish—it’s downright harmful. On the flip side, the idea of a secret meeting of autistic women in the shadow of all this stereotyping is kind of funny. Picture a club with a sign saying, “Welcome to the League of Overlooked Legends.”

“All Autistic People Are Quiet and Shy”

Quiet? Shy? Clearly, you’ve never met an autistic person who can talk for hours about their favourite topic with the enthusiasm of a kid in a sweet shop. Autistic people come in all flavours—some reserved, some outgoing, some bouncing between the two depending on the day. Assuming we’re all shy is like assuming all Brits love tea (OK, that one’s mostly true). Still, there’s comedy in the idea of an entire community of silent, polite individuals who prefer waving from across the room. A nation of introverts would probably be much calmer, come to think of it.

“Autistic People Have No Sense of Humour”

This one is particularly laughable. Autistic humour often thrives on puns, wordplay, and spotting the absurdity in everyday life. If anything, we’ve got a knack for finding the funny side of situations most people wouldn’t even notice. If you’ve ever been to an autism-focused meme page, you’ll know that autistic people are often the masters of niche comedy. The only downside? Explaining why a joke is funny can be a whole ordeal when others don’t see the brilliance straight away. “You don’t get the joke? Well, let me show you my 12-slide PowerPoint presentation!”

Why Stereotypes Are Rubbish

The problem with these clichés is that they paint a one-dimensional picture of a wonderfully diverse community. Autism isn’t a single experience; it’s a spectrum of traits, challenges, and strengths. Reducing autistic people to tired stereotypes doesn’t just limit understanding—it also misses the chance to celebrate the individuality and brilliance of autistic lives.

Why Some Stereotypes Are Hilarious

While these stereotypes are rooted in misunderstanding, they can be funny in their absurdity. Laughing at them can be a way to reclaim the narrative, challenge ignorance, and show the world that autistic people aren’t here to fit into narrow boxes. We’re here to be ourselves—train schedules, niche interests, and all.

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untypicable.co.uk

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Why Do Neurodivergent People Love Spreadsheets? A Love Letter to Order in a Chaotic World

AJ Wright — Tue, 26 Nov 2024 10:30:00 +0000

There’s something almost magical about a good spreadsheet. Rows, columns, formulas—it’s like a perfectly organised universe where everything has its place and nothing happens without permission. While spreadsheets might seem dull to the average person, for many neurodivergent individuals, they’re a thing of beauty, a lifeline in a world that often feels as unpredictable as British weather. Here’s why spreadsheets are the unsung heroes of neurodiverse life.

1. The Perfectly Predictable World

Spreadsheets don’t lie. They don’t spring surprises or suddenly change the rules halfway through. Unlike people or, say, public transport timetables, spreadsheets are consistent. They do exactly what you tell them to do (assuming you’ve entered the formulas correctly—user error is another story). This predictability makes them a haven for those of us who thrive on structure and clarity.

2. Customisation for Days

A spreadsheet can be whatever you need it to be. A budget tracker, a meal planner, a database of every Pokémon ever created—it’s your call. Want colour-coded tabs? Easy. Fancy turning data into a pie chart for no reason other than it looks nice? Go for it. Spreadsheets don’t judge. They let you create order out of chaos, one cell at a time.

3. Hyperfocus Heaven

There’s nothing quite like falling into a hyperfocus session with a spreadsheet. Hours disappear as you fine-tune formulas, tweak formatting, and adjust column widths until they’re just right. It’s the ultimate rabbit hole of productivity, satisfying the need for both mental stimulation and a sense of accomplishment. Who needs meditation when you’ve got Excel?

4. A Data Dump for the Overloaded Brain

Neurodivergent brains can feel like overstuffed filing cabinets, with thoughts, ideas, and information crammed in every which way. Spreadsheets offer a place to dump it all. Need to track your hyperfixation on 80s synth bands? Create a sheet. Want to plan the next six months of weekly outfits to avoid sensory overload? Spreadsheet it. They’re the ultimate external brain, freeing up mental space while keeping all your ideas neatly categorised.

5. The Joy of Colour-Coding

Ah, colour-coding. Is there anything more satisfying than assigning each row, column, or tab its own carefully chosen shade? Neurodivergent folks often have a strong aesthetic sense, and spreadsheets cater to that beautifully. You can use bold colours to highlight priorities, pastel tones for subtlety, or go full rainbow just because it looks cool. It’s not just practical—it’s therapeutic. Keep your adults colouring books, I’ve got Excel!

6. Rules You Control

One of the most frustrating parts of neurodivergent life is dealing with unwritten social rules that make no sense. Spreadsheets, on the other hand, play by your rules. You decide how the data is organised, how calculations are performed, and what happens when you hit Enter. It’s a world where you’re in charge, and everything follows logical, predictable guidelines.

7. They Make You Look Incredibly Organised

Even if the rest of your life is a bit of a shambles, a well-crafted spreadsheet can make you seem like you’ve got it all together. Your boss doesn’t need to know you stayed up until 3am obsessively formatting it—what matters is that it’s pristine, professional, and ready to impress.

8. They’re Surprisingly Fun (Yes, Really)

Non-spreadsheet enthusiasts might scoff at the idea, but there’s genuine joy to be found in creating one. Watching a formula work perfectly? Thrilling. Turning raw data into a graph that actually makes sense? Practically euphoric. The satisfaction of a fully functional spreadsheet is a reward in itself.

9. A Safe Space for Special Interests

Neurodivergent special interests often come with an overwhelming amount of information. Spreadsheets provide a place to store and organise it all. Whether it’s cataloguing every film in the Marvel Cinematic Universe or tracking bird species spotted on walks, spreadsheets transform your passions into neatly organised masterpieces.

10. Spreadsheets Are Always There for You

Unlike people, spreadsheets never flake on you. They’re always available, always ready to listen to your data-related needs. You can open one up at any time, add a new tab, and start fresh. No judgement, no awkward small talk—just pure, unfiltered functionality.

A Love That’s Built to Last

While some might see spreadsheets as boring or overly technical, for many neurodivergent people, they’re a comforting constant in an unpredictable world. They’re the Swiss Army knife of organisation, the blank canvas for creativity, and the ultimate tool for turning chaos into clarity. So, the next time someone rolls their eyes at your 27-tab colour-coded spreadsheet masterpiece, just remember: they’ll never know the joy of perfect alignment or the thrill of a well-placed formula.

Spreadsheets aren’t just tools—they’re a way of life.

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untypicable.co.uk

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