Unmasking Autism: Discovering the New Faces of Neurodiversity

by Devon Price

Many Autistic people and our loved ones lack such advantages. Without access to shelter, health care, and a supportive network of loving people who are willing to grow with us, none of us are free to become our true, unmasked selves. This is why it is vital for the project of unmasking to be more than just a personal one. All the self-affirmations and radical visibility practices in the world cannot overcome economic injustice, racism, transphobia, or profound social exclusion. We have to fight to create a more just, accepting, and supportive world for all people if we wish for everyone to be free to unmask.

But it’s not only Autistics who benefit from embracing neurodiversity in that way. We all deserve to take a step back and ask whether our lives line up with our values, whether the work we do and the face we show to others reflects our genuine self, and if not, what we might want to change.

When we accept individuals as they are, instead of warring with their unique needs and challenges, life can move at a more relaxed, accepting pace. A world that allows all Autistics to safely unmask is a world where anyone with strange interests, passionate emotions, environmental sensitivities, social quirks, or other differences is still seen as worthy and whole. Creating that world will require a lot of tireless political work as well as Autistic self-advocacy. But for the neurodivergent and the neurotypical alike, it will be worth it.

Before I knew I was Autistic, I was profoundly alienated in every possible sense. I was at odds with myself, unable to understand why normal life felt so perplexing and imprisoning to me. I was detached from the world, with no trust in others or in my own potential to connect and be understood. Because I was so alone, my identity was also completely unmoored. I had no community to anchor myself within. I had no idea I was transgender, no idea I was disabled, and couldn’t articulate what I wanted out of life. Internally, I was fractured, a series of faked personalities and protective shields that kept people at a distance. I could only drop the shield when I was alone, but even in my solitude I was miserable and confused. I was all defense mechanisms, with nothing left inside worth defending.

In my experience, being a masked Autistic is eerily similar to being in the closet about being gay or trans. It’s a painful state of self-loathing and denial that warps your inner experience. Though it often feels like being “crazy,” it’s not actually an internal neurosis. It’s caused by society’s repeated, often violent insistence you are not who you say you are, and that any evidence to the contrary is shameful. Before I knew I was Autistic, I imposed a lot of rules on myself, to help me “pass” as neurotypical. One of them was that I could never buy a piece of furniture I couldn’t move by myself. Self-sufficiency meant I could pack up and leave at any time. To ask for help or to lead a richly interdependent life would be akin to painting the words weak and pathetic on my body in bright crimson letters. I lived in such a way that no help was required.

These measures also fulfilled another rule I’d set for myself: that I should spend as little money as possible, and sacrifice comfort in the name of frugality. The more money I socked away, the more self-sufficient I was, and the less disastrous it would be if I got fired due to awkwardness or burnout.

I would survive by making myself smaller and smaller.

Masking also alienated me from everyone I loved. I never allowed myself to become vulnerable with anybody, to share any of the anger, frustration, dysphoria, or obsessive yearning that roiled inside me. When safe people made overtures to connect with me, I swatted them away and iced them out. Friends asked me how I was doing, and I responded with hostility. They tried to show me physical affection and I froze up. When I was breaking down physical and mentally, I did all I could to continue seeming stony and strong.

The opposite of alienation is integration, a psychological sense of connection and wholeness.[1] People whose identities are integrated can see a through-line connecting the many selves they have been across various times and places. Every human being changes over time, of course, and alters their behavior depending on the situation or setting they’re in. There is no static “true self” that stops adapting and changing. To a masked Autistic person, this fact can be really disturbing, because we may lack a consistent “story” to tell ourselves about who we really are. Our personalities are just means to an end, externally motivated rather than driven by some internal force or desire. Someone with an integrated identity isn’t disturbed by change and variance, though, because they see a connection that endures across the many people they have been: core values that persist across their life span, and a narrative of personal growth that explains how they moved from the person they once were, to who they are today.[2]

They’re also more likely to experience post-traumatic growth, understanding painful past experiences as something that helped make them into a resilient person who can help others, rather than viewing it as a terrible “contamination” that ruined their lives or weakened them.[3]

Narrative therapy has been found to be beneficial for those who want to reexamine the stories they tell themselves about their lives and their past, and cast them in a new light.[5] And some initial evidence suggests narrative therapy can be beneficial for Autistic people struggling with social anxiety or communication challenges.[6]