Praise for Different, Not Less

‘This book, like the author themselves, radiates a fierce, unapologetic and
joyous Disability Pride that makes it impossible to put down. As a proud
disabled person and someone who was a home-educated student
themselves, chapter after chapter had me simultaneously whooping with joy
and struggling to hold back tears. Different, Not Less is a glorious example
of the Australian disability community moving into our power. This book is
a marvel.’
JORDON STEELE-JOHN, DISABILITY RIGHTS ADVOCATE AND AUSTRALIAN
SENATOR FOR WESTERN AUSTRALIA

‘For too many years there have been books created by people who studied
us, supported us or taught us. Finally, we are seeing a surge of autistic
authors sharing their stories, and this is a truly shining example of why it
makes such a difference. Chloé’s heartfelt and powerful writing had me
glued to my seat and turning the pages—which is no easy feat for this
ADHD-er … It will make you laugh, cry and snort out loud. It’s hard to
read, but Chloé always brings it back to sharing how we can make the
world a better place for autistic girls. She safely brings us back to her
glorious world of self-discovery and celebration only the way Chloé can,
which reminds us why she is one of the most celebrated autistic advocates
of our time.’
KATIE KOULLAS, CEO, YELLOW LADYBUGS

‘Chloé’s spirit in the face of adversity had me cheering! A powerful book

packed with insights for building a future in which no one is left behind.’
TARYN BRUMFITT, FOUNDER OF THE BODY IMAGE MOVEMENT AND DIRECTOR
OF EMBRACE AND EMBRACE KIDS

‘Chloé Hayden has written the guide to life that I wish I’d been handed
when I was an undiagnosed Autistic kid, unsure of my place in the world.
Sparkling with the power of Autistic joy, this is a special book for
neurodivergent young people, and for those who love and support them.
Chloé’s passionate advocacy is clear on every page—a book to change
lives.’
CLEM BASTOW, AUTHOR OF LATE BLOOMER

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OceanofPDF.com
Published in 2022 by Murdoch Books, an imprint of Allen & Unwin

Copyright © Chloé Hayden 2022

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including
photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system,
without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian
Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per
cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any
educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the
educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a
remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.

Murdoch Books Australia

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Phone: +61 (0)2 8425 0100
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[email protected]

Murdoch Books UK
Ormond House, 26–27 Boswell Street, London WC1N 3JZ
Phone: +44 (0) 20 8785 5995
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[email protected]

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN 978 1 92261 618 0

eISBN 978 1 76118 504 5

Cover design by Amy Daoud

Text design by George Saad
Author photograph by Jayden Course

Typeset by Midland Typesetters

DISCLAIMER: The content presented in this book is meant for inspiration

and informational purposes only. The author and publisher claim no
responsibility to any person or entity for any liability, loss, or damage
caused or alleged to be caused directly or indirectly as a result of the use,
application, or interpretation of the material in this book.

Every reasonable effort has been made to trace the owners of copyright
materials in this book, but in some instances this has proven impossible.
The author(s) and publisher will be glad to receive information leading to
more complete acknowledgements in subsequent printings of the book and
in the meantime extend their apologies for any omissions.

The authors and publishers acknowledge that we meet and work on

the traditional lands of the Cammeraygal, Gadigal and Wangal
people of the Eora Nation and pay our respects to their elders past,
present and future.

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‘Your life is an occasion. Rise to it.’
—Mr. Magorium’s Wonder Emporium

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 Author’s note

‘Neurodiversity is:

a state of nature to be respected

an analytical tool for examining social issues
an argument for the conservation and facilitation of human diversity.
It is not a synonym for “Neurological Disorder”.’
—Judy Singer, from her blog Reflections on Neurodiversity

Australian autistic sociologist Judy Singer first coined the term

‘neurodiversity’ in the late 1990s to describe the natural variation of brain
function and behavioural differences that exist among humans, including
conditions such as autism, ADHD, dyslexia and dyspraxia. Neurodiversity
recognises that neurological differences are not inherently bad or
problematic, but simply the result of variations in the human genome and
our diverse human population.

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INTRODUCTION

Once Upon a Time …

CHAPTER 1

Growing Up ‘Quirky’

CHAPTER 2

School

CHAPTER 3

Sensory Issues, Stimming, Meltdowns, Shutdowns and

Burnout

CHAPTER 4

Friends and Sidekicks

CHAPTER 5

Mental Health

CHAPTER 6

Seeking a Diagnosis

CHAPTER 7

Settling into Who You Are

CHAPTER 8
Eye Sparkles

CHAPTER 9

Adulting

CONCLUSION

Finding Your Happily Ever After

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
SUPPORT RESOURCES
NOTES
INDEX

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I’ve always been in love with the idea of fairytales, with a world of pastel
colours, flower-covered fields, fairies and enchanting princesses, of magic
and spontaneous music. A world in which the lead is considered a hero
because of their differences, rather than ostracised and pushed aside for
them, and where good and kind always overcome scary and evil. A world
where ‘happily ever afters’ are a given, rather than a hopeful yearning.
Growing up, I wished desperately to be part of this world. I named all my
soft toys after Disney characters, spoke almost solely in Disney quotes,
hoarded fairytale memorabilia like a little goblin, blacked out as an eighteen
year old when I met Tinkerbell at Disneyland and, for a good portion of my
life, wore only clothing that I believed resembled my favourite fairytale
princesses.
I looked to those princesses, fairies and anthropomorphised woodland
creatures and pined with every fibre of my body to be like them, to have, as
they did, a firm understanding of my place in the universe. Every night I
left my bedroom window open on the off-chance Peter Pan would realise
he’d forgotten a peculiar little girl, left her in the wrong universe, and come
back, take her hand and whisk her away to a world of pirates, pixies and
mermaids. Away from her own land, where life was as confusing and
difficult as the hardest journey in any fairytale. Day after day, year after
year, I sat, wishing, hoping, praying. But Peter didn’t come.
My heart grew heavier as I slowly realised that life wasn’t like fairytales.
Perhaps magic was reserved only for princesses and knights in shining
armour. Perhaps those shooting stars, upon which I had wished so hard,
were just flaming balls of gas.
My teenage years were a tangle of emotions as I tried to forget the
fantasy of a place where I fit in. Every part of my life, of society, of
growing up reminded me again and again that fairytales were only for
make-believe, and that happily ever afters didn’t exist outside of
storybooks. But my heart still deeply yearned for it, like a child at
Disneyland who is ‘too old’ to believe in princesses but still feels their
tummy twist in excitement when a princess waves to them, or who shuts
their eyes just that little bit tighter on Christmas Eve so that Santa Clause
will presume they’re asleep and still leave them presents.
As I’ve gotten older, though, I’ve started to realise that perhaps my
yearnings weren’t unwarranted. Peter Pan may not be coming any time
soon, and maybe I’m not going to look at my reflection in a pool of water
and have all my hopes and dreams come true, but this isn’t because
fairytales aren’t real. Not in the slightest. In fact, I believe in fairytales now
more than ever. We are living them every day of our lives. Allow me to
explain.
When we are introduced to fairytales, we learn that every single one of
them has three fundamental stages, and my theory is that we can see these
three stages in our own lives:

1. The Once Upon a Time stage, an introduction, an opening to a new

adventure, the promise of something new. Fairytales need beginnings
that aren’t all sunflowers and butterflies—imagine if every fairytale
started off with a happy protagonist backed by a joyful soundtrack and
no evil lion uncles, sorcerers or poisoned apples in sight. Would that
even be a story at all? Despite how much it may hurt, our Once Upon a
Time needs to start somewhere challenging, maybe even a bit bleak, to
launch us into our second stage.
2. The Adventure stage is about confronting dragons, great journeys and
courageous battles. Your Adventure might not be with a fire-breathing
beast, but perhaps it’s with poor circumstances, ill mental health, a lack
of accessibility and understanding, or a world of other challenges. Our
Adventure is where our stories begin to come together: we meet our
sidekicks, we find the path to figure out who we are, and we begin to
discover where our place is in the world.
3. And finally, if Disney has taught me anything, it’s that if you think your
fairytale is finished but you haven’t reached your Happily Ever After
stage yet, you are still only in the beginning chapters and you have
many stages to go. A book cannot close without a Happily Ever After; a
fairytale movie cannot end without a triumphant orchestral finale. And
regardless of whatever happened during your Once Upon a Time and
your Adventure stages, the same holds true for you: your Happily Ever
After will come.

And the best part? Unlike traditional fairytales, in which every final page
is exactly the same, your fairytale is not a closed book. You will experience
many Once Upon a Times, Adventures and Happily Ever Afters. A Happily
Ever After is not the end of your story, but merely the introduction to the
next instalment.
 I’ll take any excuse to use a Disney analogy, and so throughout this book
we’re going to keep coming back to three Disney storylines that resonate
especially strongly for me and that I believe beautifully depict these three
stages: those of Genie in Aladdin, Quasimodo from The Hunchback of
Notre Dame and Simba in The Lion King.
Maybe you haven’t been trapped inside a magic lamp for thousands of
years like Genie in Aladdin, but I know that many of us have felt just as
trapped and scared as he did. Maybe you haven’t been holed up in a bell
tower in Paris like Quasimodo in The Hunchback of Notre Dame, but as
society continues to tell us that we need to fit certain social norms and
aesthetics in our appearance, identity, abilities and personalities, many of us
have also felt like hiding away, thinking who we are is never going to be
good enough. And maybe a crazed uncle didn’t throw your father into a
stampeding herd of wildebeest and blame the situation on you, as Simba’s
did in The Lion King, but I know there have been times in our lives when
we’ve felt as betrayed, hurt and alone as Simba did.
The beginning of my own fairytale seemed picture-perfect. Much like
Simba, I grew up in a safe, loving home where we never wanted for
anything. I was surrounded by an amazing family and loving parents who
always went above and beyond for me and my siblings. I had access to
whatever I needed and my abilities and identity were never questioned or
denied while I was surrounded by those who loved me. If you were to
watch my Once Upon a Time, you might have assumed I was already at the
Happily Ever After. But, despite what appeared to be the beginning of a
charmed, easy story, I was the most terrified, scared, sad, worried little girl
that you would ever meet.
I knew from a young age that my mind, my identity and who I was
weren’t wanted or valued in the wider community, that I wasn’t what I was
supposed to be.
In my fairytale, I was the trapped Genie.
In my fairytale, I was the hidden, misunderstood Quasimodo.
In my fairytale, I was the outcast that society had abandoned.
In my fairytale, I was Simba, the broken lion club.
I wasn’t off to a good start.
Like all fairytales, the story you are about to read is one of overcoming
difficulties, finding resilience, discovering a Happily Ever After and
creating a life that is your own. We’ll be exploring neurodiversity, autism,
disability and mental health in a way that is still unspoken about in our
society—a society that hasn’t yet realised just how brilliant and needed
different minds are. What’s unusual here is that this book was written by a
neurodivergent, disabled person—not by someone who has studied these
topics from a distance, but by someone who lives them.
It’s important to note that while I am always learning from the
neurodivergent community to speak on their behalf, the views in this book
are mine. If you are neurodivergent and your opinions are different, that is
totally valid. You decide how you identify yourself, how you are treated and
how your voice is used. Do not let anyone silence you. If you are
neurotypical, however, it is time to take a step back and allow us to be
heard.
This book is equal parts my story and your story. My hope is that you
will see yourself in this journey and, as we celebrate the importance of
embracing what’s different about ourselves—our skills and abilities, the
beauty of our minds—you will find your voice and your pathway to
thriving in a world that so often doesn’t make sense.
As a young girl sitting in a psychologist’s office after receiving a
diagnosis, I wish I had been handed this book. So, if that is you right now,
hey, I see you. I was you. And I’m excited for the journey you’re about to
embark on.
This book is for any human who has thought for far too long that they’re
living on a planet that was not created for them and is wondering how they
can find their way home. It’s for those who are ready to take their place in
their fairytale. It’s for those who are ready to discover that they are
different, but not less.
This book is also for the sidekicks in our stories, for every protagonist in
a fairytale has their sidekicks. So, listen up parents, carers, wider family,
friends, health professionals, teachers and the rest of you: you all have your
parts to play. We can all be inspired to create a world in which everyone has
the opportunity to succeed in all that we do.
So, find your favourite spot, get your favourite beverage (I quite fancy a
matcha tea myself but, hey, it’s your fairytale, so take your pick). The
classical music is about to begin, the knight’s horses have been tacked up in
their finest leathers, the princess has been laced into her favourite dress.
You are about to embark on the greatest story: the one of you embracing
who you are.
OceanofPDF.com
In the story of The Lion King (an absolute cult classic with arguably one of
the best movie soundtracks of all time—thank you, Mr Elton John and Mr
Hans Zimmer) we meet Simba, a sassy, confident, proud little lion cub with
the most brilliant life any kid could possibly dream of. He spends his days
training to become the king of Africa and playing in the grass with his
friend Nala, and he’s surrounded by a family that shows him nothing but
love and protection. He grows up knowing that all of him, and all that he is,
is good.
Simba’s Once Upon a Time seems to be picture-perfect. Until it’s not. At
exactly thirty-five minutes and twenty-six seconds into the film, one of the
saddest moments in cinematic history unfolds as Simba’s uncle throws a
whole ‘long live the king’ moment and this little lion cub’s life changes
forever. Simba’s dad is killed, and he’s blamed for it.
He’s not off to a good start.
In Aladdin, we meet Genie, a bubbly, bold, louder-than-life character
who seems to exist solely for comedic value. But behind the absolutely
banger songs and quality one-liners, the Genie is going through something
that makes even a street rat look like a prince. Genie is trapped, and he’s
been trapped for ten thousand years. He lives his life as a prisoner,
accepting that this is all he will ever be.
He’s not off to a good start.
In The Hunchback of Notre Dame, we meet Quasimodo. From the
moment we see the title of this film, we know how Quasi has been created
to be portrayed. People laugh at him and spit at him on the streets, and he’s
locked away in a bell tower because of what society tells him he is, and
what he will never be. From day one, Quasimodo lives in a world that can
never see him for who he is, and will only ever see him through myopic
eyes as a monster. A burden. Different.
He’s not off to a good start.
My Once Upon a Time was a bit difficult, too.
My parents called me ‘our quirky little genius’, ‘our princess and the pea
child’. This was because every night I was lost in my encyclopedias, later
rambling about the facts I’d learned to anyone who cared (or didn’t care) to
listen. I would cry at the smallest sign of a tag touching my skin. And I
couldn’t make a single friend unless it was a snail I’d picked up on a path
and begged to keep as a best friend.
 I didn’t fit in at school, my teachers often calling my parents to let them
know that I’d spent all day hiding in the back of the library or in the toilet. I
couldn’t wear certain clothes, or deal with certain textures—my outfit of
choice was Kmart tracksuits with the tags cut off. The only food that passed
my lips was white, bland and less than two ingredients. (Pasta with cheese?
Fine. White bread and butter? Great. Don’t even think about adding
something else into the mix, though.)
I didn’t have any friends, nor did I care to try making them, and would
instead be spellbound for hours in my books or make-believe worlds, which
no one else was authorised to enter. I’d speak out of turn, lecturing adults as
a seven year old and letting them know that their hair was messy, or that
something they’d said was untrue, or that they were unkind. Other times,
I’d go out of my way to tell every stranger I saw how pretty they were. And
sometimes I wasn’t able to speak at all, becoming mute.
Routine and structure were important; perish the thought of plans or
routines changing. Something as small as dinner being ten minutes later
than when Mum had said it would be, or the time of my weekly horse-
riding lessons being moved would cause a panic equivalent to being caught
in the headlights of an oncoming car.
I refused to walk down the laundry aisle in the grocery store because the
smells made me want to vomit. Haircut appointments ended with me
sobbing, taking multiple showers to rid myself of the feeling of hair
snippets on my skin. And I begged to stay in the car whenever Mum went
into a shop that I associated with the overpowering noise of overhead
fluorescent lights.
Despite all of this, to my parents and those who surrounded me, I was
just Chloé. A bit sensitive, a bit quirky, a bit off the cuff. And, after all, what
child isn’t a bit of an oddball?
To me, though? It felt like I had crash-landed on an alien planet, a world
that seemed similar enough to my own that I was able to fake it for a few
years, but distant enough that I felt like a complete and utter freak. It was as
though everyone else had figured out the rules of this planet, but the rocket
scientists back home had forgotten to give me the handbook, and it was
entirely up to me to figure them out.
People on this planet were horribly, ridiculously confusing, and
everything seemed like it was out to destroy my entire being. The lights
were atrociously loud and blindingly bright. The people said things they
didn’t mean at all (‘It’s raining cats and dogs’ apparently did not mean a
hailstorm of puppies and kittens, much to my twelve-year-old self’s
disappointment). There were social ‘rules’ that everyone had to follow, even
though they didn’t make any sense and, if you broke them, people treated
you as if you had just broken some secret, ancient code.
Eye contact? Small talk? And why are you people so touch oriented?
None of it made any sense. Even still, none of it makes sense.
For the longest time, I was convinced that my life was the furthest thing
from a fairytale that it could possibly be. I was bewildered as to why my
home planet had left me on this strange new planet where nothing added up
and the things that should be were not, and the things that should not be,
were. I was an alien trapped on a strange, confusing place far from home,
alone and desperate, but every portal home had a big red ‘No Chloés
allowed’ sign.
Still, to my parents, none of this seemed apparent, despite every part of
my existence screaming ‘autistic’, like a bright, neon sign plastered to my
forehead. I remained, simply, Chloé. Weird, quirky, Chloé.

Not off to a good start

I knew from a very young age that my mind was worlds apart from those of
the people surrounding me. I knew it when I sat alone in the kindergarten
playground and spoke to the birds while wistfully watching the other kids
play. How did they make it look so easy? I knew it when the other kids built
fantasy worlds out of LEGO while I lined the bricks up in colour order. I
knew it when children my age walked past and I held Mum’s hand a bit
tighter, already (at the ripe old age of four) painfully aware of the
judgemental stares and whispers. I knew that society didn’t accept me, that I
wasn’t built for the culture our world had created.
I vividly remember writing a letter to God in my journal when I was five,
asking why he’d made me so different, and if he could ‘magic me’ to not be
so different, if it wasn’t too much of a hassle. The idea of being different
was terrifying, and the realisation that I might always be different led to
tears, panic and a desperation for change. I became selectively mute for
much of the first sixteen years of my life. What was the point of using my
voice when I was convinced my existence wasn’t needed?
Despite my early understanding that ‘different’ meant being ridiculed, it
wasn’t something anyone else worried about back then. Difference was
seen as, ‘You’ve yet to grow into yourself, but don’t worry, it’ll happen.’ It
wasn’t entirely frowned upon for a child to be quirky. There is always a
social quota on what level of ‘odd’, ‘different’, ‘a bit of a screw loose’ is
deemed socially acceptable for kids. So, for some time, I was the only one
who realised I was in an alien universe. The rest of the world would pat my
parents on the back and assure them, ‘Don’t worry, she’ll change’.
As is the way for so many of us who grow up different.
Of course, this isn’t something limited to neurodivergence, it’s something
that so many of us face from the moment we’re born. Different minds,
bodies, identities … they’re picked apart, as we either learn to conform or
grow numb to the feeling of being alienated.
Little boys are taught that emotions are weak, that being ‘manly’ means
being strong, tough and dominant.
Little girls are taught that being pretty is all they need to be, and that
cooking, cleaning and mothering skills are more important than a brilliant
mind, empowerment and independence.
Young BIPOC (black, indigenous and people of colour) children grow up
with white Barbie dolls, cream-coloured stockings, white standards of
beauty and a culture that implicitly privileges whiteness.
Heteronormativity is pushed on children from the moment they’re born,
and God forbid if a little girl wants to marry a princess instead of a prince—
or no one at all.
Every single one of us is given a black and white manual of how and who
we have to be in every aspect of our lives. Some of us are comfortable with
that manual; our neurotypes, cultures and identities already fit with what
our family, peers and culture see as ‘normal’. These invisible rules are
accepted and followed. But for those who can’t, or don’t, or choose not to,
the script often starts like this:

‘You’re too young to understand.’

‘You’ll grow to accept it.’
‘Oh well, life isn’t fair.’
 Society assumes that eventually we’ll fade into an acceptance of what we
should be, that we’ll silence ourselves into a submission of the ideologies
and expectations we’ve been taught. Divergent thoughts, ideas and
emotions are pushed aside with the idea that eventually we’ll learn to
simply conform. We’re taught that if a child thinks or acts out of the norm,
don’t worry, because they’ll soon change their ways. Society often accepts
difference in children, but it’s not ‘acceptance’ so much as it is a confidence
that those differences will fade.
But what about when they don’t fade as the years pass? What happens
when that child becomes a teenager, and societal pressure hasn’t been
enough to change their identity? That’s when ‘a little bit quirky’ may as
well be a form of the plague.

Challenging times
Being a teenager is difficult for even the most social, bubbly, ‘totally got
this’ sort of person. You’re in that weird limbo stage between childhood and
adulthood, not allowed to do some things but expected to do others. It’s
expected that you’ll start to discover yourself and your identity (but, not too
much). You’re finding out who you are, how to fit in, what your place in the
world is and, perhaps, how different you are.
As a teenager, ‘different’ is synonymous with social reject, outcast,
weirdo, loser … you get the point. It’s social suicide. For me, it went from,
‘Oh, that’s Chloé. She’s a bit quirky’ to ‘There’s something wrong with that
girl’. And the other teenagers Ate. That. Up.
Now, in my fairytale, instead of being like the little lion cub, I was the
dead antelope carcass that lion cubs would eat … but they weren’t lion
cubs, they were hungry hyenas disguised as teenagers.
I spent Year 7 at a beachy high school where every single girl in my
grade was curvy and skinny in all the right places, with bleached blonde
hair and a perfect suntan, and all the boys were surfers, skaters or Harry
Styles lookalikes. Everybody seemed to conform to an invisible manual of
societal acceptance and didn’t appear to question it (or, at the very least, did
a wonderful job of playing pretend).
 Conversely, I turned up to school with unbrushed hair and a piece of hay
in it from feeding my horses that morning (the only thing that kept me
sane). Instead of going to the local cafe or shopping centre after school with
the rest of the girls, I’d catch the bus home and immediately retreat to my
room to write make-believe stories, read my encyclopaedias or bribe my
little sister into playing toy horses with me. So, yeah, popularity wasn’t
really beckoning me. Or even the idea of a basic social life, really.
It seemed that over the summer everyone had left me behind, the smoke
of their Barbie car tyres blowing in my face, making very clear what I had
already known for my entire life: I definitely, absolutely, 100 per cent was
not created for this world. No matter how much I tried, no matter how much
I pretended, no matter how much I fake-laughed and mimicked the
personalities of the ‘it girls’, my childhood quirkiness was no longer
accepted and it was time to conform. Difference? Individuality? In this
economy? Puh-lease.

Society often accepts

difference in children, but it’s
not ‘acceptance’ so much as it
is a confidence that those
differences will fade.

Finding our space

Our world teaches us that if we don’t fit in, we’ll be cast out. We’re pushed
into a tiny little box that we need to fit into to have a stable life. Some fit
into that box quite easily; it was designed to fit them. Others manipulate
and shift themselves to squeeze into it—and perhaps it’s not exactly
comfortable, but they can make it happen for the benefit of their lives, their
futures, their careers, their relationships. But for some of us—many of us,
actually—no matter how hard we contort, manipulate and squeeze, we
simply cannot fit. It was not designed for our shape.
Children grow up terrified of being different, knowing that one day
they’re going to have to squeeze their beautifully creative, divergent minds
and identities into a space that should never have been created in the first
place. And it only makes sense for the adults in our lives to encourage this
—it’s the system they’ve always known, the same one they experienced.
You want the best for your child, and it’s accepted that the best is
minimising yourself. Do what you’re told so you can survive.
But why was this box created in the first place? And why can’t we simply
change the shape to fit each of us, as individuals?
Short answer: we can. We’ve simply accepted that it’s easier and safer
not to.
The idea of accepting difference is something we can do every day, and it
starts with us. Teach the children in your life that their differences, their
quirks, their ‘out of the box’ shapes are accepted, and learn to accept them
within yourself, too—despite the fact that you’ve been taught to push them
aside and hide them until they don’t even feel a part of you anymore.
Surround yourself with people who boldly embrace difference and what is
uniquely them, both within your circle of people and in what you ingest via
social and traditional media. Curate your Instagram feed and fill your
bookshelves with humans of different body types, neurotypes, sexualities,
genders, ethnicities … create a new normal.
It is time to create a society that understands that diversity in all aspects
of life is something that we need, and that we cannot progress without
difference.
It starts with us.

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It’s common for kids to feel a little bit anxious on their first day of school—
to hold on to their parent’s hand tightly, cry for the first few minutes, protest
that they’d rather stay home. The largeness of a school building, hundreds
of other kids and the idea that things are changing from what they’ve
known in their short little life is expected to come with a small amount of
uncertainty.
It’s also expected that the little worries would soon be quelled, that the
tears would stop when they see the playground or the other kids, or their
teacher and the craft supplies waiting for them. Then the hand will be let go
of and the child will be off on their merry way with their lunchbox and a
backpack three times the size of their bodies, ready to start thirteen years of
education with a toothy little smile.
Yeah … that never happened for me.

The first week of hell … I mean, school

What was my school experience like? How was my first day of school?
Picture this: a gladiator showdown. I was both the ferocious lion and the
puny little ‘how did I end up in this situation’ human. The school was the
Colosseum, and my soon-to-be classmates the spectators who had
unknowingly bought tickets to the most exhilarating, thrilling, untamed
battle the world had ever seen.
Imagine me, beautifully brushed plaits on either side of my head. Much
to my dismay, that had been my warm-up battle. My mother had begged,
pleaded and finally bribed me into sitting still so she could brush my hair
and plait it—to ‘look lovely on my first day of big-kid school’. Schoolbag
in tow, parent on either side, I looked like a prisoner on her way to death
row.
In the process of merely getting me out of the car and to the school gates,
I had grabbed on to any and all possible surfaces, kicking my legs and
screaming bloody murder, hoping the nearby police station would hear my
wails, assume kidnap or torture, and rescue me. The fiery pits of primary
school hell were out to get me and I was not going to let them take me
down without throwing every inch of my little four-year-old self into it
along the way. This was war.
 I. Was. Spartacus.
When I was dragged into the school building, I executed my final great
feat with all the strength that a scrawny four year old could muster. I held
on to the metal posts outside of the receptionist’s office with such strength
and determination that my parents started pulling one leg, and a school
receptionist and principal pulled the other. It was like one of those
children’s cartoons, with my body parallel to the ground. Letting go was not
an option.
The school staff, apparently accustomed to this sort of behaviour
(although I like to think my battle was among the best they’d seen), barely
batted an eyelid. After a few minutes, they decided that the fight wasn’t
worth having and reassured my parents that this was very normal, and that
after they left I would drop the act, give in and go to class.
Tearfully, my parents left, as did the staff, who returned inside. I assume I
was expected to admit defeat, let go of the bar, wipe my teary, mucus-
covered face and walk inside with a solemn apology, ready for my first day
of education. What really happened was similar to what Buddhist monks
perhaps experience, or Spirit, the wild stallion of the Cimarron from the
DreamWorks movie, in the scene when he was tied up to the fence without
food and water for three days. Or maybe the protestors of great causes who
stay put in the face of adversity. My stubborn, terrified little self did not
budge.
I did not move a muscle that entire school day. My legs and arms were
still wrapped around that metal bar when my parents returned six hours
later.
That whole ‘she’ll get over it’ idea? Nope, didn’t happen.
I knew from day dot that school was going to be complete and utter hell,
and I was right to cling on to that bar because the horrors that awaited were
beyond what even my imagination could muster.
On the second day of school, I was convinced to let go of my beloved
metal bar, thanks to an amber necklace my uncle had made for me and my
cherished soft panda, which I’d had since I was an infant. Panda stayed with
me the entire time, refusing to leave my arms even for a moment. Any
suggestions from my teachers of ‘letting her sleep in your bag until home
time’ were met with death stares filled with the same amount of poison as a
golden dart frog (for those who don’t have an animal hyper-fixation, that’s a
lot of poison).
 My school was a devout Catholic school, a place where mass services
and confessions of our sins happened every morning, where Jesus was a
mysterious, untouchable entity reserved only for those holy enough to speak
to him—or us commoners if we were given special selection. During
morning prayers, the school priest would come to our classroom to light a
candle that represented Jesus, then we would stand in a circle and the
teacher would pass the candle (meaning Jesus) around so we could all pray.
On my third day of school, I was handed the candle and, whether because
of nerves, allergies or Satan himself infiltrating my spirit, I sneezed. I
single-handedly blew out Jesus.
My teacher screamed and pointed me down like a fourteenth-century
witch, yelling that, because of me, none of us would be able to pray that
day, and that I was the sole reason why every single one of them was going
to end up in hell. A bit of pressure to put on a four year old, hey? Sorry for
damning all of our spirits, guys. That one’s on me.
I was escorted to the priest’s office and made to confess my sin of
blowing out Jesus. I was then prayed for, so that Jesus would hopefully
forgive me and save me from eternal damnation.
A small group of girls came up to me during lunch that day and asked if I
wanted to play with them. I was still shaken by the whole candle blowing-
out episode and I’d spent the day before sitting by myself, watching other
kids interacting and creating friendships. I was desperate for the same thing,
so I took their offer with an eager smile and Panda gripped in my arms.
After playing tag and hide and seek, one of the girls suggested we take
turns hiding Panda to spice things up a little. How was I to know that a
group of four- and five-year-old girls could be anything other than genuine?
So, with a little kiss to Panda’s forehead, I agreed and reluctantly handed
her to one of the girls. Come the end of lunchtime, the too-loud school bell
alerted us it was time to go in … and Panda was nowhere to be seen. Still
cautiously optimistic, I asked the girls where she was. I was met with
hurtful laughs, and then one of them told me that Panda had been thrown
over the boundary and into the forest beside the school property.
Every part of me went numb. The forest next to the school was thick,
untouched land with large banks and ditches, and impossible to get into.
Still, I turned and ran back to the playground and tried to climb over the
fence to get Panda back. The fence was several metres high and lined with
barbed wire, but that wasn’t going to stop me. I was fuelled with a
determination that no barrier, no fence, no four-year-old bully could tear
from me.
It didn’t take long for the teachers to realise I wasn’t in class and to find
me bawling my eyes out, desperately trying to get over the fence. ‘Oh well,
that’s what happens when you bring precious items to school,’ they
answered to my tearful plight, dragging me back to class. Even now, writing
about this makes my heart sink and my eyes feel sharp with tears.
After school that day, Mum and I found Panda hidden underneath a pile
of tanbark in the playground cubby house.
On my fourth day, during lunch, I was invited to play basketball with
another group of kids. I naively agreed and was then beaten up by some
boys while the girls stood by, watched and chanted. I went home without
speaking of the incident. There hadn’t been any adult witnesses, and I’d
already learned how little the teachers cared for me and how much of a
mess-up they thought I was. When my parents asked how school was that
day, I responded with a quiet ‘fine’ and retreated to my room.
On my fifth day, again during lunch, my amber necklace was violently
ripped from my neck, little orange beads flying everywhere. As the school
bell screeched, I attempted to collect the beads that had been thrown in
varying directions, now blending in with the tanbark and becoming twice as
difficult to spot with the tears pooling in my eyes. I was once again dragged
back to class—this time given detention for disobeying school rules.
And that was just my first week.
Honestly, looking back, I probably deserved all this after a horrible,
awful, unforgivable thing I did in blowing out Jesus. Sorry, again.
So, yeah. It took me all of one week to realise that school completely,
utterly sucked. I should have kept holding on to that metal post after all.

The never-ending school adventure

School didn’t get any easier. If anything, I learned over and over how
broken the system is and how overlooked we are if we can’t conform—not
just by the educational system, but by teachers and students who have been
taught that fitting in is the only way to amount to anything and who will
ridicule, condemn and destroy anyone who doesn’t.
 It didn’t take long for me to become paranoid and fearful of school. I
stopped speaking up in class, scared to put my hand up if I didn’t
understand a question for fear of the teacher calling me lazy, stupid or
inattentive (all of which happened multiple times). You don’t know true
suffering until you’ve been belted over the head with The Complete Works
Of Shakespeare by an angry teacher who’s trying to beat the ‘quirky’ out of
you, or whipped on the knuckles for not touch-typing fast enough (although
I can now type over 135 words a minute, so thanks, I suppose), or have
slurs yelled at you by a substitute teacher for being ‘either deaf, retarded or
really, really dumb. Take your pick.’ Absolutely correct. I should not have
been born different, that’s on me. Sorry, once again.
Not speaking in class soon turned into not showing up for class, spending
many days hiding in the toilets or at the back of the library. When my
hiding spots were discovered, not going to class turned into not going to
school. I got away with it for a while, able to fake a stellar cough and sick
voice. But as time progressed and my parents grew suspicious, I took it up a
notch.
As a child, and even now still, I can get myself so worked up, so worried
and paranoid, that I become physically sick. Growing up, my parents could
always tell when I was lying because, within seconds of the lie coming out,
I would be absolutely chucking my guts. Now as an adult, I know when I’m
overworking myself or becoming stressed because I’ll get chronic
tonsillitis, something I had at least five times a year as a child, too. When it
came to school, the very idea of going to a place that was so horrendously
toxic caused my body to turn on itself, and so, when I complained to Mum
and Dad of feeling ill and getting migraines, it wasn’t a lie.
Avoiding school dominated such a large part of my time I hardly ever
went. Over time, I could stop even pretending to be sick in order to stay
home and was simply allowed to. I think Mum started to realise how
uncomfortable school was for me, and the effect it was having on my
mental health. So, if allowing her daughter to stay in her room and learn by
writing exuberant stories and reading adult-length novels and university-
grade encyclopaedias was what it took, so be it.
As lovely as that was, it’s illegal for a child to miss more than a certain
number of schooldays per year, a number that I had well and truly overshot
by the end of term one. There was no permanent escape for me. When I was
there teachers would praise and reward the children with perfect attendance
while looking at me with disdain.
The concept of attendance policies—pizza parties, ribbons and awards
for children who turn up every day—has never sat right with me. It doesn’t
give disabled, chronically ill or mentally ill children fair opportunity. In
fact, it penalises them for being less healthy or capable, compromising the
safety of immunocompromised children and those whose minds and bodies
can’t deal with the stress of the system. It’s a concept rooted deeply in
ableism (discrimination that favours neurotypical and able-bodied people)
and doesn’t place any value on actual education, which, as I came to
discover, is true for many things in the schooling system. Go figure.
One day in Year 3, I was sitting on my bedroom floor at home playing an
elaborate game with my toy horses when I heard a knock at the door. There,
standing in my doorway, were the school principal and two other staff
members. My heart dropped. I immediately felt bile rise to my throat, my
body begin to shake and the back of my eyes stinging with tears as the
teachers put on sweet voices, feigning interest in my horses before breaking
the news that I needed to go to school. That ‘no’ wouldn’t be accepted as an
answer, and they were here to take me there now. I cried my eyes out,
begging them to let me stay home and pleading with Mum, who had tears in
her own eyes, to make them go away as they dragged me to their car to take
me to school—not even that metal bar could save me now.
My one and only saving grace at school came in Year 4 in the form of
one teacher: Wendy. Despite never knowing a diagnosis for my difference,
she never cared, nor did she ever try to make me conform. Instead, Wendy
praised my differences daily and made sure that, during her class, I was
never left feeling like an outcast.
Wendy quickly noticed that I learned differently from the other students,
and always made time to explain things in a way I understood. We used
little signals so I wouldn’t feel exposed when I felt overwhelmed or
uncertain. She allowed me to sit wherever I needed, to learn in the ways I
needed, and she made exceptions in our school projects, so I was allowed to
write about the subjects that made me tick.
During lunch, Wendy would give up her own personal time to let me sit
in the classroom with her, where the two of us would discuss our favourite
books and animals, and she’d listen to my rambles about horses and the
Titanic. On particularly bad days, she’d hug me, dry my tears, reassure me,
and tell me to pull out a book to clear my head. On multiple occasions, she
even brought her rescued Border Collie into school and allowed her to sit
beside me throughout the day so I would feel less vulnerable and scared.
When I couldn’t attend school for days at a time due to anxiety and fear,
she’d greet me back with open arms, asking, ‘How are you feeling? How
can I help? I missed you.’ She actively encouraged me to pursue whatever
made my heart sing, reminding me on multiple occasions that school was
only one chapter of my life, and in the real world I would find my people
and my place, and thrive.
Throughout my nine years of mainstream schooling, Wendy was the only
teacher who encouraged me to be me, who showed me that who I was
wasn’t only okay but was also wonderful. I still think of Wendy all the time
and will never forget the impact she had on me. She was that one teacher
who instrumentally shifted my life, who taught me that it wasn’t the whole
world that was bad. We just need to look for our sidekicks. Wendy was my
first sidekick, and the only one I ever had within the schooling system.

A system of sameness
And then came Year 7—high school. High school was a completely new
ballgame, a battle that would make my primary school struggles seem like
child’s play. Petty bullying, stealing Panda and mocking my name (‘Chlo-
wee’ was a classic gag, apparently) turned into harmful insults. Suddenly, it
wasn’t just ‘Chloé’s weird’, it was:

‘Chloé’s fat.’
‘Chloé’s ugly.’
‘Chloé’s dumb.’
‘Why are your eyes so wide apart?’
‘Why does your nose look like that?’
‘You’re never going to get a boyfriend.’
‘You shouldn’t even be here.’
 It was letters put in my locker telling me to kill myself. It was that same
locker being broken into, my books stolen, and my art books drawn all over,
then teachers telling me I should have had a better locker combination and
to not allow myself to be such an easy target.
It was a boy looking pointedly at me during debate class while stating
that ‘abortions should have been made legal’, and girls writing fake notes
impersonating me and then putting them into popular boys’ lockers, making
me the laughing stock.
It was teachers pulling me aside and telling me, ‘You’re in high school,
you need to grow up’, and giving me detention when I got teary for not
understanding the lessons.
It was having my clothes stolen during Phys Ed, a necklace I had been
gifted for my thirteenth birthday being ripped off and thrown into the ocean,
and a baby bird that I had rescued and hidden in my blazer pocket crushed
in front of my eyes when someone yelled out to the teacher that ‘Chloé was
playing on her phone under the desk’ when I was actually feeding him
mashed worms.
It was being pushed into the shallow end of the pool during school sports
day, my two front teeth cracked and falling out while the boys laughed. It
was teachers yelling at me for being a smart-arse because I answered a math
question that asked, ‘How long it would take for a frog to get to a pond a
kilometre away if it jumped a certain distance each day?’ by writing a full
page explaining that the frog would die before it got to the pond because
amphibians can’t go more than three days without water.
It was consistent reports of ‘She’s incredibly intelligent, but disordered
and doesn’t fit in with her peers at all. She needs to try harder’, of teachers
banning me from certain classes, and of me becoming violently sick most
days because of the fear, sadness and anxiety that came with school.
I ended up attending more than ten different schools in eight years, my
parents convinced each and every time that they simply hadn’t found the
right one. We tried schools that had more than a thousand students per year
level and others with only fifty on the entire campus. We tried fancy private
schools with equestrian teams, and public schools where ‘after-school
activities’ meant snorting a line behind the school building. We tried city
schools and schools on thousand-acre farms where our daily school chores
included wrangling lambs … and still, nothing ever changed.
 What I learned was that it does not matter what you do, or where you go,
schools are all organised around the same basic system. It’s a system that
will never work for a neurodivergent person, no matter how hard they try,
because its entire foundation is built against us—despite the fact that, on
average, up to 30 per cent of students in a class are neurodivergent.
School is created on a system that supports, encourages and praises
sameness. Children are taught that they have to perform, act, behave and be
a certain way or they’ll never be able to survive in the world. I can’t count
the number of times a teacher laughed at my struggles and said, ‘If you
think this is difficult, wait until you’re in the real world’.
But the thing is, the real world is nothing like school.
In the adult world, no two of us learn the same, have the same job, think
the same, perform the same or are expected to have the same lives, careers
and working styles. That’s why some people thrive in office jobs while
others thrive as farmers, marine biologists, directors, engineers or chefs. We
can’t expect a farmer to work an office job, or a computer tech to be an
actor, so why do we expect children, during the most vulnerable point of
their developmental lives, to meet this criterion?
Why do we pressure children to fit inside one single box when society
isn’t built for us to be like that?
Children are failed by the school system every day. Autistic kids, ADHD
kids and children with all forms of neurodiversity who are vastly intelligent
and so ready to learn but are never given the opportunity to do so because
our system refuses to support them. I’m not sure why.
Maybe it’s too inconvenient for teachers to give those extra few minutes
to check in, to make sure we’re okay, to make sure the lesson plans actually
make sense. Or maybe it’s because the school system is designed to
program us into sameness, rather than allow us to use our unique creativity,
intelligence and perspectives. Most likely it’s a mixture, and also because
we, as a society, have preconceived ideas of what we have to be like, and if
we’re not that, we’re useless.
Whatever the reason, it’s not good enough. We will never get anywhere
with a system that refuses to embrace difference.
After nine years of struggling in a system that had failed me, my body
and mind slowly dying, my autism diagnosis in Year 8 could not have come
soon enough. Still, I wasn’t removed from the school system until my
parents sat down with the psychologist who diagnosed me and heard these
words: ‘You need to remove your daughter from school now, or you won’t
have a daughter anymore.’
For the first time since starting school, I felt free. I went to bed that night
without the ache in my stomach and the throbbing in my head reminding
me of the school bus coming the following morning. I never again had to
lay out my itchy uniform at the end of my bed, or feel my head grow dizzy
as I stepped through those school gates.
Mum and Dad have told me that from the very first day I was
homeschooled, a sparkle came back into my eyes.

Why do we pressure children

to fit inside one single box
when society isn’t built for us
to be like that?

How homeschooling saved me

A lot of people have very odd ideas about homeschooling, or alternative
education as a whole.

It’s not real education

False. Alternative schooling that allows children to learn, grow and develop
at their own pace and in their own environment can do nothing but good. I
learned exactly what I needed to learn to bring me further along in life—
more so than a mainstream school could ever teach me … and I did it in a
way that wasn’t detrimental to my own health. That is real education.

The child will become a socially outcast freak

I spent so much of my school life locked inside a bathroom, being mentally
tormented or physically hurt by other students and teachers. Becoming a
socially outcast freak was the least of my worries.

How will they ever make friends?

Kids at school often have nothing in common other than the fact that they
live in the same district and are the same age. How is that enough to deem
someone friendship-worthy? While getting homeschooled, I made friends at
my own pace, in my own environments. Over time, my fear of people
began to ease and I found myself choosing to step out into the world.
I made friends at a pony club, where I could speak to people about ponies
for hours. I made friends at a camera club, where I sat down and eagerly
spoke about camera settings and favourite photography spots with 85-year-
old retirees over a cuppa. I made friends at Riding for the Disabled, where I
became the state’s youngest volunteer and teacher. I made friends at acting
and singing class, where my quirks and oddities were praised and
encouraged, and where everyone else was equally bizarre.
All of these activities, by the way, granted me far more education than
anything I’d been taught inside a classroom.

Throughout the last four and a half years of my schooling life, I excelled.
While some subjects remained troublesome—meltdowns over long division
were inevitable, and some days proved to be too difficult—nothing ever
flared to the point that it had while I was inside a classroom.
On the ‘my brain’s not working today’ days, I’d learn out in the world,
going on road trips with Dad, or spending the day in my pony’s paddock
with an encyclopaedia in hand, identifying and drawing bugs and flowers
and birds.
On the ‘I just don’t get it’ days, Mum and Dad would sit with me for
hours to make sure things were explained in ways that I understood. When a
math question asked me to ‘List two different ways to give the customer
$17.50 worth of change’ and I became a crying mess, protesting, ‘But this
isn’t a math question! You either throw it in their face or hand it to them
politely’, my parents simply laughed with me and explained what it actually
meant—rather than yell and put me in detention.
I was allowed to be wholeheartedly, unashamedly myself and, because of
this, I thrived. I graduated high school with academic awards in English, art
and (proof that Jesus doesn’t hate me for blowing him out) math. A year
later, I even decided to go back to a mainstream college to study
Christianity, philosophy, leadership and creative arts—but this time, I knew
who I was and how to stand up for myself when the system didn’t stand up
for me. I knew that my mind, my learning style and my entire being were
okay, accepted and important.
I was incredibly privileged to have parents in a position to homeschool
me, and to have a support network that understood and accepted my
differences rather than continue to force me into an institution that would
never work for me. However, it’s not fair that the only options we currently
have for children like me is to either have their parents give over their lives
to homeschooling, or to suffer in an environment where every ounce of
them is ridiculed, ripped apart or forced to change.

Changing the system

I’ve come out the other side of the schooling system now, and I’m okay—I
survived. But I’m still hearing about and seeing first-hand the abuse and
neglect that happen to young neurodivergent folk in schools every single
day. Young kids are experiencing chronic mental illness; eight year olds are
suicidal because they’re spending five days a week in facilities where
they’re mistreated, tormented and abused. Teenagers leave school feeling
worthless and like they are burdens on society because they’ve never been
taught correctly. And because that is exactly what the school system has
taught us to believe. We are being hurt by the same system that was created
to help us.
Educationally, autistic children have the worst outcomes of all disabled
students in the schooling system, with 97 per cent facing difficulties in their
education and 56 per cent saying they’re being treated unfairly. Forty-four
per cent of autistic children change schools multiple times to try and find a
place that caters to them, and 35 per cent will not continue their education
past Year 10. These statistics are not just ‘part of being autistic’ or ‘part of
being disabled’. These statistics are only because our system refuses to
support children who are different.
Our curriculum needs to change.
We need to change assessment techniques. Teachers need to be educated
about disabilities and neurodiversity as part of their training. We need to
demand extra support in and out of the classroom; there is no excuse for
inaccessibility. Neurodivergent children deserve an educational system in
which we feel safe, validated and have the ability to thrive just as much as
our neurotypical peers.
I still sometimes struggle to pick up my siblings from school or go to
their school recitals because the fear school buildings imprinted upon me
has impacted my mental health and relationship with the education system
for the rest of my life.
I still feel my heart jump an extra hundred beats and tears prick my eyes
when I’m asked to speak to groups of teachers about what the school
system needs to do to improve.
I still have to fight judgement and prejudice because of what our
education system has instilled into all of us about people who are different
like me—that because I’m not built like others, my mind is wrong.
If you judge a fish’s ability to climb a tree, it will live its whole life
thinking it’s stupid. And if you put a brilliant, neurodiverse child into an
institution where they are forced to conform, they will live their whole life
thinking they’re worthless.

OceanofPDF.com
Stimming, sensory issues, meltdowns, burnout … Ah, the sweet words that
come with a brain that wasn’t created to fit into a neurotypical world. But
what do they all mean? What can we do to best support ourselves and the
neurodivergent folk in our lives when it comes to our minds and our bodies’
reactions to the world around us? And, what happens when we don’t receive
that support?
In a world that is geared towards its neurotypical members, and
diminishes, deflects and degrades its neurodivergent ones, how can we
possibly survive? How can we get by?
This chapter discusses the not so great, ‘ah heck’ moments of a
neurodivergent brain in a neurotypical world.
Strap in, folks. This one’s a wild, wild ride.

Sensory issues
Our senses are what we use to experience, interact with and perceive the
world around us. We use our eyes, ears, tongue, nose and skin in different
ways, but the overall purpose of these organs is to utilise our senses to
recognise, navigate and work in our surrounding environments. This
information, and the way our minds translate it, is called ‘sensory
processing’.
The way we take in sensory input is different for everyone, and no two
people will process or use the information in the same way. While one
person may love the feeling of sand between their toes, another may want to
gag at the mere thought of it. While one person may love loud festivals and
concerts, for another they may be a living nightmare.
Some of us use our ears to take in information around us; others use our
senses of touch, or sight. For one person certain textures, smells or sounds
may be unbearable, for another they may be barely noticeable.
Every day, we are constantly flooded with sensory stimuli: traffic noise,
people talking, over a trillion detectable scents, an explosive rainbow of
colour. A lot of people are able to filter out or ‘folder’ that stimuli in a way
that is manageable. For some, however, simply surviving that input can feel
like a mission to Mars (in a very loud rocket ship, with seats made of nails,
and every possible smell bombarding us). This intense ability (or lack
thereof) to process sensory input can impact the way we experience the
world.
Imagine that you’re at the loudest rock concert you’ve ever been to, right
by the speakers, and the concert has been going on for three months without
a break. Right in the middle of it you’re expected to write an essay in a
language you’ve never heard of. Alternatively, imagine that you’re in an
invisible isolation room with glass walls. You can see the world and the
world can see you, but they can’t see the glass walls. They’re completely
unaware of the chamber you’re in. No matter what they say, you can’t hear
them, you can’t feel them, you can’t communicate. You’re trapped, you’re
stuck, and you can’t get out.
This too much or too little processing of stimuli is called sensory
processing disorder, and it affects between 5 and 16 per cent of children,
and up to 95 per cent of autistic people. With this disorder, our brains
struggle to both receive and respond to the information that comes in
through our senses. In groovy terms, our brain activity has an absolute party
when we’re exposed to different sensory stimuli. Nice.
Sensory issues have always plagued my life. The entire world is huge,
and loud, and bright, and painful, and constant. Growing up, my mum
wanted to dress me in expensive, frilly dresses and bows, but the feeling of
the tag on my skin and the pressure on my head were enough to send me
into fits. I felt like my skin was being pricked with nails, that my brain was
about to explode out of my ears. I would rip the clothing off and refuse to
get dressed unless it was in a matching fleece tracksuit set from Kmart—
tags cut off.
When we went to the supermarket, I’d have to wait at the end of the
laundry detergent aisle because the smells were so overpowering that it felt
like my blood was Dynamo Superior Stain Remover and my lungs were
Surf 5 in 1.
I was once at the hairdresser when the prickly feeling of little bits of hair
in my clothes became so intense, all sense of rationality and correct social
behaviour left me and I fully stripped in the middle of the shop, desperate to
rid myself of the prickling fire on my skin.
Every time we attended a loud event, my brain would fizzle to the point
of me passing out and having a seizure on the floor, ending up in a hospital
emergency department on multiple occasions. I’d spend the following days
in tears, vomiting and unable to stand. (On one occasion, this happened at
church. The congregation thought I was overcome with the power of Christ
and came to pray with me. I didn’t have the heart to let them know that I
was, in fact, just overcome by the power of the lights and music.)
On the other side of the coin, sometimes when my system is
overwhelmed and overworked, my senses fade to the point of becoming
utterly useless, particularly hearing and touch. When this affects me, my
brain struggles to convert sensory input into translatable information, taking
an extended amount of time to process the information being received.
Often, I can’t hear a single thing anyone is saying, making ‘What did you
say?’ and ‘Sorry, can you repeat that?’ staples of my speech pattern. People
tend to assume I’m purposely avoiding conversation, slow minded or
choosing to not pay attention, particularly at school (‘incredibly poor
listener and inattentive’ were staples on my report cards). I’ve taught
myself to be a half-decent lip reader because life doesn’t come with
subtitles.
At times, the intensity of the world will affect all of my senses so deeply
that my ability to speak disappears entirely.
This disorder, along with a fun little often-comorbid condition called
‘dyspraxia’, plays a part in my mind–body–senses mismatch. Dyspraxia is
also caused by our brain signals not connecting to our bodies, and it affects
gross motor skills, motor planning and coordination. It’s generally a
separately diagnosed condition, but a significant amount of neurodivergent
folk, like me, have it. Consequently, my handwriting is absolutely shocking,
food ends up on my clothes more frequently than it does in my mouth and
I’m constantly covered in bruises from walking into doors, bumping into
objects and not seeing what’s right in front of me. I’ve fallen over my own
feet and invisible objects more times than I can count, and my ability to
drive is slim-to-none—my brain is unable to visualise the distance between
myself and an object (not brilliant when you’re driving head-on into traffic).
If I had a dollar for every time I crashed a car in my first year of trying to
drive, I’d have $8—not a lot of money, but a lot of car accidents.
If I’m given too many puzzle pieces of sensory stimuli to work out, my
senses will often be disrupted and go home, abandoning me to fend for
myself. I’m left to deal with awkward repercussions when my hearing stops
working, or my hands and brain decide to have a heated, traumatic divorce,
or I have the occasional fun little breakdown because my clothes are
touching my body, or a piece of food didn’t feel right in my mouth, or
someone spoke in a frequency that made my brain hurt.
The overload that comes with sensory processing disorder is something
that can be terrifying and debilitating, and it will usually stay with us
throughout our entire lives. Sensory processing disorder, dyspraxia and all
the other things surrounding our brain’s inability to work in sync with our
senses and bodies can impact our ability to perform to a socially accepted
standard, whether at school, work or in our social lives.
While sensory processing disorder can be helped and altered by a change
of environment and better understanding from the society around us, it’s
been made fairly clear that this sort of instrumental change isn’t going to
happen any time soon. So, in the meantime, there are ways that we can
learn to live with it and combat it by learning more about ourselves, and
learning more about teaching ourselves to validate, value and love our
minds.

SIGNS OF SENSORY OVERLOAD

Loss of balance and poor coordination

As an overload of input is entering into our heads, it becomes increasingly
difficult to remove it, which affects our balance and coordination.
Our brains give a little dramatic performance: You know what? You’re on
your own. I’m going to a party but you’re not invited.
Our body responds with: Motor skills? Coordination? What’s that? Never
heard of them.

Changes in skin tone

With our bodies not taking in signals properly and growing stressed, we
may start to show the physical signs of that discomfort: paleness, pink
cheeks, sweating or shivers.

Becoming non-verbal
When we’re in sensory overload and getting so many different inputs from
so many different avenues, verbal communication can be the first thing to
leave us. Translating our thoughts into verbal communication that you can
hear and understand adds a new layer of difficulty, and with our brains
somewhat hibernating to protect us, it can become close to impossible to
speak.
In this situation, I have a set of communication cards for when I really
need to communicate.

Racing heartbeat
A racing heartbeat can be a telltale sign of sensory overload, an anxiety
attack or a panic attack. It’s important to take time out, rest and practise
mindful breathing when this happens. Ignoring it can lead to fainting, fits
and the potential of a hospital visit, which is the absolute last thing you
need if you’re already in sensory overload.
That said, if a racing heart is something you experience frequently, please
have a chat with your GP. Don’t go through life with a potential
undiagnosed medical condition just because a book told you it could be
related to sensory overload.

Hysteria and crying

If you’re getting to the point of hysteria, you probably don’t need to be told
that sensory overload may be imminent—by this point you’re already well
aware that it is. Ultimately, growing a deep understanding of your body will
allow you to pick up on the signs of being overwhelmed before it gets to the
point of hysteria. That said, these moments can sneak up on any of us. Get
out of the situation and find a safe spot. Look after your mental health
before anything else.

Cramps and nausea

When your brain starts to panic, your body starts to panic, which is why
cramps, stomach pain, racing heart and changes in skin tone can all be signs
of sensory overload. Again, if stomach pain is something you experience
regularly, have a quick chat with your GP.

Repetition of words
Repetition of words (or ‘echolalia’) is incredibly common in autistic people,
and during sensory overload this can be heightened. With so much input
happening and without a brilliant ability to output it, echolalia can be both a
soothing mechanism and a way to lock information in our heads.

Excessive stimming
Repetitive self-stimulatory behaviour (or ‘stimming’) helps us cope with
sensory input, so it’s only natural for that response to heighten when we’re
in uncomfortable situations. With so much happening around us, it can
become physically painful, so we use stimming as a way to ground
ourselves, self-soothe and try to make sense of everything that’s happening.
It’s important to note that stimming is a normal, positive part of the
human experience, and should not be hidden if it’s something that is going
to benefit you. (For more on stimming, see here.)

Becoming agitated or angry

It only makes sense that, if you’re having so much input coming at you and
you’re unable to process it, you’ll get agitated. You’ll get tired, drained,
zoned out, and you’ll want to get away from everything. When it’s
impossible to do that, becoming agitated, upset or angry is only natural.

Difficulty focusing
If sensory overload is happening in a classroom or workplace, it may
become impossible to focus on work. If it’s happening in a social setting, it
may become impossible to focus on conversations and you may begin to
drift away, zone out or repeat words and sentences.

HOW TO COPE WITH SENSORY OVERLOAD

Know the signs

Just as every human being is different, every person’s sensory issues will be
different, and every person’s coping mechanisms will be different. It’s
important that you begin to form a relationship with your mind, and a
deeper understanding of yourself and what sensory overload may look like
for you. Do you start stimming more? Do you lose focus and zone out?
Does your heart rate go up? Do loud noises suddenly become excruciating?
 Over time, you’ll learn what your first signs of overload are, which
means you’ll be better equipped to either deal with or leave the situation
before things progress.

Set a game plan

If I know that I’m going to be in an environment that’s extremely
stimulating (such as a concert, party or festival), I’ll make sure I have a
game plan before I go. Most places will have a map, or at the very least
someone you can ask, that will help you figure out your exit points and ‘get
outta here’ areas before attending. So, if you need to leave, you’ll have your
escape route mapped out.
If you’re running errands, have a list, stick to the list and plan your day
and locations prior to going so you can easily escape if you need to. Don’t
further overload yourself with side trips or ‘while I’m here’ stops. Keep it
simple and know how to get out.
I always have earplugs and noise-cancelling earbuds or headphones on
hand. If the situation allows, I also carry stim toys and weighted lap
blankets—whatever my body may need to get through the day without
overloading my senses.

Adjust your environment

When you’re in sensory overload, your body is telling you that all of your
senses have had too much and can’t handle anything that may up the
intensity. You owe it to yourself to ensure that the environment you are in is
helping these senses, rather than creating further hindrance. This means:

using low, soft, warm lighting—instead of overhead lights, use a salt lamp, a
warm-toned desk lamp in the corner of the room, a night light or fairy
lights
wearing comfortable clothing that isn’t going to aggravate your mind or
your body—for some people, tight compression clothing may be exactly
what they need to help them feel grounded and in control. For others, it
may be the loosest, baggiest clothing they can find.
 having noise-cancelling headphones and gentle music, or decibel-reducing
earplugs
scheduling your day to perfection, including breaks, eating and going to the
toilet.
Listen to yourself, listen to your mind, listen to your body. What do you
need? What do you need to stay away from? You’re the expert on yourself,
and it’s important to surround yourself with things that will benefit you.

Stimming
Stimming, or self-stimulatory behaviour, seems to go hand in hand with an
autism diagnosis and refers to repetitive movements or sounds. It’s also
something that seems to distress much of the neurotypical community.
People hear the word ‘stim’, or see an autistic child self-regulating their
body, and act as if their entire understanding of the human race has been
altered and beaten to the ground. Common reactions are distaste, disgust
and discomfort.

‘Stop moving like that.’

‘Act normal.’
‘That’s no way to behave in public.’
I’ve worked with doctors, psychologists and self-identified ‘autism
experts’ who claim that stimming is a sign of poor behaviour and something
we need to eradicate. Once, while taking part in a panel discussion, I was
told by another panelist that my experience and knowledge were wrong and
shouldn’t be listened to because I was stimming as I spoke and was
therefore ‘uncured’. Pardon me, I wasn’t aware that flapping my hands had
anything to do with my intelligence.
Another time, when I was fiddling with my necklace at an event, I was
slapped on the wrist by an older woman and told ‘that’s a horrid habit’. I
was twenty-three years old and had never met the woman before.
 People will see an autistic child rocking, flapping or making repetitive
noises and immediately deem it as odd, weird, unnecessary and
uncomfortable. Society has come to fear human beings simply moving their
bodies in a way that doesn’t suit its current understanding of ‘normal’.
But, why? When we see someone acting in a way that’s different from us,
why do we automatically judge it as wrong? Particularly because stimming
is an entirely normal part of the human experience.
The fact of the matter is: Every. Single. Person (in the entire history of
the universe, ever). Stims.
Mic drop. Take that, panel-man and weird-old-lady. You’re just like me.
Playing with your hair is stimming.
Clicking your pen is stimming.
Jiggling your leg is stimming.

The fact of the matter is:

Every. Single. Person (in the
entire history of the universe,
ever). Stims.
Playing with the cord of your hoodie is stimming.
Twisting your ring is stimming.
Humming is stimming.
Tapping your pencil is stimming.
Chewing your lip is stimming.
Right now, as you read this very page, you are likely stimming. Because.
It’s. Natural.
We stim because we’re focused, we’re bored, we’re stressed, we have
pent-up emotions that need a place to escape. We do it because we’re
human beings who naturally need to move our bodies and ground ourselves.
The difference when it comes to autistic people, as with many things, is
the way we stim. (As we’ve discussed, some people don’t like things that
are different, whether or not it affects them at all.) For autistic people,
stimming may look like flapping our hands, rocking, jumping up and down,
repeating sounds or words, twirling, walking on our toes, rubbing certain
fabrics or rearranging objects.
Because of these different types of stims, there seems to be a mindset that
stimming = bad. That it’s something we need to stop, hide or eradicate.
To the teachers, psychologists, parents, panel-man, weird-old-lady and
anyone reading this who is hoping that I’m about to present a foolproof
method of erasing stims, forcing silence and conformity, you, my
internalised-ableist friend, are about to be highly disappointed.
Stimming is not a bad thing. And not only should we not try to get rid of
it, we should encourage it. If we continue to feed a society that doesn’t
value individuality and human beings as they are, we begin to destroy them.
While growing up, stimming was a part of my every day. I would flap my
hands when I got excited, rock when I was upset, walk on my toes when I
felt anxious and repeat sounds when I was overwhelmed. No one ever
mentioned it, no one would ever bring it up or seemed to care about it,
because it was just Chloé. That was just how I was. My parents often said I
looked like a little fairy walking on my toes and flapping and jumping.
When I was a toddler, Mum was convinced I must have been a dolphin in
my past life because my echolalia seemed so like dolphin squeaks.
When a child does something regarded to be ever-so-slightly peculiar, it’s
not worried about too much. Children are allowed to be a little bit different,
a little bit quirky, a little bit flappy.

‘They’ll grow out of it.’

‘They’ll learn.’
‘Society will soon fix them.’
But as they get older and still don’t learn to conform or hide, what was
different becomes completely, absolutely unacceptable.
As I got older, it became apparent that moving my body in these ways
was suddenly seen as an atrocity. I was viewed as a leper, someone
unapproachable, someone who was barely functioning. I was Quasimodo, a
monster. I was Genie, stared at in odd curiosity. I was Simba, cast out for
something I couldn’t change. If I began to stim, it was quickly silenced with
a firm restraint of my hand or a quiet murmur: ‘Stop it. People are going to
think you’re a lunatic.’
Oh. That was it.
This is why people (particularly parents) are so fearful of their children
stimming. Our world has taught us that if we act in a way that is different to
the social norm, we are considered low functioning, stupid, dumb, childish,
loony. And the thing is, perhaps those fears are valid. No one wants to see
their child ridiculed. But why are we then determined to change the child,
rather than the world around them? Why do we validate the wrong just
because it’s normalised, and ostracise the right just because it’s not?
So many people during my teenage years told me that I needed to stop
stimming and start acting normal, would whisper and give side-eye glances
in my direction. I was taught to conform, to mask, to cover up. I had to
behave if I wanted any chance of survival.
And so, I did exactly that.
I hid and forced away any need to stim. Neurodivergent? Not me. Wrong
girl.
My need to self-regulate was left unattended and silenced. I firmly
pushed away what my mind and body desperately needed to do for fear of
being further bullied and ridiculed. However, instead of these needs
disappearing and me magically becoming ‘normal’, as was so desired by
those around me, they turned into pent-up anxiety, depression and
dysregulation that would end up bubbling over to the point of meltdowns.
My body would become so overwhelmed and panicked that meltdowns
became a daily part of my life, I spent more time in tears than I did smiling.
Pent-up stims changed into self-destructive behaviours that I couldn’t
control. Instead of flapping my hands, bouncing or repeating words, I
would dig my fingernails into my skin until I bled, scratch myself until my
skin was raw, hit the floor and bite my lips until they bled. I developed tics
that made me jerk my neck to the point of long-term damage.
Taking away a child’s stims doesn’t take away their need to self-regulate;
instead, it forces them into new habits that can cause long-term side effects
and harm, including severe anxiety disorder, depression and emotional
dysregulation. In 50 per cent of cases where therapy is used to stop an
autistic child from stimming, the child has come out with symptoms that
meet the criteria for post-traumatic stress disorder.
 Fun fact: you can be a successful, functioning member of society while
flapping your hands. If we try to stop neurodivergent people from stimming
in ways that are non-harmful (such as rocking, flapping and jumping), the
behaviour is not going to stop altogether; it will instead transfer to stims
that do have the potential to become self-harmful.
Stimming is a normal, necessary part of human existence, and it’s
something we need to normalise, understand, accept and grow comfortable
with. As I’ve gotten older and realised that society’s expectations are only
as firm as we allow them to be, I’ve discovered that allowing myself to
unmask and be my authentic autistic self—stims and all—has unleashed
more ability than I ever had when I was locking myself away.
Having the privilege to unmask and be myself was the hardest, the
longest and one of the most important parts of my journey. I described this
as ‘privilege’ because I’m aware that this is something many are not safely
able to do yet. I’m able to unmask safely because of my support system,
and the way I appear to the outside world. I have a support network that I
know wholeheartedly loves the unfiltered, all-autistic version of me.
And, as a young, small, able-passing white woman, society doesn’t see
my authentic autistic self and the stims that come with that as a threat. If I
stim, the worst that happens is the potential odd look in my direction, or a
couple of nasty comments—things that aren’t detrimental to my health or
wellbeing in the big picture, mostly because I’ve learned that they are no
reflection on me. However, if I didn’t have that support system, my
situation may not be the same. And if I were a larger male, specifically a
larger male of colour, my body’s natural need to cope in a world not created
for me could be seen as threatening and dangerous, simply because of the
stigma society has created around autism, disabilities and the people around
us.

NEED TO STIM?

Visual stims
salt lamps, fairy lights, night lights, LED lights
 kaleidoscopes, glitter lamps, lava lamps
calming videos (virtual fish tanks, sensory videos, visual ASMR)

Auditory stims
clicking or popping fidget toys
listening to music
ambient noise
echolalia
singing, reciting poetry/ scripts/books

Tactile stims
fidget cubes, bubble wrap, spinner rings
soft toys, soft fabric
water beads, kinetic sand
room cleaning/rearranging

Chew stims
chewing gum
‘chewellery’

Vestibular stims
rocking, flapping, jumping
swings, jump rope, balancing boards, scooter

Proprioceptive aids
weighted blankets, lap blankets, weighted toys
compression vests, socks, body socks
 compression bed sheet

Freely, authentically unmasking is a privilege, but it shouldn’t be. We

need to get it through our heads that human beings need to stim and need to
be our authentic selves. Perhaps the greatest lesson we can learn: we need
to mind our own goddamn business.
If something isn’t affecting you (and I mean really affecting you, not the
‘I’m being made to feel uncomfortable, boohoo, poor me’ sort of thing),
suck it up. Consider your privilege … or maybe go and stim for a little bit.
I don’t think there’s ever a moment in my life when I’m not stimming in
some way. It’s a constant for me, and something that I’ve learned is
necessary, so I’ve given myself the validation and love to understand this
and allow my mind and body what they need, regardless of what those
around me may say or do.
I’m always wearing a piece of fidget jewellery—something that looks
like normal, funky jewellery but has extra little bits and pieces that I can
fiddle with and move. (Though, even if it didn’t look like normal jewellery,
who cares? My job on this Earth is not to be deemed aesthetically
acceptable to the rest of the population just to make them comfortable.)
In my bag or in my pocket, I have a small square piece of safe fabric that
I can touch and hold when I’m beginning to feel overwhelmed. I carry my
noise-cancelling headphones and decibel-reducing earplugs with me
everywhere. On particularly bad days, I’ll take my weighted lap blanket if I
need to go out. Screw anyone who looks at me oddly.
I’m a neurodivergent human, and I need extra support to get through the
day in an environment that is not geared towards me. I’m not going to rid
myself of that just to appease other people.
So, my dear humans: stim away.

Meltdowns
When we think of the word ‘meltdown’, it’s often associated with toddlers
throwing a temper tantrum. It’s thought of as screams and fits and a face
full of snot because a child didn’t get their way, or due to bratty behaviour
or an undisciplined child. And it’s seen as a problem with the person having
the meltdown—something they need to snap out of, something that is their
doing, their fault and their responsibility. Meltdowns and their surrounding
issues are seen as incredibly taboo for anyone older than the age of a
toddler, and the older you become, the more taboo it seems to be.
Meltdowns are intense reactions to overwhelming situations. Outwardly
they may manifest as screaming, crying or potentially self-harmful
measures. They are involuntary coping mechanisms, and they are absolutely
terrifying.
You know the static screen of a television—no signal but a loud, fuzzy,
fast-moving, nonsensical picture? You know that feeling when you’re
between sleep and wakefulness and someone tries to talk to you—nothing
makes sense and they may as well be speaking in Sims game language?
They are what a meltdown feels like.
It feels like your head is imploding again, and again, and again.
It feels like you’re the last human left on Earth.
It feels like your entire body is a volcanic eruption.
It feels like you’re in the climax of a horror movie, and the disk is
scratched so the jump scare is on repeat.
And in that moment, it feels like nothing can bring you back out of it.
Your body loses its ability to regulate, comprehend and process. We lose
control of our minds, we lose control of our bodies, we lose control of our
reactions to situations. And it’s the most terrifying, lonely feeling in the
whole world.
That is what a meltdown feels like. That is the truth of meltdowns.
The cause of a meltdown can change drastically, but the underlying issue
is always the same. It is a neurodivergent person’s reaction to trying to
survive in a world that was not created for them. Meltdowns can stem from
something clearly humongous: a fight, a loved one passing, a global
pandemic. Or they can stem from something that, to an outsider’s point of
view, may seem minute: a change of plans, a lost item, a loud
announcement at a train station. Sensory overload of any capacity.
The process of a meltdown is similar to the building of a wave. It may
start small, beginning below the surface before there is any visible change.
There is then a surge of energy that raises the ocean, even if you can’t
necessarily see its full force just yet.
 Meltdowns are most common for me in extremely overwhelming
situations that involve lots of sensory stimuli, intense emotional
expectation, or even just intense emotion. There’s a misconception that
autistic people lack empathy, that we don’t express or feel emotion, but this
couldn’t be further from the truth. We’re a different neurotype, not a robot.
Many, many autistic people process and feel emotions so deeply that even
the smallest wave of emotion feels like a tsunami and can be all-
encompassing, all-consuming.
Happiness feels like a fizzy drink bottle about to explode inside my
tummy. Sadness feels like I’m stuck in a cave with a pool of thick molasses
keeping me prisoner. My inability to cope with grief means that, after I
experience a loss, I’ll go emotionally numb because the idea of even
thinking about or processing the grief will cause meltdowns that can last
days at a time. The grief will last years, with episodes popping up
constantly within that time. I still can’t smell my late nanny’s perfume, or
hear her favourite song, or be in a room with people talking about her
without spiralling into a meltdown that will last for hours, with a sick
feeling in my tummy that will last for days.
Disappointment is an emotion that I’m convinced was created by a
barbarian, and it is perhaps the emotion that I feel the strongest and struggle
with the most. Disappointment over something as small as a drawing not
coming out right, or a friend being unable to come over, or dinner being
different to what Mum told me it would be can cause hours of tears. Bigger
disappointments, such as missing out on tickets to a concert I was deeply
looking forward to, doing badly at a horse competition or, most recently,
having things I’d been excited about cancelled due to the Covid-19
pandemic, can cause hours of meltdowns and shutdowns, and depressive
episodes that can last for a week. I’ll fixate on the feelings of
disappointment and overwhelming darkness until I can force it to make
sense, fix the situation or find closure—none of which, for the most part,
are attainable when it comes to situations that cause disappointment in the
first place.
Meltdowns can occur during happy times, too. In fact, a big emotion of
any sort can cause them. I don’t think I’ve experienced a single Christmas
Eve or birthday without a small meltdown (or sometimes a much bigger
one). And sometimes, when I’m working on an acting or speaking job for
weeks at a time, my entire body gives out. It’s too loud, it’s too bright, I
haven’t had enough rest. It’s constant, and my stubborn arse isn’t going to
listen to my brain telling me that I need to stop, so my brain does it for me.
When a meltdown begins to hit me, I often begin to panic before I can
even assess the situation. In that moment, fear, sadness and confusion are
the only emotions in the world. Everything before or after the current
situation disappears and my mind becomes hyper-focused on the way I’m
feeling at that exact moment, like it’s the only thing I can and ever will feel
for the rest of my life. My mind abandons logic and reasoning and begins
running on autopilot before I can check the wave to see if it’s tidal or
merely whitewash that will smooth over. When you panic, everything looks
like a tsunami.
As the wave begins to build, so does the panic and my inability for
rational thinking. My breathing becomes rushed, jagged and sharp. My head
becomes foggy, my teeth start to chatter. Basic comprehension and
understanding of language desert me, and people’s voices sound like they’re
coming through a funnel. Every part of my body feels too heavy and too
light all at once. I’m about to crash through the ground and I’m also going
to float away. I’m a volcano about to erupt, a balloon with too much air in
it. I feel like Violet Beauregarde in Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory,
before they squeezed the blueberry juice out of her.
It’s all too much. Too much. Too much.
And then comes the crashing of the wave. It’s an energy that collides
violently with the water beneath, resulting in a spinning, powerful force of
noise and pure, negative energy. The built-up, painful energy needs to
escape somehow, and in a mindset that I’m unable to comprehend and make
sense of, the only way my body knows how to is by releasing it in ways that
are completely involuntary. It seems entirely irrational for me to be
screaming into my kneecaps as I curl up on a hard, wooden floor, piercing
my skin with my fingernails or pulling out my hair, all because of a lost
item, a too-loud speaker, a happy time of year with happy people … But it’s
the way it always is, isn’t it?
You can’t judge the intensity of a rip tide unless you yourself are in the
water. And, in that moment, it’s less painful for me to allow its strong
current to take me than to attempt to swim out of it.
Eventually, when the triggers or emotions have dispersed and faded, the
wave will settle, the rip tide will disperse, and clear waters return. But after
paddling for your life for hours, it’s only expected that extreme exhaustion
will follow, sometimes for days at a time.
Meltdowns are not reserved for toddlers; they’re an overwhelming
emotional and mental collapse that autistic people of all ages will
experience and continue to experience throughout their lives. Despite this,
meltdowns do not automatically come with being autistic. There’s no
natural clock in our brains that alerts us: Hey, autistic human. It’s meltdown
hour! They’re our brain’s neurological response to situations that are
harmful, scary and confusing. And, just as with rip tides, with the right
information, understanding and support, we can learn to avoid them and
overcome them.
I’m an adult woman, and meltdowns are still a part of my life; they likely
always will be, unless we can magically, overnight create a society that
suits me perfectly. However, I’ve learned to lean on the support of my
people, avoid putting excess pressure on myself and spot my own warning
signs.

SIGNS OF AN IMPENDING MELTDOWN

increased irritability
increased stimming
change in voice
lack of communication abilities
anxiety
freezing
loss of ability to focus
changes in body language.

WHEN YOUR CHILD IS HAVING A MELTDOWN

Meltdowns are not tantrums

Tantrums are wilful, goal-oriented outbursts of frustration, while
meltdowns are the result of overstimulating situations creating
overwhelming feelings. They are the result of our brains being
exposed to too much for too long. Reacting to a meltdown the same
way you would a tantrum is not helpful and could cause more harm
and stress.

Be empathetic and understanding

Your child is going through emotional and physical pain that is
almost unimaginable unless you have been there yourself. They’re
struggling to process and understand, and the best thing you can do
is to be there for your child in whatever way they need. Give them
space, give them time, give them understanding. Meltdowns are
scary, confusing and embarrassing, and the last thing in the world
they need is the person who is supposed to support and love them
unconditionally making them out to be a nuisance.

Understand the wave that your child is in

When an autistic person is so lost in their emotions, the wave may
be so loud that we’re unable to hear anything except for the roaring
of it. Rationality and processing is not high on your child’s priority
list now, and coming at them with rationality, reason and logic may
as well be an alien language. What you can do is let them know that
they are safe and loved. Reassure them that you are near, that
they’re in a safe place and that you’re ready to repair the boat once
the storm stops.

Never punish or shame a meltdown

Meltdowns are entirely out of your child’s control, so being
punished, ridiculed and resented will only lead to them feeling more
isolated, anxious and fearful. Do not tell them to go to their room, to
‘snap out of it’ or react with anger and shame-filled remarks. Allow
your child the space and freedom to feel, to cry, to simply be, and let
them know that they’re supported.

In public meltdowns, focus on your child

 Public meltdowns often cause the most embarrassment and fear for
both the child and the parents. Don’t let your reaction be influenced
by the stares of bystanders or any internal dialogue that your child
needs to be disciplined. It is crucial to focus on your child and make
them your top priority; they are struggling and need your support.
Ensure that they are safe both physically and emotionally.

Don’t. Film. Your. Kids.

Don’t make them feel like zoo animals, or more exposed than
they’re already undoubtedly feeling. If your child is experiencing
intense emotional and physical pain, stress and trauma and your first
thought is to take out your phone, video them and post it to your
Facebook page with #autismmamalife and God gives the hardest
battles to the strongest humans <3 xoxo, with the false impression
that it’s for ‘education’ or ‘awareness’ purposes, think again. I have
the legal obligation to hunt you down for sport.

Shutdowns
Shutdowns are caused by the same struggles that cause meltdowns: sensory
overload, high levels of stress and an inability to cope with a situation any
longer. And, much like a meltdown, a shutdown presents itself internally in
the same ways that a wave builds, or the static noise on a television. The
difference between the two is the way they present themselves externally.
Meltdowns feel and look like a volcano about to erupt, while shutdowns
feel and look like a tortoise recoiling into their shell, or a toy car’s battery
beginning to die. Often, a shutdown will follow on from a meltdown.
During a meltdown, the stress chemicals in our brain reach boiling point,
causing us to lash out explosively. During a shutdown, the nervous system
becomes overwhelmed and shuts down to protect itself. Shutdowns are less
obvious, more internalised and very often go unnoticed.

SIGNS OF A SHUTDOWN
 zoning out
forgetting simple tasks
withdrawing to a quiet, dark space
lying down on flat surfaces
becoming completely still
complete silence
not communicating with friends (including via text).
Like meltdowns, shutdowns are extremely taxing and can take days or
weeks to recover from. Learn your signs, learn what helps you to best
recover, and honour your mind and body enough to give yourself what you
need.

HOW TO SUPPORT YOURSELF OR SOMEONE ELSE IN

SHUTDOWN

Learn the triggers

Much like meltdowns, shutdowns are triggered by an intense emotional
response to an overwhelming situation. Each person will have their own
triggers, signs and causes. Once you understand both what can trigger a
shutdown, and what the individual signs are, learning to avoid and manage
them becomes easier.

Remove yourself from the situation

Removing yourself from the situation is vital. Seek out a safe, quiet place to
be alone (or with a person you feel safe with, as being alone during a
shutdown can cause the situation to become even scarier). If you’re at
home, this may be your bedroom. If you’re out, find a quiet place away
from any crowds where you can safely sit down.

Keep communication simple

Simple ‘yes or no’ questions, hand signals, or communication cards can be
beneficial when audible and verbal communication becomes too tough, as is
often the case during a shutdown. Reduce interaction to only what is
necessary to stay safe.

Eliminate expectation, demand and responsibility

A shutdown is quite literally that—the brain shutting down to cope with
what is happening. And, like the rainbow-buffering cursor on a computer, it
cannot simply be stopped. The person needs time to recover so push aside
expectations and demands and allow them that time.

Ask the autistic person before a shutdown happens

If there are signs that a shutdown may be imminent, ask the person before
shutdown happens how best to assist them. While the psychological
response is the same, shutdowns look different for every person and, as a
result, their needs may vary.

If your child is in shutdown

See the tips for meltdowns, here. These all apply to shutdowns as well.

Burnout
Living in a society built for neurotypical humans—something I am not and
can never be—means that my body and my mind have to work overtime,
just to survive.
Meltdowns, shutdowns or sensory overload are only short-term events.
But burnout is the end result of long-term exposure to expectations and
pressures that are a mismatch to ability and, without adequate support, can
last for months. Burnout often shows itself in neurodivergent people as a
loss of function and skills, chronic exhaustion and reduced tolerance to
sensory stimuli.
Because of both the intensity of burnout and its long time frame, burnout
can cause people to lose jobs, drop out of school and dramatically alter their
lives. Despite all of this, burnout seems to be one of the least spoken about
and least understood parts of autism, meaning that services, support and
correct understanding are few and far between. And, once again, autistic
folk are left to try and figure it all out themselves.
Autistic people experience two types of burnout: ‘social burnout’ and
‘autistic burnout’.
Social burnout happens all too frequently, when just surviving in a
neurotypical world causes you to collapse with exhaustion at the end of the
day. Every single day, neurodivergent people are forced to live in ways that
go against everything we see as accurate and achievable. We’re forced to
communicate in ways that are different, to follow schedules that don’t fit
our minds, and are fed constant sensory stimuli that is too loud, too bright,
too much.
As a survival method, many of us will put on a mask so as not to be
called out, ostracised or left behind. But, while the mask serves its purpose
to help us fit into society, it ultimately becomes our demise. We become
exhausted to the point where our brain has to go on autopilot and shut itself
down to protect us.
But, what is burnout?
You know when you have too many tabs open on your computer and the
computer freezes up or starts to slow down or go into ‘safe mode’—that’s it.
Our brains start working on limited functions, not all services available,
because we’ve been giving far too much of our services for far too long.
Except, the difference between our brains and computers is that on a
safe-mode computer screen, we can physically see the rainbow-loading
circle, we can see the slower functioning time and understand why it’s
happening. As an autistic person? We’re not given that privilege.
As an autistic person, we are expected to function, to go on with our
lives, to carry on and repeat the exact same behaviours that got us into this
rainbow-loading screen in the first place because ‘everyone else can—so
suck it up’. And we’ll fall. And we’ll crash. And we’ll keep on crashing.
We’ll crash again, and again, and again as we’re forced into these scenarios
to be washed, rinsed, repeated and spat back out again.
Until we can’t anymore.
Our bodies can only take so much, and after too long of too much, we
can’t continue anymore. We go into safe mode.
Autistic burnout can last for weeks, months or even years. And it’s one of
the most terrifying things you can experience. For long periods of time,
we’re unable to put on the mask that we’ve worked for years to perfect.
While the idea of that sounds absolutely lovely (we’ve all lived through
Covid-19, nothing beats that ‘taking your mask off’ feeling), it’s something
that can become dangerous and debilitating when it’s done because of
burnout, especially in a society that demonises people who act in ways
different to the expected.
Our ability to communicate may fade away.
Our ability to regulate and express emotions may disintegrate.
We lose basic abilities and seem to regress.
Finding reason and motivation may as well be a trip to the moon, and our
lives can become dark, loud and scary.
Burnout is something that isn’t much spoken about outside of the autistic
community, but it’s something that we desperately need to shine a light on.
Masking and an inability to fit into society’s expectations have a direct
connection to suicide rates, with autistic people more than ten times more
likely than non-autistic people to die by suicide, and autistic women being
particularly at risk.
As with everything else in this chapter (minus stimming), burnout isn’t
an inherent part of being autistic. It’s not something that has to come with
the territory. It’s something that happens to autistic people because of the
world we live in.
We need to create a more understanding world, a world where societal
expectations don’t begin and end at the neurotypical, capitalised standard, a
world where workplaces and schools gear their schedules, requirements and
understandings towards a wider range of people than those who seem to fit
the social norms. A world where neurodivergent people are openly allowed
to be neurodivergent.

We need to create a more

understanding world … A
world where neurodivergent
people are openly allowed to
be neurodivergent.
 A world where masking isn’t an expectation, but ‘coming as you are’ is.
Until then, here are some things we can do to minimise burnout, and to
care for ourselves or others when it inevitably happens.

SIGNS OF BURNOUT

constant fatigue
increased irritability
increased anxiety
increased or decreased sensitivity to sensory stimuli
loss of speech
reduced memory capacity (forgetfulness, memory loss, brain fog)
inability to effectively communicate
decrease in motivation
several meltdowns/shutdowns over a short period of time
loss of executive functioning abilities
unable to maintain ‘social masks’ or use social skills
difficulty with self-care (showering, eating, brushing teeth, getting dressed,
exercising)
seeming ‘more autistic’.

HOW TO PROTECT YOURSELF DURING BURNOUT

Rest
Your body is screaming at you to rest and it is vital that you look after
yourself and do exactly that. Schedule time to do absolutely nothing. Use
the tools that most benefit you, and allow yourself the freedom to do
nothing other than care for yourself. The world will keep spinning, I
promise you.

Take all the time you need to recover

You are not a robot. You are a neurodivergent human doing your best and
you do not owe your existence to anyone. Give yourself the time you need
to recover or you’ll end up in a continuous cycle of burnout.

Allow yourself to be autistic

Spoiler alert: if you’re a neurodivergent human, you’re allowed to be
neurodivergent. Stim, you beautiful human. Stimming is a vital self-
regulatory behaviour, and something we need to do in order to function and
stave off burnout.

Keep socialising to a minimum

For many of us, socialising can be a huge overload. Keep social gatherings
to a minimum, or just with those people with whom you feel the safest, and
learn to say no if you’re not up to something.

Rely on your social network

Humans are social creatures who rely on each other for survival. Just as we
don’t call a flower weak for needing the sun to grow, or the ocean weak for
needing the moon to pull and push the tides, we are not weak for needing
each other. Allow your loved ones and those around you to support you.

Minimise your expectations

You don’t have to take on the world. If you finish your day by eating
something, drinking water and brushing your teeth, consider it a win.

HOW TO AVOID BURNOUT

schedule breaks
reduce expectations
voice your needs to your teachers, boss and loved ones
learn to unmask and factor in times to do so
recognise your personal burnout signs
 prioritise your to-do list (When I wake up, I assess what sort of day I’m
having. If it’s a good day, I’ll create a normal to-do list and highlight a few
key things that need to be completed; the rest are just a bonus. On days
that aren’t so good, I highlight only one ‘must do’ and make sure the rest of
the day is used for self-care. This ‘must do’ may be as simple as ‘go for a
walk’, or ‘change bed sheets’.)
learn to say no
find time for self-care (‘Cutesy’ self-care and practical self-care both have
parts to play. Have that bubble bath, put on that face mask, watch that
comfort show, but also eat, shower and drink water.)
factor recovery time into your daily routine; make it mandatory.
Meltdowns, shutdowns and burnouts are all parts of being autistic that
are close to inevitable. Despite not being inherent parts of being
neurodivergent, they’re the result of having a neurotype that is not
supported by the world we’re living in. In a dream world, we will no longer
have to experience them because our social systems will be entirely
accepting, understanding, supportive and accommodating of different
neurotypes. However, at this point, a world like that is akin to a One
Direction reunion … pretty unlikely.
Until then, we can create a more nurturing environment by surrounding
ourselves with love and support, learning and becoming friends with our
minds, and continuing to dismantle harmful social norms in ourselves and
in our networks.

OceanofPDF.com
I think perhaps my favourite part of every Disney fairytale isn’t necessarily
the Happily Ever After. It’s not the seemingly spontaneous songs that
appear out of nowhere, or the moment when the princess gets her prince, or
the land of make-believe that you can lose yourself in. It is the part when
every single Disney fairytale hero or heroine, after the beginning stages of
doom, gloom and despair, finds themselves in their Adventure stage. This is
when they meet and battle their dragons, when they have to walk through
the valley of darkness or the mouth of an anthropomorphised tiger cave.
The Adventure stage is also when we meet our sidekicks.
That is my favourite part. The fact that even in the scariest moments, they
always find their sidekicks.
Think back to your favourite Disney movie, your favourite cliché ‘good
guy versus bad guy’, ‘once upon a time to happily ever after’ story. Was
there a sidekick?
In The Lion King, after his father’s horrendously dramatic death by an
absolute satanic uncle with a heart made of pure stone, Simba is thrown
from Pride Rock and told never to return. The little lion cub has lost his
dad, his family, everything he knows, and it seems the fairytale will end
there. How else can an abandoned, hungry, dehydrated baby’s story end?
But lo and behold, we’re then introduced to two loveable, crazy, outcast,
definitely ADHD-coded creatures who come into the picture when Simba
needs them most. They’re more than a bit peculiar, but they see Simba and
realise that they’ve been pushed into a new chapter, that suddenly the pages
of their own stories have turned.
After meeting Simba, these two could have chosen to do one of three
things:

1. They could have left him. This would have been fair. After all, declining to
adopt the most ferocious carnivore in Africa would have been a reasonable
choice.
2. They could have recognised him for who he was and forced him to become
king before he was ready. Again, fair and reasonable. Climb up the food
chain, baby. Make friends with the predator.
3. They could have taken him in and loved him for who he was at that point of
his life—without question, without vacillation, with absolute irrefutability.
They, of course, chose the third option. And, because of them, Simba’s story
can continue.
In Aladdin, Genie has been a prisoner for ten thousand years. Feeling
defeated, he has begun to accept that this is all his life will ever be. A
prisoner. Trapped. Tethered for eternity to a magic lamp, at the beckoning
call of whoever may pick it up. Until, a homeless street rat who struggles to
simply survive comes along and makes a promise. He isn’t going to let
Genie be alone. Because of Aladdin, for the first time in Genie’s life, he has
hope.
In The Hunchback of Notre Dame we meet Esmeralda, a beautiful
Romani woman, who is the only one in the entire world to show
Quasimodo kindness—perhaps because she feels the same way as him:
rejected by society. As she wanders through the church, she sings ‘God
Help the Outcasts’, one of the best musical pieces of modern-day history. A
song that, due to copyright reasons, I am unable to include the lyrics for
within these pages, but I deeply urge you to go google them. Right now. Go.
Now, I know that I have a tendency to become overly, unnaturally,
unhealthily obsessed over things—I have ADHD; it’s part of the contract—
but from a young age this song became a huge part of my identity. My
oxygen intake came from this song, my source of life came from this song
… my reason for being was this song.
Little me—selectively mute, terrified of the world—would unashamedly
scream this song at the top of my lungs with tears pouring down my cheeks
and snot coming out of both nostrils, belting the lyrics like an autistic
banshee, as if these words had been written just for me. (On one occasion, I
stood on top of a table at a La Porchetta restaurant and sang it. The
surprised waitress gave me a free vanilla ice-cream cone. My first paying
gig. Nice.) However, it wasn’t until I was eighteen that I suddenly realised
why this song meant so much to me: I was the outcast that Esmeralda sings
about.
I was that outcast, and all I wanted in the whole world was for one person
to look at me the same way Esmeralda looks at Quasimodo. I longed for
one person to see past what society told me I was, or what I never would be,
and to see me, as me. I needed someone to look past my metaphorical
hunched back, just as Esmeralda does for Quasimodo, and to see me for the
human that I was, not the expectation that I could never be.
 And yes, okay. I had my parents, something I will always be incredibly
grateful for. But growing up you need more than someone who’s, like,
mentally programmed to love you. You need your tribe, your people, your
sidekicks, and I didn’t have them. I was the lion cub in the desert, the
trapped Genie, the hidden-away Quasimodo, but I was without a sidekick to
bring me through the middle chapters of my story.

The impossibility of making friends

In my Once Upon a Time, when everyone else was well and truly making
friends, socialising—you know, doing the whole ‘person’ thing—I hadn’t at
all figured out what I was supposed to do. Friendships? Conversations?
Socialising? Sorry, come again?
The mere act of igniting friendship was not only an alien concept to me,
but also one that had backfired immensely. After many, many, many failed
attempts, my parents—being the loving people they are and acknowledging
the struggle I was having with fitting in—did what any overly supportive
parent would do to help their daughter spark friendships: buy them.
Absolutely stellar.

I longed for one person to see

past what society told me I
was, or what I never would
be, and to see me, as me.
In primary school, after I’d struggled all year to fit in and make friends
(probably a curse for blowing out Jesus, honestly), my parents decided to
give a bit of a helping hand and throw the biggest, heck-of-a-sized
Christmas party that the world had ever seen, inviting every child in my
class and bribing them into coming with promises of Santa and monstrous
amounts of party food, games and presents.
Of course, everyone RSVP’d, and thirty children rocked up with their
best party clothes on, the brightest of smiles and friendly conversation. It
was the party of my dreams, the party of the millennium, and every child in
my class was eager and ready to befriend me. In that moment, I
wholeheartedly embodied the ‘it girl’. I was the main character.
No more awkward interactions or lonely, sad schooldays for me. No
more broken amber necklaces or discarded pandas (though, just for
safekeeping, I had hidden my precious items in my parents’ locked
bedroom). Five-year-old me naively thought that this sudden bout of
friendship was all my own doing. I had finally, mysteriously mastered the
art of making friends. Now, however, I realise the promise of presents
maybe had something to do with it. Ignorance is bliss, or whatever they say,
and for a few hours, I was the happiest that I think I had ever been.
But blissful ignorance can only last so long. The following day, I went to
school, absolutely on top of the world and genuinely expecting to be
greeted with the same bright smiles and open arms. That day, I got taken to
the basketball court and beaten up.
Another time, when I was turning ten, there were a few girls at school I
thought I was close with, and I told Mum that I would like to invite them to
my birthday party. Mum, eager about the idea of her daughter trying to
make friends again (and quite possibly knowing something that I didn’t),
prompted me against the idea of a little party and instead, in typical my
family style, went all out.
In order to convince these girls to come, a stretch limousine was hired to
pick them up from their homes and take us to the biggest shopping complex
in my state, where we went on a huge shopping spree, and got matching
Build-A-Bears and ‘BFF’ necklaces. We went out for a fancy dinner and
came back to my place where the best slumber party Australia had ever seen
was waiting for us.
As I sat watching Flicka with my new group of best friends (I knew they
were, because we had the necklaces to prove it), my body tingled with
excitement. I’d done it. I had best friends. It had taken me ten years, but
heck, I had done it.
The following day, I went to school wearing my BFF necklace and was
over the moon to find the other girls wearing theirs, too. But as it turned
out, the only reason they were wearing their necklaces was so they could
take them off in front of me, throw them in the rubbish bin and proudly tell
me, ‘We would never be friends with you’. A note was offered to me that
same day from one of the girls, very politely telling me that all of them
would rather if we pretended the party hadn’t happened as they didn’t want
to be seen with me at school. She signed it off with a XX, so that was nice, I
suppose.
At the beginning of high school, my school thought it would be a brilliant
idea for all of us to go on a big camp to get to know each other. Reluctantly,
and with a lot of tears, I had given in to my parents’ pleas and agreed to go.
The camp itself was fine; I even managed to make friends with a girl I once
again convinced myself would be a lifelong best friend. However, come the
first week of school, she bluetoothed me a ‘diss track’ she had written about
me (in her defence, it was by far the most creative method of disowning me
I’ve ever received), broke into my locker and scribbled slurs on all of my
notebooks, and began spreading rumours about me that caused the teachers
to call me into uncomfortable, worried meetings. Those rumours stayed
with me long after I left the school. (Just so you’re aware, I’m now a proud
mother of three children, all while doing seances and witchcraft in the
science room.)
Whatever best friends I made through my teenage years ditched me
because, ‘My mum said I might turn out like you, and I’m scared about that
happening … sorry’, or ‘My other friends tease me for having an autistic
best friend. It’s just too stressful on my mental health. But tell your little
sister she’s still invited to my birthday party!’
Time and time again, I learned just how seemingly impossible it was for
me to form any sort of friendship, and how alien the entire process was to
me. It was like learning a new language, but the rules kept on changing
every single day. Nothing made sense. Nothing worked. And no matter how
hard I tried, I just couldn’t get the hang of it or figure it out. I could never
make friends, nor figure out who the right people were to make friends
with. People were strange, weird and confusing, and the more I did to try
and fit in and understand them, the more it backfired right in my face.
Clearly, friendship was not a thing that came naturally, easily or kindly to
me—nor does it for many neurodivergent people.
What is friendship?
Friendship is a concept that is often built on a foundation that doesn’t have
any clear rules, laws or suggestions. It doesn’t make sense, and the rules
change daily, minutely and situationally. With blokes, my understanding is
that if they find a common interest in kicking a footy, or sharing a joke, or
something that’s independent of deeper, unspoken communication, then
everything’s handy-dandy. Their friendships don’t have to be built on
intense emotional connection and social skills.
But when it comes to female friendships, my experience is that the
relationship is almost entirely built on communication, talking and societal
expectations that have to be met—skills neurodivergent girls often lack.
There are so many hidden and unspoken rules, and it’s incredibly difficult,
even for those who may not be neurodivergent.
Most of our communication is non-verbal, and that fact is often entirely
missed by autistic folk. It shows up as eye contact, body language, tone,
gestures, posture … the list goes on. And we’re expected to understand,
maintain and use that 93 per cent of communication—meaning that, when
we don’t, not only can we become incredibly confused but our actions and
reactions can also then be misconstrued by those around us.
We are expected to socialise in the same way that our neurotypical peers
do, despite our brains being anything but. And, while many typical folk
share common perceptions of the world, friendship and communication and
can easily pick up on non-verbal cues, the thought of all that may seem
almost alien to someone who’s neurodivergent. This leads us to becoming
outcast, bullied and led astray. Forty-three per cent of autistic teenagers
never interact with peers outside of school, 54 per cent of them have never
received phone calls, texts or unplanned communication, and 50 per cent
have never been invited to a party or activity. We’re left without sidekicks,
without people to call our own. The school years, when communication is
forced upon us, are without a doubt the hardest.
Friendship doesn’t come easily to a lot of us. We simply can’t see peers
our own age and spark friendships with them solely because we were born
in the same year and the universe happened to drop us on the same part of
Earth. We need our people, our tribe. We need people to fill up the middle
section of our fairytale. Our sidekicks.
 School might not be the place where many neurodivergent children will
find their tribe, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t out there. In fact, we have
the ability to find the most beautiful sidekicks. At our own time, in our own
place.

Finding friends … my way

When I left school and was given the opportunity to step out and engage
with the world at my own pace, that’s when I started to discover my people.
Originally, my people came in the form of internet-based friendships. (I
know, I know. Internet danger! Stranger danger! Stay in the real world!)
These internet friendships were with complete and utter strangers—I knew
nothing about them but their screen names—but they were my first massive
step towards learning both how to communicate and how to find myself. In
my social groups online, I wasn’t ‘Chloé, the weird autistic girl with knotty
brown hair and flappy hands’, I was ‘Chloé, the artist, the blogger, the
writer, the one who knows absolutely everything about One Direction and
can eagerly blab to everyone else because we all came here for that sole
purpose’.
There were no expectations that I couldn’t meet, no false ideologies that
had been put in place, no need to force communication, no fear of having to
make eye contact. And despite never having met these people in person,
never having heard their voices or even seen many of their faces, these
friendships were more meaningful and impactful than any of the ‘real life’
relationships I had ever built.
Once I started to feel more comfortable in my own skin, I started to step
out further, and began to find friendship in the most beautiful places. My
places.
I found friendship in my weekly horse-riding lessons, because all we
would do is sit in the stables and talk about ponies.
I found friendship in the community theatre, because together we created
beautiful plays and musicals (and all of my lines had already been chosen
for me).
I found friendship with surfers at the beach, because there was no need to
talk. We’d just listen to the waves and cheer each other on as we caught
them and rode them in.
I found friendship in groups specifically catering to other autistic people,
where my flappy hands and excited rambles and lack of eye contact was
mirrored—many of these people have become lifelong friends.
I found friendships when I was no longer forced into communicating the
way the world wanted me to; instead, I was allowed to simply be me.
After Simba has a clown of a warthog, a sassy meerkat and an
enthusiastic old monkey to show him that he is worth so much more than
the impression he’d been left with in his darkest moment, he finds the
courage, strength and motivation to go back to Pride Rock and become the
King of all Africa.
Because of a kind homeless boy, the loud, crazy Genie gets his number
one wish and becomes free, no longer a prisoner.
After twenty years of being hidden away from society, the city accepts
Quasimodo for who he is, just as Esmeralda did. Because of the love they
show him, he’s able to find that same love within himself. He’s different,
but he’s accepted. Not just by the city but, most importantly, by himself.
In those moments, I like to imagine how the sidekick characters were
feeling. Can you imagine how Timon and Pumbaa felt when they saw
Simba standing on top of Pride Rock, knowing they were the ones who
helped him get to his Happily Ever After? Or how Aladdin felt after he saw
the Genie’s chains break, knowing a ten-thousand-year curse had been
lifted?
These sidekicks are the most important characters in any person’s story.
If I had had an Esmeralda, a Timon and Pumbaa or an Aladdin, my Once
Upon a Time might not have been quite so far from my Happily Ever After.
If one peer in primary school had asked, ‘Hey, do you want to hang out
with us?’
If one friend had said, ‘I know times are tough, but I’m here with you.’
If one teacher had reassured me with, ‘I promise, I won’t let you do this
alone.’

Your sidekicks are out there

Maybe you’re reading this thinking, It is a brilliant life lesson for somebody
else but not for me, because how on earth does a girl I don’t know and her
silly metaphors with an excessive use of Disney stories apply to me?
Here’s how: we are all living in a fairytale.
Every single one of us has our own story, with our own Once Upon a
Times, our own Adventure stages, our own Happily Ever Afters. And just
like all fairytales, each of our stories also includes the sidekicks, the
sidekicks’ sidekicks and the villains.
In your story, you’re the main character. You’re the hero. (It’s only fair,
we all deserve our main character moment.) But who are you in someone
else’s story? What part are you going to play? Are you going to be the
sidekick? Are you going to be the person who helps someone else’s story
continue, just by being there? By showing kindness, by showing
understanding? Are you going to be the sidekick’s sidekick, just as Timon
and Pumbaa had the lionesses, and Aladdin had Jasmine and Abu, and
Esmeralda eventually had the entire town?
We are all living in a fairytale, and you need to choose who you will play.
Because if you don’t actively choose your part, someone else is going to
pick it for you … and there is every chance that you may be the villain.
Every single one of us has the ability to be someone’s sidekick, not in
spite of our own differences, but because of them. Aladdin was a street rat,
Esmeralda was an outcast, Timon and Pumbaa were absolute oddities.
Sidekicks come from incredibly diverse backgrounds; it’s because of their
differences that they are able to create change and have a significant impact.
We all have the ability to create change. We all have the ability to be
someone’s sidekick.
Society puts massive importance on the idea of ‘best friends’, the idea
that there is one singular human who will be there for you through
everything, who understands every fibre of your soul, you never once tire of
and you adore unconditionally. But best friends aren’t important. What is
important is having good people in your life.
I still don’t have one person in my life I would consider my ‘best friend’.
I don’t mention this in a sad, ‘woe and pity me’ sort of a way, but in a
comfortable ‘this is how my story works best’ way. It’s something that I’ve
not only come to comfortable terms with, but also became content with. It’s
a keystone of my story.
 I don’t have one be-all person, but I have a group of good, kind,
wonderful people who have become parts of my story.

Every single one of us has the

ability to be someone’s
sidekick, not in spite of our
own differences, but because
of them.
I have the sixty-year-old cowboys, who in another life I may never even
have considered talking with, but when we’re sitting around a campfire at a
rodeo, or cheering each other on from the arena sidelines, in that moment,
those people are my people.
I have friends I met while lining up for our favourite singer. We became
good friends immediately after asking, ‘What’s your favourite song?’ and
for the rest of the night, those people were and still are my people. (So much
so, in fact, that I have matching tattoos with three of the people I met in
line.)
I have the friends I met online. I have never met them in person but those
people are my people.
I have a rich, full, beautiful fairytale filled with my people, because after
far too long, and far too much heartbreak, broken necklaces and promises,
I’ve discovered that I deserve good people—and so do you.
We deserve people who make us feel like we’re our best self when we’re
simply being ourselves.
We deserve people who love us, and support us, and don’t try to change
us—just as Esmeralda didn’t try to change Quasi.
We deserve people. Good people.
And I intend to keep mine.
HOW TO FIND YOUR TRIBE
Your people, your friends, your sidekicks are out there; you just need to find
them.

Join social groups

What are your hobbies? What makes you tick? What makes your eyes
sparkle? Find social groups where you’re going to be surrounded by like-
minded people. This could be a club at your school, or a sports team, a
community group, a volunteer organisation, a local theatre company or even
an online forum—online friendships can be just as meaningful as in-person
friendships, and can often be an easier place to start. Seek out your local
and online communities to find ones that click with you. It’s so much easier
to make friends and find your people when you’re all there for a common
reason.

Don’t settle
It can be so easy to accept whoever comes your way, especially if friendship
isn’t something that comes easily to you. But walking a path alone for a
while longer is better than sharing it with someone who’s going to make
that path more difficult. Don’t settle for people who are unkind to you, who
force you to conform, who don’t care for your true, authentic self.

Define your own friendship goals

Society puts a lot of importance on the idea that we have to have a large
social network, and that social success is lots of friends, but that couldn’t be
further from the truth. Whether friendship for you comes in the form of a
few close friends, or more people you only speak to for certain social
groups, or online friends—you’re the only one who can define what
friendship means for you.

Most importantly: be yourself

You are the only you there is, and that is the most beautiful thing in the
whole world. Contorting, conforming and masking yourself into being
someone you are not will only lead to long-term harm. Be you, because
your people are out there. The people who will love you unconditionally for
all that you are. If you need to hide yourself to be accepted by someone
else, that person is not your person.

FOR SIDEKICKS: HOW TO SUPPORT YOUR

NEURODIVERGENT FRIENDS
Here are some ways you can support your neurodivergent friends.

Make an effort to understand their neurodiversity

No one’s asking you to become a human Wikipedia and know absolutely
every tiny detail about the neurodivergent brain. I’ve been neurodivergent
my entire life and I still don’t understand how my brain works most days.
But our brains are wired differently, and making an effort to understand that
is going to benefit both parties. While that can mean doing research
beforehand (if you’re reading this book right now, solid start), it mainly
means talking to the individual and asking what they need for support.
For anyone, these six words can make a world of difference: ‘How can I
best support you?’

Make plans (and be sure to include them!)

There’s a misconception that autistic people don’t want to make friends and
that we prefer to be by ourselves. Autistic folk are frequently left out of
birthday parties and social events and, while this can be due to genuine,
purposeful exclusion to avoid bullying and nasty behaviour, it can at times
be because of this misunderstanding around autism.

‘Oh, we won’t invite her out for after-work drinks, she doesn’t like that
sort of stuff.’
‘He never wants to come anyway.’
‘They don’t like social gaths.’
Here’s a top tip: while perhaps yes, the invitation to go out somewhere
that could potentially be a sensory nightmare won’t be accepted all of the
time, the invitation is still very much wanted. That way, we know we’re the
ones who declined an invitation, rather than never being invited in the first
place. It puts it into our hands and our control.

Communicate clearly
Language is confusing; people are confusing. With 93 per cent of
communication being non-verbal, and many autistic people struggling with
that 93 per cent, we are at times only taking in 7 per cent of what’s being
communicated.
We’re not always going to process what you’re saying in the way that
you might assume it was communicated, so by speaking literally (instead of
using metaphors), speaking clearly, and allowing us time to process and
take in information, it’s going to make both parties a lot better off, a lot less
confused and a lot happier!
The other part of communication is communicating your own feelings.
Friendship is a two-way street; it’s mutual. Be honest about your needs and
your feelings at all times, with no exceptions. If you’re not articulating your
feelings, we’re not going to pick up on it—we don’t take hints, we don’t
pick up on invisible social cues, we’re not going to understand radio
silence. We need real communication or we’re both going to get confused
and upset.
If you want us there to support you for something, tell us.
If we’re acting in a way you don’t like, tell us.
Don’t be scared of honesty; that’s the key to friendship on both sides.
All parties involved deserve to feel safe, loved, respected and accepted.

Respect our sensory and social differences

The world can be a really big, really scary, really overwhelming place and
sometimes we need that extra space, that extra time alone, to recalibrate and
get ourselves in the right mindset to get back into the world.
Because of sensory processing disorder, sometimes things that are
deemed as normal and acceptable within social settings (a hug, a
handshake, a squeal) can feel like we are single-handedly being slaughtered
as a human sacrifice. Just because we may not want a hug, or we can’t
attend your favourite concert, or we need a day of not communicating at all,
it doesn’t mean we don’t love and value you. It simply means that we’re
processing the world in our own way. It’s important for you to accept and
understand that these needs are important for us, and it doesn’t reflect on
you or our friendship.

Don’t treat your neurodivergent friends like a project

I hate that this is something that actually needs to be said, but it has
happened enough times that it needs to be brought to attention.
I had a friend once who used her friendship with me as a crutch. She
would tell everyone who would listen that she was ‘friends with someone
with autism’, like she was the second coming of Mary Magdalene herself,
like the mere existence of a friendship with someone like me was the
greatest sacrifice.
We have spent our entire lives being coddled and ostracised and told
we’re not what we can be just because we’re neurodivergent. We don’t need
community-service friendships. We are not charity projects.
If you have a friend who’s neurodivergent and you leave them out of
events, bring up their diagnosis because it’s a quirky little clout chaser,
don’t speak to them the same way you speak to your neurotypical friends,
then maybe you’re not friends with them for the right reasons.
Treat us the same way you would treat any of your other mates.
At the end of the day, yes, we’re different. And yes, our minds work
differently. And yes, we communicate differently. And yes, you need to be
understanding and lenient (although, if you’re not doing this already with
all of your mates … baby, I don’t know what to tell you).
But, overall, we’re one and the same. We’re all humans, we all yearn for
friendship and companionship. All friendship should be mutually beneficial
and built on kindness and respect.

OceanofPDF.com
Note: throughout this chapter, I’ll be discussing sexual abuse, eating
disorders, anxiety, depression, mental health and suicide. If these topics are
sensitive for you, please respect yourself and your mind enough to step
away, take a breath or skip the parts that may cause panic or worry. Your
triggers are valid, your mind is valid. Please respect your mind and what it
needs to turn away from or speak to someone you trust if things are too
uncomfortable.
Look for this content warning symbol before each potential trigger
and avoid that specific content if you so choose.

When we think of the term ‘mental health’, our minds tend to go to the
extremities of poor mental health, as if mental health is inherently a bad,
negative, scary thing. We might think of worst-case scenarios, of stigmas
that Hollywood, the media and more broadly society have taught us to
associate with the term.
If I ask you to think of a film in which the lead character experiences
‘mental health’, how many of you immediately think of The Joker or Split?
How many of you immediately correlate mental health with movies based
on fear and thrillers? And, likewise, when I ask you to think of words that
correlate with the term ‘mental health’, which ones immediately come to
mind? Are they positive or negative words?
Stop for a moment and think.

What is mental health?

I used to work in the mental health sector within high schools, and when I
asked students to tell me what words came to mind when they thought
about mental health, they usually said things such as ‘bad’, ‘depression’,
‘insane’, ‘self-harm’ and ‘suicide’. I never once asked them to describe
poor mental health, or a mental illness. And yet, this is what they gave me.
This is what many of us think.
Negative. Scary. Bad.
Our global societal understanding of mental health has led us to be
fearful of it, fearful of poor mental health, and to associate mental health
and its surrounding language with specific groups. We (as a community)
think only some people experience poor mental health, that only specific
groups have valid reasons for being mentally unwell, and those of us who
do experience poor mental health but aren’t in these target groups are
invalidated, wrong, hypochondriacs or dramatic.
This societal mindset has given us the wrong impression—that it is
wrong to experience poor mental health and to judge (albeit, often
subconsciously) those who are struggling with it. This is particularly so for
young people, who hear from elders and peers that they have no right to feel
the way they do because they are young, have no worries, don’t have
anything big enough in their life to allow them to be mentally ill.

‘You have a good family, you shouldn’t be sad.’

‘You’re so pretty, you’re not allowed to feel badly about your
appearance.’
‘Other people have it worse than you.’
‘You’re too young to be depressed.’
‘It’s because you’re on that phone all day.’
‘You think it’s hard now? Just wait until you’re older.’
‘Just because that TikToker said so, doesn’t mean it’s true.’
We’ve been taught these thoughts and ideas by older generations and a
global ideology based on false narratives of what mental health is.
Mental health is not innately bad or innately good; it simply is. Our
mental health, just like our physical health, is something that is present
within all of us, every day. It’s a part of our constant, it’s a part of our
always. You always have mental health, just as you always have physical
health.
When you’re experiencing happiness, that’s mental health. When you’re
experiencing sadness, that’s mental health. When you’re calm, when you’re
nervous … it’s all mental health. And, just like our physical health, it is vital
that we look after it—and not just when it becomes bad. Still, we only tend
to discuss mental health when we are in the pits, and in ways that are seen
as taboo and weird and hidden, despite the fact that mental health is always
part of us.
 Suicide, mental illness
Having said that, more than 50 per cent of people will struggle with a
serious mental illness at some point in our lives. Of course, this statistic
only gets worse among those of us who have grown up disabled or
neurodivergent. Seventy-two per cent of autistic people also struggle with a
comorbid mental illness, and disabled people as a whole are five times more
likely to struggle with mental illness than able-bodied, neurotypical folk.
Worst of all, disabled people are dying by suicide at five times the rate of
their non-disabled counterparts, and autistic people are more likely to die by
suicide.
This is why discussing mental health—all aspects of mental health—is so
deeply important. This is why, despite this chapter being the hardest for me
to write, it is the chapter I deem the most important.
I’ve never been one for being silent, and I’ve never been one for listening
to what society tells me to be silent about … So, here’s my mental health
story.

Our mental health, just like

our physical health, is
something that is present
within all of us, every day.

My Once Upon a Time

Sexual assault, PTSD
Even before neurotypical expectations had deeply sunk their claws into me,
at the ripe old age of seven I was diagnosed with post-traumatic stress
disorder (PTSD), something that is expected to present in older men and
war veterans, not seven-year-old little girls.
 This is a part of my story that I promised myself I would never bring up,
that I wanted to bury so deep in my soul that nothing could ever bring it to
the surface—even now, my tummy is turning, and my hands are shaking on
the keyboard as I type. I’ve had to take multiple breaks and long walks as I
write this down, and I’ve had to speak to my therapist, my mum and my
partner multiple times so their calm, steady voices could pull me out of
what could become a pit of despair that I may not crawl out of. But it is a
story that, after a lot of talking, a lot of prayer and a lot of consideration,
I’m ready to share.
Call me an optimist, or religious, or delusional, but I think when bad
things happen to us it opens a door of opportunity to help other people. Of
course, this doesn’t take away the pain of what happened. I would give
anything to rip these pages out of my story and burn them in a pit of fire,
and I will fight for the rest of my life to stop the same words from being
written in anyone else’s story. But it means that I’m reclaiming my life. I’m
taking back my story and choosing to continue writing. And it means that
when someone else becomes blocked in their own fairytale, I can hopefully
provide tools to help them continue turning their pages. This is my story.
When I was just seven years old, I became a survivor of sexual assault.
Just as with 90 per cent of other sexual assault victims, it was a person
known to me. And just like so many other disabled and child victims, my
voice was pushed deeper down by an inability to speak up, by not
understanding the severity of what had happened to me, by thinking it was
my own fault due to my inability to recognise social cues and understand
situations, and by thinking that compliance was necessary because ‘behave
and do as you’re told’ is drilled into us when we are young.
Eighty per cent of intellectually disabled women have been sexually
abused. Disabled people are seven times more likely to be a victim of
sexual assault than able-bodied people, and autistic girls are at a
particularly, scarily high-risk level.
Just like many other children who are victims of sexual assault, I lost my
voice and my bubbly, bright, giggly personality as I became overwhelmed
with the weight of what had happened to me. I became distant, angry,
violently ill and depressed. I was vomiting every night, refused to sleep,
spent every day either in tears, screaming or saying nothing at all. I was a
shell.
 Mum and Dad noticed almost immediately that I’d begun acting
differently, and after more than a month of repetitive, adamant questioning
and reminders from Mum that I could tell her anything, one night, while she
was kissing me goodnight, I tugged on her arm and quietly spilled out my
seven-year-old heart to her, recounting everything that had been burning
inside of me and eating me alive.
The following morning, police officers came to our home. What followed
was a visit to the police station where I had to testify in a room by myself, a
sexual assault forensic medical examination that I cried through the whole
time, followed by months of attending Child and Adult Mental Health
Services (CAMHS), and years more of attending weekly psychology
appointments. Even now, this experience affects me daily. I was constantly
terrified of any man who wasn’t an immediate family member. Today, the
number of men I feel safe around is still very small. I can count on one hand
the number of nights that I’ve slept through, nightmare free.
I broke down on multiple occasions throughout my childhood and
teenage years because I was positive I would soon need to partake in things
that I didn’t want to—the idea of marriage or relationships scared me to
death. I’m still petrified of intimacy.
I can no longer watch some of my most favourite Disney films because
of the memories they bring back. Unexpected movement still causes my
body to jump and seize and my skin to prick with fear. And being in a room
with people I don’t know makes my heart race and my stomach tighten.
Every time I see a new film, start a new television series or read a new
book, I have to check and double-check any content warnings as even
simulated or suggested scenes can send me into a backwards spiral that
could take months or years for me to come back from.
I still have weekly meetings with a therapist to help me work through that
chapter of my life. It’s a chapter that is a part of my story now, written as
deeply into the pages as any other part of my story, and with words that
spiral into every other aspect of my life.
My PTSD diagnosis that came with this experience is likely one of the
main reasons why my autism took a further six years to diagnose. Autism,
ADHD and other neurodevelopmental disabilities have multiple overlaps
and similarities with PTSD, including a loss of executive functioning,
emotional dysregulation, sleep difficulties, lack of interest in peers, social
difficulties, poor working memory, repetitive play, increased anxiety,
excessive stimming and sensory issues.
Given that I was showcasing typical signs of PTSD, that a known event
was the obvious cause, and that the world did not yet recognise the signs of
autism in young girls, how could any of the adults in my life have seen
anything other than a young child devastated by circumstances?

AUTISM AND ADHD SYMPTOMS THAT OVERLAP

PTSD

inattention
sleeping problems
stimming
impulsivity
difficulty concentrating
poor impulse control
loss of interest
disorganisation
poor working memory
hypervigilance
emotional numbness
rejection sensitivity
easily distracted
sensory issues
low self-esteem
anxiety.

One bad chapter led to another

 Eating disorders
As I began to get older, more and more kids started finding their paths
while I still felt stuck, lost, like the chopped-down vines of their cleared
paths were entangling me, leaving me without the ability to move forward
and find my own identity, my own Happily Ever After. After many, many,
many failed attempts to be ‘normal’, I began to realise that I could never fit
in. No matter how hard I tried, no matter how hard I masked who I was, my
brain, my outlook, my entire being could never be what was expected or
wanted. No matter what, I remained weird. I remained an outcast. I
remained cast away, drowning in the screams of what society wanted me to
become.
Within the first couple of weeks of high school, I had already received
several comments regarding my appearance and weight. My body wasn’t
the right shape. My boobs were too small. My skin was too pale. My hair
was too stringy. My tummy stuck out too much. My eyes were too far apart.
My forehead was too big. If there was a part of my body that could be
ridiculed, it was. Hell, there were parts of my body that were ridiculed that I
wasn’t even aware could be. Who knew that teeth could be the wrong
shape, or that freckles could be in the wrong place? I concluded that I
needed to change every bit of my appearance, hoping it would be enough to
mask further who I was on the inside so I could finally find my place in this
world.
I would love to end this part of my story here. I would so love to say that
trying to change my body never made me any more popular or more liked,
that I discovered in a matter of days that who I was inside was all that
mattered, yadda yadda yadda. But unfortunately, that wasn’t what
happened.
I stopped eating.
It started in small amounts, skipping meals, then I stopped eating
altogether. For months, the only food I allowed to pass my lips was what I
had deemed ‘safe’—meaning, food with no calories and no nutritional
value. I started exercising excessively and hid my body beneath oversized
band-branded T-shirts and hoodies, so my parents wouldn’t notice what was
happening. Any time Mum brought it up, I pushed her away dismissively,
telling her she was being overly dramatic and that I was fine. My immense
love for Nutella was what I used as a cover-up: See, how can there be
anything wrong when I’m eating a tablespoonful of Nutella?
 My body changed dramatically, and so did my health. I couldn’t stand for
long periods of time without growing dizzy. I forgot the most basic of
things. I was constantly exhausted and sick.
I remember the first time one of the popular girls told me I was ‘starting
to look really pretty’. I had gone for far too long without proper food and
had collapsed that morning from an excessive amount of exercise, yet I was
absolutely stoked by what she said. It all felt worth it because of that one
comment.
I became more socially acceptable because I looked the way they wanted
me to. My differences were hidden. I learned that it didn’t matter if you’re
an absolute oddball as long as you have the right, aesthetically pleasing
body type.
Nobody cared that my eyes were dead and sunken. Nobody cared that I
lost the ability to ride my horses or go surfing with my family. Nobody
cared that my hair was falling out, that my skin was yellow and dull, that I
was struggling to pay attention in class and made excuses to skip sport
because my heart wasn’t strong enough for it. No one cared that my teeth
and nails were weak and yellow. Nobody cared because I was skinny. I was
thin. I took up minimal space in the world.
Our society so deeply values thinness. The cover of every magazine, the
model on every poster, the face of every television advertisement shows us
what is desirable in a female: tall (but not gangly), skinny (but still with
boobs and a bum), tan (but not too tan) and toned (but not muscular)—
despite the fact that the women in these photos don’t even look like that. At
a fashion catwalk I did when I was sixteen that marketed itself to be
inclusive, my own body was photoshopped in the photos to appear at least
two sizes slimmer than I already was. At 5 foot and 7 inches (170
centimetres) I had the measurements of a child and was five years deep into
an eating disorder. And even that wasn’t good enough. My dying body
wasn’t exempt from an impossible ideal.
Alongside these unattainable standards are constant messages about what
to be (or not be).

‘Here’s how [insert famous celebrity’s name] lost her pregnancy weight
in two weeks!’
‘Fight flab! Look fab!’
 ‘How to stop your hunger cravings.’
‘50 worst beach bodies.’
‘The most shocking bikini bodies you’ve ever seen!’
‘Celebrities who have lost their fight with cellulite.’
And thanks to social media, it’s now close to impossible to remove
ourselves from this constant beauty ideal. Instagram influencers with their
photoshopped waists, false What I Eat in a Day videos and paid promotions
for waist trainers, weight-loss gummies and skinny teas are presented to us
while we simply scroll through our feeds. They’re impossible to miss. And
because many of these influencers advertise themselves as ‘relatable’, and
‘like us’, it’s easy to believe that what they’re promoting is achievable.
The media has deeply established what it means to be ‘beautiful’, and
that we must meet these standards to be valued. It’s no wonder children as
young as three are experiencing poor body image. It’s no wonder that 81
per cent of ten year olds are afraid of being fat, that by early high school, 70
per cent of girls are unhappy with more than one part of their body, or that
46 per cent of children between the ages of nine and eleven have been on
diets, and 50 per cent of teenage girls have used unhealthy and dangerous
ways to lose weight. It’s no wonder we praise thin bodies, no matter the
cost.
But, how goddamn disappointing that when I was at my lowest, I was
praised. How depressing. I was so desperate to fit in, to feel some sort of
normal, I developed anorexia and bulimia by the age of only twelve.
Anorexia disproportionately affects autistic people, with at least 25 per
cent of sufferers being autistic, though many studies suggest it could be as
high as 52.5 per cent. Anorexia within autistic people has also been seen
time and time again to be much more severe and long lasting than for
neurotypical people. Similarly, girls with ADHD are four times more likely
to suffer from an eating disorder, and more than half of bulimia sufferers are
thought to have ADHD due to our body’s inability to feel ‘full’ while eating,
and lack of awareness of hunger in the first place, often leading to binge
eating and overeating.

AUTISM AND EATING DISORDERS

While there’s no specific reason why anorexia, the most fatal mental health
disorder in the world (up to 10 per cent of sufferers die within the first ten
years and 20 per cent after twenty years; only 30 per cent fully recover),
affects autistic people at such a significantly higher rate than non-autistic
people, here are a few things we can consider.

Eating restrictive diets

Seventy per cent of autistic children have issues with food and eating, due
to sensory sensitivities and a hypersensitivity to taste and texture. An
intense aversion to new foods and foods of different textures or flavours
causes many autistic people’s diets to be rigid and unchanging.

Thinking that is black-and-white

Black-and-white thinking is often a key part of being autistic, that ‘all good
or all bad’, ‘all in or all out’ approach often going towards food and diet as
well. An inability to find a middle ground can mean that food, clothing sizes
and calorie intakes can be seen as either a ‘good’ thing or a ‘bad’ thing.

Fitting in
With a world that values both thinness and normality, and our inability to be
the latter, succumbing to diet culture to create a seemingly perfect body
may be a last resort to fit in and avoid a small amount of the constant, daily
ridicule.

Having autism and eating disorder comorbidities

People with social difficulties and who struggle to relate to peers have been
proven to be more likely to develop disordered eating habits.

Desiring to take back control

In a world that often feels foreign and out of our control, sometimes the
only way we have agency over our situation is by controlling what we can,
which might only be our food intake and the size of our bodies.

Regressing
As we get older and reach adulthood, the world may seem increasingly
confusing and unaccommodating to disability and neurodivergence.
Disordered eating behaviours may be an attempt to regain a sense of safety.
If I’m frail, if I look like a child, I won’t have to deal with an adult world
that doesn’t cater to me.

Having obsessive tendencies

Our black-and-white thinking and obsessive tendencies can cause ‘small’
changes to take over our entire beings. It’s not just losing a tiny bit of
weight, exercising a tiny bit, gaining some sort of control. Instead, these
‘little bits’ can become anxiety-inducing triggers that can only be reduced
by ritualistic compulsions around food, dieting and exercising.

Originally, I believed my eating disorder stemmed from wanting to look

like everyone else, a desperation to fit in and hide the so-called ‘bad’ parts
of me with parts that were aesthetically pleasing and valued—and I still
believe this, without a doubt. Unquestionably, the straw that broke the
metaphorical camel’s back was believing that if I could change my body, I
could change the way the world saw me. But it was so much deeper than
that. Nasty schoolgirl comments and societal expectations aside, my mind
had been in a downward spiral for many years. Developing an eating
disorder was almost a guarantee.

Spiralling down with no way up

Mental disorders
Growing up in a world that wasn’t created for even the most basic level of
my existence meant that I grew up incredibly ostracised and ridiculed. I was
taught from a young age that my mind wasn’t valued, that my existence
wasn’t important, that I wasn’t supposed to be here. How can a little girl
ever find herself when every part of society is telling her that she can’t be
the only version of herself she has ever known?
The mask that I put on for school every single day to cover up who I
truly was and to act out a watered down, allowable version of myself began
cracking. If I was lucky, I could keep it on until I returned home to the
safety of my family. But most days, the mask would fall off several times
and I had to scramble to pick it up and strap it back on. My school life
moved between hiding in the back of the library in the fantasy section
(where no one ever went) and locking myself in the toilets, as it was the
only place in the entire school where I could cry without people hearing me.
On one occasion, the tears came too quickly for me to leave the classroom,
so I made up an extravagant lie that I was ‘crying on command’, a pathetic
excuse of a joke that I doubt was believed by anyone.
I was exhausted. The light in my body was fading and I had no desire to
even be here anymore. What was the point when life was a constant circle
of forcing a broken mask onto yourself to survive, only to rip it off at the
end of the day to reveal a girl who was just as broken? I had no energy left
to be the me I once was—and should still have been. Simply living was a
chore.
Asking for help seemed like an impossibility. The rest of the world was
able to handle these expectations, so why couldn’t I? Asking for help or
telling my already worried parents that I wasn’t coping felt like a cop out,
like admitting defeat. I didn’t know it at the time, but I was severely
depressed and battling extreme anxiety.
Even after my autism diagnosis, the world felt like a huge, terrifying,
uncertain place. I had panic attacks to the point of being hospitalised.
Crowds, loud noises and confusing situations caused immediate panic;
often I’d wake up afterwards on the floor, my parents by my side as they
calmly told me, ‘Sweetheart, you just fainted again’. My mental health was
forever teetering on a rickety wooden bridge, waiting for the smallest gust
of wind to pull it into the rapids below. Or perhaps it was more like a bridge
that had already been broken but was on such a secluded path that no one
noticed before it was too late.
When I was eighteen, I had a horse-riding accident that caused internal
bleeding in two organs, internal bruising, a ruptured bladder, tissue damage,
a deep gash and second-degree friction burns, along with the possibility that
I would never walk or ride my horses again (the second of which caused me
the most distress).
It was a freak accident in a training ring, when a horse went rogue and
started running wild. When I saw him coming at full speed towards my
pony, I put myself in front of her to protect her—resulting in an 800-
kilogram force being pushed into my body. (I’ve been asked multiple times
why I did such a stupid thing, to which I always respond, ‘If he had kicked
her with that much force, they would have put her down. If he kicked me,
they had to try and fix me.’ I hold my ground on that argument.) But it was
what happened after the accident that made things start to spiral.
Despite the pain, despite passing out, despite my skin being as white as
paper and that I was coughing up blood, I was adamant against calling an
ambulance. Ambulances, doctors, hospitals—anything involving medical
treatment—have always been one of my biggest fears. I panic going to get a
simple check-up. I feel bile rise to my throat when I see an ambulance
whizz past.
When I was a little girl, my nan hurt her hip and they called an
ambulance to pick her up. As they were putting her in, the paramedic turned
on the siren as a ‘fun treat’ for me, but I immediately started bawling,
having convinced myself that sirens automatically meant death (even
though my nan was laughing and chatting away).
So, when the ambulance was inevitably called for me, my mind and body
went into panic mode. I panicked when my parents arrived at the scene and
I saw Mum in tears. (Still now, in my twenties, I’m convinced that seeing
my parents cry means the world is ending.) I panicked when Mum
worriedly spoke with the paramedics in a hushed voice. I panicked when
they got out scissors to cut off my favourite jeans (my pleas of desperation
convinced them to shimmy them off instead). I panicked when a brace was
put around my neck, straps were wrapped around my entire body and legs,
and I was lifted onto a stretcher without the ability to move. I panicked
when I was rushed into the emergency ward and immediately hooked up to
what felt like a million different drips, cords, tubes and monitors.
I was strapped to machines, unable to move any part of my body. I was
surrounded by people I didn’t know, who were touching and poking and
prodding me while loud noises surrounded me from every direction. There
were MRI machines and a blue dye that made my blood feel hot, and X-
rays, and blood tests and catheters and drips and doctors talking in code.
I was living a nightmare.
I’d had horse-riding accidents before—enough that some of the doctors
knew me by name. They would laugh when they saw me in the waiting
room and say that I clearly hadn’t taken up their suggestion to catch
butterflies instead of riding horses. But nothing like this had ever happened,
nothing this intense, this terrifying.
I was more scared, overwhelmed and overstimulated than I had ever been
in my life and there was no escape. My ability to vocalise disappeared,
causing me to regress to a mental state that I had not been in for an
incredibly long time. My body shut down. I was unable to communicate or
make sense of what was happening.
When Mum answered questions that I wasn’t capable of answering, I was
scolded and told off by the nurses. I was laughed at for being eighteen years
old and unable to respond for myself. They eye-rolled and tut-tutted, saying
that I needed to have some maturity: ‘You are an adult now, you need to act
like one.’
And then it hit me.
Having only just turned eighteen, this was my first time in the adult ward,
my first time being treated as an adult. No longer were tears and fear and
uncertainty seen as just a child who was scared; now they were a pathetic
excuse for an adult. No longer were my sensory issues seen as those of a
little girl with extra support needs; now I was an adult who was
noncompliant and a burden. The nurses became angry when I went non-
verbal, and Dad was kicked out of the room simply because he was my dad.
My parents were no longer allowed to stay with me.

Eating disorders
It was my first experience of adulthood and I realised how desperately I did
not want to be a part of that world. I formed a deep belief that if I was
small, if I was fragile, vulnerable and weak—like a child—I would still
have to be looked after. This knowledge of how horrendously society
treated disabled adults caused me to continue to regress and initiated the
most lethal stage of my eating disorder.
For years after the accident, I battled daily, hourly, minute-by-minute
with anorexia. It ruined not just my life, but those of the people surrounding
me, too.
I yelled at Mum and poured a smoothie she had made me down the drain
because I saw in the rubbish bin a peel from an avocado she had put in it so
I would have some form of nutrition that day. I screamed at my auntie and
violently sobbed on Christmas day when I found out she had used some of
my fear foods in the gingerbread cookies she had made especially for me—
knowing that gingerbread has always been my favourite. I sat in silence as
Dad held me, watching him cry for the first time in my life as he told me
that he was terrified he wouldn’t have a little girl anymore if I kept this up.
I had to quit horse competitions and was kicked out of musicals that I had
been rehearsing months for, because my parents wouldn’t allow me to
attend without eating. I deemed not eating more important than
participating in the things I adored to do and that were once my entire life
source. My eating disorder became all-encompassing; it was the key part of
who I was.
When I was twenty-one, after going a few days without solid food and
being at the lowest weight I had been in years, Mum grabbed my arm and
told me with tears in her eyes that she had found a clinic and I was going to
be admitted that week, whether or not I agreed. I became terrified, with
flashbacks of the hospital stay entering my mind. I begged her to give me
another chance, begged her to allow me to just try. With both of us crying,
Mum gave a quiet ‘okay’.
I’m now further into recovery than I have ever been, and I continue to
progress every single day. I don’t believe I will ever ‘fully recover’, despite
those around me telling me that I look better, that I seem better. Daily, I
have to push back nagging thoughts, tell them to back off, to not let them
take over again. Daily, I have to choose recovery. But it’s a battle that I’m
finally winning.
I can now eat three meals a day, plus snacks, and not hear my head
shouting at me that I ate too much. I can now have cake at parties, enjoy
takeaway night with my family, and eat treats at the movies without telling
myself I’ll have to ‘make up for it’ tomorrow, or simply decline the offer
altogether. Hell, I can eat treats whenever I want.
Putting a moral compass and claiming some food as ‘good’ and some
food as ‘bad’ is absolute hogwash, anyway. The only food that is bad is
food that does not serve you mentally, emotionally and physically. Before I
did my first Vogue shoot, I had burgers and hot chips the previous night. I
actively chose to eat my favourite dessert the night before filming more
revealing scenes for Heartbreak High. I refuse to believe that my body is
less valuable because I eat, that it is less desirable because there may be
more of it.
I have succumbed to diet culture for too long, I have lost too many years
of my life to worrying about my body. And, while I know there will
inevitably be a million more battles, a million more times that I have to
actively remind myself to choose recovery (hell, it’s a daily chore when
you’re in an industry that is built off the diet culture with impossible
standards in the first place), it’s a battle that I’m equipped for. Anorexia
nervosa can suck my big toe. My body is no longer available for the diet
industry to profit off. I’ve got better things to do than fit into unrealistic
standards of beauty so the already rich can make more money from my self-
doubt.

Chronic illness
At the age of twenty-three, I was diagnosed with postural orthostatic
tachycardia syndrome (POTS), a chronic illness and disorder of the
autonomic nervous system. This is the part of our body that controls
essential bodily functions, such as heart rate, breathing, blood pressure,
sleep cycles and temperature control. (If it happens naturally, our autonomic
nervous system is the one to thank for it.) This condition means that while a
healthy person’s nervous system will ensure a sufficient amount of blood
reaches the brain, mine plainly and simply cannot be bothered.
The effect of this ‘No thanks, you’re on your own, babes, lmao xo’
attitude of said nervous system is that my body has constant tachycardia
(abnormally high heart rate), chronic fatigue, low blood pressure,
migraines, heart palpitations, brain fog and memory issues, fainting and
dizzy spells, nausea, blurred vision and struggles with physical activity. My
body uses about three times more energy than that of a healthy person
because my heart beats the same number of times in one day that a healthy
person’s does in three. A task like standing is the equivalent to constantly
running on the spot.
While the cause of POTS can vary, many people develop it after a viral
illness or traumatic event, and it’s believed that one in ten POTS patients
has ADHD. In my case, we believe the cause was ten years of eating
disorders on top of PTSD.
Despite having had symptoms of POTS since childhood, having gone to
various clinics and undergone many heart monitoring tests and numerous
medical assessments, I fell in that 85 per cent of POTS patients who are
incorrectly diagnosed with poor mental health and told ‘It’s all in your head’
prior to receiving a diagnosis. Twenty-five per cent of POTS patients
become so ill that they can no longer work or attend school, and in some
cases, patients end up in a wheelchair or bedbound. And still, despite these
statistics, I was like so many others harmed by the health system. I merely
accepted that ‘it’s all in your head’ attitude to the point where, for years, I
was using it as an example of my anxiety when I would publicly share my
story: ‘My anxiety was so bad that I thought I had a heart condition!’
You did, girl. And you were gaslighted by the medical industry.
There are so many correlations between neurodivergence, poor mental
health and chronic illness. These are incredibly misunderstood by society,
and it is so deeply important that we educate ourselves about and
destigmatise them, both within the wider community and within ourselves.

Mental illness and neurodiversity

Suicide, mental health and eating disorders
While each person’s mental health journey is as unique as the larger
fairytale that holds it, the types of struggles I’ve experienced are all too
common for neurodivergent and disabled people. Growing up in a world
that belittles, condemns and stigmatises differences is a recipe for poor
mental health. Our world has never once shown us that we as disabled
people belong here, unless we can drastically change every part of
ourselves to fit with societal norms and expectations, which for many of us
is simply not an option.
Society is so belittling of disabled people that studies have shown that
suicide is perceived as significantly more acceptable for the disabled, and
that health services are lacking and inaccessible for those who need them
most. When it comes to mental health and disabled folk, no one is ready to
discuss it. Why are there so many comorbidities? Why are there
accessibility issues for mental health support services? These discussions
are not even put on the table.
At the moment, mental health barriers are a huge concern in the autistic
community. This is why in the United Kingdom suicide is the leading cause
of early death in autistic people. This is why autistic people are more than
nine times more likely to die by suicide and twenty-eight times more likely
to consider it. This is why 70 per cent of autistic people have mental health
conditions. This is why an autistic person’s lifespan is on average 26 years
shorter than that of a non-autistic person—if we make it to our fifty-fourth
birthday, we’ve beaten the odds.
In Australia, 49 per cent of autistic adults have had immense difficulty
finding and accessing clinical mental health support and have expressed
worry and low confidence in the health system and health professionals’
understanding of autism. More than 90 per cent of autistic adults have
challenges accessing health care, with 33 per cent completely unable to
access mental health support.
There are multiple reasons why we have barriers receiving the correct
mental health care, including low awareness and understanding of autism
within the medical field, communication difficulties (especially when a
person may be non- or selectively verbal), sensory sensitivities (often
heightened in stressful environments) and a lack of collaboration between
mental health, physical health and disability services as well as the
education, employment, justice and housing sectors.
Autistic eating disorder patients have far less effective treatment
outcomes than their non-autistic peers, partly due to the fact that treatment
of any sort, in either physical or mental health, rarely accommodates
autistic people’s needs and doesn’t focus on the reason behind the disorder
in the first place.
And while autistic and otherwise disabled people are disproportionately
at risk, it’s not like the rest of our mental health sector is sunshine and
rainbows. Suicide is the leading cause of death for Australians between the
ages of fifteen and forty-four, and 54 per cent of people experiencing poor
mental health will not speak up or ask for help. More than 10 per cent of
those with a chronic mental health condition will die by suicide within the
first ten years of their diagnosis, and having a chronic health condition
increases the odds of attempting suicide by 363 per cent.
Suicide rates of Indigenous Australians are almost double those of the
non-indigenous community, with 5.2 per cent of deaths being from suicide.
LGBTQIA+ folk are more than five times as likely to die by suicide than
cisgender or heterosexual individuals. Yet we live in a society that
constantly preaches kindness on the internet, that has R U OK? days,
#SuicidePreventionDay and #WorldMentalHealthDay, and that promises to
end bullying in schools and workplaces. We decorate our social-media feeds
with trending hashtags and see ourselves as progressive and forward
thinking. We preach that we need to end the stigma until we’re blue in the
face, that we need to open up to our loved ones and reach out when we’re
struggling—but it’s all performative.
It’s fake. It’s false. Because when someone is struggling, no one bats an
eyelid. Because when I spent every year of my life struggling with
depression, anxiety, PTSD and eating disorders, no one thought to look
towards me. Because we turn a blind eye to poor mental health, when I was
dealing with a life-altering chronic health condition that had my body
attacking itself, I was told by the medical field to ‘just breathe’.
We live in a society that stigmatises mental health, in which just the term
‘mental health’ is taboo and unspoken, and yet it’s something each and
every one of us has. If you don’t see a doctor when you’re suffering from
poor physical health you’re seen as crazy, while if you do see a doctor for
poor mental health you’re seen as, well, crazy. Mental health shouldn’t be
associated with negativity, horror movies, sickness and despair. It shouldn’t
be associated with weakness, fragility or feebleness. It should be associated
with all of us, with our everyday, with our always.
Taking charge of your mental health is okay.
Talking about your mental health is okay.
Talking about your ill mental health is okay.
It is okay to reach out, to seek help, to need someone. Because the
bottom line is that we all need help sometimes. Everything needs help to
grow. Even the most beautiful flower in the most beautiful garden withers
away without care, even the waves would vanish without the moon to guide
them, even the moon needs the sun’s light to shine in the night sky. Who are
you to believe that you don’t need the same support?

SIGNS SOMEONE MAY BE STRUGGLING

WITH POOR MENTAL HEALTH
The emphasis is on ‘may be’ here. It’s not always easy to tell when
someone is struggling or needing help, but these signs may be an indicator
that they are.

Changes in behaviour
 no longer participating in activities they once enjoyed
isolating themselves from friends and family
sleeping more but still feeling tired
being less productive at school and work
loss or gain in appetite
increased alcohol and drug use
impaired judgement.

Changes in appearance
neglecting basic hygiene and care, such as not brushing teeth and hair and
wearing dirty clothing
frequently looking tired, dull, sad or ‘numb’
dramatic, fast weight loss or gain.

Changes in mood
feeling sad or hopeless all the time
trouble coping with everyday life
heightened stress or anxiety levels
lashing out
over- or under-reacting to situations.

Changes in speech
speaking negatively about themselves
expressing physical complaints such as ‘I don’t feel well’
disinterest in life (that is, ‘What’s the point?’).

Changes in what they post online

posting dark poetry, songs or photos
 using sad, distressed emoticons
posting negative comments
using negative hashtags.

SIGNS OF POOR MENTAL HEALTH IN A

NEURODIVERGENT PERSON
In neurodivergent people, the signs of poor mental health listed above still
remain, but there may be other key features to look out for.

They are in constant burnout

Burnout is a sign that someone is overwhelmed and struggling, while
frequent burnout may indicate a deeper struggle and need for help. See here
for signs of burnout.

More frequent repetitive and compulsive behaviour

Autistic folk often have repetitive and compulsive behaviours, but if these
begin to showcase more frequently than usual, or the behaviours have more
impact on their mental health, this may be a sign that they are struggling.

Emotional outbursts
Seemingly random, impulsive bursts of negative emotion, often shown as
anger, sadness or crying.

Negative stimming
When self-soothing methods turn into self-destructive behaviours, such as
head banging, hitting, biting, and so on.

Obsessing over death and depressive art

This includes dark poetry and films, and suicide talk.
WHAT TO DO IF YOU SEE SIGNS OF POOR MENTAL
HEALTH IN SOMEONE ELSE
The signs of poor mental health will show up differently in individuals.
Sometimes these signs seem obvious but there is no simple way of
knowing. If someone is struggling with mental health, there are a number of
ways you can support them.

Find a time to gently open the conversation with no distractions

Ensure the space is private and without distractions such as other people,
mobile phones, other plans, and so on.

Validate their feelings

Do not be dismissive of what they’re feeling with statements such as,
‘Cheer up’, ‘Snap out of it’ or ‘I’m sure it will pass’.
Do not blame them or put their struggles on you or others with statements
such as, ‘This is really hard on me, too’, or ‘You’re hurting everyone with
the way you’re acting’ or ‘Others have it worse than you’.
Do not say ‘I know how you feel’ if you don’t—this can be incredibly
dismissive and invalidating.
Do not use stigmatising words such as ‘psycho’ or ‘crazy’.
Keep questions open-ended—ask, ‘Why don’t you tell me how you’re
feeling?’ rather than ‘I think you may be depressed’.

Offer support
Don’t offer more than you’re capable of. If you are not a registered
counsellor, doctor or psychologist, you are not expected to offer mental
health advice—but that doesn’t mean you can’t help. Offer to go on walks
with them, to go out for a coffee, to cook meals and help clean for them.
Offer and remind them of services such as their GP or a specific mental
health support service. See here for a list of services.

Listen
The best thing you can do is listen without judgement.

Look after yourself

Poor mental health takes a toll on everyone and it’s vital to look after
yourself when caring for someone going through a period of poor mental
illness. Educate and inform yourself with quality, evidence-based
information and become familiar with signs and symptoms of poor mental
health, both within yourself and other people. Reach out for help when you
need it.

Caring for your mental health

Caring for my mental health is still something I have to make a conscious
effort to do daily. I see a psychologist weekly, I need reminders to take
breaks, and I take steps to make sure I’m not burning myself out. But ‘down
days’ are inevitable. We’re human, we live in a crazy world. Bad days, yuck
times and moments that feel less than a fairytale are only to be expected.
But we don’t have to let them define us. We don’t have to let them swallow
us whole.
Happy endings are coming, but they take time. Yours is just around the
river bend. Here are a few things that can help to keep you on the track to
your Happy Ever After.

DOWN DAY CHECKLIST

Make yourself comfortable

First and foremost, the most important thing for a sensory overload day is a
‘sensory-no-thanks’ outfit. Put on your favourite trackie daks and your
favourite band tee from that One Direction concert in 2012, when your life
absolutely peaked. Or put on your matching grandma PJs and favourite
fuzzy socks—whatever makes you feel comfortable and safe.
Fashion isn’t the goal here. We’re not here to be an Insta-baddie (unless,
of course, that’s what makes you feel comfortable, in which case go for it).
Your job is to feel at your most comfortable, your most cosy, your most
‘I’m clocking out for the day’.

Adjust your environment

When you’re in sensory overload, your body is telling you that your senses
have had too much and can’t handle anything that may up the intensity, so
you owe it to yourself to ensure that your environment is helping rather than
creating further hindrance. As I explained in Chapter 3, this means low,
soft, warm lighting—instead of overhead lights, use a salt lamp, a warm-
toned desk lamp in the corner of the room or fairy lights. It means using
noise-cancelling headphones or decibel-reducing earplugs and playing
gentle music.
Listen to yourself, listen to your mind, listen to your body. What do you
need? And what do you need to stay away from? You’re the expert on
yourself, and it’s important to surround yourself with things that are going
to benefit you.

Rest
Rest is crucial to reset your mind and body. If you continue to overwork and
overstimulate yourself, you’re going to run the risk of meltdown, burnout or
long-term side effects. So, R. E. S. T.
No one is expecting you to be a superhero continuously, no one is
expecting you to go on and on forever without needing a break to
regenerate. Have a bubble bath filled with a million bath bombs and turn
the lights off. Make a nest of blankets and pillows and put on your favourite
childhood film that you’ve watched 137 times and can recite line for line.
Curl up with a guided meditation and practise your breathing. Do whatever
is going to help you.
You are not a product, you are not an item. You are a human being who
needs rest, and that is fine.

Create
Nothing big, nothing important, and nothing necessarily good. No one’s
asking you to write Mozart’s 9th Symphony, paint a Picasso or master a
craft within the next fifteen minutes. Paint your nails, get out your oil paints
and go nuts, journal your feelings, be mindful with a colouring book. Art is
therapeutic. Creating things puts our focus on something positive and
simple, and can give us time to rest, relax and recover.

Stim
We’ve spoken about it before, we’ll speak about it again, and continue to do
so until it’s locked in our heads, as accepted and common knowledge as the
sky is blue. Stimming. Is. Good. Stim, you beautiful human being. Because
it wakes up the nervous system and releases beta-endorphins and happy
feel-good chemicals. Stim, because it’s vital for you to do so. Stim, because
your body needs it, because it is natural. (Go back to here to find a stim that
works best for you.)

Go outside
While the idea of staying curled up inside your little cocoon may sound like
the most appealing thing in the world, staying inside and in one position all
day long isn’t a good idea either. When we’re in sensory overload, the
world can feel too big, too loud, too much, and so our brains try to protect
us by forcing our bodies into hibernation mode. However, sensory overload
days have the potential to slip into depressive episodes. Learn to listen to
your brain and ask it what you need. No one’s asking you to climb a
mountain or run a marathon or go skydiving, but step outside and walk your
dog, practise some simple yoga, simply sit outside and be.

Declutter
This may be the last thing you want to do when your brain is feeling yuck,
but if your space is also yuck, it’s not going to help your situation. Do
something simple: refold your T-shirts, organise your books … you’ll be
surprised how much lighter you can feel if your safe space is also a clean
space. (God, I sound like my mum.)

Fuel yourself
Finding the energy to eat or drink may be difficult when you’re in sensory
overload, but it’s important that we continue to do so anyway. On my
sensory overload days, I tend to settle for pre-made foods, a big bottle of
water that I won’t have to get up and refill, and lots and lots of tea—a hot
tea is like a warm hug involving absolutely no other people and exactly
what you need when you’re in sensory overload.
Remember to eat, remember to drink. Food is fuel—physical fuel and
emotional fuel.
Have a cuddle
I know what you’re thinking. But Chloé, I don’t want to be around people
when my brain feels like it’s imploding and I would quite enjoy the idea of
escaping from my skin right now. I hear you, I feel you, I am you. So
instead, wrap yourself up in a weighted blanket or cuddle a pet. These
activities release dopamine and serotonin, both of which are neurological
transmitters that relieve anxiety, stress and depression and are proven to
make you happier and calmer. So, scientifically speaking, giving your pet a
cuddle is going to make you feel better.

Happy endings are coming,

but they take time. Yours is
just around the river bend.
OceanofPDF.com
We live in a highly media-based and visual world, where we tend to have a
‘seeing is believing’ approach. We take print and television at face value
without ever choosing to look more closely at the group that it’s supposedly
representing.
We see advertisements telling us we can never be beautiful unless we’re
whatever specific body shape is currently in style. We inevitably end up
telling ourselves that we’re not worthy unless we reach these specific and
unrealistic goals.
We see news reports that negatively highlight specific races, religions,
communities, disabilities or groups, and it’s often ingrained into us to be
fearful, to exclude the different-from-us simply because they’re different
from us. Simply because we have been told to do so.
We see people falsely portraying disability, whether on a television show
with a neurotypical actor putting on a horrid performance of autism, or in
fearmongering news articles that show disabilities as a specific type of
person, with a specific type of disability. We believe this is the only way
someone can be disabled, particularly when the disability is used as a
drawcard, as a reason, as a blame.
We see neurodiversity from a perspective of what’s been incorrectly
taught to us, rather than what it really is. We only consider what
Hollywood, newspaper articles and stereotyped ideologies have presented.
We think of Sheldon Cooper in The Big Bang Theory, we think of Raymond
in Rain Man, we think of Arnie in What’s Eating Gilbert Grape, we think of
a man we saw on the news, we think of our neighbour’s best friend’s
brother’s baker whose ex-wife’s dog’s breeder has a son you suspect is
autistic (so therefore you know everything about it).
We will take every perspective in the world on it … except listening to an
autistic person themself.
When we hear the word ‘autism’, many of us will often think of the
same, stereotypical idea: a cisgender white male with poor social skills and
an obsession with trains and science, or a child (once again, male)
extensively stimming and screaming down the aisles of a supermarket. We
believe it so deeply that even our medical and autism diagnostic system is
built entirely off gender and media-based stereotypes that are not even
remotely considered genuine diagnostic traits.
So, when a young girl who’s displayed classic autism symptoms
throughout her entire life goes completely unnoticed by the system that is
supposed to support and help her—well, we can’t really be surprised, can
we?

Not just ‘quirky’

I had been showcasing classic autism traits throughout my entire life, but a
diagnosis was never something that was put on the table. Reading back
through these chapters, it seems unbelievable to me that a diagnosis took so
long—I may as well have been wearing a large, glowing neon sign that said
‘autistic’. But the delay was likely because of the stereotypes our society
has about autism.

‘She’s a girl, so it can’t be autism.’

‘She doesn’t act like [insert male autistic character from mainstream
media].’
‘She communicates well.’
‘She functions like the rest of us.’
So, I was left feeling every bit an alien, with absolutely no understanding
of who I was, no explanation for why this planet was so confusing, no
answer as to why I knew I was different, despite no one else being able to
tell, except for the occasional, ‘She’s very … odd, isn’t she? (But don’t
worry, she’ll grow out of it.)’

WHAT’S IN A NAME?
Neurodiversity is a term used to describe neurological conditions
such as autism, ADHD, dyslexia, dyspraxia and Tourette’s
syndrome. The term was originally coined in 1998 by Australian
sociologist Judy Singer to challenge the idea that certain
neurodevelopmental disorders were inherently pathological. Singer
put forward a new social model of disability, with the understanding
 that it is the social barriers facing those of us with different wiring
that are the main factors disabling people.
To put it simply, and quite beautifully, the concept of
neurodiversity calls on us to recognise and respect neurological
differences as you would any other human variation. It is simply the
result of normal differences in the human genome, and a showcasing
of how wonderfully diverse the human population is. Trying to
‘correct’ someone’s neurodiversity—as people once tried (and
unfortunately, still try) to do—is taking away that person and all that
they are.
We need to reject the idea that autism, ADHD and any other form
of neurodiversity can and should be cured, advocating instead to
celebrate the difference in neurodiversity and all forms of
communication and self-expression.
Neurodiversity supports the idea that we need to create systems
that support our minds, and to allow neurodivergent people to live as
they are.

My parents, being fairly young and the only ones with a child in their
immediate circle, had no other children for comparison when I started
displaying classic autism symptoms, so for the most part they considered
me fairly normal.
As a baby, I cried almost constantly, and I screamed bloody murder
unless Dad wrapped me so tightly in a swaddle that freeing myself from an
escape jacket would have proven easier. I refused to sleep unless it was on
Dad’s chest and with deep pressure on my back in the form of one of my
parents having to pat my back for hours, or their ingenious invention of
lying a teddy over the top of me to simulate that same pressure and
heaviness.
As I grew, the pretty little dresses and matching headbands that Mum so
desperately wanted to dress her firstborn in were left hanging in the
wardrobe, as I became a screaming banshee at even a breath of the fabric
touching me. Much to my incredibly fashionable Mum’s dismay, I would
only wear those horrendous matching tracksuit sets that I preferred for days
on end.
Autism can become much more apparent in childhood and adolescence,
particularly in girls when social barriers are often more visible. While this
was evidently the case for me, the child psychologists merely said, ‘It’s
PTSD, and it’s expected after what she’s been through.’ And so, it was left
at that.
Chloé: Weird, quirky, different. A little bit broken, but life goes on.
By the age of thirteen, midway through Year 8, the feeling of living on an
alien planet was more obvious and debilitating than ever. My mental health
had been steadily declining, my school attendance was dismal, and my
performance on the rare occasion that I was at school was crumbling and a
clear outward expression of my poor mental health. I was struggling. My
dragons were becoming far too strong, the elephant graveyard was
becoming far too dark, the chapters of my fairytale were being ripped apart,
and the author in me was unable to continue writing.
Finally, my English teacher was the first one to take action, calling my
parents in for an emergency after-school meeting. It was a meeting I was
not invited to—Mum told me years later it involved displays of my recent
schoolwork, a showcase of my exceedingly disorganised locker, and the lost
property box, in which 95 per cent of items belonged to me. It was also an
explanation that I wasn’t up to the expectations in either the work ethic,
work standard, or mental capacity of the other students. It finished with a
cautious suggestion of getting some tests done because ‘there may be
something wrong with her’.
How disappointing that we live in a society where a child is either
completely ‘normal’—as in, they can fit into this oddly designed box that
no one in particular created but that society has deemed to be the only way
—or there’s something entirely, utterly, absolutely wrong with them.
‘Wrong’ was first tested by a visit to the hospital to get a CT scan for
brain damage. ‘They think you hurt yourself from falling off Marlea too
many times,’ Mum explained when I asked her why they needed to test my
brain. Apparently, those falls off my little crossbred pony—my best friend
in the entire world—was the first reason they considered for my actions,
mind and apparent wrongness.
I had fallen off Marlea more times than I could count over the three
months since I’d owned her, and she had sent me to hospital for
concussions at least once a month within that time. Now, I was no longer
allowed to ride unless Dad was leading her, even though I had been riding
since I was four. She’d also been banned from the local pony club after
biting a dressage instructor on the boob. But, she was my psychotic little
pony, and I loved her on a level that I had never loved anything.
My heart sank.
If she was the reason for why I was too different, was she really going to
be taken from me? And what was so wrong with me? Was I really so awful
that brain damage and horse-riding accidents were being considered the
cause of my apparent differences?
I was incredibly confused, and felt my heart break, partly because Dad’s
previous threats to send my beloved demon pony to the knackery had a high
potential of coming true if they did find anything. And now because I was
aware that my parents’ meeting with my teacher the night before must have
had something to do with my abilities.
The brain scan results showed absolutely nothing remarkable, which I
assumed to be a relief, but apparently it only meant that other avenues
needed to be explored. Within the week, I found myself sitting in yet
another doctor’s office, my attention moving between a massive stack of
old National Geographic magazines and a large, illustrated poster of whales
hanging in the receptionist’s office. (It was a ridiculous drawing because the
two species in it couldn’t possibly swim together; belugas prefer cold arctic
waters, while bryde whales prefer tropical waters—one of them would have
been horribly uncomfortable.) I didn’t understand why I was sitting in this
office, but I didn’t overly care—I was far too busy reading National
Geographic: Inside Egypt’s Secret Vaults and questioning the whale
painter’s artistic choices.
When I was called in, a woman with curly hair and glasses perched on
her nose greeted me and introduced herself as Janine. Over several hours, I
answered her questions, watched her jot down notes that seemed entirely
irrelevant, acted out scenes and did quizzes. I felt a sense of utter pride
when she asked me to name all of the animals I knew in three minutes. As
the timer ended, she asked me how I knew 132 different horse breeds,
seventy species of whale, and ‘What on earth is a Babirusa?’ (I also had to
make her aware of the errors in the whale painting outside her office.)
Still, I didn’t entirely understand why I was there, or why the glasses-lady
was asking me seemingly pointless questions (though, I’d come to expect
oddness from most other humans … you lot are a bizarre bunch). Or why I
was kicked out of the room so she could ‘just have a little chat with Mum’.
(I was convinced she was going to try and test Mum on her animal
knowledge, too—ha, good luck trying to name fifty-seven shark species
like I did, Mum.)
That ‘little chat with mum’ resulted in me seeing Dr Janine every week
for the following six weeks, each appointment coming with various tests,
games, quizzes and questions that still made absolutely no sense to me, and
a final ‘chat with Mum’ at the end of it all.
When Mum walked out of the office after the final chat, she told me to
set down National Geographic: Secrets of the Whales so we could leave.
My initial reaction was ‘How can I send this magazine to the whale artist so
he can get his facts straight?’ My second was, Oh. Mum’s sad.
We walked out of the office in silence, Mum carrying a stack of
paperwork and a large textbook. I know that I’m not great with
understanding social cues, but the rigidity and unease that filled the air
could have definitely been cut with a knife. I could feel Mum’s sadness
deep down in my tummy, making it twist and turn.
Mum had promised me hot chips from our favourite local chicken and
chip shop, as well as a Cookies N Cream frappé from our favourite coffee
shop that we had recently nicknamed ‘Gloria Janine’s’, after the
psychologist. I was beginning to grow anxious. Had I done something
wrong that would warrant going home without the treats? Maybe my role
play with the glasses-lady, where I’d acted out my morning routine, had
revealed some sort of awful thing. Maybe I had offended the doctor with
my animal knowledge or comments on her inaccurate whale poster. Maybe
it was something worse …
After we got into the car, Mum turned on the ignition, and then sat in
silence for some time. I noticed her eyes growing wet with tears. When
you’re thirteen and you see your mum crying, you think the whole world is
ending. When you’re thirteen and you see your mum crying, and you know
it’s because of you, you think the whole world is ending and you’re the one
who’s single-handedly making it end.
With that same sick feeling in my tummy that I knew all too well, I
worked up the courage to ask Mum the question that I was sure was the
only obvious answer. With a quiet, shaky voice, I asked her what I thought
had to be the sole cause of the recent doctor’s visits, the brain scan, the
private meeting, and then the tears following on.
‘Mum, am I dying?’
 I don’t know what thoughts went through Mum’s head when her daughter
fearfully asked that question, but I imagine they were ones of sadness, of
surprise, and a quick realisation that she needed to be a parent now, there
wasn’t time for wallowing in pity. With a shaken laugh she said, ‘No,
you’re not dying’, which did little to quell my fears. I glanced at the book in
her hands, hoping for some form of clarity. That was when I took notice of
words that I hadn’t heard of before and realised that it must be the cause of
her tears, and my apparent new illness: Ass Burger.
The diagnosis would seemingly not kill me but had labelled me as the
bum of a burger. Absolutely bloody great. All in all, a fair and reasonable
explanation for the sea of tears, if you ask me.
Following another confused question from me, and another tearful laugh
from Mum, she confirmed that I did not have a burger ass, nor did I have
my secondary guess of Asparagus.
‘You have Asperger’s syndrome, baby,’ she told me, as she looked into
the rear-view mirror to wipe the mascara that had smudged down her
cheeks. ‘And it’s not something new, it’s not something scary. It’s just the
way your brain works. If you have it, you’ve always had it—it just took us
thirteen years to figure it out. That’s why I’m sad.’
Asperger’s syndrome? Huh?
Still confused, worried and scared, we drove home in almost silence. I
wasn’t convinced this new diagnosis wasn’t a death sentence. But we got
those chicken-salt hot chips and a frappé. So, silver linings.
Arriving home, I quickly retreated to my bedroom and opened up my
laptop with missing keys and peeling off One Direction stickers to type
these new words into the Google search bar. My heart sank as I read the
search results.

Asperger’s syndrome: How To Cure It

A Life Ruined by Autism
Support Groups in My Area for Parents Crushed by Autism
Autism: The Devastating Diagnosis
I read through page after page of research papers by self-proclaimed
professionals and educational adverts—one even showed autism modelled
like a horror-movie villain, with the voice-over stating, ‘I am autism. I
make it impossible for your family to attend any event without
embarrassment and pain. I will make sure your marriage fails. I am autism.
You ignored me. That was a mistake. If you are not scared, you should be.’ I
read fearmongering articles claiming that a life with autism was barely a
life at all, and it negatively affected everyone surrounding someone with it.
My inner world flipped and my heart sank. Autism wasn’t a death
sentence … it was so much worse.
Now, I wasn’t just Chloé: weird, quirky, different.
I was Chloé: weirdly, devastatingly, ruined by autism.

A model fit for … males

In the first Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM),
published in 1952, autism was defined as ‘childhood schizophrenia’ and
‘child psychosis’. It was considered to present differently to typical
schizophrenic children due to ‘immaturity’ and ‘plasticity’, and to be caused
by ‘cold parenting’ and emotionless mothers.
It wasn’t until 1980, in the third edition of the DSM, that autism gained
its own official diagnosis, described as a ‘pervasive developmental
disorder’ that (go figure) had nothing to do with schizophrenia (although it
explained that autistic individuals were likely to develop schizophrenia in
adulthood). With fifty test subjects now involved, thirty-nine of whom were
male, the DSM-III now required six points of diagnostic criteria, listing the
essential features of autism to be:

1. pervasive lack of responsiveness to other people

2. gross deficits in language
3. peculiar speech patterns, if speech is present at all
4. bizarre responses to various aspects of the environment
5. rigid and peculiar attachment to objects
6. an absence of delusions, hallucinations, loosening of associations and
incoherence, as in schizophrenia.

And these symptoms had to be evident before thirty months of age.

In 1987, the updated DSM-III-R significantly altered the criteria,
allowing for somewhat ‘mild’ autism to exist, dropping the idea that it must
be diagnosed before thirty months, and listing sixteen diagnostic criteria,
eight of which had to be met for a clinical diagnosis. These criteria included
‘a lack of the awareness of the existence of others’ feelings’ (as an example,
it said that an autistic person ‘treats other people as if they’re a piece of
furniture’), ‘gross impairment to make friendship’ and ‘abnormalities in the
production of speech’.
While never directly stated, the 1987 revised manual implied that autism
existed on a ‘spectrum’, an ideology that Hans Asperger (a man who will,
unfortunately, make a comeback later in this chapter) had been using since
1944 and one of the leading reasons why autism criteria are still so
incredibly biased and rooted in a history of ableism, sexism and
misunderstanding.
As I write this, it’s believed that around 1 in 160 people are autistic,
although many studies showcase it to be as high as 1 in 50. Ninety-eight per
cent of Australians have heard of autism, and 86 per cent of people are in
close contact with an autistic person. (A statistic that is written poorly, as it
makes us sound alien, or like a virus … although, that is exactly what we’re
made to feel like. So, go figure.)
Despite autism being the third most-common developmental disability
(with intellectual disabilities being the first, followed by cerebral palsy),
and almost everyone in the world having heard of autism with a really basic
understanding of what it is, why then was a thirteen year old left sobbing in
her bedroom because this diagnosis left her with such rigid fear?
Why was Mum left crying because she’d been told that her daughter was
diagnosed with it?
Why are autistic people four times more likely to experience depression
than other groups?
Why do we so deeply fear something that is a core part of who we are?
While I continued researching, I noticed another thing that only added
more fear and confusion to my already terrified mind. Not a single one of
these articles spoke about autism in women, or adults. It was all directly
aimed at male children.
Fabulous. Now, I wasn’t just Chloé: weird, quirky, different.
I was Chloé: weirdly, devastatingly, ruined by autism … AND a complete
abnormality.
Perfect. Stupendous. Just what a thirteen-year-old girl really needs to
kick-start her teenage years.
 The autism diagnostic system is built entirely around stereotypical male
autistic traits that were determined by studying predominantly male subjects
and using clinical tools designed to fit the male autism phenotype. Women
are therefore often undiagnosed. Currently, boys are four times more likely
to be diagnosed than their female counterparts. The numbers and statistics
tell us that women are unlikely to be autistic (or even that females cannot
be autistic, according to some doctors … who should have their licences
revoked), but this doesn’t mean that there are fewer autistic women. It
simply shows that gender gaps exist in every aspect of our lives, including
medical diagnostic criteria supposedly built to help us but which often
causes further confusion and ostracisation.
Women aren’t less likely to be autistic than men—in fact, a new study
shows that there may actually be more autistic women than men. We need
to look at the system that was created to diagnose it in the first place, a
system that is built on sexism, classism and racism, and therefore not
accommodating many of the people who need it most.
Autism is incredibly underdiagnosed in women as well because we are
socialised to hide key parts of our identity to avoid being seen as too bossy,
too much, too little, or too [insert misogynistic term that only applies to
women]. Women learn to be more reserved, shy and quiet in order to be the
picture-perfect face of femininity and to avoid abuse and misogyny. The
result is that autism in women is overlooked and unseen or misdiagnosed as
anxiety, depression or bipolar disorder. In turn, our system and social
ideologies of gender negatively affect men, with personality disorders being
wildly underdiagnosed due to men being expected and nurtured to act
explosively and narcissistically.
We women have been taught to disguise ourselves all throughout our
lives, so it’s easy for us to disguise the fact that we’re autistic. Bright
lights? Loud noises? Not understanding social cues? Couldn’t be me. We
become masters of disguise because we need to, and then it backfires on us
when medical professionals turn us away because our traits don’t line up
with what’s expected, even when they are classic autism traits.

Diagnosing autism
HOW AUTISM IS ‘EXPECTED’ TO PRESENT
These are still considered valid diagnostic criteria by experts, though they
are often more in line with male diagnostic criteria.

Lack of emotion
Autistic people may find it difficult to recognise emotions, facial
expressions and other emotional cues, including tone of voice and body
language. Missing these cues can mean they struggle to show their
emotions and to understand those of others.

Peculiar speech patterns

Autistic people may speak more loudly than is deemed acceptable. They
may also use monotonous and unusually formal tones, both in the
enunciation of words and the tone itself, often due to an inability to
recognise tone and the pitch within their own voice and speech patterns.

Unimaginative play
Rather than playing with toys conventionally, autistic children may interact
with toys in a more repetitive and unimaginative way, including lining them
up and/or sorting them by colour and size.

Strict adherence to rules and need for structure

Autistic people rely on predictable, safe, structured environments and
routines to feel grounded and safe. Deviations and sudden changes from
these structures and routines can result in extreme anxiety and lead to
meltdowns.

Lack of empathy
Autistic people are often described as lacking empathy and unable to feel
what others are feeling.

Fascination for dates and small details

A ‘fascination’ with dates, numbers, patterns and small details has long
been considered typical in an autism diagnosis.
Very picky eating
Typical eating behaviours are common in autistic people. This could mean
eating only very specific foods (often prepackaged, unchanging and non-
perishable, due to these foods always tasting the same, without fail),
refusing to eat foods of specific textures or colours, or refusing to let
different types of food touch and ‘contaminate’ each other.

Inability to maintain eye contact

A main diagnostic criterion is an autistic person’s inability to maintain eye
contact, which then creates the sense that autistic people are more
disengaged and less responsive (neither of which is correct). Eye contact
can be physically and mentally painful, and forcing eye contact can impair
our ability to take information in and engage with others.

Intense sensitivity to input

Sensory processing disorder is an incredibly common comorbidity with
autism, causing autistic people to either be hyper (over) or hypo (under)
sensitive to light, sound, taste, touch and other sensory stimuli.

Delayed movement skills

Autistic people may have a delay in fine motor skills (typically seen in
children) and can have varying degrees of difficulty with these functions.

HOW AUTISM MAY APPEAR IN WOMEN

A fundamental issue of our current diagnostic criteria for autism is that the
pre-existing concepts of autism are based on a predominantly male
population, leaving autistic women incredibly underdiagnosed. New
research is beginning to showcase what autistic women have already known
for their entire lives, telling us that autism often presents incredibly
differently in women, because of both our abilities to mask and our social
motivation, as well as brain differences between autistic men and women.
Here is how autism may show up in women.

Reliance on other girls to guide them or speak for them

Understanding social cues can be incredibly difficult for everyone on the
spectrum, but it presents a lot more in autistic women. Autistic women tend
to be shy and self-aware. Because of this, and because they understand that
they are different but desperately want to fit in, they often let other girls
guide them, speak for them and show them how to act. They may follow
others not just in their interests, but also in behaviour, which means many
of us end up in sticky situations.

Passionate and limited interests

Intense special interests are a classic autistic trait regardless of gender;
however, while interests for men may be more in line with science, math
and trains, they often present in women as a love for animals and media and
the arts, such as literature, film and music.

Masking
As mentioned, autistic females tend to be extremely socially aware, self-
aware, and aware of who they’re supposed to be. Thus, they may try to
mimic and copy other girls to fit in better, and hide their own natural traits.
This can be seen in the way they force eye contact, hold back stims, pre-
prepare jokes and scripts, and mimic how others walk, dress and speak.

Broad imagination
As opposed to males on the spectrum, who can present as playing in a
structured fashion, autistic females are often more imaginative when they
play. This alone is a huge reason why many autistic women are never
diagnosed—it seems too removed from what an autism diagnosis is
‘supposed to look like’. Autistic women and girls are incredibly
imaginative, often more so than their neurotypical counterparts.

Reluctance to play cooperatively

Playing make-believe was my favourite thing in the whole world (it still is),
but my idea of playing wasn’t exactly ‘playing’; it was directing. When I
played make-believe, I would script up exactly what all of the characters
would do before we began and would get frustrated when someone went off
script. In a way, this is the female version of the ever-so-common idea of
autistic kids lining things up.

Advanced vocabulary but limited conversation

Unlike boys on the spectrum, girls rarely experience any speech or
language delays. Often, we are far more advanced than our peers (and many
adults!). However, communication struggles remain. Knowing how to
speak to others can be hard unless it’s about something we’re specifically
interested in—then you won’t be able to shut us up.

Depression and anxiety

Autistic women are more than four times more likely to experience
depression than the neurotypical population, and roughly 40 per cent of
autistic women have a diagnosable anxiety disorder. There’s evidence that
suggests this is due to our brain structure and function, a history of social
distancing, and forced masking.

Difficulty making and keeping friends

With 93 per cent of human communication being non-verbal, and because
autistic people find it difficult to pick up on this communication, making
friends can be hard. We are often quite clueless when it comes to making
friends and sparking conversation.

Seizures
Seizures are more common in autistic females than they are in autistic
males. (Ya girl has experienced multiple seizures at the most inconvenient
times, including in the middle of a mosh pit—don’t recommend it.)
However, many people will grow out of them in their adult years.

Normal development but a delayed adolescence

While autistic boys tend to be diagnosed earlier in life, autistic girls often
aren’t diagnosed until much later. This is due to the way autism tends to
present in females, and the traits are really not seen until adolescence. We
tend to develop later than neurotypical girls and are more likely to be seen
as incredibly youthful and naive.
AUTISM TRAITS NOT SPOKEN ABOUT
The following traits, while common in autistic people, often go unspoken
about or unnoticed. They may not be listed as specific criteria in the DSM-5
(released in 2013) but are backed up by multiple experts and research.

Sleep problems
Insomnia affects between 73 and 80 per cent of autistic individuals, and
studies suggest that autistic people only spend 15 per cent of their sleep in
the critical REM stage compared with around 23 per cent for neurotypical
people. While we don’t know the specific link between autism and sleep
issues, two potential causes are sensory sensitivities and a lack of natural
melatonin in our brains.

Poor and abnormal posture

Many autistic people have poor posture due to a reduced self-perception of
body movement and lack of motor skills.

Different or ‘odd’ gait

Many autistic people have an unusual way of walking. It might be walking
pigeon-toed, walking on our toes (often due to sensory issues), walking on
the insides of our feet, or even having an incredibly quick walking speed.
Again, this may be linked to poor perception of body movement and poor
motor skills. These types of gaits may become heightened during extreme
sensory sensitivity.

Connection with animals

As other humans often seem like a strange, unsettling, bizarre species to
autistic people, we may find the most comfort with animals. It’s no secret
that the impact animals have on us can be healing and can help us to
understand how to communicate. Animals don’t mock, they don’t pretend,
they don’t have hidden agendas. That sort of thing is exactly what we need
… it’s what everyone needs.

Clumsiness
Autistic people can be unaware of their surroundings and are often covered
in bruises. This is due to a lack of spatial awareness and poor fine-motor
skills, and possibly dyspraxia, a neurological condition that is extremely
common in autism. It means our hands, eyes and brains often don’t link up,
leaving us to be very clumsy!

Seemingly unnecessary rituals

Many of us on the spectrum have rituals that may seem odd to neurotypical
viewers, appearing unnecessary and illogical (such as drinking only from a
specific cup, or asking the same questions and needing a specific answer, or
keeping objects in the exact same place, or playing the same way without
change). But these rituals are often simply there to make us feel safe,
comfortable and grounded (well and truly enough of a reason). Due to this
ritualism, many autistic kids may receive a misdiagnosis of obsessive-
compulsive disorder (OCD). While those who are autistic are thirteen times
more likely to be diagnosed with OCD (6 per cent), there are many OCD
traits that are also autism traits, without the comorbid diagnosis.

Intense compassion and empathy

There’s a large expectation that autistic people inherently lack empathy and
compassion. This couldn’t be further from the truth and is often entirely
backwards. Autistic people are some of the most compassionate,
empathetic, sensitive people in the world, and can experience these
emotions so deeply that they become extremely painful and overwhelming.
Due to these heightened, often uncomfortable feelings, they may close off,
or be too deep in their own feelings, and appear unempathetic or cold to
those who don’t know us or expect neurotypical emotions from a
neurodivergent person.

A large and unique vocabulary

Autistic people often struggle to understand social norms and expectations,
so when we learn words from books, films or whatever media we ingest,
we’ll use them as a part of daily conversation without considering, Is there
a simpler, shorter way of explaining this?
It’s important to add that while this can be a sign of autism, there are also
many autistic people who are non-verbal or have limited vocabulary—both
of which are entirely fine, and simply other elements of the spectrum!

Lack of organisation
An inability to plan and organise is a common trait for autistic individuals,
thanks to our little friend ‘executive dysfunction’. Planning and working out
our own internal step-by-step instructions for things can be incredibly
difficult.

Diagnosing ADHD
Originally, ADHD was known as ‘hyperkinetic reaction of childhood’ and
was described in the DSM-II in one sentence: ‘Overactivity, restlessness,
distractibility, and short attention span, especially in young children; the
behavior usually diminishes in adolescence.’ In the 1960s, ADHD was
formally recognised as a mental disorder, then it became ‘attention deficit
disorder with or without hyperactivity’ in the 1980s.

HOW ADHD IS ‘EXPECTED’ TO PRESENT

These traits are expected in ADHD people and, even though they may be
more in line with a male diagnostic criterion, they can still be valid for
women as well.

Hyperactivity
Hyperactivity is often the number-one trait when considering an ADHD
diagnosis. Typically, it is seen as an inability to sit still, consistent fidgeting,
disruptiveness, excessive physical movement and excessive talking.

Impulsivity
Impulsivity is another stock-standard diagnostic criterion for ADHD, and
typically means acting without thinking, interrupting, and having little
perception of danger.
Self-focused behaviour
An inability to recognise other people’s needs and desires (interrupting,
having difficulty waiting for their turn, being impatient) is considered
another typical ADHD trait.

Emotional turmoil
‘Temper tantrums’, as they’re so painfully and wrongly called, may be
common in people with ADHD, as well as emotional outbursts, an inability
to control emotions and anger.

Struggles paying attention

Someone with ADHD may struggle with paying close attention to
schoolwork, conversation, instructions or information, causing careless
mistakes in schoolwork and social isolation.

Tendency to lose things

Keys, wallet, lunch box, schoolbag, hat, glasses … if it’s not attached to our
body, we’re probably going to lose it.

Lack of follow-through on tasks and instructions

Not finishing tasks and instructions due to lack of focus or getting
sidetracked is a common diagnostic criterion.

Symptoms present before age of twelve and in more than one

environment
The DSM-5 ADHD criteria insist that a diagnosis can only be made if
multiple behaviours are recognised before the age of twelve and are noticed
in more than one environment (that is, school and home). This is something
that is problematic with women, as ADHD women often learn to mask
symptoms from a young age, and therefore do not receive support or a
diagnosis until our adult years.

HOW ADHD MAY APPEAR IN WOMEN

Similar to autism, women with ADHD often present differently to men with
ADHD. We are master maskers, are taught to comply, and often showcase
inattentiveness, hyperactivity and impulsiveness in ways that aren’t seen as
socially disruptive as they are in males with ADHD. Here is how ADHD
may present in women.

Inattentiveness
While boys with ADHD may present externalised behaviours, such as
impulsivity and hyperactivity, girls may experience ADHD in a more
internalised way—inattention being a huge one. Not paying attention to the
task at hand and becoming easily distracted can be huge barriers for girls
with ADHD. They often lead to exclusion and forgetfulness.

Hyper-focus as compensation
To compensate for inattentiveness, girls with ADHD are often incredibly
good at hyper-focusing on something we like or are good at. We’ll put so
much energy and effort into this one thing—whether that’s sport, music, a
television series or something else—and focus so intently on it that people
often dismiss the possibility of ADHD and attribute our behaviour to
defiance or laziness. (‘She can’t have ADHD, she pays attention when she
wants to.’)

Constant motion
Being constantly on the move doesn’t necessarily mean the stereotypical
‘bouncing off the walls’ that ADHD is known for. Often, it’s in smaller,
more subtle ways, largely due to the fact that, while we need to release
energy, we are aware of the social factors causing silent judgements to be
constantly cast in our direction. So, we’ll find ways to move that don’t draw
as much attention. Constantly fidgeting, tapping fingers, doodling, jiggling
a leg—these are tiny, somewhat subtle ways to release built-up energy and
find a sense of grounding (otherwise known as stimming).

Difficulty making friends

Friendship can be hard for anyone, but if you’re a neurodivergent girl, that
difficulty level just went up tenfold. A girl with ADHD is often impulsive,
hyperactive and forgetful, making the little complex nuances of female
friendships more difficult.

Messiness
This can be for a number of reasons, including poor working memory,
which makes it hard to visualise and plan the process of cleaning. I’ll get
distracted by my dog barking, or seeing my fish tank and remembering I
need to feed the fish, or my jewellery box that needs reorganising. I then
completely forget the task of cleaning in the first place.
Messiness doesn’t just stay within the house, though. Messiness in all
situations can be an indication of ADHD. Messiness with food, with
schoolwork, with writing, with your purse or backpack. If there’s a mess to
be made, rest assured we’ll find a way to make it.

Low self-esteem
The struggle with friendships can lead to feelings of low self-esteem and
anxiety. Girls with ADHD are likely to blame themselves in many
situations. As an example, if a boy with ADHD fails a test, he is more likely
to say the test was simply too difficult, whereas girls with ADHD are more
likely to see their failure as a sign that they’re ‘not smart enough’.
When it comes to social situations, and life in general, girls with ADHD
tend to be a lot more self-aware than their male counterparts. We usually
know why we find life hard, but we don’t know how to change it, resulting
in feelings of anxiety and low self-esteem.

Mental health issues

Girls with ADHD are three times more likely to struggle from eating
disorders, depression, anxiety and substance disorders than neurotypical
girls. Ten per cent of women with ADHD are also diagnosed with
depression, and 38 per cent meet the criteria for an anxiety disorder.

Daydreaming
While boys with ADHD may be more inclined to be physically energetic,
this energy often presents itself as daydreaming for girls. For example, a
boy with ADHD may feel the need to fidget and move and jump out of his
chair, but a girl may doodle images she sees in her mind or stare out the
window. This endless daydreaming often gets us into trouble, such as
missing important social cues, instructions or assignments. But it can also
be our greatest superpower—some of the world’s greatest artists and
creators have ADHD and are often dreamers.

Chattiness
Hyperactivity and impulsivity may manifest verbally in women, as opposed
to the usual physical signs in men. ADHD girls are also often highly
emotional, unable to slow their thoughts down, and struggle to process their
feelings, giving us a tendency to overshare and over chat. Our struggle with
social cues can also mean that we sometimes talk out of turn or out of place,
which, again, leads to difficulty with friends.
People with ADHD also have a tendency to speak extremely fast. I talk
like a cheetah on steroids, and regularly find myself putting videos and
podcasts on double speed to overcome the pauses most people put between
their words.

Poor decision-making skills

Decision-making is a massive challenge for people with ADHD. Girls with
ADHD may freeze up and be unable to filter out options to come to the
correct or desired decision. Distraction, daydreaming and the endless
possibilities and scenarios that we come up with can all be reasons for this.
We also often struggle to prioritise, and all options may seem equally
important or significant. This can lead to poor or impulsive decisions.

ADHD TRAITS NOT SPOKEN ABOUT

There are common traits within ADHD individuals that often not spoken
about, or they go unnoticed due to the silence around them. These may not
be listed as specific DSM criteria but much of this information is from
experts, backed by lived experience.

Hyper-focus
When most of us think of ADHD, we think of someone being ‘unfocused’.
It’s one of the primary traits we’ve come to correlate with ADHD.
However, sometimes this couldn’t be further from the truth. In fact, ADHD
individuals have such intense focus that there’s a term for it: ‘hyper-focus’.
This happens when our minds fixate on one thing for extended periods of
time, to the point where it can become quite difficult to do anything else.
It can become difficult for us to switch over our thinking and, due to this,
we may lose track of time, forget to do basic tasks (including eating and
personal care), and miss important cues and information.

Time-management issues
ADHD individuals see and experience time differently from those who are
neurotypical. We’re often unable to anticipate future rewards and
consequences, have an utterly godlike ability to procrastinate, have minimal
ability to establish a level of importance, and struggle with being able to
coordinate, organise and format our days, plans and routines. All of this
goes back to poor executive functioning. This leaves us with a warped sense
of time, with things often forgotten, or realised too late.

Rejection dysphoria
Up to 99 per cent of people with ADHD are more sensitive to rejection than
neurotypical people, and one in three will say it’s the most difficult part of
being ADHD.
With rejection dysphoria, the feeling of criticism or rejection (whether
literal or just something that we believe or feel) can become so intense that
it takes over our entire beings. This can lead to depression, self-esteem
issues and social withdrawal.

Sleep problems
More than 67 per cent of people with ADHD struggle with sleep issues.
These problems may stem from impaired alertness and regulation circuits in
the brain. Or the fact that we often struggle to keep a schedule and ‘factor
in’ sleep due to our inability to prioritise. Or because many people with
ADHD have comorbid conditions that make sleep difficult, such as restless
legs syndrome or apnoea.
 When the world is quiet and there’s nothing for our brain to fixate on, it
finds its own things to get busy about. We have an inability to shut off our
minds. When we’re tired, ADHD symptoms get worse, and sleeping gets
harder, which makes us tired, and the cycle continues.

Intense emotions
People with ADHD often experience intense emotions. Working memory
impairments allow momentary emotions to become too strong, flooding the
brain with that one intense emotion. We’ll often also fixate on the current
emotion that we’re feeling, and it can take over our entire being.

Low tolerance for boredom

ADHD folk intensely crave constant stimuli. It’s why we get fixated on
tasks. It’s why we struggle to sleep. It’s why we stim. So, boredom can
actually become physically and emotionally distressing, and leave people
with ADHD feeling anxious and on edge.
While rest, silence and relaxation may be the dream for some, for many
people with ADHD this can feel like a prison.

Impulsive shopping
Similar to hyperactivity, impulsivity is almost a given with ADHD. But
while impulsivity is often expected to present as interrupting others and
doing things without thinking, it can show up more subtly, most commonly
as impulsive shopping. While this is due to our impulsive habits, it can also
be a quick hit of dopamine, the feelgood hormone, something those of us
with ADHD constantly crave.

Poor working memory

While our long-term memories are usually pretty groovy (often even better
than those of neurotypical people—we’ll remember everything, and
probably panic about something small that happened years ago and has
been long forgotten by the entirety of the planet minus us), our short-term
or working memory is often not so good.
We may have difficulty remembering assignments or completing tasks.
We’re thinking so much and so constantly that often, instead of all the tabs
in our brains being open simultaneously, one thought will push the others
away, and they disappear.

Object permanence issues

As with our poor working memory, our brains require focus, even if
subconsciously, to remember tasks and objects. With so much stimuli
always entering our brain, sometimes our brain kicks out items temporarily,
to the point of them disappearing from our plane of existence. A closed
computer tab to be looked at later will never be opened again. Vegetables in
the crisper will go mouldy because we can’t see them. Clothes at the back
of our wardrobes will remain unworn. This goes beyond objects and chores;
it can also extend to people! Out of sight, out of mind.

Bursts of motivation based on interest

Many people with ADHD are criticised for lacking motivation, or scolded
for only wanting to do ‘fun tasks’. We may excel at our favourite subjects in
school and spend hours on them, but we may become entirely unmotivated
and unfocused on things we don’t really enjoy.
When we’re doing something we love, our brain rewards us with happy
chemicals. Our entire brain chemistry changes when we’re engaged in tasks
that we find rewarding, and it’s our brain chemistry that sustains our focus
and attention.

Challenging the labels

Despite Asperger’s syndrome being the label typed onto my diagnostic
sheet by a psychologist when I was thirteen years old, you’ll notice I don’t
use that term anywhere else in this book. Instead, I refer to myself as
‘autistic’. Asperger’s syndrome was considered a correct diagnosis and has
been widely accepted and identified within the community since 1994. But
one of the best parts of our world is accepting and embracing growth and
change when new information is presented to us. The term ‘Asperger’s
syndrome’ is no longer considered a diagnosis, and within the latest DSM-5
criteria (which still have many faults) the traits identifying the condition are
now listed as ‘autism’.
There are many, many reasons why I and so many others have pulled
away from the term. But the one reason that the majority of people have yet
to learn about—and the most shocking—is that Hans Asperger, the
‘inventor’ of the term, was a Nazi who assisted in the murder of disabled
children during the Second World War.
Asperger, an Austrian paediatrician, was for many decades recognised as
a pioneer in the study of autism. To some, he was even deemed a hero,
rescuing groups of autistic children from the Nazi extermination program.
He did this by emphasising the intelligence of some autistic children,
describing them as having ‘high-functioning autism’ (another feral term that
we will get to later—one atrocity at a time, please). However, after an
eight-yearlong study that was released in 2018, we now have indisputable
evidence that Asperger assisted in the murder of disabled children,
including those who were autistic.
Conducting Nazi ideological-based research on autistic children,
Asperger came to the conclusion that some of the children had higher IQs
and were deemed worthy of survival. He narcissistically coined the term
‘Asperger’s syndrome’ to differentiate and separate them from other autistic
children. That same research described autism as a ‘psychopathic,
schizophrenic disorder’, and the children he tested under this were
categorised as unsocial, undesirable and low functioning.
Those not lucky enough to fall under his new ‘high-functioning’ label
were sent to a clinic called Am Spiegelgrund, a place that Asperger both
published papers on and spoke about publicly. Here, these children that he
didn’t deem worthy of survival were experimented on, starved and put to
death.
Nearly 800 children were murdered under Hans Asperger’s watch.
So, why are we still so set on using a term coined by a murderer?
Especially when it has been proven time and time again that his research
was complete and utter hogwash and holds no value within our modern-day
understanding of what autism really is?
Asperger’s syndrome, as we know it today, has absolutely no correlation
to Hans Asperger’s research and, yet, we are still so determined to name an
entire group of individuals after the man who assisted in the knowing
murder of people like me. And, as important, we, as a society, must not
accept that one group of people is deemed worthy, while another is not—
despite there being absolutely no difference between them other than how
their minds work. Consider the social implications that ideology has on
both the autistic community and society as a whole.
I hear you thinking, Okay, so we’ll stop using Asperger’s syndrome. We’ll
use functioning labels instead!
Wrong. Equally as harmful.
You can’t use a new word to replace an old one without it holding the
exact same correlation, segregation and complacency that the original term
was associated with. Instead of the 1930s’ mindset of People with
Asperger’s are worthy of survival, but those who have autism are not, we
now see a twenty-first century version of that: People who are high
functioning are worthy of survival, but those who are low functioning … It’s
just a more modernised, accepted vocabulary. Instead of ‘worthy of
survival’, our new language is being ‘worthy’ in capitalism and ‘worthy’ of
support.
Functioning labels were created by non-autistic people who know very
little about autism, who have no connection with autism, and who want to
make it easier for the neurotypical community to understand our minds by
further alienating us. They’re used to telling now one entire group that
they’re incapable, and another group that their struggles are minimal and do
not matter. Both of those are incredibly problematic, outdated ways of
thinking. And, again, both link back directly to Hans Asperger’s Nazi
ideologies.

We, as a society, must not

accept that one group of
people is deemed worthy,
while another is not.
Functioning labels and Asperger’s syndrome both need to be erased
entirely from diagnostic criteria and our vocabulary if we want any chance
of a more equal future. They only serve to segregate, label and ultimately
harm us. Our minds are deemed different and confusing to you, therefore
you need to box us in a way that makes sense to you, at the expense of our
wellbeing. This has occurred despite ‘functioning labels’ not actually
existing in diagnostic tools and holding no scientific merit.
Plainly and simply: functioning labels do not exist. They cannot exist.
Functioning labels have never helped autistic people, and we need to call
them out for what they are: Is this person capable of producing capitalistic
value, or not? That’s the real reason these labels are used, often hidden
behind the idea of providing support, but it’s false support.
‘But, Chloé,’ I hear you say, ‘we need to establish a person’s level of
functioning so we know what their support needs are! So we know if they
can live independently! So we know if they can … function.’
I hear you. But, alas—wrong.
One autistic person’s ‘level of functioning’ will fluctuate throughout their
day, week and life, depending upon circumstances, environment, mood and
other factors. Someone who has been deemed ‘high functioning’ simply due
to external factors (such as their home life, their support circle, or simply
how well they have learned to mask themselves) may in fact need more
resources and support than someone who has been deemed ‘low
functioning’. Likewise, our understanding of functioning labels does not
help the autistic person but does allow the labeller to pin something on
them.
People who are deemed to be at one end of the spectrum are seen as
incapable. They aren’t given the respect that they deserve, and the things
that they can do are overlooked. We see someone who outwardly presents a
certain way, and immediately pin them as low functioning—this is
particularly true of people who may be non- or partially verbal. By calling
someone low functioning for not using words, you’re invalidating their
ability to communicate in their way. (If you ask me, that doesn’t make them
the ones who are low functioning, when the people around them are the
ones unable to understand.) These people will only ever be seen as what
they are not. A label of ‘low functioning’ denies the person the ability to
thrive in their own way in their own time.
On the flip side, those on the other end of the spectrum may simply be
seen as ‘quirky’, and their struggles are diminished and overlooked.
 Just as you wouldn’t label a neurotypical person as low- or high-
functioning, it makes zero sense to do it with autistic people. As with
everyone, our struggles and strengths are our own individual struggles and
strengths.
Autism is a spectrum, and it is this wording that has led people into
believing that that must mean there is a low end and a high end on the
spectrum.

‘You must be very low on the spectrum then.’

‘He’s more autistic than you; he’s very high up on the spectrum.’
This language is also used by neurotypical people to push themselves
into our narrative: ‘Oh, autism is a spectrum! And everyone is on it!’ But
this is incredibly problematic.
Autism is not a linear spectrum; it is not a singular line where one end is
‘a little bit autistic’ and the other is ‘very autistic’. Instead, the autism
spectrum is more like a colour wheel, in which every colour represents a
different strength, a different struggle, a different identity, but all of the
colours are autism. Every autistic person is their own, individual, different
colour code. No colour is more or less colourful than another colour—they
are all equally important parts of the palette. (And, likewise, if you are not
autistic, you are not on this palette.)
Instead of trying to give someone a made-up label that’s designed to help
the viewer, it’s paramount that we start to focus on providing care and
support on an individual, case-by-case basis.
There are many autistic people who were once diagnosed with either
Asperger’s syndrome or high-functioning autism and they cling on to that
diagnosis with everything they have. They will fight to the end that these
are words they identify with, and they shouldn’t have to conform to being
labelled as autistic. And I understand this.
Asperger’s supremacy and internalised ableism are things that are still so
pervasive within our community. I know, because Asperger’s was an
instrumental part of my online identity for eight years, and when the time
came to change and step away from it, it was really, really difficult. Change
is terrifying, especially when that change means losing a label that has been
protecting you.
 But why are we letting a man who wanted us gone from the planet to be
such a crucial part of our lives?
Why are we still allowing him to decide which of us are deemed worthy,
when worth and value have never been depicted by a label?
I genuinely believe that our world is moving in a more positive direction
and that good will always win. But it’s important that we work together to
educate and ensure that the good outweighs the bad, and that we continue to
create a better world for all of us.
For my entire teenage life, I had understood that my brain was wrong,
and weird, and strange because of what fearmongering-based videos and
articles told me, and because of how people were treating me, and because
of how our world as a whole sees autism. But we desperately, desperately
need to change that. We need to change our outlook on the different,
because we’ve suffered for far too long.

Moving beyond fear

We human beings label things, it’s what we do. It’s how our little pea brains
make sense of a world that has no order. Even before a diagnosis of autism
or ADHD or whatever it may be, a neurodivergent person will be labelled as
weird, quirky, different, strange, unusual … ‘not supposed to be here’—
labels that were put on us from the moment society made us believe we
were wrong for being different. Replacing these negative, confusing labels
with one simple label of ‘autism’, changes everything. It becomes a positive
identity that we can finally make sense of.
If you are neurotypical, make a genuine effort to understand
neurodiversity—not from fearmongering ‘professionals’ who don’t actually
speak for us, but from neurodivergent people themselves, who are sick and
tired of having their voices, their identity and their lives taken away from
them. If you’re reading this book, congratulations, you’re off to a cracking
start.
If you are neurodivergent … I know it’s hard. I understand that
neurodivergence in a neurotypical-pleasing society can be terrifying, and
difficult, and confusing, but it is time that you embraced your
neurodiversity, it is time that you embraced who you are. Who you are is
exactly who you’re supposed to be, and the sooner you learn to embrace
that, the sooner you can step into the next chapter of your fairytale.
Getting a diagnosis never changed who I was. I had always been
neurodivergent, and I always will be neurodivergent. So, in some ways,
those words on that piece of paper that gave me an official, clinical name
for myself didn’t really change anything.
But in other ways, it changed the world.
Because now I understood who I was. Now, I had a better understanding
that this weird, strange, crazy roller coaster that I was on wasn’t a solo ride.
I was now able to seek resources, and find community groups, and grow a
deeper understanding of who I was. I was now able to see myself for the
human I was, instead of the human I could never be.
Elsa’s ice powers in Frozen scared her once, but they became her greatest
power.
Vanellope von Schweetz’s glitch in Wreck-It Ralph once brought her
uncertainty, but then it became her most powerful asset.
Meilin Lee feared her red panda ancestors in Turning Red, but discovered
her true, unmasked self after embracing them.
You, in all that you are, are your greatest power. Diagnosis and all. At
twenty-two, I was diagnosed with ADHD (again, looking back, I don’t
know how it took so long). This time, instead of being fearful of a new
diagnosis, I went into it with an open mind and kindness and love for
myself and my mind. For nothing had changed, except for the fact that I
now had an even better opportunity to embrace, love and care for my mind
in the way that it individually needs.
I am who I am—regardless of diagnosis, words, labels.
My mind is brilliant, and it’s time that I start seeing that.
Now I know that I’m not Chloé: weirdly, devastatingly, ruined by autism.
I am Chloé; weirdly, wonderfully, beautifully autistic and ADHD.
And that is exactly who I am supposed to be.

WHAT TO DO AFTER YOUR DIAGNOSIS

Fellow humans (and anyone who feels they have come from an alien
planet), don’t fear a diagnosis, don’t fear a change that was never really a
change at all, but merely the writing of a title of an important part of your
story. If you believe there’s a sparkle in you, don’t fear it, but instead take
that step forward and embrace it. So …

Research
Whether a diagnosis was a long time coming, or it was something that came
as a complete surprise to you, a new understanding of your identity can be
daunting without the right support and research. Speak to your healthcare
team to see what further information they can give you. Read books and
watch videos. We live in a world where information is more accessible than
ever, so use that to your advantage. Become an expert on you!

Find support groups

Finding support groups was such a crucial step in my own journey, and one
in which I was able to truly find my first sidekicks. Autism-based support
groups—a whole group of others just like me—helped me realise that if I
had landed on an alien planet, there were a lot of others in the same rocket
ship.
For the first time in my life, I felt safe, I felt accepted, I felt like I had a
community that was built for me.

Allow yourself to be neurodivergent

It’s both common and expected for your ‘neurodivergent traits’ to become
more obvious after a diagnosis. It’s not because you’re projecting. It’s not
because you’re trying to prove anything. It’s not because you’re faking it to
meet the standards of a new diagnosis. It’s because you’ve been taught to
mask these traits for your entire life, and for the first time you have an
explanation and a reason for them.

Accept yourself
It can be hard to be neurodivergent in a neurotypical world, but the sooner
you come to a positive understanding of your mind, and accept who you
are, the quicker you’re going to be able to step into the next chapter of your
fairytale.
FOR PARENTS AND CARERS: WHAT TO DO AFTER
YOUR CHILD’S DIAGNOSIS
Thanks to media, fearmongering and stereotypes, autism is portrayed as a
terrifying, life-altering condition that will radically change your family’s
dynamic. Parents often become fearful, sad and anxious. They can also go
into denial or feel desperate for a ‘cure’. You don’t have to give in to those
thoughts and feelings. Instead, this is what you should do after your child
receives a diagnosis.

Tell them!
Parents, when your child receives a diagnosis, for goodness’ sake, tell them.
Children know that they’re neurodivergent. They know that they’re
different. I promise you that a label of autism, or ADHD, or whatever it
may be is far better than the labels they have internally given themselves.

Accept the diagnosis

Your child is neurodivergent, nothing will ever change that (no, nothing).
So, stop googling it, stop asking your Facebook groups’ opinions, stop
trying fad diets and yoga stretches. What you can change is the way you
perceive disability. These are the cards that you and your child have been
dealt, so play them.

Listen
Listening is not just something reserved for your ears—it’s for your heart,
your eyes, your actions. Listen to your child’s sensory needs. Learn the
difference between meltdowns and tantrums. Listen to their special interests
and encourage them with everything you have. Listen when they’re
struggling, listen when they’re glowing.

Speak up for your child, but do not speak over your child
Every child needs a superhero, a sidekick, a person who has their back no
matter what. But there is a difference between being that person and taking
away your child’s voice.
This may be incredibly difficult for some people to grasp, but your
child’s diagnosis is not about you. There is nothing more frustrating than
seeing people wearing stereotypical puzzle-piece T-shirts and captioning
their Facebook statuses with ‘God gives the hardest battles to the strongest
people’. Lord almighty; shut up.
I understand that it’s difficult; parenting as a whole is difficult. But if
you’re struggling as a bystander, imagine how your child is feeling. Be a
voice for your child, but do not be your child’s voice.

Listen to the community for advice

It’s only natural to seek support and advice but look beyond professionals
with nicely framed certificates and bookshelves of fancy textbooks (which I
can promise you were not written by anyone who has ever personally lived
it!). Look to the community that your child is a part of. Listen to autistic
adults, listen to ADHD adults, listen to parents who have been on this
journey and know it so much better than anyone else ever will.

Listening is not just

something reserved for your
ears—it’s for your heart, your
eyes, your actions.
Focus on your child’s strengths
Everyone has different strengths and weaknesses, neurodivergent or not.
The most important thing that you can do is focus on your child’s strengths.
They already know their struggles, they already know their differences, they
don’t need you to bring awareness to them, too. Focus on your child’s
strengths, their special interests, and the things they’re good at.
Not only are they going to flourish, but it’s going to completely reshape
the way they see their diagnosis and themselves. Instead of thinking, I can’t
do this because I’m autistic, the language will change to, I can do this
because I’m autistic.
Love your child unconditionally
Every child deserves to be loved. Every child deserves to know that who
they are is okay. And every child deserves to feel that from the adults in
their lives. It is so incredibly difficult to love ourselves when we know that
the grown-ups supporting us don’t. (And I promise you, it doesn’t matter
how good of a poker face you have, children know.)

Be gentle with yourself, and with your child

There is no instruction book to parenting. At least as far as I know—my
biggest responsibility in life is still only a blind axolotl.
No one is expecting you to be the perfect parent. No one is expecting you
to have all of the answers. No one is expecting you to change the world
with your parenting or get it right all the time. Be gentle with yourself and
understand that it’s okay to get things wrong sometimes. It’s okay to not
fully know what you’re doing. As long as there’s love, respect and a drive
to continue towards a better, more understanding future, you’re doing okay.
The rest will fall into place.

Find support groups

All of us need support to grow, to thrive, and to simply survive. And when
your situation is not typical, the need for support increases. Specific support
groups are everywhere, both in person and online, and finding one that
works for you can be a crucial part of your journey.

Do not hide a diagnosis

Your child knows that they’re different. They know that they’re different.
Hiding a child’s diagnosis doesn’t protect them, it creates further
segregation, fear and loneliness.
Instead, embrace the diagnosis. Find people within their special interests
and talents who have the same diagnosis (there’ll be a bunch of us and
we’re bloody cool, I promise you). Praise their incredible brain and remind
them that who they are is exactly who they’re supposed to be. You’re not
protecting them from a diagnosis, you’re stopping them from discovering
their identity.
Don’t try to change your child; change your mindset
Your child is neurodivergent. Nothing will ever change that. And it’s vital
that you accept that, for your wellbeing and for theirs.
Show them compassion, show them love, show them understanding.
Protect them from the evils of the world, but don’t hide them from it. Teach
them to love and to be loved. Teach them to value and to be valued. Teach
them all that they are. Remind yourself and them that who they are is
exactly who they’re supposed to be.
It’s not the child who needs to change, it’s the world. And you as their
parent have the ability to spark that change.

OceanofPDF.com
‘Normality’ has never been achievable for me. I spent so many years
desperately trying to be someone I could never be, and became a master of
disguise in the process, learning to be the ‘perfect normal’. I masked, I
pretended, I played the part that was expected. I moulded my mind, my
personality, my entire being to become someone society would praise me
for … or, at the very least, not hurt me for.
Oddly enough, it didn’t work.
Instead of becoming ‘normal’, I became a shell of the girl I had once
been. I never gained normality, I merely lost myself in the disguise.
Truly settling into who you are is one of the greatest things any of us can
do, and it is also often the most difficult. And when you’re neurodivergent,
it’s a whole new ballgame.
When you spend your days trying to be someone you never can be and
are ridiculed for the small parts of the real, authentic you that you do
accidentally reveal, you begin to lose all understanding of who you really
are. Like a lost ancient language, like a neglected instrument, like hardened
paint pots, when things are not in use, they die off, they’re forgotten, they
solidify. When you cannot be your true self for fear of what might happen if
you do, the real you begins to fade.
During the years leading up to my diagnosis, I had started to lose all parts
of Chloé, and I could see genuine fear and worry in my parents’ faces when
I declined suggestions of things that had once brought me joy. When my
smile had faded. When I was no longer the Chloé who would exuberantly
and loudly announce my new-found facts to anyone who would or wouldn’t
listen, or stand on top of a table at La Porchetta to sing ‘God Help the
Outcasts’, or happily befriend snails and baby birds instead of children her
own age. I had become broken, quiet and still. Chloé Hayden, in all that she
had been, was disappearing. Left in her place was the shell of a failed
perfect version of normal.
This was a time in my life when I didn’t believe there was a light at the
end of the tunnel. When I thought my fairytale had failed and that there was
no point in continuing to turn the pages to see where it might go. When I
thought that there were no further chapters to be written. But, if Disney has
taught me anything, it’s that if we think the end is coming but we haven’t
yet reached our Happily Ever After, we are still in our dragon-fighting
Adventure stage. We still have pages to turn, we still have chapters to live.
 And, like a newly freed genie, like a lion cub going back to his
homeland, like an ice queen coming to understand her powers, it takes time
after leaving scary, uncomfortable environments to find your feet and
rediscover the person you are. For that shell to fill again with the soul of the
human you always have been but have been hiding away for far too long.
But trust me: as in every fairytale, your dragons can be slain, your chapters
can continue, and your life can, and will, have a Happily Ever After.

Being seen as ‘less than’

Identity is one of the most important aspects of being human. It is a sense of
self, the little puzzle pieces that make us who we are—gender, values,
moral beliefs, race, ethnicity, religion, disability, age and every other tiny
aspect of you. Identity plays an incredibly significant part in how we see,
interact with, understand and experience the world around us, as well as
shaping the challenges we face and the opportunities we have. Our
identities make us who we are, and all aspects of our identities are
important, including (maybe even specifically) our disabilities.

Our identities make us who

we are, and all aspects of our
identities are important,
including (maybe even
specifically) our disabilities.
Despite the importance that difference holds in our lives, it can be
incredibly difficult to come to terms with that difference when it is a
disability, and to see the positives of it. This is due to ableism, which is
discrimination against neurodivergent and disabled people in favour of
neurotypical, able-bodied people. Ableism can be both externalised and
internalised, and is something that all of us, disabled or not, experience, see
and use. It’s something that has been bred into the core of our being, and
our entire social system and culture.
Historically, disability has always and disappointingly been synonymous
with ‘bad’. We’ve been socialised to hear the word ‘disabled’ and
automatically associate it with being inferior, wrong, defective. The prefix
‘dis’ means the negative of the root word. This creates a ‘deficit framework’
of disability, and it means that the experience we hold of disability is one of
sadness, loss and negativity, where those of us who are disabled are often
seen as less valuable, less human. This makes it so incredibly difficult for
those of us who are disabled to form a positive identity.
I can’t count the number of times that I’ve been approached by parents
who have asked me when the correct time to tell their child that they’re
autistic is. Or to express concern that a diagnosis is going to further isolate
their child. I can’t count the number of times that a grown man has angrily
told me I have no right to be so openly positive about my disability, because
it’s going to give the wrong idea to other autistic children that they should
be proud of their condition. Or that a mum has sobbed to me because she’s
just discovered her child is autistic, or a father has angrily told me that I’m
wrong for saying his child will never outgrow their autism, or a so-called
therapist has given me a dumbed-down story about how we need to not
normalise autism and disabilities and difference.
Daily, I get messages that invalidate me as a human because I’m autistic,
with people asking me why I would ever be proud of something like that.
Daily, I see, hear and experience people try to diminish my identity, and
refuse to acknowledge the identity of their children, their patients, their
students. When I look at the world around me, I’m reminded by the media,
by politicians, by the very essence of our culture that my mind is wrong,
that I’m not needed, that neurodivergence as a whole is indisputably
delinquent, and that our identities are not considered important or whole.
Our society is run on a deficit/medical framework, which presents the
idea that failure, lack of achievement and lack of ‘normality’ are a product
of the individual, and that consequently, some people are deficit by nature.
This model doesn’t allow people to function the way they are able because
it refuses to accommodate differences. Examples of a disability deficit
framework include:
 a teacher refusing to offer worksheets in a larger font for a visually impaired
student; this student is therefore unable to learn the material
classrooms not allowing autistic students the sensory tools they may need
to cope with the environment; these students are then unable to
participate in class and learn
no ramps into buildings, making them inaccessible to wheelchair users and
those otherwise physically disabled, creating restrictions and leaving groups
of people unable to participate.
A social/diversity framework, on the other hand, presents disability as
simply a variation from the typical; not to be seen as bad or negative, but
another natural aspect of human existence. This framework believes that the
problem isn’t in the person, but in the environment, in social barriers and in
the education system. This framework draws on the thinking of disabled
people and supports an all-inclusive society and education, believing that
disability isn’t because of the individual, but because of the way society is
organised. When barriers are removed, disabled people have the
opportunity to be equal in society. Examples of a social/ diversity
framework include:

teachers providing classroom handouts in a variety of formats (large print, a

tablet with text-to-speech, and so on), so students are able to read and
learn in the way that is best suited to them—this will mean that no student
is worse or better off than another because or in spite of their needs
classrooms being stocked with the tools students need in order to cope
(weighted blankets, fidget toys, noise-cancelling headphones, a separate
‘quiet’ room for students to go to when they’re distressed or in sensory
overload) in environments that may otherwise be stressful, as this better
supports students to learn and interact
wheelchair-accessible ramps and lifts being put in all the places there are
stairs so that wheelchair users and otherwise physically disabled people will
no longer be functionally disabled.
 Overall, a change in attitude towards a social/diversity framework would
mean that those with a disability would no longer be seen as having an
impairment. Instead, they would be seen as simply having a different way
of functioning and welcomed in all areas of society.
Currently, many people—autistic, neurodivergent, disabled or otherwise
marginalised—go their entire lives undiagnosed, unheard and hidden in our
communities due to the deficit/medical framework. It is why disabled
people are so lacking in resources and accommodation despite a world that
is more than capable of providing them. It’s why I am so adamantly against
person-first labels (person with autism, person with a disability) that
announce disabilities like they’re something separate from us, like they’re
something that can be removed. It’s why I’m so passionately for identity-
first labels (autistic person, disabled person) that validate, value and affirm
a disabled person’s identity in all that they are.
The person-first logic is why parents are so goddamn terrified to reveal to
their children a key part of their identity, and why poor mental health rates,
death by suicide and overall exclusion is higher in disabled people than in
the typical community. It is why autistic people in Australia have a twenty-
six-year shorter life expectancy. It is why marginalised groups of every type
fear the concept of being different, and why the world can be such a
terrifying place for us. It is why a positive identity is so, so important, not
just for disabled people, but for everyone. It stems outwards into every
aspect of society.
No one can truly be who they’re supposed to be until society allows us
all to be ourselves.

Confronting the negative after a diagnosis

I think there’s another bit of a misconception that comes with receiving a
diagnosis. Apart from the negative connotations of disability, there is also
the expectation that a diagnosis will bring an immediate sense of relief, joy
and understanding, like you’ve been given a reason for who you are and,
therefore, it all makes sense. In some ways that may be true but it’s so much
deeper than that.
 For me, yes, I now had a name that answered many questions, but that
same name cracked open new feelings and avenues and, in some ways, left
me feeling just as much of an outcast—if not more. This was because
society had taught me that my identity was not okay.
From the moment you type in ‘autism’, ‘ADHD’, or any form of
neurological or physical difference into the search bars of the internet, the
first things that pop up showcase our society’s disdain for anyone who
presents differently.

Will autism ever go away?

Can autism ever be cured?
How to cure autism at home
Can autistic people become normal?
Further into your search, you come across Facebook pages with parents
sharing tips on how to cure autistic children—everything from essential oils
to invasive, traumatic therapy. Or parents angry with their children, with
themselves, with God for bringing an autistic child into their lives. You’ll
also find news articles explaining how we can rid our society of disability.
How Iceland, Denmark and France have almost completely wiped out
babies born with Down’s syndrome due to genetic testing and pregnancy
termination, and that the largest autism organisation is funding research to
do the same thing for autistic people. And, in the United Kingdom, if you’re
autistic or have other neurological or learning disorders and contract Covid-
19, you will automatically, non-consensually, be put on a do not resuscitate
(DNR) order. You’ll also find bullying and anti-disabled language on
children’s gaming servers, where young children learn to use words like
‘autism’ and ‘retard’ when they’re trash-talking their friends.

CHANGE THE LANGUAGE YOU USE

All of us use, or have used, disability-deficit language—it’s
ingrained into us as a society. If you’ve used words such as ‘crazy’,
‘moron’, ‘idiot’, ‘hysterical’, ‘nuts’, ‘imbecile’ or ‘spaz’, you’ve
partaken (albeit, likely unknowingly) in ableist, derogatory,
disability-deficit language. These words were once used medically
to categorise disabled and mentally ill people, marking them as less
human. They were widespread terms in medical textbooks and
scientific journals and used to support eugenic practices, including
forced sterilisation and institutionalisation. The casual use of these
words continues to foster comfort in how our society marginalises
and harms disabled people and their use should be stopped.

Instead of using this: Use this:

Retarded, stupid frustrating, annoying, irritating
spaz silly, dorky, cheesy, nonsensical
crazy intense, awesome, amazing, wild
lame bad, awful, annoying
psychotic dangerous, menacing, threatening
autistic annoying, foolish, strange
cripple injured, hurt

Likewise, when we’re using disability and mental health terms as

adjectives, it continues to push wrong ideas on disability,
neurodiversity and mental health, leaving those who are actually
diagnosed to feel further stigmatised, open to stereotypes and less
support.

Stop using: When you mean:

ADHD distracted
OCD organised
autistic strange
depressed sad
anorexic skinny
traumatic inconvenient
bipolar moody
 Stop using: When you mean:
triggered upset, offended

After receiving a diagnosis, the minimal resources that we may be linked

to (if we’re lucky) are for the benefit of parents, carers and those who are
third-party viewers, rather than for neurodivergent people. We’re given
books that have been created by doctors and psychologists and neurologists
who may have studied our brains for a number of years and can spit out
information until the cows come home. But, assuming they are
neurotypical, they have never and will never experience or understand what
it feels like to have our minds. We’re given clinical books and clinical
videos, and are taught as soon as the new label is attached to us that it’s a
cold, medical, distant thing, like our brains are no longer ours.
And, when we try to rid ourselves of these views and do our own
research in an attempt to find things that feel closer to home and less
analytical and impersonal, we are led to articles, sob stories and posts that
highlight the disappointment, fear and sorrow that surround all aspects of
us, making us feel further invalidated, segregated and alienated.
We’re then told by those close to us that they’re ‘so sorry’ about our
‘situation’ or that they ‘can’t be friends with us anymore’. When I was first
diagnosed, I lost countless so-called friends after telling them. People who
had been close to me for years and had eventually come out and told me
that they couldn’t handle the stigma and side-eyes from their other friends if
they hung out with an autistic person. I’ve had friends physically put a hand
over my mouth when I questioned them on this, shushing me and saying my
diagnosis wasn’t something to be proud of, that if I knew what was good for
me I’d keep my mouth shut about it. Within my closer circle, many people
denied my diagnosis—family members told me my diagnosis was wrong,
that I was ‘normal’.
How can we possibly find love and sanctuary in our identities when the
entire world has taught us that these identities are unwanted? It’s why many
of us mask ourselves, disguise ourselves, become people we are not, to
simply survive. But, when we wear the mask long enough, when we hide
our own self for long enough, and when we allow these incorrect and
damaging frameworks to infiltrate our brains, we may be left uncertain
about our identities, and invalidated in who we are. Many of us feel like
impostors in our own skin.
Autistic people, particularly women, are impeccable maskers. We’re
chameleons, we’ll hide our true identities for our entire lives for fear of
being ridiculed, bullied or otherwise cast out because we are different. This
masking becomes such a key part of our new, false identity that when we
truly do discover who we are, and choose to openly be that person, we can
often be left with questions like, Perhaps I’m just faking it? Or, If I was
able to play pretend for this long, maybe it wasn’t actually pretend. Or, I’m
not autistic enough.
We read about stereotyped, untrue ‘diagnostic criteria’ for neurodivergent
minds, have societal expectations stuck in our heads, or see neurodiversity
poorly represented in the media and it becomes difficult to separate truth
from fiction. We feel pressure to be a certain way as a neurodivergent
human in a neurotypical world.
The neurotypical world can be relentless, and rough, and unforgiving. It
has shown me time and time again, from the moment I gained
consciousness that it was a world not built for me, that it didn’t value me for
who I was, before or after a diagnosis. I so easily could have allowed those
unmet expectations and understandings to swallow me whole like Pinocchio
inside the whale—for a long time, I almost did.
But, over time, and with the right resources, and the right groups, and the
right people surrounding us, with steps taken to claim our identities, rather
than be fearful of them, we can allow the chapters of embracing those
identities to begin.
We can allow our fairytales to continue.
We can defeat the dragons.

Turning the page to a new chapter

My diagnosis, the switch to homeschooling, and the beginning of me
discovering my true identity and allowing myself to open up to the world
were a whirlwind of extreme events mashed into a short chapter of my life.
Once I was out of the toxic schoolyard environment where I had to hide
myself away, I finally had the chance to learn who I could be, to discover
myself.
A part of my at-home study was being able to go out into the community
for my education, instead of sitting in a classroom with a pen in one hand
and a textbook in the other. I wasn’t overly terrified of people when it was
in settings that made sense to me. I had previously worked at my local
riding school as a kid and had never felt more at home. And most Fridays,
for as long as I could remember, were spent with my grandparents, Nanny
and Kenpa, at their house for ‘Train Day’, when Kenpa’s friends would all
come over to build and marvel at the life-sized train that circled his property
and I’d chat happily to men sixty years my senior. So, taking a leap of faith
into the community, though hard, wasn’t the scariest dragon I’d faced.
The next chapter of my story began at a local adult disability centre. They
were looking for musicians to volunteer every Wednesday for a music
program they had just started. Music had always been incredibly important
to me. I had been writing songs since the age of seven and learning the
ukulele for a few months. So I decided to take the job.
After being dropped off for the first time, I walked into a school-like
environment with hallways and classroom-like rooms, a staff room and a
receptionist’s office—everything I had learned to fear. My throat closed up,
my hands began to shake and my brain turned to fog as I considered calling
Mum and asking her to turn the car around and pick me up.
Too much. No thank you. Try again another day.
But whether it was my fear of other people seeing me look like a fool, or
a push from God, I continued walking to the room, where I was met by my
new boss. With a smile on his face and a guitar in hand, he told me what to
expect, showed me the songs we’d be playing and singing, and assured me
to just ‘be yourself, they’ll love you’—something I had never heard before.
The residents began to come in. There were people who had never
spoken a day in their lives, people who had never fed themselves, people
who were incontinent, people who were intellectually disabled, people who
had never taken a breath on their own, people whose bodies were too weak
for even a wheelchair and had arrived in mobile beds that could be tilted
upwards to allow them to see, people whose vocal abilities started and
finished with screaming … I realised that this was my first experience with
disability of all aspects.
I took in a deep breath, and we started.
 The playing turned into music, and that music turned into dancing. My
fingers strummed at the strings of my ukulele, and I looked at this crowd of
humans who were so unashamedly, wholeheartedly showing happiness and
joy, completely carefree and comfortable in all that they were. Not a single
person was fearful of expectation. Not one of them was hiding who they
were for fear of not fitting into a false social ideology. They were simply
themselves.
And, for the first time in my life, I understood what it meant to feel safe,
to feel a sense of comfort and belonging. I hadn’t realised that I had tears in
my eyes, and that my strumming fingers had faltered until I felt a nudge on
my shoulder. It brought me out of my dream world and I saw my boss, who
had a smile on his face. He nodded in the direction of the small dancing
crowd, a look in his eye that I was sure meant that he had read my mind.
With a smile that mirrored his, I stepped onto the floor and allowed myself
to push away the social expectations that had weighed me down my entire
life. I danced, and I sang. And I had people grabbing on to me, and
screaming in my face, and I had never felt more at peace. I had never felt
safer.

And, for the first time in my

life I understood what it
meant to feel safe, to feel a
sense of comfort and
belonging.
Mum had walked in some time during this mix. Later, she told me that it
was the first time she had seen me like that: unaware of sensory issues,
uncaring of being touched and grabbed and having loud noises in my ears,
not fearful of other people in the slightest, but embracing them with
everything in me. I understood these people, and they understood me. I
didn’t have to hide myself, or be someone I wasn’t, because they didn’t,
either. If I got excited, if I stimmed, if I wanted to put down my ukulele and
dance instead, it was okay. It was fine. It was great.
Kyeema Support Services was where I learned how to freely unmask,
and freely be Chloé. It was the place where I started to unlearn my
internalised ableism, unlearn the deficit framework of disability, and instead
start to learn the importance of and the power in my own identity. I went to
bed that night with a fire in my tummy and a passion in my heart. I was
desperate for more.
Only a month later, I signed up to volunteer at the Riding for the
Disabled Association (RDA). My greatest passion has always been horses.
My parents told me that, even from a young age, the only time they saw me
being completely me was around horses, and I could tell within myself that
I undoubtedly belonged with them.
Horses don’t judge you. They don’t look at you funny when you don’t
understand social cues or mess up context. They don’t expect anything from
you, except to come as yourself. For a long time, even my horses weren’t
enough. But, after meeting and becoming friends with the disabled
community, I knew the RDA was my next step.
Every Tuesday, I spent all day at the RDA. I caught, tacked and trained
the horses before the riders arrived, and I supported and taught the riders
around and on the horses. Some days, my group consisted of more
advanced riders who required minimal support and I would simply help
them finesse their skills and enjoy their horses. Other times, it consisted of
me and a semi-verbal young boy who spoke only in Thomas the Tank
Engine quotes and expected me to do the same—I spent a week learning
every single episode by heart so I could talk with him the way that he
needed me to. Or a woman who only enjoyed interacting through song and
expected me to have a new Disney song learned and ready to sing every
week (unflappable ponies are essential when you’re giving a theatrical
rendition of ‘Let It Go’ while you’re leading them). Or a young girl who
hadn’t had a very good set of cards handed to her in life, whose fairytale
was very much still in her Once Upon a Time and would often refuse to go
near any of the adults or their horses. So, we’d sit in the paddock and talk
while making daisy chains for each other.
The people who came to this group quickly became the most important
people in my life. I’d be the first one there and the last one home. During
lunchtime I would refuse to sit with the rest of the staff; instead, I was
always eager to hang out with the riders and be surrounded by people I felt
safe with. At the age of sixteen I became Australia’s youngest RDA
instructor. Whatever we were doing, as long as I was here, I felt like I was
home.
Discovering places where you can find your tribe and, as a result, your
own positive identity can be incredibly difficult. A few people might find
their tribe and sanctuary without really having to look—perhaps at school,
in team sports, with the people already in your life. For most of us,
however, finding those places where we can unashamedly be our unmasked,
full selves can be exceedingly difficult.
I had started to unearth my own sanctuaries within these communities
and volunteer groups where I worked, but I was still so incredibly hurt by
the outside world and tainted by the schooling system, leaving me a shell
beyond these little safe spaces. I remember the day the senior RDA coach,
smiling brightly and patting me on the back, told Mum when she came to
pick me up that he’d never met someone who was so full of life, so positive
and so eager. Mum turned to me when we got into the car and asked, ‘Why
are you never like that with anyone else? Why aren’t you like that with
me?’
Sinking into the chair, I softly answered, ‘I know who I am when I’m
here.’

Finding my voice
There are three things that I have always turned to whenever the world
becomes too much, too scary, too intimidating: horses, fictional characters
and writing.
On 11 August 2014, Robin Williams passed away. His death absolutely
shattered me. As someone who struggled to find tranquillity or genuine
understanding with other humans in my life, I had taken comfort in
Williams. His characters showcased love, light, sadness and all the nuances
of the world in the most beautiful, magical, quirky of ways, and helped me
discover how to find those emotions myself.
The news of Robin’s death struck me in a way that I hadn’t felt before. I
felt a loss of someone who seemed to know my soul. I felt a loss of the
characters that had become my best friends. In my sadness, I did what I do
best. I wrote.
I sat down in my bedroom, tears flowing down my face, and poured out
my heart onto the broken keys of my laptop. I was desperate to share my
feelings with someone, to share the sadness in my heart, and to understand
how sadness had permeated his being so deeply that he had taken his own
life, despite the happiness he had given to those around him.
Here is what I wrote that day:

Robin Williams died today.

Here is a list of things that Robin Williams was:
funny
sharp
kind
clever
and sad.
That’s important, the ‘and sad’, because sometimes sadness can feel
like the only thing we are. It can feel all-encompassing. It can feel like
the only thing anyone could possibly see when they look at you: sad.
That person is so, so, sad.
But there is always an ‘and’. We are never just sad. We are never
only. We are always and.
We have all known people who were sad, who are sad; some of us
are ourselves sad. Being sad does not remove the other parts of us,
though it can make them harder for us to see. When you are sad, you
don’t necessarily feel like you are also funny, and sharp, and clever,
and kind.
But you still are. You don’t have to feel like something to be it.
Those things are written on your bones, they are woven into the
fabric of your skin. Sadness can feel so big, so big and overwhelming
and complete, even when it is not a directed sadness. Maybe especially
when it is not a directed sadness, when it’s a depression that has no
direct cause and nothing we can name.
Sometimes the sadness is too big. People try to cut it out, or starve it
out, or drink it down, or drug it silent. If this is you: I’m sorry. If this is
you: you are not alone. If this is you: remember that the solution is
never to give up, because you do not live in a vacuum. There are
 people waiting for you. There are films and songs and books and not-
sadness waiting for you. I know that you don’t feel like waiting, but
wait anyway.
If you need help, ask for it.
Robin Williams died today, but the Genie didn’t, and Mrs Doubtfire
didn’t, and Peter Pan didn’t. Sean Maguire didn’t, and Professor Philip
Brainard didn’t, and Alan Parrish didn’t. Batty Koda didn’t. John
Keating didn’t. You didn’t.
Don’t.

And then I hit ‘Post’.

I’m still not sure what it was that nudged me into making this diary entry
viewable to the public eye. Perhaps I was desperate for others to feel as
deeply as I did. Perhaps this was my first real understanding of the sadness
of the world from another person’s perspective, and I was desperate to
change it. But, as I pressed the deep blue ‘Post’ button on Facebook and
sent off my feelings into cyberspace, I realised it was one of the first times
in my life that I had allowed myself to feel and experience emotion on a
public level. It was the first time I had been able to identify and put my
emotions in an internal folder, instead of falling into a fiery pit of confusion
and uncertainty.
I expected that my post would remain with my thirty-odd Facebook
friends—mainly Irish family members I hadn’t seen since I was a child, and
the one or two peers I had met at the pony club or theatre. But, within a
couple days, it had clocked up over one hundred shares—a large and
terrifying number for a seventeen year old who refused to attend our local
farmers’ market for fear of crowds.
One of those shares was from a psychologist friend of Mum’s, who asked
if I would mind if she shared my entry on her website. It was something
that seemed both confusing and worrying to me. What if people laughed?
What if people teased? What if it sparked something? What if it didn’t?
My emotions have always been important and private to me. I have
always felt on a deep level, so allowing those emotions to become public
stirred a whole new array of uncertainty and feelings. But cautiously, I
agreed, and my post about sadness quickly gained traction.
From the safety of a pink-cased One Direction-stickered computer I
watched as views and comments flooded onto my Facebook page.
 ‘This is the first time I’ve seen life explained like this.’
‘I’m going to start focusing on the “ands” of my life.’
‘Please. Write more.’
These comments from people who didn’t know me, and who I didn’t
know, remarking on how they identified with my post, made me realise that
my writing had ignited something in them. I experienced a sense of
solidarity with a world I had felt alienated from. I had seen a sparkle—and I
desperately wanted more.
Writing had always been one of my outlets but, until that post, it had
been contained in an orange The Saddle Club journal and the back pages of
my math book. There I would write stories of far-off worlds and
anthropomorphised animals—metaphors for human rights issues, my own
feelings of powerlessness, the intense feelings I had, but could not show.
But now I felt these stories could be heard.
If I could write about sadness, maybe I could write something else, too.
Maybe there was a way for me to find more of that sparkle that had lit up a
previously dull world.
Once again, I sat down at my laptop with its peeling-off ‘Future Mrs
Tomlinson’ and ‘One Band, One Dream, One Direction’ stickers. This time
I decided to write about something else that was incredibly important to me,
something that had shaped my entire life to this point and would continue to
do so. Something that was a crucial part of my identity, but still felt so
alien, so not me. It was one of the most terrifying things that I could
possibly think of to write about publicly: being autistic.
Despite having had the diagnosis for a few years by now, I still felt little
comfort in it. People were not speaking to me anymore because of it, it had
sparked more online bullying despite my not attending school anymore, and
I had found few resources other than fearmongering articles by so-called
professionals. These ‘expert’ articles were the last thing in the world I
wanted to read, or hear about, or envision my mind to be. They were
terrifying, and they left me with feelings of loneliness and isolation that
remained as intense as they had before my diagnosis. So, I did what any
typical Gen Z would do in my situation. I took to the internet, writing out
my deepest, darkest feelings in the form of an anonymous blog, written
under the pseudonym ‘Princess Aspien’.
 I called it God Help the Outcasts, and I shared my story to the world in
the form of Disney metaphors, poems and honest thoughts that I had bottled
up for far too long. The post started with:

When I was younger, I always felt like an outcast. While I didn’t have a
hunchback or a disfigured face like Quasimodo, I could relate to how
he felt rejected by society.

And it finished with:

And now here I am at the age of seventeen. I’m still the same frizzy
haired, green-eyed girl who would rather chat aimlessly to one of my four
cats than any human, refuses to eat with a proper spoon, can’t eat red
food, and breaks into Disney musicals in the middle of Safeway. But I’m
not worried about it anymore. Because this is who I am, and this is who
I’m meant to be.
I didn’t fully believe what I was writing at this stage, but I desperately
wanted to. My sole intention of the blog was to scream out to the universe.
Through his characters, which all showcased the importance of friendship
and identity in the most beautiful of ways, Mr Robin Williams had taught
me that finding your sidekick is one of the greatest things you can do, and I
was so desperate to find that person, those people.
I was a trapped genie, desperate to escape from my prison.
I was praying, waiting, hoping for someone else who was like me, and
for the first time I was shouting my truest mind, my deepest feelings into
the abyss instead of swallowing them or filing them away. What I didn’t
expect was for the abyss to speak back. But I suppose Genie never expected
to find Aladdin, who would free him.
Almost overnight, my little anonymous blog began getting thousands of
views due to this wonderful thing called ‘share to Facebook’ and a small
number of autistic people, parents and ‘mum groups’ who had begun to
share it far and wide. As the number of views rose, so did the number of
comments from people around the globe who had shared my exact
experiences.
 ‘Finally! Someone just like me!’
‘You’ve just made me realise that I’m not alone.’
‘This is the first time that I’ve ever read something that I relate to.’
I felt seen. Maybe this crash-landed rocket ship wasn’t a solo mission,
after all. Maybe fairytales were for everyone, including me.
That blog quickly became the most important thing in the world to me.
Every time I felt lonely, or lost, or confused, or like my home planet was
too far away, I would sit down and write from the deepest parts of my heart.
I shared the hardest parts of my life. I shared the best days of my life. I
turned my blog into my online journal, and I felt a sense of safety and
community in comments from others who obviously felt like they came
from the same planet as me.
I had found a place where I wasn’t different, or strange, or unusual. I was
just Chloé—or, to my readers, Princess Aspien—and all the parts of me
were exactly as they should be.

Let it go
My next feet-finding experience with stepping out and beginning to
embrace the world came in the form of a Princess Anna costume that I got
for my seventeenth birthday. At this point in my life, Disney’s Frozen was
my hyper-fixation. I had found immediate comfort in Anna’s character and
her bold, bubbly, unapologetic personality—the sort of person I aspired to
be, and that I knew I could be when I was volunteering in the disability
centre or with my horses. But I also knew I had the potential to be like that
always, if only ostracism and negative opinions hadn’t hung over me like a
rain cloud.
The moment I decked myself out in the four-layered, six-piece dress,
brunette pigtailed wig, pink cape and black boots with pink designs painted
across them, I was no longer Chloé: fearful of the world, shy and quiet. I no
longer felt the weight of society’s unwritten and unnecessary expectations.
Instead, I was simply Anna.
Growing up in a world that is so clearly not designed for us, and where
the traits that we naturally feel and portray are deemed to be odd, strange
and unwanted, it’s extremely difficult for neurodivergent people to find a
‘real life’ person to relate to. It’s part of the reason why I so deeply adored
working at the disability centre—we had all been through similar
experiences, and we were each other’s only true ‘real life’ sanctuary.
Instead of finding friendship with other people, many of us end up
finding that connection, that validation, those ‘they’re like me’ moments
through our favourite fantasy characters, or even public figures, whether
YouTubers, actors or singers. These characters offer us refuge, and a way to
learn social skills. Some of the most exciting moments of my life have been
when I was compared to the YouTuber Grav3yardgirl and Princess Anna,
both of whom I was obsessed with and had based my personality upon at
the time the comparisons were made. Both of these figures gave me lifelong
social skills that I use to this day.
Dressing as Anna, I discovered that I was able to take on her personality
traits, her zest, her love for life, her confidence, her complete ‘I am who I
am’ attitude, and it was intoxicating. I finally felt like me when I was
dressed up as a princess from an animated children’s film. On multiple
occasions, seventeen-year-old me begged Mum to allow me to dress up as
Anna when we were going shopping, or to the movies, or to pick up my
siblings from school—she ever so gently suggested that it might be a better
idea to just leave the costume at home.
A few months after my seventeenth birthday, my dream of going public
as Princess Anna came true, when my boss at the Kyeema centre, who was
friends with me on Facebook, saw one of my many posts in which I was
dressed as her and asked if I would come and dress up for the residents. In
another setting, a suggestion like this would have resulted in an immediate
and firm ‘absolutely not’—or, more likely, me quietly telling Mum my
answer, so she could tell them for me. But I had a safe refuge at Kyeema. I
had been volunteering at the centre two days a week for some time, and it
had well and truly become my second home. So, I eagerly agreed.
That performance turned into another, which turned into another, which
turned into my confidence in my identity growing, which turned into being
asked to perform at the local fair, which turned into me not even caring
when some of my bullies turned up at the fair and recognised me. The fair
gig turned into more performances, which turned into me being asked to do
children’s birthday parties, parades and charities, which turned into me
owning and running my very own award-winning character and
entertainment company complete with twelve characters before I was
eighteen.
It was during this time, with my confidence growing stronger than it ever
had before, that I came to a realisation: If I can be this person that I have
always dreamed of being when I am dressed as a princess, there is no
reason why I can’t also be that person when I am dressed as just Chloé.
Isn’t it ironic, that because of a fictional, fairytale character, I was able to
learn how to be completely, indisputably myself? How sad, that the only
place I could find myself was in a fictional, fairytale character.
Although a long time coming, and in a somewhat unusual way (though,
what else can you expect from me?), that realisation kick-started my
journey into being the person I am today. A person who is boldly me, a
person who is proudly me.
It shouldn’t have taken me as long as it did to find the resources and
community that I needed to discover this person. The lack of genuine,
helpful resources created both for and by disabled people is a large reason
why it took such an unnecessary amount of time, along with a deficit
framework of thinking and a refusal to give those of us who don’t fit
societal standards a chance.
It is vital that we build and maintain communities that are accessible,
attainable and available to all. It is vital that those who have not been given
an opportunity to truly discover their identities, due to no fault of their own,
find the same feeling of identity and sense of belonging as everyone else.
I’m still discovering my identity each and every day. Every single day, I
find out something new about Chloé Hayden. I learn a little bit more about
the person I was, the person I am, and the person that I’m becoming. And
that’s okay. I don’t think we need to be in a rush to discover everything
straight away.
As Robin Williams in the role of Teddy Roosevelt in Night at the
Museum so beautifully put it, ‘It’s time for your next adventure’. He smiles
as Larry, the hero of the film, exhales a breath and tells him, ‘I have no idea
what I’m going to do tomorrow’. To which Teddy, in all his wisdom,
responds, ‘How exciting’.
Your life is exciting. Discovering your identity is exciting. And you
should be in no rush to figure out this huge puzzle all at once; there’s no
time limit, no award for the first and the fastest. Take the time you need to
discover and accept who you are, to discover what your story is. You’re
allowed to rewrite chapters, you’re allowed to get writer’s block, you’re
allowed to change the genre.
Give yourself the freedom to explore, to learn, to simply be in your own
time, at your own pace. You deserve and need the time and the space and
the opportunity to freely, openly, safely, wholeheartedly discover who you
are and who you’re supposed to be, free from fear, free from accusation,
free from expectation.

HOW TO FIND COMFORT IN WHO YOU ARE

Discovering who we are is just one part of our fairytale … But learning to
find comfort in that identity is a whole new chapter. Here are some ways
that you can learn to find comfort in all that you are.

Read, watch and learn from others

Textbooks written by psychologists are fine, but real research and
understanding comes from the community itself. Follow YouTubers who
are autistic/queer/disabled/POC/whatever it may be. Read blogs and books
written by people in the community. Fill your Instagram feed and For You
page with positive voices.

Find support and friendship groups

Joining up with my local autism group was such an instrumental step in
accepting my identity as an autistic person. Being surrounded by people I
knew were just like me, where I didn’t have to hide or pretend, was huge in
being able to open up and accept myself. I was also able to find friendships
at a time when finding people who truly loved me for me was incredibly
difficult.

Get involved
I learned about the community, about others and about myself through local
disability advocacy groups. It is such an empowering part of my fairytale.
Get involved in your local groups, conferences, volunteer organisations and
youth groups. You never know, you may be the voice that someone has
been waiting for.
Surround yourself with love
If someone doesn’t accept you in all that you are … get rid of them! You do
not deserve to go through life weighed down by people who do not care,
love, accept and embrace your authentic self. Your people are out there.
Surround yourself with those who give you love and understanding. People
who don’t see you for you do not deserve to be written into your fairytale.
You are the author of your story. Don’t let other people take your pen.

Start your own blog

At a time when I was so sure there was no one else like me on the planet,
creating a blog was where I found my people and felt like my voice could
finally be heard. Start a blog, create a TikTok clip, write a book … there are
people who will want to listen to you and perhaps also want to share their
stories, too.

OceanofPDF.com
Among my most favourite moments in all Disney movies is just after the
climax scene, when an absolute banger of a tune by Hans Zimmer or Elton
John or Phil Collins or Alan Menken is played behind scenes that are
cinematic masterpieces, such as Simba heroically deciding to go back to
Pride Rock to take his rightful place as the King of Africa, or Kenai in
Brother Bear discovering who he truly is as the spirits of his ancestors
transform him into a bear, or Aladdin finding his true love and Genie
becoming free. Or even better, the ending scene in Mr. Magorium’s Wonder
Emporium when, after years of doubting herself and not knowing what her
sparkle is, Molly Mahoney, in all of her glory, discovers it.
Those moments so wonderfully showcase what it’s like for all of us when
we have our ‘sparkle’ moments—when we realise who we truly are and
unlock the powers that were inside of us all along. But it’s never without a
journey beforehand; it’s never without the battle scenes, and the dragon
slaying, and the sword fights.
These moments reveal what I call our ‘eye sparkles’, those things that
ignite a passion in us so deeply that it fills our every crevice.
Our eye sparkles are there from the beginning, and I believe with every
part of my being that they’re the most exquisite parts of us, but it often
takes those climactic moments for us to see and appreciate them.

Discovering eye sparkles

After my initial blog post blew up and started circling the interwebs, I
started to rediscover my passion for writing. I wrote blog posts almost daily,
sharing stories of myself, sharing posts about autism, sharing about my life
and the way I saw the world. I suppose at the time I saw it like an online
diary for an audience of real people, rather than writing to the abyss. What I
didn’t expect, however, was for these people to write back to me. What I
didn’t expect was to see myself in every single person who posted their
story in the comments.
People began reciprocating by sharing their stories, their fairytales, their
experiences. I heard from people all over the world, from all walks of life,
of all genders and all ages, and I started to discover something in these
people. Not only did they all have stories similar to mine, fairytales that
were written in the same style as my own, but there was something else.
Every single one of them included a feature that to them likely seemed
unimportant and unremarkable, but that I immediately recognised as the
most important, magical feature a person can possess: an eye sparkle.
Eye sparkles. Superpowers. Gifts. Adorations. These are things that make
people tick, that give them a zest for life, that make them feel powerful,
excited, happy. Something that is completely, utterly marvellous to them. In
autism these are called ‘special interests’ or, in ADHD terminology, ‘hyper-
fixations’. We see them as quirks, obsessions, something odd and curious
and not of the norm.
Those special interests in autism are often, stereotypically, trains, gadgets
or science. In autistic women, they may lean more towards bands, books
and films. Frequently these special interests or hyper-fixations are quickly
judged as harmful; schools, autism groups and therapy centres may even
attempt to limit them or make them accessible only as a form of so-called
‘positive reinforcement’. But these special interests, these quirks, these
obsessions are so much more.
In Mr. Magorium’s Wonder Emporium (the best film ever created—no, I
will not be taking constructive criticism of that), we meet Molly Mahoney,
a finger-drumming childhood prodigy pianist who can’t quite tap into her
potential and is stuck on how to finish her first piano composition. Those
who love her can see her sparkle, although she can’t seem to figure it out
herself. We follow Molly as she desperately tries to fit into who she
believes she’s supposed to be and what she believes she’s supposed to do,
while working at a magical toy store on the side.
Molly is a beautiful oddball of a human, as is the owner of the toy store,
an eccentric 243-year-old inventor who has probably survived so long due
to his incapacity to become bored. Her two other sidekicks come in the
form of a ten-year-old boy with an extravagant hat collection and an
inability to make friends his own age, and an accountant lovingly
nicknamed ‘The Mutant’, who is so holed up in his work and image that
‘fun’ is not in his vocabulary.
Perhaps the reason why this movie became one of my biggest fixations to
date (for five years, I watched it twice a day every single day—I’m happy
to announce I have since pulled this back to once every two weeks) is due
to all four protagonists being so very clearly coded as autistic. But perhaps
another reason why I still find so much comfort, love and understanding in
this film is that it so beautifully showcases eye sparkles. And when we
allow ourselves to wholeheartedly be our wonderful, quirky selves, those
sparkles can finally show themselves in all of their glory.
At the end of the film, Molly not only composes ‘Molly Mahoney’s
First’, but also finds the magic within herself. It is her magic, her eye
sparkle, her finger-tapping stimming and new-found self-understanding that
leads her to both compose her musical piece and save the toy store. (I’m
rambling, I know. But in my defence, this is my book. I cannot be expected
to not word-vomit about Mr. Magorium’s Wonder Emporium at least once.)
Despite this film being geared towards children, it’s one we can all use to
better understand our own eye sparkles, and the important place that they
have in us, and the world around us.
Once upon a time, experts believed that special interests were an
avoidance activity, something that autistic people would do to manage
negative and big emotions, such as anxiety. They were called ‘obsessions’,
and autistic people with intense special interests (about 95 per cent of the
autistic population) were called inflexible, rigid and stubborn. Special
interests were taken away, or used as a reward for good behaviour, and were
often seen as causing autistic people to regress, become incapable of
accomplishing tasks, or avoid social interaction. Special interests were seen
as negative—and still are in many forms of Applied Behaviour Analysis
(ABA)-style therapy, where they are used as bribery and rewards for good
behaviour and are removed when a child is not behaving as is deemed
socially appropriate.
But research and scientists have finally started to catch up with what
autistic people have been saying for decades: special interests are not a
burden; they are not a hindrance. Special interests, eye sparkles, can
drastically improve a person’s life in so many ways. They are so much more
than odd little quirks and seemingly unnecessary fixations. They’re a
crucial, vital part of a person’s life, especially in childhood.

My eye sparkles
Growing up, I had a new eye sparkle just about every week (the fact that I
wasn’t diagnosed with ADHD until I was twenty-two absolutely astounds
me), but some of my biggest eye sparkles were (and still are) animals, the
Titanic and performing—all eye sparkles that have benefitted me
throughout my life.
When I was four, I got stung by a fire ant on my grandparents’ farm. My
grandmother saw the ant on me and, well aware of their painful, potentially
dangerous sting, began to panic. I watched as Nanny hurried over to the
phone to call my grandfather, Kenpa, who’s a doctor, in order to work out
what we needed to do, and how intensely we needed to panic about this
supposedly vicious bite. In all of my young wisdom, I brushed the ant off,
and calmly walked over to tell Nanny that she need not worry, as I was
bitten by a boy ant, not a girl ant, and boy ants can’t actually sting you and,
therefore, there was no need to panic.
When I was five, I began horse-riding lessons after begging my parents
for them since I was two. My parents tell me that the moment I saw a horse
there was a physical change in me—every worry and fear bottled up inside
my little body disappeared, replaced with calm and happiness. When I was
with horses, nothing else in the whole world mattered. I began weekly
riding lessons, my parents driving a two-hour round trip every single
Saturday just so I could have my one hour of pure bliss and peace.
When I was ten, and my struggles were at an all-time high, we moved to
a property in rural Victoria where I could have my own horses and be
surrounded by them constantly. Without a doubt, I know that move saved
my life. Horses were my first, and still to this day my greatest, eye sparkle.
At the age of twenty-two, after several state and national titles, I travelled to
Texas by myself to compete in the Extreme Cowboy World Finals—I
placed eleventh in the world on a horse that I had been training for four
weeks, while many other competitors had had their horses for a decade.
For my ninth birthday, we went to a pop-up Titanic exhibition at a
museum and I was awestruck. An entire exhibit with multiple rooms and
hundreds of artefacts about the liner. I was in absolute paradise until … I
noticed that one of the 1317 names on the passenger board was wrong. I’d
like to remind you that at this time of my life I was selectively mute, had
intense social anxiety, and didn’t speak to anyone except for my family.
However, there was something wrong. The passenger’s name was wrong. It
was unjust, it was unacceptable.
Imagine a nine-year-old girl dressed in a sparkly purple dress, pink
Barbie shoes and her hair in two plaits, with a look of pure and utter
determination as she let go of Kenpa’s hand in order to storm over to the
service counter, where a young museum worker quickly discovered the
wrath of an undiagnosed autistic child whose special interest had been
compromised. My intense feelings of justice would not settle until the
matter was handled correctly. I told her very firmly (or, as firmly as a nine
year old could manage) that their exhibit was wrong and that for the sake of
the passenger’s honour, it needed to be changed. Immediately. I proceeded
to tell her and other staff about various facts from the exhibit that were
missing or outdated, and that it wasn’t up to par, and that I would be more
than happy to provide them with the correct information so the exhibit
could be accurate, instead of a work of fiction.
Why I didn’t get dragged out of that exhibit by my ears remains a
mystery.
A couple weeks later, we received an email from the museum,
announcing that they had done further research and realised their mistakes.
They were changing the incorrect information and offered us free tickets to
the updated exhibit.
At the age of fifteen, I nearly got evicted from another museum for
insisting to a tour guide that the Titanic had only three funnels. The fourth
was only for decoration and was used for ventilation (a fact of common
knowledge, I would have thought. Truly, come on now!).
Growing up, I desperately wanted to be a performer. I wanted to be a
singer, a dancer, an actor. I was also selectively mute and entirely
uncoordinated. Mum (who was an actor) used to joke that the only way I
could be one was if I was a French mime. Dad would say that I couldn’t
even walk in a straight line. Both had valid points and, yet, the two of them
did everything in their power to get me into every performance class within
an hour’s drive so I could sing, dance and act to my heart’s content.
I was beyond horrid. I actually ended up getting kicked out of several
dance schools because I was deemed unteachable, and my Year 5 music
teacher hit me and told me her infant son would have been a better choice to
lead the school musical. But I was in my element. And never once did my
parents tell me that I couldn’t do something. Never once did they sneeze at
the idea of a selectively mute, chronically uncoordinated young girl
becoming a famous performer. My passions, no matter how bizarre and
unlikely, were never once teased or dismissed by those who loved me.
Instead, they told me to reach for my dreams.
 As it turned out, acting and performing didn’t just give me a way to find
my voice. They ended up being my entire career.
At the age of twenty-three, on the night of 26 March 2021, while visiting
a tiny town on the border of Victoria and New South Wales, I got a call
from my acting agent that would change my life. For the past few months, I
had been auditioning for a little show called Heartbreak High. I had
received dozens of callbacks and attended a number of rehearsals and
meetings. But after so many of these, I had presumed this latest one would
be unsuccessful. But, at 9.30 pm, having just stepped off the stage after
giving a talk, I answered the phone to hear my agent say, ‘I have some good
news. Are you sitting down?’
Because my loved ones and I had embraced my eye sparkle of
performing, it grew into a lead role in a Netflix series, where I was not only
one of three leads, but also the first autistic actress to be cast in an
Australian television show, and the second autistic person in the world to
play an autistic character.
I found my confidence when I was performing, when I was horse riding,
when I was lecturing fully grown adults on the Titanic. When I was
engaging in my special interests, I wasn’t scared, I wasn’t timid, I wasn’t
mute. My eye sparkles inspired me to create the life, and the person I am
now.

Our eye sparkles make us stronger

Eye sparkles, superpowers, special interests, whatever they may be are vital
to the growth of neurodivergent kids. They are something we need to focus
on, celebrate and encourage.
There is such a huge push in our world towards finding interests in the
common, in the practical—sports, popular culture, math—but when a
person’s focus is on something that isn’t considered ‘normal’, it’s
condemned, pushed away and worried over. This is seen often in the way
teenagers interact on social media and at school. The idea behind ‘cringe
culture’ (cyberbullying of people who appear socially unacceptable and
different, whether due to interests, appearance or habits) is deeply rooted in
ableism, and directly affects autistic people and anyone else who does not
conform.
Neurotypical society has repeatedly ostracised, excluded and abused
autistic and otherwise disabled and neurodivergent people out of dominant
social groups, leaving many of us to find sanctuary and friendship in places
that may be deemed ‘uncool’ (truly, a ridiculous word in the first place—
who decides whether something is or is not cool?). We find safety in online
fandoms, in groups and clubs, in places where ‘everyone else is a weirdo’,
and that’s okay. Common neurodivergent special interests are often seen as
uncool, unpopular, socially unacceptable. But, then, neurotypical people
will sometimes discover them and co-opt those groups and interests, leaving
us to once again be the targets of bullying and harassment.
A few years ago, fidget spinners and weighted blankets, which were
created for neurodivergent people, became a popular craze everywhere and
were seen as cool. Ironic, given that those who used them previously were
ostracised for having them as support needs. And then, this craze died out as
quickly as it began, leaving neurodivergent people who still need them to
once again be seen as ‘uncool’, as ‘weird’. If you bully people for using
fidget toys, for enjoying certain shows or being a part of certain fandoms, if
you tease ‘band kids’ or ‘theatre nerds’ or ‘horse girls’ or ‘anime kids’ or
whatever other thing we have decided to create a trope of, if you snicker at
people who dress differently to you, who move differently to you, who look
different than you, you are partaking in cringe culture, and you are directly
participating in ableism.
The world is constantly telling us to hide the parts of ourselves that are
not considered perfectly normal … It’s ruining us all.
During school, I struggled immensely with math. I spent every single
class hunched over my book crying because the equations looked like a
toddler’s scribbles and the teacher may as well have been speaking Latin (a
language that, if the analogy was not clear enough, I do not speak). Even
now, I can barely do basic mathematics. My eight-year-old sister will show
me her math homework and it still looks like another language to me.
I was also banned from food tech in school because I set the microwave
on fire. Twice. I gave some kid quite severe food poisoning as well. I can’t
read an analogue clock, I can’t drive a car, I struggle to cook, I can’t eat red
food. Some days, I struggle to look after myself. I still need to be reminded
to eat, and drink, and go to the toilet, and brush my hair. Some days, simply
talking is too much. There are so many things that people half my age have
been doing for years now (except for perhaps the ‘drive a car’ bit), and there
are things that I know I will struggle with and need extra support with for
the rest of my life. But, there are things that I can do better than just about
anyone.
I’m an incredible public speaker, and actor. I learned that from my
special interest in Princess Anna. I have a huge heart for social justice, and
will never back down when human, animal or environmental rights are
under attack or when I know something is wrong—even if it may get me in
trouble. I learned that from the Titanic exhibition at the museum. I can walk
into any room and make it mine. I can talk to anyone in the world, I can
now make friends with anyone. I learned that from volunteering with
community groups. I can ride any horse, and will take on, rescue and
understand any animal—mammal, fish, reptile, bird or amphibian. I learned
that from those animal encyclopaedias that I read religiously, and my
lifelong connection with horses, because animals have always understood
me better than any human.
My eye sparkles have given me my career, my life, my personality. They
made me who I am. Screw normality. I don’t need math or school food tech
or perfect executive functioning to succeed in the way that Chloé Hayden’s
story is written.
My talents, the things I love, my eye sparkles, those are the most
important parts of me. They’re the most important parts of all of us. We
need to stop focusing on the things we can’t do or struggle with—this is
especially so for neurodivergent people—and focus instead on what our eye
sparkles are. If we only focus on what we can’t do, if we only focus on the
bad, if we only focus on our struggles, we will never find our Happily Ever
After. We will continuously be wading through mud, creeping through an
elephant graveyard, stuck like Genie in a lamp.

If we only focus on what we

can’t do, if we only focus on
the bad, if we only focus on
 our struggles, we will never
find our Happily Ever After.
In The Lion King, Pumbaa says, ‘We have to put our past behind us’ and
Rafiki reminds us, ‘Remember who we are’.
If Simba had only looked at the bad side of different, he never would
have become king.
Genie and Quasimodo would have never become free.
I wouldn’t be sitting here today, writing this book, living my dreams.
I decided to focus on my eye sparkles, instead of the things that I
couldn’t do. I decided to focus on me, to focus on the most beautiful parts
of me. I’ve been able to see what my Happily Ever After is going to be, not
in spite of my differences, but because of my eye sparkles.

WHY YOU NEED TO FIND YOUR EYE SPARKLE

Our special interests are so much more than a quirky obsession, or a fun
hobby. They’re fundamental parts of our being that have the ability to
drastically, positively alter our lives when we nurture, respect and foster
them. Here are just a few things eye sparkles can do for you.

Open career paths

Many neurodivergent people get into and thrive in lines of work that
accommodate their special interests. Chances are, you are going to flourish
in something that you adore.

Lead to friendships
With neurodivergent children often struggling to make friends in typical
situations, getting involved in groups, clubs and activities that cater their
interest is a brilliant way to build both friendships and social skills.

Reduce stress
When you are engaging in your special interest, it releases dopamine and
this can ground and relax you.

Build life skills

Engaging and learning about special interests can drastically increase life
skills—not necessarily just in the interest-specific sector, but also socially.

HOW TO DISCOVER YOUR EYE SPARKLES

Our eye sparkles are ingrained into us—they’re a part of our very being,
and often you’ll know from a young age exactly what this eye sparkle is.
Sometimes, though, these eye sparkles might take a bit of extra effort to
discover.

Ask the people around you

Sometimes it can be difficult to find our own eye sparkles, especially in a
world where our talents, loves and interests are often ridiculed or dismissed,
leaving us to bury them, or belittle their importance and brilliance. Ask the
people around you what they think your eye sparkles are. I guarantee they’ll
have answers. They may know you better than you know yourself.

Try things out

Join community groups, check out your school clubs, find online tutorials.
Allow yourself to try things out and see what sticks. You may discover a
love, a talent, a joy that you didn’t expect.

Go easy on yourself
It took Beethoven years to write many of his symphonies. It took Leonardo
da Vinci years to paint the Mona Lisa. Notre Dame took 180 years to build.
Your eye sparkle does not have to become your greatest asset overnight …
or, even at all. Take your time, go easy on yourself. Find love in things
simply to be in love with them.

What do you love?

Your eye sparkle doesn’t have to mean playing Mozart by the time you’re
four, or having a superhuman knowledge of every chemical, or creating
paintings that would put Picasso to shame. What do you love doing? What
do you love reading about? What makes your heart sing? What could you
talk about for hours on end and never grow tired of doing so?
Perhaps you love making LEGO, or building worlds on Minecraft, or
reading every book, sequel and fanfiction of a particular series. Maybe you
adore animals, or cars, or creative writing. Your loves don’t have to be
groundbreaking to be magical.
Whatever makes your heart sing is the greatest eye sparkle in the world.

OceanofPDF.com
The mere notion of being an ‘adult’ once brought me complete and utter
fear. Any variation of or association with that word—grown-up, older,
birthday and so on—would make my heart race like Vanellope von
Schweetz in her candy racing cart. It would turn my mind as dark and
fearful as the elephant graveyard. Even before I understood the concept of
growing up, before I really knew what it meant, I was petrified of it.
The first time I specifically remember being hit with the ‘I don’t want to
grow up’ bug was the night before my seventh birthday. An overwhelming
feeling of doom, fear and panic cascaded through my body, and I tiptoed,
trembling, into Mum and Dad’s bedroom, slipped under the covers and
proceeded to sob my still six-year-old heart out, begging them to fix me,
begging for a remedy. Wasn’t there some sort of injection that would keep
me a six year old forever? (An incredibly large offer on my part, as
injections had long been my biggest fear. Or second biggest, I suppose,
because I would have taken a million of those little suckers if it meant not
having to face growing up.)
There are a lot of reasons why growing up has always been so scary to
me: the idea of change, of leaving things behind, of being ‘unable’ to do the
kid stuff that I love doing, of expectations that I won’t be able to meet.
Significant occasions and milestones, such as birthdays and graduations—
occasions most young people see as monumental and thrilling—scared the
living bejeezus out of me as it meant becoming closer to adulthood,
something I well and truly did not want to be a part of. They guaranteed
change and marked the end of a time that can never be brought back.
I suppose that’s the thing with life, and with growing up. It’s always
change, it’s always new, it’s always different. While changes and new
things and differences still absolutely terrify me, I’ve now come to
understand them. So, allow me to take you on a little tour of adulthood, of
the different, new world it creates—told through the eyes of a girl who
absolutely, completely, adamantly did not want to grow up.

Periods
I cried when I got my period (and let’s be honest, that’s reasonable).
 Periods were always an open topic of conversation in my household.
They were never seen as taboo, to be discussed in whispers or embarrassed
about. Still, I didn’t want anything to do with them. The day I got my period
when I was thirteen, my mum threw a party. A literal party in which there
was cake and ice cream and chocolate and balloons and presents, including
a beautiful gold bracelet with ‘beautiful woman’ engraved on it.
Despite the celebration, I was once more reduced to tears, begging for
some form of vaccine to stop me from growing up. This new chapter of my
life signified so much more than just ‘my first period’. It meant immense
changes, it meant being a woman, it meant everything I thought I knew
about myself was gone, it meant learning new things about myself. It.
Sucked.
Periods can be a great challenge for autistic folk. Studies have now
shown that autistic people who menstruate have higher rates of menstrual
problems, including irregular cycles, unusually painful periods and
excessive bleeding. Polycystic ovarian syndrome is 2.5 times more
frequent, early onset puberty seven times more frequent and hormone-based
acne four times more frequent for autistic folk. Those with epilepsy have
their seizure activity exacerbated by hormonal changes during
menstruation.
On top of these physical reactions, our sensory issues are heightened
during menstruation, making it all the more overwhelming and
uncomfortable. As an autistic person, I’m hyper aware of my body and all
the things that are consistently happening to it. I grow frustrated because
my heartbeat feels too hard, or my eyelashes are too loud when I blink, or I
can smell the fabric softener on my clothes from three washes ago. So,
when you’re on your period and your senses are heightened, it’s utterly
overload central.
Sensory issues are going to happen—welcome to the wonderful world of
being autistic—but there are things that you can do to manage them during
your period, and to make sure you look after yourself.

HOW TO COPE WITH YOUR PERIOD

Preparation is key! Preparing for my period means being sure I always have
my period products with me so I’m ready and, even when it comes at a time
that isn’t entirely convenient, I can still do what I can to make it
manageable.

Track your cycle

Tracking your cycle, so you can be prepared a few days before your period
arrives, is hugely beneficial. One of the best ways I’ve found to do this is
through an app that allows me to put in the start and finish dates of previous
periods; it then calculates when the next one is likely to arrive. It takes the
surprise out the equation—most of the time. If your periods tend to be
irregular, it can be a bit more difficult. By tracking my period, I’m able to
make sure I’m wearing my period undies a couple of days beforehand so I
don’t face any spills or leaks, and I can check my calendar to make sure I’m
not doing anything unnecessarily big during the worst few days.
Alternatively, simply reading the signs your body gives you is incredibly
helpful, especially if your periods are irregular. I know that about three days
before my period begins I will get cramps and sore boobs, and I feel
lethargic and just not myself. Ding! Ding! Ding! Congratulations, it’s your
period. Learning your body’s signs means you can be all set for when it
arrives.

Choose your products

Figure out which product works best for you. I tried every product under
the sun and found issues with absolutely all of them—pads were
uncomfortable and leaked after an hour, tampons were scary and
uncomfortable, and so on. Available products include:

sanitary pads (disposable or reusable)

menstrual cups
menstrual discs
tampons
period underwear.
Personally, I’m a passionate advocate of period undies. They’re the only
thing I’ve found that doesn’t cause me further discomfort, and I can wear
them throughout the whole month. Whatever works for you is what’s of
utmost importance here.
It’s also important to understand that while there’s a huge push at the
moment for environmental sustainability (which is amazing!), this isn’t
always going to be possible, or the most comfortable option for you. If
single-use products such as disposable pads or tampons are what’s best for
you, then that’s what’s best for you. Don’t compromise your health and
wellbeing—there are plenty of other opportunities to make choices for
environmental reasons, and this doesn’t have to be one of them. No guilt.

Make self-care a priority

Poor executive functioning and burnout caused by sensory overload can
make periods difficult. Caring for your hygiene, changing products and
basic self-care can feel overwhelming, or can go completely out the
window. To help you manage, try:

setting an app or alarm to remind yourself to change your products

choosing a product that can be used for a little bit longer without
complications, such as period undies, which don’t have to be changed
throughout the day. Products such as tampons need to be changed
regularly and failing to do so can lead to infections such as toxic shock
syndrome.
Usually, I’ll do what I can to be in my own environment during my
period, when my sensory levels go through the roof. Being in a place that I
know and feel safe in is the best option for me. Emotionally, I make sure
I’m gentle with myself—something often easier said than done. There’s
such a sense in our society that when it comes to periods, we must simply
suck it up, despite many experiencing cramps that are worse than
appendicitis pain. And it can be easy to allow these false ideas to permeate
our thinking. I can’t remember how many times I have passed out, or
vomited for hours, or been physically unable to move—forcing myself to
continue working by telling myself, It’s fine. It’s just your period. Half the
population gets it. Get over yourself. Our uteruses are shedding, our hip
bones are literally expanding, our muscles are contracting. We’re allowed to
rest, dammit.
This need for rest can be difficult for some people to understand. If you
were born AMAB (assigned male at birth), your body runs on a 24-hour
cycle, with your testosterone levels being highest in the morning. This
means you are at your most productive then and, gradually, your hormone
levels lower throughout the day, so in the evening your body is winding
down. Typically, your body runs exactly as the clock does, and your energy,
hormone levels and rest cycles will coincide almost perfectly with it.
However, if you were born AFAB (assigned female at birth), your body
works on a twenty-eight-day cycle, meaning there will be whole days where
your hormone levels are at their lowest, with your body needing to rest and
recover, the same way someone who’s AMAB will feel at night. AFAB
bodies are designed to need days of rest, so stop trying to push yourself to
benefit a male- and capitalist-centric society.
Being kind to myself during my period means not pushing myself, being
gentle with myself when I can’t work and allowing myself to take down
days. The world is not going to end because I chose to spend a day
watching movies and drinking tea with a heat pack. Making sure I validate
what I need during my period, and not tossing away those needs because of
what either I or society expects from me, is the most important thing in the
world.

WHEN BEST-LAID PLANS FAIL

Periods like to show themselves at the most inconvenient of times. One
time I was travelling on my own, flying to England to see Louis Tomlinson
in concert after he had announced that he wouldn’t be touring Australia that
year. (So, as any sane human would, I made it my mission to fly across the
world to see him.) Despite having planned everything to a T and working
out that my period was still two weeks away—giving me more than enough
time to travel—my period decided to make herself known early. Due to my
apparent perfect scheduling, I had absolutely no products with me. My
painfully shy, socially anxious self nearly had an aneurysm coughing up the
confidence to ask a flight attendant if there were any products available.
 After a ‘no’, and a ‘don’t worry, I’ll go have a look, though’, I was
absolutely mortified to hear her announce very clearly over the plane’s
loudspeaker that the young lady with the Harry Styles jumper in seat 3A
needed period products.
Need I remind you, I was by myself, save for the elderly, well-dressed
gentleman in the seat next to me—who looked as if he’d just unwillingly
watched a hunt scene on Animal Planet. If the plane had crashed at that
very moment, I think I would have been happier. If we had accidentally
flown through the Bermuda Triangle, I would have been less traumatised.
On a good note, I got the product. A heck-of-sized maternity pad that had
to last me the remainder of the ten-hour flight. (For anyone wondering if
this was all worth it, the concert was brilliant. Would have bled a million
more times for it. Would have told a million more old men that I was on my
period if it meant experiencing that concert again.)
Alas, there is something to take from this. Period owners: do not forget
your products whatever you are doing, wherever you are going—unless
being called out on a ten-hour flight is something that really lights your fire.
Periods are never going to be my favourite thing—I dread them every
month and curse my uterus for making itself known for a week every
twenty-eight days—but learning how to work with them is one of the
biggest things we can do for ourselves. Your periods don’t have to be your
best friend. Being period positive doesn’t mean being excited that you
experience one. But learning about your body, about menstruation, and
learning to take care of yourself means they don’t have to hold you back.

PERIOD KIT MUST-HAVES

a cute bag to store your period kit in—a pencil case or make-up bag
works perfectly
pain medication or pain management products
period products—period underwear, pads and so on
extra underwear
wet wipes.
Dating and relationships
When I was twelve years old, I was abruptly taught about adulthood when
Mum suggested we go bra shopping because my ‘body was changing’. She
was fibbing a bit—my body was about as curvy as a flounder (the fish, not
the one from The Little Mermaid—google it). Despite the other girls in my
class having long been wearing bras and spending recesses and bathroom
breaks talking about cup sizes, bra shopping was not and, quite frankly, is
still not necessary for me. Mum knew that, of course, but she assumed it
would be a fun activity. She thought that like so many other kids my age,
I’d think the idea of going bra shopping, make-up shopping and ‘grown-up’
shopping would be exciting.
Alas, I did what anyone with half a brain would do in my situation: I
cried. I did not want things to change. I did not want to be a woman. I
wanted to remain a little girl. Change was completely and entirely out of the
question.
When I was thirteen, a boy from my church youth group announced that
he liked me. I didn’t respond (as in, I truly did not say a word—I shut my
mouth, turned and walked away). And, then, you guessed it: I cried.

Sexual assault, PTSD

Love, relationships and boys have long terrified me, and rationally so after
a horrible experience with a man as a little girl. This was a lot more than
just a little girl scared of change, a little girl who just didn’t really fancy the
idea of adulthood. This was a little girl petrified of what it meant to be an
adult because the one ‘adult’ experience she had had was full of fear and
was not supposed to happen.
It is why relationships terrified me: I never wanted that to happen again.
And it’s why the idea of growing curves and boobs scared me—I saw the
other girls my age beginning to be sexualised by the boys in my class once
their bodies started to change, and I was frightened of the same thing
happening to me.
Every therapist I have been to since I was seven has told both me and my
parents that I may never want to be in a romantic or sexual relationship, that
I may be repulsed entirely by the idea of intimacy, and this is a normal
response to the trauma of child sexual abuse. For years, I would leave the
room whenever there was an intimate scene in a film, or when teachers
discussed sexual health and wellbeing. Even the ideas of consensual
intimacy and loving relationships terrified me. My voice and ability to
consent had been taken away in a home that I trusted, so how could I ever
be sure they wouldn’t be taken away again? How did I know if anything
was safe?
Whenever anyone asked, or family members joked about me being in a
relationship or having a boyfriend, it would be put to a halt with a firm,
‘No, I am never getting married. I am never kissing anyone. I am never
having babies.’ And it wasn’t something I was necessarily sad about; it was
something I simply considered to be factual. I didn’t want anyone, I knew I
could never trust anyone, and that was okay. It was what it was.
Alas, as I grew older, the idea of finding someone to call my own began
to get more appealing. I didn’t particularly want a relationship in that
moment, but when I looked to my future, it was with someone by my side
—in a fantasy world, I figured, if I could work out a way to ensure that I
was safe.
I knew the dangers of dating, both as a woman and as an autistic woman.
Dating is significantly riskier for autistic women, with 78 per cent of them
being sexually assaulted in their lives. Society’s ideals of being a woman
affect us all to some extent. All women are taught to obey, to conform, to
act in an agreeable manner; we’re taught that being tiny and vulnerable is
wanted and valued. For autistic women, who have had to mask and take on
a new persona to fit in, these standards can take over our entire beings.
We’re master maskers, we’re chameleons, and we often take things to
extremes, even when it’s to our own detriment.
Another thing that can make relationships dangerous and difficult for
autistic women is a lack of sexual knowledge. Comprehensive sex
education and information can be woefully inaccessible, and we often,
devastatingly, view abuse and mistreatment as ‘normal’ due to the excessive
bullying we endured during our younger years. We also have a strong need
for acceptance, and we struggle to predict other people’s behaviours. Dating
is difficult and often scary for everyone, I’m sure. Dating as an autistic
woman, though, has far more challenges, and is far more terrifying.
Just because these challenges exist, however, doesn’t mean that finding a
relationship (if you desire one—for a long time I believed I was asexual,
and that is entirely fine, too) is impossible. Finding a partner whom you feel
safe with and who respects you is possible. So, how do we do this? How do
we disabled people ensure that we’re safe, that we’re valued, that we’re
loved in our relationships?
I’m not an expert by any means. I’ve had minimal experience on the
relationship front and, as previously stated, once ran a mile whenever sex
and relationships were discussed. But I do know that one of the most
important things in relationships is respect. Respect for each other and
respect for you—for all parts of you.
I’m often asked when the right time is to tell someone you’re seeing that
you’re neurodivergent or disabled. The answer to that is: as soon as you feel
comfortable, and the sooner the better. While this may not mean literally
introducing yourself as neurodivergent while you’re announcing your name,
it does mean discussing it sooner rather than later. This may seem an odd
way to find potential partners, but I’ve come to the conclusion that if
someone is going to be scared off when you bring up your neurodiversity,
your disability, or anything else that may be different about you, that is
someone you absolutely do not want to be with in the first place. Good
riddance.

DISABLED/INTER-ABLED RELATIONSHIPS
Navigating a relationship can be difficult, regardless of whether or
not you’re neurodivergent. However, when you’re a disabled person,
finding healthy, loving, respectful relationships often comes with
more challenges. What are we supposed to look for? What are red
flags to steer clear of? How do we know when a relationship is
toxic?

Red flags:
they have a hero mentality for choosing to date a disabled person
they are impatient with you
they discourage you from sharing or speaking up about your
disability due to embarrassment and insecurity
 they belittle your experience
they stigmatise or fetishise your disability
they don’t listen to you
they victimise themselves—‘It’s hard for me to date someone
disabled’
they gaslight you—‘It’s not that bad’, ‘If you just tried harder …’,
‘You need to stop [insert action], people are going to think you’re
crazy’
they exclude you from their circles
they refuse to acknowledge your disability
the neurodivergent/disabled partner uses their disability as an
excuse for poor behaviour.

Green flags:
they do research to better understand your position
they don’t make you feel like a burden
they show compassion
they encourage your special interests, hyper-fixations, stims and so
on
you openly communicate with each other
they have a willingness to learn, change and grow
it doesn’t feel like there’s a hierarchy—you are both on the same
level and show respect as equals
they are understanding of your needs.

When I first met my partner and told him I was autistic, his immediate
response was to do a dive deep and search ‘dating an autistic girl’ on the
internet—bless his soul. He was determined to find anything he possibly
could that might help him understand, give him answers about what kind of
traits he could expect to encounter, or how other people have managed
relationships between people with different abilities, known as inter-abled
relationships. Likewise, I began to google everything I could on how to be
in a relationship—point-blank, period.
Several factors came to light. First of all, the dating advice that I
discovered online was horribly ableist:

‘Don’t tell them you’re autistic because it’ll make them run away.’
‘Learn how to act neurotypical.’
‘Consider yourself lucky if someone chooses to date you.’
The overall impression was that inter-abled relationships were unequal,
that disabled people do not and should not get a say, and that safety,
communication and consent are privileges, rather than rights. All of which
is complete and utter hogwash, and I happily (and thankfully) chose to
ignore it. Babe, if you need to change and hide your being to appeal to a
potential partner, they are not the sort of person you ever want to associate
with. Kick ’em to the kerb. Block them. Leave them on ‘read’.
One thing that I did notice pop up frequently in my research, and
something that I’d learned through my years of reading, watching fairytale
movies and from my own parents, was the importance of ‘communication’.
This incredibly vital concept is one that neurotypicals take great joy in both
using and understanding but was a foreign concept to me. What these
articles failed to communicate (ironically) was that every human being
communicates differently and interprets communication differently—
something my autistic brain had also failed to pick up within my twenty-
three years of life.
And, boy, was this a key point to miss.
Picture this: me, going about my business, happy to be in an almost
fairytale-perfect relationship, except that almost daily my butthead of a
boyfriend blurted out odd demands and phrases, saying things that were,
quite frankly, utterly outlandish and entirely unsolicited—including
demands for me to take my clothes off, wolf whistles, and suggesting daily
that I join him in the shower. I didn’t choose to challenge him on these
because I knew the sort of person he was, that he wouldn’t ever say those
sorts of things to intentionally make me uncomfortable. Perhaps it was just
a ‘male’ thing, I thought.
 In hindsight, this wasn’t my smartest moment—one should never stay
silent in a situation that feels uncomfortable. I ignored the behaviour, often
just saying ‘no’ or telling him to ‘bugger off’.
After growing sick and tired of these unsolicited opinions, my stomach
twisting every time the person I adored made these comments, and speaking
nothing of it for far too long, I finally spoke up. Three hours into the
discussion, nothing had been resolved. It was at this point in the argument
that I finally spoke up about what I had been feeling for months—that I
wasn’t ready for what I presumed was a legitimate daily request for
something that I had told him multiple times I did not want.
Almost comically fast, my partner’s sadness subsided and he laughed a
little, leaving me incredibly confused. What followed was a gentle
discussion as he explained what had been happening. While there had been
communication between us, it had been in two entirely different languages.
Alas, ‘tone’, as I have come to discover, is a valuable tool within
neurotypical society, and one that I, as an autistic human, hadn’t
consciously considered.
Apparently, neurotypical people enjoy an odd, playful, loving, ‘sarcastic’
type of tone, and they call it ‘flirtation’. Apparently, it’s supposed to make
one feel desirable, self-confident, loved and wanted. It’s done without
genuine expectation and is instead offered up as a form of gentle, light-
hearted play and teasing, and should not be met with a blunt rejection and a
monotonous ‘rack off’. My partner explained that flirting was his way of
showing love, appreciation and desire. He was using verbal communication
to express intimacy.
Communication is vital. What is more vital, is making sure you and your
partner (or anyone, for that matter) are communicating in the same
language.
While there are struggles, there are also many beautiful positives about
relationships. My partner eagerly encourages all of the things that make me,
me. When I hyper-fixate and ramble about my special interests, he listens
with eager anticipation, and asks questions so I can continue to ramble—
both of us well aware that I’ve already spieled all of this information to him
on more than one occasion. When we’re going to places that we both know
have the potential to trigger my brain into sensory overload or meltdowns,
he’ll remind me to pack my headphones and stim toys and, once we’re
there, check in on me frequently. On bad days, I’ll find my weighted
blanket, a cup of tea and Mr. Magorium’s Wonder Emporium or a National
Geographic documentary set up waiting for me. And, likewise, when there
are things that he needs support with, I play an equally large part in the
relationship and help him.
Relationships go both ways and I have just as much to contribute as
anyone else. Being disabled, neurodivergent, chronically ill or anything else
that society deems as ‘less than’ does not mean you are incapable of having
a mutually beneficial relationship. You are not a burden, and you are
incredibly worthy of love, respect and a happy, healthy, safe relationship—
no less so than anyone else in this world.
Relationships may be something important to you or they may be
something that you don’t care for at all. Perhaps you only want certain types
of relationships, and certain aspects of relationships. Whatever that may be,
it’s your right to feel safe and loved in the ways that you need.
And, of course, if something doesn’t feel right, it’s probably not. If there
are issues, if you’re uncomfortable, if there’s doubt, there is a problem
somewhere. The most important thing you can do is value yourself enough
to speak up when something doesn’t feel right.
Allowing behaviour to continue and accepting disappointment, hurt and
sadness, regardless of the intent or the reason behind it, should never be
accepted. A relationship is supposed to make you feel safe, loved and
valued, and compromising those things for the sake of temporary comfort
should never be the goal. If a relationship is a chapter you would like to
have in your story, then you deserve your fairytale romance.

A NOTE FROM MY PARTNER

A relationship is the coming together of two stories. In our case, it is
a love story between a neurodivergent person and a neurotypical
person. You’ve heard a lot from me about our relationship so I
thought it only right to hand the pencil to my partner to share his
side.

After spending the better part of a day scouring the web for help
when it came to dating someone on the spectrum, I knew very little.
Most of what was online wasn’t very specific to dating someone
autistic, but instead was advice that would apply to any relationship.
There are a few things that I did find out on my search that were
appreciated—the first being the importance of comfort, and the
sensory issues that may come with an autistic mind.
Our first date was at her house, a place she felt comfortable in. A
place where it was quiet (sometimes), where she knew the people,
where the lights weren’t going to be ‘loud’ (as the internet phrased
it). I requested that we wear comfortable clothes, knowing that she’d
likely wear her flower and glitter. But it wasn’t about her clothing
choices, it was about being very clear early on that comfort and
safety were my top priorities—in all aspects. I remember being
afraid to ask about ‘her condition’. Back then, all my training had
taught me that ‘she has autism’ and not that ‘she is autistic’. And my
actions were guided by my language choices. I spent months trying
to figure out what she could handle and what she couldn’t. I had to
decipher her preferences and sensory difficulties on my own until I
realised it was not only fine to ask but also appreciated.
You’re committed to the person, and why wouldn’t you be. Their
particular brand of neurodivergence is an important part of who they
are and why you love them. You want to have an understanding of
their limits and what you can do to help manage them. If I’m using
the blender, power tools, or making a loud noise I give her notice,
and pass over her noise-cancelling headphones. If she’s been sitting
here writing this book for too long, I remind her to take a break. If
she’s getting overwhelmed by the amount she has on in a week, we
sit down and make a calendar and set clear, attainable goals that set
her up for success. If we’re out at a social event, I’ll periodically
ask, ‘You doing okay?’—often just asking will put her at ease. At
other times we may leave the situation for a minute before returning
(which you’ll be happy to know has been completely acceptable
among family, friends and work colleagues).
Every now and again I’ll see the ghost of Chloé. That’s not meant
to be derogatory in any way, it’s simply the best way to describe
what I see. She’s expressionless, doesn’t have any of her usual pep,
and I can almost see the edges of the mask she so weakly defends
herself with. It’s important to know that there will be days like
these. For Chloé, it’s sometimes random (though, I’m sure it’s not to
her) but usually happens when she’s physically run down, finished a
long period with a full schedule, been very upset and probably a few
other causes I’m yet to notice. There are times when she goes non-
verbal, when she becomes frustrated with simply existing, when
miscommunication can cause stress for the both of us, and
sometimes when she’ll shut down completely, leaving no room for
recovery. Though, I’ve discovered that the more comfortable we
grow together, the rarer these moments become.
There are things you can do to help your person in times like this,
though. For Chloé, it’s quiet hugs, comfort films, weighted blankets,
walks, swimming, alone time, etc. You know your person best, try to
be helpful, but respect their need for space, too. I’ve come to learn
that a need for space doesn’t equal a lack of love.
There are so many things I love about dating someone autistic. I
think the way she bounces, flaps and smiles so unashamedly when
she’s excited about something is beautiful. She’s not embarrassed to
be excited about a dusty old Titanic book, or a dinosaur blanket
she’s owned for weeks. I love how passionate she is about social
justice, and how she’ll fight with statistics and facts long after tears
have started rolling—we’ve spent hours debating why we can’t just
print more money, why our context and world view may be different
to others’, or why there’s no such thing as sustainable fishing. I
didn’t like fish that much anyway.
I love that she talks about her special interests with such passion
and can tell me the same fact as though she only just heard it for the
first time a moment ago. I love how we can be given the same
problem, and she’ll solve it immediately, and in a way so differently
than I would have ever considered.
She doesn’t care about social hierarchies, or social etiquette. If
she disagrees with you, your friends or your family, you’re likely to
hear about it.
I also love that she knows she’s different and embraces it. She
doesn’t pretend to be boring and normal; she’s colourful, glitterful
and just plain fun. She doesn’t attempt to fit societal constructs or be
anything she isn’t, which means she’s able to be entirely who she is,
 glitter and all. I know exactly who she is, everyone who meets her
does. I know Chloé entirely, and it’s a privilege to be with her.

Work
When I was fourteen, I started to see peers getting jobs and working, and
was confused and unsure about what I was supposed to be doing in this
regard. The school system and a society that pushes capitalism and a ‘work
as soon as you can’ mentality made it seem natural for me to take a job. I
decided to take a position at a local cafe that I frequented. What followed
on my first day was a spilled coffee on a customer’s lap, a panic attack at
the sound of the coffee machine, and a call to Mum, begging her to pick me
up. Then I chose to ghost the boss every day after that and simply never
return. I knew in that single first shift that the workplace wasn’t built for
me.
In Australia, 31.6 per cent of autistic people are unemployed, three times
the rate of those with other disabilities, and six times the rate of non-
disabled Australians. Fifty-four per cent of unemployed autistic Australians
have never held a paying job, despite often possessing skills, education,
qualifications and the work ethic and drive to join the workforce. Of autistic
people who are employed, more than half have stated that they want to be
working more, and in more challenging roles, while 45 per cent report that
their skills are far higher than needed for the job they are currently
employed in. Twenty per cent of autistic Australians have lost jobs due to
being autistic.
These statistics do not reflect the work ethic or skills of autistic people,
but are the result of work being inaccessibile to them, a lack of
understanding of autism, and a refusal to accommodate differences in the
workplace, even when this may be incredibly simple. The workforce has
long been adamantly anti-disability, anti-autism and anti-anyone who
doesn’t fit a specific profile—hiding racism, sexism and ableism behind job
requirements and etiquette.

‘Curly hair is simply unprofessional.’

 ‘Working from home isn’t an option.’
‘Are you planning on having children in the future?’
‘You’re a liability.’
‘This isn’t a disability employment agency.’
Workplace discrimination is simply something we’ve had to live with.
We’ve lived with women getting paid an average of 16.8 per cent less than
men, and getting fired for being pregnant. We’ve lived with more than one
in five disabled employees facing discrimination from their employers, and
with Australia ranking the lowest among OECD countries for the relative
income of disabled employees. Minority groups are consistently,
continuously discriminated against, further segregated, and denied
accommodation in the workplace. It’s only when discriminatory behaviours
affect a wider population and affect those in charge, those at the head of the
pack, that they receive attention. They then get thrown into the wind, like
they were never there in the first place, as though marginalised people
haven’t been forced out of the workplace prior to these changes.
The Covid-19 pandemic, for example, saw many people switch to
working from home—something once seen as impossible in many jobs.
With so much work now able to be done in different, alternative ways, these
jobs can now accommodate people who were previously excluded. Alas, it
took a global pandemic and the suffering of people who fit the social norm
to finally prompt a search for alternative solutions.
It seems that if you’re disabled, your suffering is acceptable and
irrelevant. And still, even after a global pandemic forced us to make the
workplace more accessible, our workforce remains adamantly un-sensory,
un-autism, un-disability friendly. Jobs that require little to no social skills
still expect candidates to have high social abilities upon application. Job
interviewers reject autistic people, pushing them away, despite social skills
having no connection to the job. People are judged on what they look like
and sound like, rather than on what they can do. On paper, neurodivergence
is an immediate red flag.
Despite this, autistic people have every ability to thrive within the
workplace. There’s a reason why so many of the top CEOs in the world are
autistic, and why many of the most famous people in any given profession
are autistic.
 A typical nine-to-five is not the sort of job that my brain is built for, nor
is it for many neurodivergent people. I’m incredibly fortunate that my
entrepreneurial mindset and missions were well accepted and encouraged
by my family. By the time I was sixteen, I had had three successful
businesses.
My first business was family portrait photography. Every weekend I’d
book hour-long slots, have Mum drive me to the local park or beach, and
I’d photograph up to ten families a day. My second business was a
jewellery company. With Mum’s help, I made jewellery out of old Golden
Books, scrabble letters and anything else I could find. I had a waitlist a mile
long of people waiting to buy my pieces. And my third business was my
character entertainment company, where my Princess Anna costume not
only helped me find my sparkle and move towards my current job as an
actor and motivational speaker, but also jump-started my first large business
pursuit. Through that company, I worked for charities such as the Make-A-
Wish Foundation, the Wish Upon A Star Foundation and Red Nose Day. I
had a dozen costumes, was fully booked every weekend and even had
several employees.

FAMOUS AUTISTIC PEOPLE

Albert Einstein (scientist and mathematician)

Daryl Hannah (actor and environmentalist)
Tim Burton (director)
Henry Cavendish (scientist)
Charles Darwin (naturalist, biologist and geologist)
Bill Gates (co-founder of Microsoft)
Barbara McClintock (scientist and cytogeneticist)
Michelangelo (sculptor, painter, architect and poet)
Isaac Newton (mathematician, astronomer and physicist)
Tom Wiggins (musician)
Nikola Tesla (inventor)
 Elon Musk (entrepreneur)
Leonardo da Vinci (artist and inventor)
Thomas Edison (inventor)
Ludwig van Beethoven (composer and pianist)
Temple Grandin (scientist)
Anthony Hopkins (actor)
Hans Christian Andersen (author)

I absolutely thrived as a business owner—making a wage and doing what

I loved in a way that worked for me. The typical workplace doesn’t suit me
or my mind, and I know that if I hadn’t been given the means and support to
follow my dreams and find work in places that made me happy, I would be
a part of that 31.6 per cent who are deemed unemployable.
I’ve lost work and been discriminated against for being autistic, even in
my line of acting, advocacy and motivational speaking. I’ve been ridiculed
by event owners who book me to talk for not offering my services for free,
telling me that it’s a disgrace that I charge because, since I’m disabled, I
owe it to the community to work for free. You wouldn’t think that would be
the case when your main line of work is quite literally disability advocacy.
Imagine, discriminating against an autistic person in autism advocacy. The
cheek.
There’ve been several roles for television series or big-name presenter
roles that I have auditioned for where the producers and casting agents
excitedly announced and promote the fact that they wanted diverse people.
They asked specifically for people with different backgrounds, whose
voices hadn’t been heard, and were eager to hear that I had a background in
disability advocacy. After getting through multiple rounds of auditions, after
speaking to casting directors and producers, and on more than one occasion
even being offered the job, I was immediately turned away the moment I
told them I was autistic. Sometimes this would be a subtle email or phone
call with, ‘Hey! We’ve decided to go with someone else due to a change of
direction for the show.’ Other times, it was an outright, ‘We don’t believe
someone with autism will handle this sort of environment. It’s best for you
if we hire someone else.’ Yeah. Okay, Sia.
 I’ve had speaking gigs for which my job was literally to do nothing
except share my story of being disabled and speak about ableism,
accessibility and difference. But the event organisers would speak to me
like an infant, and event participants would roll their eyes when I spoke up
because I was a disabled person with lived experience, rather than a non-
disabled ‘expert’. Or neurotypical people would butt in and answer
questions on my behalf because ‘someone with autism wouldn’t have the
capacity to’.
Sensory issues, communication issues and society’s refusal to implement
easy changes to work conditions are huge issues, and are a large reason why
the unemployment rate is disproportionately high for autistic people,
despite them being some of the most talented people around when we’re
given the resources we need. However, our world runs on a capitalist
standard of work requiring us to conform and fit and work in order to
survive—a concept forced into us from the moment we’re put into school,
and drilled into us throughout our lives.
In his famous TEDx Talk entitled ‘Do schools kill creativity?’, Sir Ken
Robinson stated, ‘If we were to design an education system to kill
creativity, we couldn’t design one better than the one we already have.’ Our
society censures creativity and individuality, seeing forms of self-
expression that do not fit into the tiny box of expectation as ‘behavioural
problems’.
In the late 1930s, an eight-year-old girl was condemned for being a
problem student with suspected learning difficulties due to her inability to
sit still and concentrate. That girl, Gillian Lynne, ended up being one of the
world’s most successful choreographers and dancers, choreographing hits
such as Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Cats and The Phantom of the Opera. This
child was written off because she didn’t fit into the black-and-white box of
education, but her extraordinary talent superseded anything within that
classroom.
At the age of twelve, a young boy overheard his teacher telling the school
inspector that he was ‘addled’ and wouldn’t be worth keeping in school any
longer. He asked seemingly unnecessary questions, had poor math skills
and was unable to concentrate. So, he was taken out of the system. That
boy? Thomas Edison, one of the world’s greatest inventors, who was also
autistic.
Accessibility should not be praised; it should be expected.
 Creative thinkers and neurodivergent minds are being let down by the
education system, and then are unable to fulfil their potential in the
workplace. We’re given next to no resources to help us with our transition
into adulthood, leaving neurodivergent people feeling lost, confused and
often unemployable. We have a constantly changing economic landscape,
where socialising and people skills have become key criteria for most jobs,
even when they aren’t part of the job itself. We’re forced to compete against
neurotypical and able-bodied people in a society that has demonised and
condemned disabled people throughout our entire lives. We’re constantly
ridiculed and belittled and pushed out of the workplace. It’s not good
enough.
As an actor, I’m in a line of work that is inherently anti-autism.
Hollywood and the media play instrumental roles in creating and
maintaining false stereotypes of neurodivergence. Both in front of and
behind the camera, autistic people are treated as less than. As characters in
film and television, we’re used as props, and for comedy and shock value
—‘At least my life isn’t that bad’. The 5 per cent of disabled actors who are
used in disabled roles (meaning that 95 per cent of disabled characters are
played by able-bodied actors) are often treated horribly, without easily
made accommodations. In this industry, marking my place has been
incredibly difficult.
Advocating for yourself in the workplace (or anywhere) can be hard,
particularly when society has taught us that self-advocacy in a workplace
environment is not allowed. We’re expected to put in the most work on
minimum pay; we’re expected to come in even when we’re physically or
mentally unwell. In a society that is constantly telling us to put our work
before ourselves, doing the opposite can feel taboo and selfish. But,
advocacy and your voice are the most important tools you have to combat
this mindset.
Now, I refuse to accept jobs that refuse to cater to me. I’ll confidently tell
bosses of production companies when they’re acting in a way that’s
bigoted, ableist or unethical, and have no fear of publicly calling out places
that refuse to change. I deserve to be valued as a worker, as an autistic
person and as a human. On sets where I have been cast in a show, crew
members are educated about autism, and they understand, accept and
accommodate the different needs of not just me, but everyone on that set.
Clapperboards that were once deafening to me are now closed quietly, or
I’m given the opportunity to move and cover my ears. My noise-cancelling
headphones are always nearby and handy. I’m not considered less than; I’m
not considered more work. I’m simply considered another actor.
I’m in my dream job now. I spend my life as an advocate and
ambassador. I’m an actor. I’m a musician. I’m an author. I’m thriving in my
line of work because it’s my line of work. It’s what makes sense to me, and
I’ve been given the resources and the accessibility I need in order to make it
happen.
I could never work in an office job or be a doctor. I could never hold the
majority of common jobs because the work sector is still not designed with
autistic people in mind. But in my work? In the areas where I sparkle? Hell,
I’m the best there is.
I grew up with teachers telling me I would never amount to anything,
with a mum who cried after my diagnosis because she thought it meant I
would never be successful, and then a mum whose mindset changed to,
She’ll never hold a job, but as long as she’s happy, it’s okay. But, because I
was given the resources that I needed, because I demanded accessibility
rather than tiptoed around it, I’m now thriving.
I’m an autistic human being, and I wholly believe that while society may
continue to tell me that I am worthless, unemployable and a burden, that my
autism is why I am successful. There’s a reason why so many of the greats,
the doers, the top people in absolutely any field are autistic. I mean that. Go
look. Choose a topic of interest and investigate the people at the top.
When we’re in our areas, when we’re not given societal, capitalist
limitations, we absolutely thrive. We’re the doers of the world. We’re the
makers of the world. We are instrumental in this world. And it’s time
workplaces, and we ourselves, see that.

Embracing the future

On the night before my thirteenth birthday, I refused to go to sleep because
I thought that if I just didn’t fall asleep, the morning wouldn’t come. I
wouldn’t be considered a teenager; I’d stay twelve. I’d stay a child. Clearly,
it did not work. (Don’t bother trying; you’ll be heavily disappointed.)
 On my eighteenth birthday, my parents threw a huge surprise party with
nearly a hundred people (some of whom I didn’t even know). They spent
way more than they should have, buying special food and beautiful cakes
and preparing speeches and buying hundreds of dollars’ worth of Tinkerbell
decorations.
Eighteen is meant to be a ‘coming of age’. It’s supposed to be exciting,
the next chapter in your life, the beginning of a new adventure. And yet,
when they opened the door and revealed the extravagant birthday party
suited for a Disney princess, all I could do was cry. I slept in my parents’
bed that night, once again fearful of what tomorrow would bring.
Every single birthday, I’ve silently sat, hoping and praying that Peter Pan
would come and take me away. That he’d come into my open window,
laughing and telling me this was all some huge, insane prank and then he’d
whisk me off to Neverland, where my biggest worries would be pirates and
crocodiles and mermaids, and the fears of growing up would become a
faraway dream.

I’m an autistic human being,

and I wholly believe that
while society may continue to
tell me that I am worthless,
unemployable and a burden,
that my autism is why I am
successful.
When I turned twenty, I grew fearful once again. I felt a whole new set of
unmeetable expectations fall on my shoulders—from society, from myself
—telling me who and what I should be. I was fearful about no longer being
a teenager, about no longer being addressed as a girl but as a woman.
 Now I’m in my twenties, and I’m not going to lie: growing older still
petrifies me to no end. Life as a whole—the vastness of life, the littleness of
life—is so bewildering and disconcerting. But I’ve now come to the show-
stopping realisation that I cannot stop time. I cannot deny the inevitable fact
that the world keeps turning, that getting older happens. And while the
thought still occasionally sends my tummy into knots, I think I’ve also
realised that growing older doesn’t necessarily mean growing up. It just
means being able to do so much more, that you have lived so much more.
Recently, I came across a journal entry I wrote the day before my
twentieth birthday. It reads:

Dear Diary,
I’m so proud of myself and what I’m starting to do. I can’t believe that
I went into the city for the first time by myself to see Little Mix! And I
did something really, really big and exciting that I never thought I
would be able to do by myself!

What was the really big, really exciting thing, I hear you ask with bated
breath, leaning into the book with extravagant wonder? I caught an Uber to
BIG W. A round trip of about 2 kilometres.
I was so, so bloody proud of myself that day. I remember getting into that
Uber with the biggest smile on my face, beaming from ear to ear, and
walking into BIG W with my chin up and my chest out, as if I was Elsa in
the power ballad stage of ‘Let It Go’. I felt like a million dollars. No one
could touch me. I was that bitch.
I had told the driver a grand total of four times in the five-minute trip that
it was my first time catching an Uber. I smiled smugly and saw a look of
shock on the driver’s face, absolutely certain it was one of wow, how grown
up.
Come to think of it, that particular weekend was full of things that were
big, and new, and different. It was the first weekend I ever spent without my
family, in a city that wasn’t my own—mind you, it was only fifty minutes
away from home. I remember being so excited, and happy and proud that I
was at the Little Mix concert without anybody else, that I was meeting
people and making friends and doing ‘grown-up things’. It was the first
time of many when ‘growing up’ wasn’t a negative in my vocabulary.
 You are capable of so many amazing things when you open up to the
possibilities of change, when you allow yourself to grow, instead of being
scared of it. Growing up doesn’t have to be taken as, I’m losing the ability
to live life in the safety of what I’ve always known. Instead, it can mean, I’m
gaining the ability to go on adventures. To do more, to see more, to be more.
And that’s cool. That’s so goddamn cool.
I’m an adult now, and that’s okay. That’s exciting. How bloody beautiful
that I can sit here and say that I’ve made it this far when so many people do
not. I have a job that I love more than anything. I have a partner I adore and
who adores me. I’ve travelled the world solo. I’m doing things that I am
only capable of doing because I’ve spent enough years on this Earth to be
considered a grown-up. I’m doing things that I can only do because I am a
grown-up.
But I still cuddle a teddy every single night when I’m falling asleep, and
eagerly collect more when I see one in an op shop or a garage sale,
particularly if it’s fluffy, looks sad and looks like it needs to come home
with me. I still climb onto Dad’s lap for a cuddle when I have a problem,
and cry in Mum’s arms when the world gets too much. I still name all of my
toy horses, and beg my little sister to play Barbies with me even though her
nine-year-old self is ‘far too grown-up to be playing pretend … but don’t
worry Chloé, I’ll play with you’. I still watch my favourite childhood films
again and again, and prefer them far more than any film created for my own
age. My bedroom is still filled with my little whozits and whatzits and
thingamabobs that make me happy, despite them potentially not being
overly aesthetically pleasing. I still enjoy playing dress-up, and regularly
put on my princess dresses just because.
There’s a line in Mr. Magorium’s Wonder Emporium that I remind myself
of whenever my heart pangs with fear about the future: ‘We must face
tomorrow, whatever it may hold, with determination, joy and bravery.’ It’s
one of my favourite quotes in the whole world, and it has stuck so
incredibly deeply within me, making me feel a little less terrified about the
idea of growing up.
It’s okay to be scared of the future. The future is uncertain, and ever
changing, and so often out of our hands. But fear doesn’t have to be a bad
thing. It can mean that we’re about to do something brave, and magnificent,
and new. Nobody ever made a difference inside of their comfort zone.
Nothing grows inside of a comfort zone.
 The future isn’t something to be scared of. It’s something to be
celebrated, to be thankful for, to go into with joy and wonder and
excitement.

OceanofPDF.com
I was so sure, for so long, that a Happily Ever After wasn’t in the cards for
me, that those pages of my book had been ripped out, gone, cast away. That
I would be stuck in an endless, eternal loop of dragon-fighting until my
story eventually came to an anticlimactic, disappointing, dissatisfying end.
But, I, Chloé Hayden, have found my Happily Ever After.
The thing that I’ve learned about fairytales is that every single one of
them, no matter the journey, does have a Happily Ever After. No story can
exist without it, no fairytale can be completed without it. All heroes, all
protagonists, get their Happily Ever After.
When we read and watch and engage with fairytales, we allow ourselves
to sit through the bad and tough Once Upon a Time and Adventure stages
because we know that there will inevitably be a good ending. When our
favourite characters deal with issues, we know that good will ultimately
prevail, that the cinematic music will begin, and the character will exhale a
triumphant breath, hold their chin high and overcome both the literal and
metaphorical evil that has been stopping them from getting to the end of
their journey. We persist with watching fairytales because we know that just
around the river bend, just past the elephant graveyard, just over the
rainbow, there’s a Happily Ever After waiting to be discovered.
Simba reached his Happily Ever After. A kind warthog, a sassy meerkat
and an ADHD-coded monkey helped him to see that he was so, so much
more than what he had been told throughout his life. Because of this, he had
the courage, strength and support to go back to Pride Rock, defeat Scar and
gain his rightful title as the King of Africa.
Genie reached his Happily Ever After. A kind homeless boy who made
him a promise, and stuck to it, meant that Genie got his number one wish.
He was free.
Quasimodo reached his Happily Ever After. After twenty years of being
hidden away in a bell tower and being ridiculed by society, he was accepted
for who he was. He grew confident, independent, happy. He found love. He
was accepted, not just by the city but, most importantly, by himself.
I, Chloé Sarah Hayden, reached my Happily Ever After. Because I
embraced my different, because I refused to conform to society’s
unattainable expectations, because I have a network of people who love and
support me to be me, I accepted all parts of who I was, and I discovered that
being me was the most beautiful, powerful, important thing I could do.
 Peter Pan never came for me, and I’ve decided now that it’s okay to close
the bedroom window. I don’t need a fantasy land of pirates and pixies to
create my own fairytale down here on Earth. It’s okay, Peter Pan. I’m happy
right where I am.
Your life is a fairytale. And you are its protagonist.
We all have different Once Upon a Times, different Adventures—dragons
to fight, villains to overcome—and different Happily Ever Afters, because
our stories are all different, the characters in them are different, and we even
play different characters when our fairytales intersect with those around us.
Life is one huge ‘choose your own adventure’ story, and the most magical
part? You are in control.
It’s true that, unlike fairytales, our lives aren’t always so linear. There are
infinite stories, infinite tales, within the world and within ourselves. We
may travel between Adventure stages and Happily Ever Afters and Once
Upon a Times multiple times. Our lives are a constant cycle of stories and
chapters. Our lives involve series and sequels and trilogies.
I’ve lived a million Once Upon a Times, I’ve fought a million dragons,
and I’ve closed a million Happily Ever Afters. Every day I eagerly pick up
the book of my fairytale, going into a new Adventures, thinking What can
my life become today? rather than fear What terrible thing will be laced in
these pages?
The Adventure stage is often laced with struggles, but it also contains our
greatest learning and discoveries. If it wasn’t for the rocky roads and
treacherous tracks, growth would be impossible. The strongest roots come
from the hardest grounds, and linear tracks become incredibly boring.
Every single one of us is different, and without a doubt, that is why the
world is such a beautiful, wonderful place. Some people are better at hiding
their differences, or society is better at embracing them. But just because
society believes something, doesn’t mean it’s true, or that we don’t have the
power to change it. Because the thing is, different isn’t a bad thing.
I no longer care for society’s opinions and have learned that we have the
choice to focus on what and whose opinions and views matter to us. (Hint: a
culture created for the benefit of abled, typical, heteronormative, Caucasian,
upper-class men will never be a culture that benefits me, so why should I
allow it to matter to me?) I no longer fear the eyes of others, or feel that
someone’s judgement is my own personal problem, or is representative of
who I am. I’ve taught myself that my mind, my differences and my identity
are valid, and important, and hold value. I’ve come to this realisation after
years of being taught otherwise.
I had my sidekicks. There was Wendy, who taught me when I was at my
most vulnerable that my Happily Ever After would come. My parents stood
right beside me and fought every dragon that entered my path until I was
old enough to handle the sword (and even then, will still wield their own
when I need an extra army). I had the old ladies at camera club, and the
other volunteers at Riding for the Disabled, and the people I go to concerts
with, and the old cowboys, and the now hundreds of thousands of
neurodivergent people with whom I’ve built this incredible online
community.
I had my tribe, and I made my tribe, and it’s mine.
As you close these pages and continue your own fairytale, let the
following guide you:

Find your support group—your people are out there, your chosen family
who will make you feel loved, and valued, and safe.
Know your worth—speak up, stand up, be courageous because you deserve
to live your most whole, beautiful life. You are the author of your fairytale,
so don’t let anyone or anything take that pen from you.
Find your eye sparkle—you have one, I promise you, and when you begin to
use it, it’s going to be wonderful.
Know that different doesn’t mean less—there is so much beauty in
difference, and when we begin to embrace it, our world is going to be so, so
beautiful.
We are all living in a fairytale. Our lives are occasions, and it’s time to
rise to them.
If there’s anything you take from this book, let it be this: embrace who
you are. You are exactly who you’re supposed to be.

OceanofPDF.com
 Acknowledgements

No one in a fairytale is complete without their sidekicks, and I am no

different. Just as Peter Pan could not fly without Tinkerbell’s pixie dust,
there are so many dust makers in my story.
To Dad, my Mufasa, you are my greatest teacher and supporter, the most
brilliant fairytale of a father to ever exist. Thank you for encouraging me to
reach higher and to do and be more than I ever believed possible, for never
accepting anything less than the best version of myself. Thank you for
being so involved, instead of just listening to my eccentric ideas and
nodding at the right times, and for giving your advice and opinions, and for
enthusiastically adding in your own—we may joke about giving you credit
for what I have created, but I truly would not be where I am today if it
wasn’t for you.
To Mum, thank you for being my Sarabi. Thank you for advocating for
me, for the fierceness you show—metaphorically crashing down school
gates, dragging teachers by their earlobes to principals’ offices, calling
people out who have done wrong by me—in the name of protecting me.
Thank you for the countless bowls of dahl and Vego bars, for advocating for
me when I forget to, for being my greatest cheerleader. I can fight my own
battles, but it sure helps when there’s a warrior standing behind me.
To my partner, Dylan, thank you for creating spreadsheets to help me
manage my time while writing this book, reminding me to take breaks, and
endless cups of ginger tea, weighted blankets and Barbie movies. You
helped me see that I was more than worthy of a fairytale ending.
Thank you to Kenpa and Nanny because, when the world got too much, I
knew your arms would always be open for me to run into. I think you
would have liked this book, Nanny. You were so excited to hear about what
I was up to and the first to call to listen to my rambles. More than anything
I would love to call you one more time and tell you everything.
Thank you to Lou Johnson, who I was positive was a scammer when she
sent me a DM telling me she wanted me to write my story for Murdoch
Books. And to her incredible daughter Ruby, who was the reason Lou
reached out in the first place. It seems that magical genies don’t just come
in the form of blue giants. You made my biggest wishes come true. And, to
the entire Murdoch team, including Editorial Manager Julie Mazur Tribe
and Head of Marketing and Publicity Sue Bobbermein, and freelance editor
Joanne Holliman, who were my Flora, Fauna and Merryweather. You are
the most brilliant fairy godmothers an author could ask for.
To everyone in the autism organisations who held my hand as I started
walking this path almost a decade ago, most particularly those at Yellow
Ladybugs and Amaze, thank you for helping me find and raise my voice,
and being my greatest supporters from day one of this incredible journey.
Many meltdowns may have been had in the creation of this book if it
wasn’t for the world’s greatest weighted blanket, tear drier and cuddle toy
the world has ever known, my best friend and dog, Matilda.
I would also not have the knowledge that my mind, in all that it is, is
exactly as it needs to be if it weren’t for my first sidekick, my Year 4
teacher, Wendy.
To my therapist, my personal assistant and all the people who keep me
going and my head screwed on, I don’t know what sort of magical spells
you have under your capes, but you’ve changed my life a million times
over. Thank you.
Sadly, if I sat down to list all my sidekicks, I fear the acknowledgements
would be longer than the book. You know who you are, and I am eternally,
ever grateful that you are a part of my story.
Most importantly, thank you to the autistic and disabled community.
Thank you to those who paved the way before me and made that path a
little wider, a little more worn and clearer of brambles. Thank you for
showing me there was a rocket ship full of people waiting to welcome me.
And, when the time came, thank you for allowing me to take control of my
own rocket ship and riding in it with me. This book isn’t just my story, it’s
all of ours.
May we all go into tomorrow, whatever it may hold, with determination,
joy and bravery.

OceanofPDF.com
 Support Resources

There are many organisations that offer advice, help, social engagement and
other services for neurodivergent people. This list is a good place to start,
although it is not exhaustive and you will probably find places that can
assist you closer to home. Organisations marked with ** offer international
support.

Australia
ADHD
ADDults with ADHD
Authoritative information, publications and services to support adults with
ADHD and their families and friends. Events include quarterly ADHD
afternoons led by speakers and a chance to meet and chat with others.
adultadhd.org.au

ADHD Australia
Support groups, research and a newsletter sharing the latest information and
resources for ADHD folk and their families.
adhdaustralia.org.au

AUTISM
Amaze
Information and resources for autistic people, including workshops, online
resources and an autism helpline via phone, email or live chat.
amaze.org.au • Helpline: 1300 308 699

I CAN Network
Professional development workshops and campaigns to increase autism
understanding.
icannetwork.online

Yellow Ladybugs
Support and informal events for autistic girls and gender-diverse individuals
between the ages of five and sixteen.
yellowladybugs.com.au

COMPLEX TRAUMA
Blue Knot
Phone counselling, resources and workshops for adults affected by
childhood trauma and abuse. Also educates and trains people to support
survivors. blueknot.org.au • Helpline and Redress Support Service: 1300
657 380 • National Counselling and Referral Services—Disability: 1800
421 468

EATING DISORDERS
The Butterfly Foundation
Support for all people affected by eating disorders and negative body image
—the person with the illness, their family and their friends.
butterfly.org.au

GENERAL MENTAL HEALTH

Beyond Blue
Information and support to help everyone in Australia achieve their best
possible mental health.
beyondblue.org.au • 1300 224 636
Black Dog Institute
A transnational research institute that aims to reduce the incidence of
mental illness and the stigma around it, to actively reduce suicide rates and
empower everyone to live the most mentally healthy lives possible.
blackdoginstitute.org.au
Embrace Multicultural Mental Health
Mental health and suicide prevention services for people from culturally
and linguistically diverse backgrounds.
embracementalhealth.org.au

Headspace
The National Youth Mental Health Foundation, providing early intervention
mental health services to twelve to twenty-five year olds, along with
assistance in promoting the wellbeing of young people.
headspace.org.au

Kids Helpline
Australia’s only free, private and confidential 24/7 phone and online
counselling service for young people between the ages of five and twenty-
five.
kidshelpline.com.au • 1800 551 800

Lifeline
National 24-hour crisis support and suicide prevention services.
lifeline.org.au • 13 11 14

LGBTQIA+
QLife
Anonymous LGBTQIA+ peer support and referral for a range of issues,
including sexuality, identity, gender, bodies, feelings or relationships. Free
telephone and webchat delivered by trained LGBTQIA+ people.
qlife.org.au • 1800 184 527

MINUS18
LGBTQIA+ resources, workplace training, school workshops and events
for youth across Australia.
minus18.org.au

Switchboard
Peer-driven support and resources for members of the LGBTQIA+
community, their families, allies and the community.
switchboard.org.au

SEXUAL ASSAULT
1800RESPECT
Free and confidential support 24 hours a day, every day, for sexual assault,
domestic and family violence counselling, information and referrals.
1800respect.org.au • 1800 737 732

Bravehearts
Counselling and education for children and young people as well as
parental support, training and research to combat issues associated with
child sexual assault.
bravehearts.org.au • 1800 272 831

Ireland/United Kingdom
ADHD
ADHD Foundation
Services, resources and events for autism, ADHD, dyslexia, dyspraxia,
dyscalculia and Tourette’s syndrome.
adhdfoundation.org.uk

ADHD Ireland
Resources, support, events, social outings and a dedicated phone and email
hotline for people with ADHD and their families and carers.
adhdireland.ie • 01 874 8349

ADHD UK
Provides an online guide to support groups that span across the United
Kingdom.
adhduk.co.uk
AUTISM
As I Am
A leading autism charity that offers training, education, support and
resources.
asiam.ie

AUsome Training
A community organisation run by autistic people that offers in-person and
online courses to address the inaccurate portrayal of autism. Also the home
of AUsome Cork, an annual conference featuring autistic advocates who
educate the general public about the needs of autistic people.
ausometraining.com

Autistic Inclusive Meets (AIM)

A not-for-profit autistic advocacy organisation created by autistic people
that focuses on promoting autism acceptance, protesting against laws that
harm autistic people and connecting the autistic community. Hosts weekly
meetups and events for the autistic community, both in person and online.
autisticinclusivemeets.org

National Autistic Society

Support, guidance, diagnostic services, professional development and
education and employment opportunities for autistic people.
autism.org.uk

EATING DISORDERS
Beat Eating Disorders
Information, advice and a supportive online community for those affected
by eating disorders. They have helplines in England, Scotland, Wales and
Northern Ireland that run 365 days per year.
beateatingdisorders.org.uk • 0808 801 0677

Eating Disorders Association NI

Free and confidential support for anyone living with an eating disorder,
their family, friends and carers, and for professionals working with eating
disorders.
eatingdisordersni.co.uk

GENERAL MENTAL HEALTH

Childline
Free counselling for children and young people with any issue they may be
confronting.
childline.org.uk • 0800 1111

Mind
Advice and support to empower anyone experiencing a mental health
problem.
mind.org.uk • 0300 123 3393

National Suicide Prevention Helpline

A supportive listening service for anyone with thoughts of suicide.
nsphuk.org • 0800 689 5652

Samaritans
Free, confidential mental health support via phone or email.
samaritans.org • 116 123

SANEline
National out-of-hours helpline for mental health support.
sane.org.uk • 07984 967 708

Shout
Free, confidential mental health support 24/7 via text.
giveusashout.org • Text:‘shout’ to 85258

LGBTQIA+
AKT
Support for LGBTQIA+ young people aged sixteen to twenty-five who are
facing or experiencing homelessness or living in a hostile environment,
helping them to stay safe in crisis situations, find emergency
accommodation, access specialist support and develop skills and life goals.
akt.org.uk • 020 7831 6562

LGBT Ireland
Resources and local peer-support groups for LGBTQIA+ people and their
families, also offering online chat functions and two helplines, one for
general LGBTQIA+ and one for transgender family support.
lgbt.ie • +1800 929 539

Switchboard
Peer-driven support and resources for LGBTQIA+ people, their families,
allies and the community.
switchboard.lgbt • 0300 330 0630

SEXUAL ASSAULT
Safeline
Free, specialist, best-practice services for adults and children affected by or
at risk of sexual violence.
safeline.org.uk • 01926 402 498

The Survivors Trust

Counselling, therapeutic and support services for victims of rape, sexual
violence and sexual abuse, including free, confidential helpline and live
chat services.
thesurvivorstrust.org • 08088 010818

Canada/United States of America

AUTISM
Autistic Inclusive Meets (AIM)
Services to support autism acceptance, protest against laws that harm
autistic people, and connect the autistic community. Meetups and events for
the autistic community, both in person and online.
autisticinclusivemeets.org/aim-usa

Autistics for Autistics Ontario (A4A)

Support to improve rights and opportunities for autistic Canadian people,
especially in the areas of school inclusion, employment, housing and access
to medical care.
a4aontario.com

Autistics United Canada

A disability rights organisation created by autistic people that focuses on
building a community of autistic people while fostering autistic identity and
pride. The Vancouver chapter has a mobile neurodiversity library with
books about autism acceptance as well as fidget gadgets for autistic people.
autisticsunitedca.org

**Autistic Women and Nonbinary Network (AWN)

An autistic-led organisation that provides community, support and resources
for autistic women, girls, nonbinary people and all others of marginalised
genders. They also provide support for minority groups, such as autistic
LGBTQIA+ people and autistic people of colour. AWN provides
opportunities to connect the autistic community through networking,
educational and social gatherings, autism acceptance events, book readings
and autistic pride picnics.
awnnetwork.org

**Nonspeaking CommUnity Consortium

A not-for-profit organisation founded by nonspeaking autistic and other
neurodivergent nonspeaking people and allies that promotes communication
access and choice.
de-de.facebook.com/groups/nonspeakingcommunity/

ADHD
**ADDitude
A quarterly magazine and online resource for people living with ADHD,
providing access to evidence-based information, free webinars, an online
community and more.
additudemag.com

CHADD

Education, advocacy and support for children and adults living with ADHD
and their families, as well as teachers and healthcare professionals.
chadd.org • 866-220-8098

LGBTQIA+
**GLAAD
Empowers the LGBTQIA+ community by sharing their stories, holding the
media accountable for the words and images they present and helping
grassroots organisations communicate effectively.
glaad.org

**It Gets Better

An internet-based not-for-profit organisation with a mission to uplift,
empower and connect lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender and queer youth
around the globe.
itgetsbetter.org

Trans Lifeline
Confidential peer support phone service run by trans people for trans and
questioning peers. Trans Lifeline is a hotline offering direct emotional and
financial support to trans people in crisis.
translifeline.org • 877-565-8860

**The Trevor Project

Suicide prevention support for lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, queer and
questioning youth. The toll-free Trevor Lifeline is a confidential service that
offers trained counsellors, as well as resources, public education and
research.
thetrevorproject.org • 866-488-7386

EATING DISORDERS
National Eating Disorders Association (NEDA)
Support for people affected by eating disorders, including treatment
options, support groups, events and helplines in the form of online chat, call
and text.
nationaleatingdisorders.org • 800-931-2237

SEXUAL ASSAULT
RAINN
Anti-sexual violence services, public education, public policy, consulting
services and a national hotline in partnership with more than 1,000 local
sexual assault service providers across the United States, offering online
live chat and telephone helplines.
rainn.org • 800-656-4673

GENERAL MENTAL HEALTH

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline
Free, 24/7 and confidential support for people in distress, as well as
prevention and crisis resources, and best practices for professionals.
suicidepreventionlifeline.org • 800-273-8255

TheHopeLine
Resources for people struggling with poor mental health, including suicide
and mental health resources, email mentors, prayer, weekly personalised
emails and live chat service.
thehopeline.com

OceanofPDF.com
 Notes

Judy Singer quote at neurodiversity2.blogspot.com/p/what.html

Chapter 2: School
Up to 30 per cent of student in a class are neurodivergent: ‘Neurodiversity
and other conditions’, ADHA Aware, adhdaware.org.uk/what-is-
adhd/neurodiversity-and-other-conditions/; ‘Fast Facts’, National
Center for Education Statistics, nces.ed.gov/fastfacts/display.asp?id=60
Forty-four per cent of autistic children change schools multiple times, 35
per cent will not continue past Year 10: S. Jones, M. Akram, N. Murphy
et al., ‘Australia’s attitudes and behaviours towards autism; and
experiences of autistic people and their families’, Autism and
Education, Research Report for AMAZE, 26 September 2018,
amaze.org.au/wp-content/uploads/2019/06/Education-Community-
Attitudes-and-Lived-Experiences-Research-Report_FINAL.pdf

Chapter 3: Sensory Issues, Stimming, Meltdowns, Shutdowns and

Burnout
Sensory processing disorder affects between 5 and 16 per cent of children,
and up to 95 per cent of autistic people: J.P. Owen, E.J. Marco, S. Desai
et al., ‘Abnormal white matter microstructure in children with sensory
processing disorders’, Neurolmage: Clinical, vol. 2, 2013, pp. 844–53,
sciencedirect.com/science/article/pii/S2213158213000776; and L.
Crane, L. Goddard, L. Pring, ‘Sensory processing in adults with autism
spectrum disorders’, Autism, vol. 13, no. 3, May 2009, pp. 215–28,
journals.sagepub.com/doi/abs/10.1177/1362361309103794
In almost 50 per cent of autistic children forced to stop stimming, met the
diagnostic threshold for PTSD: H. Kupferstein, ‘Evidence of increased
PTSD symptoms in autistics exposed to applied behavior analysis’,
Advances in Autism, vol. 4, no. 3, January 2018,
 researchgate.net/publication/322239353_Evidence_of_increased_PTSD
_symptoms_in_autistics_exposed_to_applied_behavior_analysis
Autistic people have a nine-fold increase of dying by suicide: T.
Hirvikoski, E. Mittendorfer-Rutz, M. Bowman et al., ‘Premature
mortality in autism spectrum disorder’, British Journal of Psychiatry,
vol. 208, no. 3, pp. 232–38, 4 November 2015,
pubmed.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/26541693/

Chapter 4: Friends and Sidekicks

Forty-three per cent of autistic teenagers never interact with peers outside
school, 54 per cent have never received phone calls, 50 per cent have
never been invited to a party: P.T. Shattuck, G.I. Orsmond, M. Wagner
et al., ‘Participation in social activities among adolescents with an
autism spectrum disorder’, PLOS ONE, 14 November 2011,
journals.plos.org/plosone/article?
id=10.1371%2Fjournal.pone.0027176&fbclid=IwAR2fOd18PJTezQX
K-aHDhdntB51RcCF9hbUX5GQTW2BuCYLYnFfuD-VP0RnQ

Chapter 5: Mental Health

More than 50 per cent of people will struggle with a serious mental
illness: R.C. Kessler, M. Angermeyer, J.C. Anthony et al., ‘Lifetime
prevalence and age-of-onset distributions of mental disorders in the
World Health Organization’s World Mental Health Survey Initiative’,
World Psychiatry, vol. 6, no. 3, October 2007, pp. 168–76,
pubmed.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/18188442/
Seventy-two per cent of autistic people also struggle with a comorbid
mental illness: O. Leyfer, S. Folstein, S. Bacalman et al., ‘Comorbid
psychiatric disorders in children with autism: Interview development
and rates of disorders’, Journal of Autism Developmental Disorders,
vol. 36, no. 7, October 2006, pp. 849–61,
pubmed.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/16845581/
Disabled people five times more likely to struggle with mental illness than
able-bodied folk: R.A. Cree, C.A. Okoro, M.M. Zack et al., ‘Frequent
mental distress among adults, by disability status, disability type, and
selected characteristics—United States 2018’, Morbidity and Mortality
Weekly Report (MMWR), vol. 69, no. 36, September 2020, pp. 1238–43,
pubmed.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/32914770/
Disabled people die by suicide at five times the rate of non-disabled
counterparts; autistic people nine times more likely to die by suicide: S.
Cassidy, P. Bradley, J. Robinson et al., ‘Suicidal ideation and suicide
plans or attempts in adults with Asperger’s syndrome attending a
specialist diagnostic clinic: A clinical cohort study’, The Lancet
Psychiatry, vol. 1, no. 2, July 2014, pp. 42–47,
dx.doi.org/10.1016/S2215-0366(14)70248-2
Ninety per cent of sexual assault victims know the perpetrator: O. Brooks-
Hay, M. Burman, L. Bradley et al., ‘Evaluation of the Rape Crisis
Scotland National Advocacy Project: Final Report 2018’, The Scottish
Centre for Crime and Justice Research, University of Glasgow, 2018,
eprints.gla.ac.uk/187695/1/187695.pdf
Eighty per cent of intellectually disabled women have been sexually
abused: T.C. Weiss, ‘People with disabilities and sexual assault’,
Disabled World, 20 November 2012, disabled-
world.com/disability/sexuality/assaults.php
Disabled people seven times more likely to be sexually assaulted: E.
Harrell, ‘Crime against persons with disabilities, 2009–2019: Statistical
tables’, US Department of Justice, Office of Justice Programs, Bureau
of Justice Statistics, bjs.ojp.gov/content/pub/pdf/capd0919st.pdf?
fbclid=IwAR2wGum2RZjaMDLrPape3h904OzayRQjv0MMSX1ubMT
jM87hKpVRmpK878M
Children as young as three experience poor body image: ‘Children as
young as 3 unhappy with their bodies’, Professional Association for
Childcare and Early Years, 31 August 2016, pacey.org.uk/news-and-
views/news/archive/2016-news/august-2016/children-as-young-as-3-
unhappy-with-their-bodies/
Eighty-one per cent of ten year olds are afraid of being fat: A. Kearney-
Cooke and D. Tieger, ‘Body image disturbance and the development of
eating disorders’ in The Wiley Handbook of Eating Disorders,
Assessment, Prevention, Treatment, Policy, and Future Direction, Wiley
Online Library, ch. 22, pp. 283–96, 2015
At least 25 per cent of anorexia sufferers are autistic, and other studies
suggest 52.5 per cent of anorexia suffers are autistic: H. Westwood and
K. Tchanturia, ‘Autism spectrum disorder in anorexia nervosa: An
updated literature review’, Current Psychiatry Reports, vol. 19, article
41, 2017, doi.org/10.1007/s11920-017-0791-9
Girls with ADHD four times more likely to suffer from an eating disorder:
J. Biederman, S.W.Ball, M.C.Monuteaux et al.,‘Are girls with ADHD at
risk for eating disorders? Results from a controlled, five-year
prospective study’, Journal of Developmental & Behavioral Pediatrics,
vol. 28, no. 4, August 2007, pp. 302–307,
journals.lww.com/jrnldbp/Abstract/2007/08000/Are_Girls_with_ADHD
_at_Risk_for_Eating_Disorders_.7.aspx
More than half of bulimia sufferers are thought to have ADHD: S.
Ulfvebrand, A. Birgegard, C. Norring et al., ‘Psychiatric comorbidity in
women and men with eating disorders results from a large clinical
database’, Psychiatry Research, vol. 230, no. 2, December 2015, pp.
294–99, pubmed.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/26416590/
Up to 10 per cent of anorexia sufferers die within the first ten years, 20 per
cent after twenty years; only 30 per cent fully recover: Anorexia
nervosa: Australian treatment guide for consumers and carers, 2005,
Royal Australian and New Zealand College of Psychiatrists, 2005,
www1.health.gov.au/internet/main/publishing.nsf/Content/publications-
mentalhealth
Seventy per cent of autistic children have issues with food and eating: S.
Dickerson Mayes and H. Zickgraf, ‘Atypical eating behaviors in
children and adolescents with autism, ADHD, other disorders, and
typical development’, Research in Autism Spectrum Disorders, vol. 64,
August 2019, pp. 76–83,
sciencedirect.com/science/article/abs/pii/S1750946719300595
It’s believed that one in ten POTS patients has ADHD: E. Willingham,
‘APA 2019—1 in 10 POTS patients is diagnosed with ADHD instead’,
Univadis from Medscape, 28 May 2019,
univadis.co.uk/viewarticle/apa-2019-1-in-10-pots-patients-is-
diagnosed-with-adhd-instead-672604
Eighty-five per cent of POTS patients are incorrectly diagnosed with poor
mental health: ‘Physician Patient Interaction in Postural Orthostatic
Tachycardia Syndrome’, Dysautonomia International Report,
dysautonomia
dysautonomiainternational.org/pdf/PhysicianPatientInteractionInPOTS.
pdf
Twenty-five percent of POTS patients can no longer work or attend school:
B. P. Grubb, ‘Postural tachycardia syndrome’, Circulation, vol. 117, no.
 21, 27 May 2008; pp. 2814–17,
ahajournals.org/doi/full/10.1161/circulationaha.107.761643
Suicide is perceived as significantly more acceptable for the disabled:
E.M. Lund, M.R. Nadorff, E.S. Winer et al., ‘Is suicide an option?: The
impact of disability on suicide acceptability in the context of
depression, suicidality, and demographic factors’, Journal of Affective
Disorders, vol. 189, January 2016, pp. 25–35,
pubmed.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/26402344/
In the UK, suicide is the leading cause of early death in autistic people: J.
Cusack, S. Shaw, J.Spiers, et al.,‘Personal tragedies, public crisis: The
urgent need for a national response to early death in autism’, Autistica,
United Kingdom, 2017,
academia.edu/26687912/Personal_tragedies_public_crisis_The_urgent_
need_for_a_national_response_to_early_death_in_autism
Autistic people more than nine times more likely to die by suicide: T.
Hirvikoski, E. Mittendorfer-Rutz, M. Boman et al., ‘Premature
mortality in autism spectrum disorder’, The British Journal of
Psychiatry, vol. 208, no. 3, March 2016, cited in J. Cusack et al.,
‘Personal tragedies, public crisis’, op cit.
Seventy per cent of autistic people have mental health conditions: ibid.;
see also, Australian Advisory Board on Autism Spectrum Disorders,
‘The interface between autism spectrum disorders and mental health:
The ways forward’, discussion paper, December 2012.
On average, lifespan of autistic person 26 years shorter than non-autistic
person: T. Hirvikoski et al., ‘Premature mortality in autism spectrum
disorder’, op cit.
In Australia, 49 per cent of autistic adults have immense difficulty
accessing clinical mental health support: ‘The Autism Dividend:
Unleashing the skills, talent and opportunity of Australia’s autistic
community’, Submission to the Senate Select Committee on Autism,
Australian Autism Alliance, August 2020,
australianautismalliance.org.au/wp-
content/uploads/2020/09/comprehensive-submission-Australian-
Autism-Alliance-Senate-Inquiry-into-Autism-Aug-2020.pdf
More than 90 per cent of autistic adults have challenges accessing health
care, with 33 per cent completely unable to: ‘The Autism Dividend’, as
above.
 Suicide is the leading cause of death for Australians between fifteen and
forty-four, 54 per cent experiencing poor mental health will not ask for
help: Australian Institute of Health and Welfare, Australia’s Health
2014, Australia’s health series no. 14, Cat. No. AUS 178, Canberra.
More than 10 per cent with a chronic mental health condition die by
suicide within ten years of diagnosis, chronic health condition increases
odds by 363 per cent: University of Waterloo, ‘Young people with
chronic illness more likely to attempt suicide’, Science Daily, 17
August 2017, sciencedaily.com/releases/2017/08/170817110905.htm
Suicide rates of Indigenous Australians almost double: Australian Bureau
of Statistics, Causes of Death, Australia, 2015, ‘Intentional self-harm in
Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people’,
abs.gov.au/ausstats/[email protected]/Lookup/by%20Subject/3303.0~2015~Mai
n%20Features~Intentional%20self-
harm%20in%20Aboriginal%20and%20Torres%20Strait%20Islander%2
0people~9
LGBTQIA+ folk more than five times as likely to die by suicide: National
LGBTI Health Alliance, ‘Snapshot of mental health and suicide
prevention statistics for LGBTI people, February 2020’,
d3n8a8pro7vhmx.cloudfront.net/lgbtihealth/pages/549/attachments/orig
inal/1595492235/2020-Snapshot_mental_health_%281%29.pdf?
1595492235

Chapter 6: Seeking a Diagnosis

Out of fifty test subjects, thirty-nine were male: F.R. Volkmar, D.J. Cohen
and R. Paul ‘An evaluation of DSM-III criteria for infantile autism’,
Child and Adolescent Psychiatry, vol. 25, no. 2, March 1986, pp. 190–
97, jaacap.org/article/S0002-7138(09)60226-0/fulltext
Six points of diagnostic criteria and symptoms evident before thirty months
of age: Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders: Third
Edition (DSM-III), American Psychiatric Association/Cambridge
University Press, Cambridge, 1975.
In 1987, the updated manual significantly altered the criteria: D.C. Factor,
N.L. Freeman and A. Kardash, ‘Brief report: A comparison of DSM-III
and DSM-III-R criteria for autism’, Journal of Autism and
Developmental Disorders, vol. 19, December 1989, pp. 637–40,
doi.org/10.1007/BF02212862
One in 160 people are autistic, many studies show as high as one in 50; 98
per cent of Australians have heard of autism, and 86 per cent know an
autistic person: ‘Autism fast facts’, Amaze, amaze.org.au/wp-
content/uploads/2019/06/General-Understanding-Fast-Facts.pdf
Autistic people are four times more likely to experience depression than
other groups: C. Hudson, L. Hall and K. Harkness, ‘Prevalence of
depressive disorders in individual with autism spectrum disorder: A
meta-analysis’, Journal of Abnormal Child Psychology, vol. 47, no. 1,
January 2019, pp. 165–75, pubmed.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/29497980/
Boys are four times more likely to be diagnosed than their female
counterparts: R. McCrossin, ‘Finding the true number of females with
autistic spectrum disorder by estimating the biases in initial recognition
and clinical diagnosis’, Children, vol. 9, no. 2, 17 February 2022, p.
272, mdpi.com/2227-9067/9/2/272
Autistic people are four times more likely to experience depression,
roughly 40 per cent of young autistic women have an anxiety disorder:
F.J. van Steensel, S.M. Bogels and S. Perrin, ‘Anxiety disorders in
children and adolescents with autistic spectrum disorders: A meta-
analysis’, Clinical Child and Family Psychology Review, vol. 14, no. 3,
2011, pp. 302–17, doi:10.1007/s10567-011-0097-0; F.J.A. van Steensel
and E.J. Heeman, ‘Anxiety levels in children with autism spectrum
disorder: A meta-analysis’, Journal of Child and Family Studies, vol.
26, no. 7, March 2017, pp. 1753–67, doi:10.1007/s10826-017-0687-7
Insomnia affects 73 to 80 per cent of autistic people: S.E. Goldman, K.
Surdyka, R. Cuevas et al., ‘Defining the sleep phenotype in children
with autism’, Developmental Neuropsychology, vol. 34, no. 5, 2009, pp.
560–73, pubmed.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/20183719/
Autistic people are thirteen times more likely to be diagnosed with OCD (6
per cent): S.M. Meier, L. Petersen, D.E. Schendel et al., ‘Obssessive-
compulsive disorder and autism spectrum disorders: Longitudinal and
offspring risk’, PLos ONE, vol. 10, no. 11, 2015,
ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC4641696/
ADHD was described in the DSM-II in one sentence: Diagnostic and
Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders: Second Edition (DSM-II),
American Psychiatric Association, 1968.
Ten per cent of women with ADHD are diagnosed with depression, 38 per
cent meet criteria for an anxiety disorder: I. Tung, J.J. Li, J.I. Meza et
 al., ‘Patterns of comorbidity among girls with ADHD: A meta-analysis’,
Pediatrics, vol. 138, no. 4, 2016, publications.aap.org/pediatrics/article-
abstract/138/4/e20160430/77134/Patterns-of-Comorbidity-Among-
Girls-With-ADHD-A
Up to 99 per cent of people with ADHD are more sensitive to rejection,
one in three say it’s the most difficult part of being ADHD: S. Watson,
‘What is rejection sensitive dysphoria?’, WebMD, 13 September 2020,
webmd.com/add-adhd/rejection-sensitive-dysphoria
More than 67 per cent of people with ADHD struggle with sleep issues: S.
Bhandari, ‘Adult ADHD and sleep problems’, WebMD, 8 July 2021,
webmd.com/add-adhd/adult-adhd-and-sleep-problems
Study shows Asperger assisted in the murder of disabled children: H.
Czech, ‘Hans Asperger, National Socialism, and “race hygiene” in
Nazi-era Vienna’, Molecular Autism, vol. 9, 2018, pp. 1–43,
doi.org/10.1186/s13229-018-0208-6

Chapter 8: Eye Sparkles

Ninety-five per cent of the autistic population have what was called
‘obsessions’, intense special interests: L.M. Turner-Brown, K.S.L. Lam,
T.N. Holtzclaw et al., ‘Phenomenology and measurement of
circumscribed interests in autism spectrum disorders’, Autism, vol. 15,
no. 4, July 2011, pp. 437–56,
journals.sagepub.com/doi/10.1177/1362361310386507

Chapter 9: Adulting
Studies have shown autistic people who menstruate have higher rates of
menstrual problems: H. Roy, A. Hergüner, S. Simsek et al., ‘Autistic
traits in women with primary dysmenorrhea: A case–control study’,
Neuropsychiatic Disease and Treatment, vol. 12, 2016, pp. 2319–25,
ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC5026176/
Seventy-eight per cent of autistic women are sexually assaulted: ‘Scope of
the problem: Statistics’, RAINN, rainn.org/statistics/scope-problem
Twenty per cent of autistic Australians have lost jobs due to being autistic:
S. Jones, M. Akram, N. Murphy et al., ‘Australia’s attitudes and
behaviours towards autism; and experiences of autistic people and their
families’, Autism and Education, Research Report for AMAZE, 26
September 2018, amaze.org.au/wp-content/uploads/2019/06/Education-
 Community-Attitudes-and-Lived-Experiences-Research-
Report_FINAL.pdf
Women get paid an average of 16.8 per cent less than men: Workplace
Gender Equality Agency, Australia’s Gender Pay Gap Statistics,
February 2022, wgea.gov.au/publications/australias-gender-pay-gap-
statistics
Australia ranks lowest among OECD countries for income of disabled
employees: M. Thomas, ‘Disability employment in Australia and the
OECD’, Parliament of Australia, 2 December 2011,
aph.gov.au/About_Parliament/Parliamentary_Departments/Parliamentar
y_Library/FlagPost/2011/December/Disability_employment_in_Austral
ia_and_the_OECD
Some 31.6 per cent of autistic people are deemed unemployable: ‘Autism
and Employment in Australia’, Amaze, amaze.org.au/creating-
change/research/employment/
Sir Ken Robinson, ‘Do schools kill creativity?’, TEDx Talk, February
2006, ted.com/talks/sir_ken_robinson_do_schools_kill_creativity

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 Index

The page numbers in this index refer to the page numbers of the printed
book and are reproduced here for reference only. Please use the search
facility of your device to find the relevant entry.

ABA-style therapy 205

ableism 27, 137, 161, 175, 187, 210, 236
acne 218
acting 208–209, 241–42
ADHD
as part of neurodivergence 129
author’s experience of 74
challenging labels 155–62
diagnosing 147–52
eating disorders 104, 151
how ADHD may present in women 148–51
presence of symptoms before age twelve 148
support resources 257, 259–60, 263
symptoms 99–100
traits not spoken about 152–55
adolescence, delayed 144
adult life 217–47
dating and relationships 224–35
embracing the future 243–47
fear of growing up 217–18, 224, 243–44
periods 218–24
work 235–43
Adventure stage 3–4, 73, 83, 250–51, 252
advertising 127
agitation 45
Aladdin (film) 4, 10, 74, 202
alienation, feelings of 11–14, 17, 100–101
Am Spiegelgrund 156–57
ambulances 108–109
anger 45
animals, connection with 145
Anna, Princess 195–97, 238
anorexia 101–106, 110–12
anxiety attacks 44
anxiety disorders 52, 143, 151
Applied Behaviour Analysis (ABA)-style therapy 205
art, as therapy 122
Asperger, Hans 137, 156–57
Asperger’s syndrome 134–35, 155–57, 159, 161
attendance policies, at schools 27
attention, difficulty with 148
auditory stims 54
autism
allowing yourself to be autistic 69, 165
as a spectrum 137, 160–61
as part of neurodivergence 129
author’s experience growing up 11–17, 128–30
burnout 65–71, 118
dealing with down days 120–24
definitions of 136–37
difficulty with non-verbal communication 80, 89
eating disorders 104, 105, 110–12, 115
educational outcomes for children 36
famous autistic people 238
gender and autism 138–39
‘high-functioning autism’ 156, 157, 159, 160–61
incidence of 137
inter-abled relationships 227–35
learning from the autistic community 199
‘level of functioning’ 159–60
meltdowns 56–62, 71
mental illness 95, 113–20
sensory overload 39–47, 57, 121, 218–19, 231
 shutdowns 63–65, 71
signs of poor mental health 117–19
stimming 45, 47–55, 69, 118, 122, 149
suicide 114
support resources 257, 260, 262–63
supporting autistic friends 88–91, 119–20
symptoms of 99–100
see also diagnosis, of autism; identity
autistic burnout 65–67
autonomic nervous system 112

balance 43
‘best friends’ 84
The Big Bang Theory (television series) 127
binge eating 104
black-and-white thinking 105
blogs 200, 202–203
body clocks 221–22
body image 101–104
boredom, low tolerance for 154
brain scans 131–32
breathing 44
Brother Bear (film) 202
bulimia 104
bullying 29–30, 80, 179, 210
burnout 65–71, 118

career paths 213

carers see parents and carers
Catholicism 23
Cats (musical) 240
chattiness 151
chew stims 54
Child and Adult Mental Health Services 98
children
focusing on strengths 166
meltdowns in 61–62
 stimming 51
what to do after your child’s diagnosis 165–70
chronic illness 112–13, 115
clothing 47, 121
clumsiness 145
coming of age 243
communication 80, 89, 229–31
communication cards 64
compassion 146
complex trauma, support resources 258
conformity, at school 31–32, 37
constant motion 149
Covid-19 179, 236–37
cramps 44
creativity 122, 240–41
cringe culture 209
crying 44, 56
cyberbullying 209

dates, fascination with 140

dating 224–32
daydreaming 151
death, obsessing over 119
decision-making 152
decluttering 123
depression 52, 143, 151, 153
diagnosis, of ADHD 147–52
diagnosis, of autism 127–70
author’s experience 32, 128–35, 163–64
challenging labels 155–62
common traits not spoken about 144–46
confronting negative connotations of 178–83
diagnostic criteria 136–37
how autism is ‘expected’ to present 139–41
how autism may present in women 141–44
losing ‘friends’ after diagnosis 182
male stereotype used in 138–39, 141
 moving beyond fear 162–64
replaces Asperger’s syndrome in DSM-5 156
stereotypes of autism 127–28
what to do after your child’s diagnosis 165–70
what to do after your diagnosis 164–65
Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders 136
difference 13–14, 15, 17, 18–19, 175–76, 253
disability advocacy 239, 242
disabled people
changing your language 180–81
deficit framework for 175–76, 187, 198
disabled/inter-abled relationships 227–35
discrimination against 27, 31–32, 175–76, 180–81, 210, 236–42
Kyeema Support Services 184–85, 187, 196, 197
mental illness of 95, 178
sexual assault of 98, 225, 226
social/diversity framework for 176–77
suicide of 114, 178
see also neurodivergence
disappointment 58
discrimination 27, 31–32, 175–76, 180–81, 210, 236–42
see also ableism
diversity 18–19
do not resuscitate orders (DNRs) 179
dopamine 124
down days, how to deal with 120–24
Down’s syndrome 179
DSM-II 147
DSM-III 136
DSM-III-R 136
DSM-5 148, 156
dyslexia 129
dyspraxia 40, 129, 145

early onset puberty 218

eating behaviour, picky 140
eating disorders 100–106, 110–12, 115, 151
echolalia 45, 51
Edison, Thomas 240–41
education, of autistic children 36–37
emotions
emotional dysregulation 52
emotional outbursts 118
in ADHD 148, 153–54
intensity of 57–58, 153–54
lack of 139
empathy 57, 61, 140, 146
employment 235–43
environment, adjustments to 46–47, 121, 140
environmental sustainability 220
epilepsy 218
expectations, minimising 64, 70
eye contact 141
eye sparkles 202–15

Facebook 191–92
fairytales 2–5, 83–84, 251–52
fear
of diagnosis 162–64
of growing up 217–18, 224, 243–44
female body clock 222
female friendships 80
fidget spinners 210
flirting 230–31
focusing, difficulty in 45
follow-through, lack of 148
food
as fuel 123
eating disorders 100–106, 110–12, 115, 151
picky eating behaviour 140
sensitivity to 104
friends and sidekicks 73–91
analysis of friendship 79–81, 87
‘best friends’ 84
 choosing kind friends 87, 200
difficulty in making friends 75–79, 143, 150
finding friends 81–87, 213–14
internet friendships 81–82
losing ‘friends’ after diagnosis 182
supporting neurodivergent friends 88–91
Frozen (film) 163, 195

gait 144–45
game plans 46
gender pay gap 236
Genie 4, 5, 10, 51, 74, 82–83, 194, 202, 213, 250
‘God Help the Outcasts’ (song) 74–75
God Help the Outcasts (story) 193–95
grief 57–8
growing up see adult life

Happily Ever After stage 4, 83, 250–51, 252

happiness 57
heartbeat, racing 44
Heartbreak High (TV show) 208–209
heteronormativity 14
high school 29–32
home schooling 32, 34–36, 184
horse riding 108, 131, 184, 187–89, 206
The Hunchback of Notre Dame 4, 10, 74
hyper-fixations 203, 231
hyper-focus 149, 152
hyperactivity 147
hyperkinetic reaction of childhood 147
hysteria 44

identity 172–200
author’s identity-forming experiences 184–85, 187–89, 195–98
being seen as ‘less than’ 173–78
finding comfort in who you are 199–200
finding what ignites your passion 202–15
 finding your voice through writing 189–95, 202–203
identity-first labels 178
masking 66–67, 69, 107, 142, 148, 172, 182–83, 226
negative connotations of a diagnosis 178–83
person-first labels 178
identity-first labels 178
imagination 142
impulsivity 147, 154
inattentiveness 149
Indigenous Australians 115
insomnia 144, 153
inter-abled relationships 227–35
internet friendships 81–82
intimacy 99
involvement 199–200

Kyeema Support Services 184–85, 187, 196, 197

La Porchetta 75
language development 143, 146
language, use of 178, 180–81
LGBTQIA+ people 115
life expectancy 114, 178
life skills 214
light 47, 121, 141
The Lion King (film) 4, 10, 73–74, 213
listening 166–67
Lloyd Webber, Andrew 240
loss, of things 148
Lynne, Gillian 240

male body clock 221–22

male friendships 80
male stereotypes, used in diagnosis 138–39, 141
masking 66–67, 69, 107, 142, 148, 172, 182–83, 226
meltdowns 56–62, 71
memory 154
menstrual cups 220
menstrual cycle 218–24
menstrual discs 220
mental health 93–124
ADHD in women 151
caring for your mental health 119–24
changing the language you use 180–81
defined 93–95
eating disorders 100–106, 110–12
finding support 114–15
helping mentally ill friends 119–20
mental illness 106–10, 113–20
signs of poor mental health 117–19
suicide 67, 95, 114, 115
support resources 258–59, 261, 264
surviving sexual assault 97–99
messiness 150
metaphors 89
mindful breathing 44
motivation 155
motor skills 42, 43, 141, 145
movement, constant 149
Mr. Magorium’s Wonder Emporium (film) 202, 203–204, 247

nausea 44
neurodivergence
allowing yourself to be neurodivergent 70, 165
burnout 65–71, 118
changing the language you use 180–81
defined vii, 129
discrimination against neurodivergent people 27, 31–32, 175–76, 180–
81, 210, 236–42
inter-abled relationships 227–35
meltdowns 56–62, 71
sensory overload 39–47, 57, 121, 218–19, 231
shutdowns 63–65, 71
stereotypes of 127–28, 165
 stimming 45, 47–55, 70, 118, 122, 149
supporting neurodivergent friends 88–91, 119–20
see also ADHD; adult life; autism; eating disorders; mental health;
support systems
Night of the Museum (film) 198
noise 47, 121, 141
non-verbal communication 80, 89, 139, 143
non-verbal states 43–44, 110
‘normality’ 14–15, 48, 51–52, 172
numbers, fascination with 140

object permanence, difficulty with 155

obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD) 145–46
obsessive tendencies 106, 119, 205
Once Upon a Time stage 3, 83, 250, 251
outdoors 123

panic attacks 44, 58–59, 107

parents and carers
helping your child during a meltdown 61–62
of mentally ill people 119–20
resources given to after diagnosis 181–82
what to do after your child’s diagnosis 165–70
performing, on stage 208–209
period underwear 220
periods 218–24
person-first labels 178
Phantom of the Opera (musical) 240
physical reactions, to stress 26–27
planning 146
play 140, 143
polycystic ovarian syndrome 218
post-traumatic stress disorder 52, 97–99, 130, 225
postural orthostatic tachycardia syndrome (POTS) 112–13
posture problems 144
POTS 112–13
primary school 21–29
proprioceptive stims 54
psychotherapy 98–99
puberty 218
public meltdowns 62

Quasimodo 4, 5, 10–11, 51, 74, 75, 82, 213, 251

racism 236
Rain Man (film) 127
recovery time 70, 71
regression 105
rejection dysphoria 153
relationships 224–35
repetition, of words 45
research, into autism 164, 179, 182, 199
respect 227
rest 69, 121–22
Riding for the Disabled Association (RDA) 187–89, 252
rituals 145–46
Robinson, Sir Ken 240
routine 11, 140

sadness 57
sanitary pads 220
scheduling 47
schizophrenia 136
school
changing the system 36–37
creativity in schools 240
disability deficit framework in 176
high school 29–32, 77–79, 101, 107
home schooling 32, 34–36, 184
primary school 21–29
screaming 56
seizures 143–44
self-acceptance 165
self-care 71, 120, 221–22
self-esteem 150, 153
self-focused behaviour 147
self-harm 56
self-regulation see stimming
self-stimulatory behaviour see stimming
sensory overload 39–47, 57, 121, 218–19, 231
sensory processing 39–40
sensory processing disorder 40–43, 90, 141
serotonin 124
sex education 226
sexism 138–39, 236
sexual assault 97–99, 225, 226, 259, 262, 264
shopping, impulsive 154
shutdowns 63–65, 71
sidekicks see friends and sidekicks
Simba 4, 5, 10, 51, 73–74, 82–83, 202, 213, 250
Singer, Judy vii, 129
skin tone 43
sleep problems 144, 153
social acceptance 102, 105
social burnout 65–66
social cues 142, 143, 151
social/diversity framework 176–77
social groups 86–87
social media 103
social network 70
social strictures 14–15, 18
socialising 70, 80–81
spatial awareness 145
special interests 142, 203–15
speech patterns 140
stereotypes, of neurodivergent people 127–28, 138–39, 165
stimming 45, 47–55, 70, 118, 122, 149
stress, reducing 214
structure, need for 140
substance abuse 151
suicide 67, 95, 114, 115, 178
support systems
before shutdowns 65
during meltdowns 61–62
helping mentally ill friends 119–20
letting friends help you 70
seeking out support groups 164, 167, 199, 253
stimming and 53
supporting neurodivergent friends 88–91
see also friends and sidekicks

tactile stims 54
tampons 220, 221
tantrums 61
taste 140
teenagers 15, 17
testosterone 221
time management 152–53
Titanic (ship) 205, 206–207
to-do lists 71
Tomlinson, Louis 222
tone, in communication 230–31
touch 90, 141
Tourette’s syndrome 129
triggers 46, 64
Turning Red (film) 163

unemployment 235–36, 240

unimaginative play 140
United Kingdom 114, 179

vestibular stims 54
visual stims 54
vocabulary 143, 146

walking 144–45
weight 101–104
weighted blankets 124, 210
Wendy (teacher) 28–29, 252
What’s Eating Gilbert Grape (film) 127
Williams, Robin 189–91, 194, 198
women
dating for autistic women 224–32
how ADHD may present 148–51
how autism is ‘expected’ to present 138–39
how autism may present 141–44
word repetition 45
work 235–43
Wreck-It Ralph (film) 163
writing 189–95, 200, 202–203

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