I can feel a nettle sting for a whole day, like a chemical burn.
But I can ride home with blood running down my leg and not feel a thing.

This is a contrast. I was so fascinated by my obsession and need for contrast that it eventually led me to discover that I am autistic, triggered by a simple Google search about sensory differences.

And it also applies to pain: I usually feel it either too sharply or not at all.

I once had a bike crash in which I broke my collarbone. It was painless; only when I touched it did I notice the bone was moving. I used to think that was just an adrenaline effect, but looking back, I believe it wasn’t the whole story.
(You can read the full story there.)

Pain should be a warning system, but for me, it’s confusing.

I will explore a few topics where pain is involved, but in unusual ways. That pain pattern applies to other senses, which I will briefly explore to highlight the similarities.

When My Mouth Lies to Me

Between my extreme intolerance to the uncanny valley effect on people’s teeth, my finger-sucking tendency, and how I clench my teeth for stimming, my mouth plays a far greater role in my life than eating, drinking, or speaking.

The jaw issue that didn’t hurt

When I had TMJ (temporomandibular joint) issues, I experienced several typical symptoms except the main one: pain.
My dentist was surprised because that constant pressure should have hurt.

When treatment options were suggested, my logic said: If I don’t feel pain now, I’d better act before it appears.
It was a strange sense of urgency because of the fear of a pain that didn’t yet exist.
So I chose treatment: first splint therapy to let the jaw find its natural resting position, then orthodontics to adjust my bite. The whole process lasted about four years.

Maybe that’s what anxiety feels like in my body: pre-emptive caution dressed as logic.

Braces: the beautiful ache

When the jaw resting position was established and stable, I wore some metal braces as an adult, and to my surprise, the pain felt good! (You might wonder why I chose metal? The short answer is also contrast: I found it almost distressing to see stains on other people with clear braces, which never happened with people wearing metal brackets, so the choice was obvious to me.)

That constant, gentle pressure was both calming and energising, but never painful. It was predictable. For two years, seven months, and one week, their pressure woke me up, made me feel alive. After adjustments, while others almost cried from pain, I nearly felt euphoric.
Visually, I loved them too: they were masking minor shade imperfections, and the way they bent light in the mirror grounded me.

The same body that overreacts to nettles found comfort in orthodontic tension. I found it amusing that something that annoyed others was a multisensory stimulant for me.

It was only after I discovered my autism that I realised the pressure from the braces acted as a constant stim. During my years with braces, my self-confidence also grew like never before, and shortly after they were removed, that confidence vanished. Almost a decade later, I still miss them.

The teeth that cried wolf

I have often experienced isolated mild toothaches, which have caused some confusion.
One day, a molar might feel sore; the next, a canine.

I started keeping records of which teeth felt wrong, until the list was long enough to include them all.
By the time I saw the dentist, the sensations had disappeared, and everything was fine.

My theory: hypervigilance. My brain scanned for trouble so diligently that it started producing false alarms.

Now I understand: the more I monitor my body for signals, the more likely I am to notice phantom ones. (After all, tooth nerves are extremely sensitive.)
A similar pattern also applies to temperature: when I am analysing, I can sense tiny shifts, but when I’m distracted, I might shiver for an hour before realising it’s too cold.

Touch, Trust and Emotions

After decades of living in this body, I’ve found a rule that explains how my senses work: not by force but by predictability.

A firm hug can soothe me.
But a light, accidental touch — even from someone kind — can send me into a brief storm of panic. My system needs a clear intention; otherwise, it doesn’t know what to do with the signal.

This might also explain why I am so ticklish.
I’m extremely ticklish (and I’m not exaggerating). There’s a disconnect between my physical reaction (laughing) and my emotional state (not feeling amused at all); I remember laughing and crying at the same time. Even self-tickling makes me uncomfortable.
A predictable firm poke instead? It has no tickling effect at all.

It’s not just physical.

A similar pattern appears in emotions: I stay calm in real crises, then overreact to small things.
I’ve dealt with fire outbursts: each time I handled it with logic, calm and focus.
But if someone changes a plan at the last minute, I might feel like the world’s collapsing.

Language and signals

I used to think my pain signals were unreliable. If it protects us, what does it mean when it doesn’t tell the truth?

I wonder if body awareness and pain awareness are two different things.

Or maybe my nervous system has formed a secret union.

The pain receptors meet in the dark at night, plotting:
“Tomorrow, we’ll pretend the left eye is on fire, but keep the knee quiet.
Thursday, everyone rest.
Friday, cramps at 09:32 to keep him alert.“

It sounds absurd, but on bad sensory days, that’s exactly how it feels.
Of course, there’s no conspiracy, but most likely miscommunication in the signal chain. And maybe those signals use encryption.

Another theory: I may experience chemical and mechanical pain differently.

And if I ever forget what pain feels like, there’s nettle waiting for me.

External links

For anyone who wants to go deeper into these experiences:

• Pain, Sensory Issues and Autism — Autism Research Institute.
• The Paradoxical Pain Response — National Library of Medicine (Technical).
• Deep Pressure & Stimming — Bristol Autism Support.
• Autism and sensory processing — National Autistic Society.