[ This page is the continuation of Part 2: Setting the Sail ]

Reflecting on the Journey

Looking back, I realise I spent years silently enduring overwhelming sensory input and emotional turbulence. I fawned to avoid tension that might spark conflict — presenting a smiling exterior while my internal world was burning. This long-term suppression, layered with chronic stress and sensory overload, took a profound toll.

What I once interpreted as possible false positives in my self-study now unmistakably reflect patterns of Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. The signs were too consistent to dismiss — like denying intoxication while reeking of alcohol.

Many of these survival strategies — hypervigilance, hyperindependence, and fawning — are often misinterpreted as personality traits in neurodivergent individuals, rather than seen as adaptive responses to chronic stress in misfitting environments.

Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Complex PTSD, or C-PTSD, is typically understood as a condition resulting from chronic or prolonged exposure to emotional trauma or stress over which an individual has little or no control. This often leads to difficulties in emotional regulation, consciousness, and self-perception. Symptoms can include hypervigilance, hyperindependence, and fawning, which are coping mechanisms that develop in response to ongoing stress or trauma.

Hypervigilance is a state of heightened alertness where a person is constantly on the lookout for potential threats or dangers, often leading to increased anxiety and stress.

Hyperindependence involves an excessive reliance on oneself and a reluctance to seek help or support from others, often stemming from a need to maintain control or avoid vulnerability. While it may socially appear as a strength—demonstrating resilience and self-sufficiency—it is fundamentally a survival strategy. This behaviour can be a response to environments or experiences where dependence on others felt unsafe or unreliable, leading individuals to prioritise self-reliance as a means of protection.

At first glance, the clinical definition might not seem to apply — I haven’t faced repeated trauma in the traditional sense. But I’ve come to recognise that persistent stress, sensory overload, and a chronic fawning response — compounded by the challenge of navigating a world not built for neurodivergent needs — had a comparable impact.

The constant pressure to adapt to overwhelming or incompatible environments led to a slow, cumulative emotional toll.

Realising that my brain might have developed alexithymia — the difficulty in identifying or articulating feelings — as a protective response to overwhelming emotion was particularly sobering. And yet, I do feel sadness — an alexithymia paradox.

These aren’t separate issues but interconnected traits. My neurodivergence created emotional vulnerabilities, and my psyche responded by building internal buffers — coping mechanisms shaped by survival, not weakness.

As I explored the concept of fawning, I began to see its reflection inwardly. While typically seen as a social survival strategy, I noticed a similar dynamic in my relationship with myself.

At times, I’ve fawned internally — pretending to be okay, minimising distress, or suppressing uncomfortable emotions without conscious awareness. This intrapersonal compliance appears to serve the same protective function: maintaining stability by avoiding inner confrontation.

This journey of understanding my protective mechanisms and emotional adaptations has been challenging, painful, and liberating. I’ve come to see that the strategies once essential for survival may no longer serve the life I want to live.

As I move forward, I aim to craft a life — a personal OS — that honours my wiring rather than constantly compensating for it.

My Self-Acknowledgement

Uncovering and understanding the patterns in my neurodivergence has been transformative. It opened the door to personal growth and deepened my connection not only with myself—but, unexpectedly, with others too.

Embracing the label of autistic was liberating. It brought a kind of joy I’d rarely felt—rooted in the certainty of recognition. The description didn’t just “fit” — it illuminated me so clearly that I couldn’t argue with it.

That clarity carried a profound sense of identity and belonging.

This journey has been a mix of relief and a few quiet disappointments. Some of the traits I once thought defined my personality turned out to be expressions of neurodivergence. Still, what began with feeling like a stranger to myself slowly turned into something else: like re-meeting someone familiar after years apart. I’ve come to genuinely like who I am.

What truly made me embrace autism was discovering that my core values—ethics and fairness—were mirrored throughout the autistic community.

Seeing my lifelong struggles through this new lens changed everything.
I no longer view them as personal failings—but as part of a coherent, consistent pattern.
And the same applies to my strengths: seeing patterns, solving complex problems, noticing subtle details, thinking sideways.
These weren’t random talents. They were part of the picture, too.

The interaction between autism and ADHD helped explain what had once felt like contradictions: why I’m sometimes rigid and other times wildly flexible, why certain traits only emerge in specific contexts. Finding structure in that chaos felt deeply satisfying. For example, I might react intensely to a break in routine when I’m stressed—but under better conditions, I’ll laugh about it. These contradictions aren’t flaws. They’re the result of neurodivergent wiring and cognitive asynchrony.

During this process, I recognised patterns that point toward twice-exceptionality. I hesitate to call myself “intellectually gifted” — not out of denial, but discomfort. I’m explaining it in details in the next part (Moving Forward).

Acknowledging my weaknesses has been part of the same journey.
I no longer see them as failures—but as natural side effects of operating with a different cognitive OS.

The gaps in coordination, working memory, reading, contextual communication, or task-switching don’t mean I’m broken.
They’re part of the same system that lets me think deeply, detect hidden patterns, and navigate life through unexpected routes.

I’ve stopped fighting those traits. Instead, I minimise unnecessary friction, adapt my environment where I can, and protect myself from burnout and collapsed self-esteem.

These aren’t personal flaws. They’re features of a consistent system.

As I prepared to share this understanding with the people closest to me, I felt a mix of fear and anticipation. Their acknowledgement meant everything. It wasn’t about permission—but about feeling seen. I needed their recognition to unlock the next steps in my life. Without it, I might have continued to feel like an impostor—not just in the eyes of others, but in my own. Without it, I might have remained trapped in a hall of mirrors—uncertain whether what I saw in myself was real, or just a trick of the light.

What I didn’t realise at first is that this journey of self-discovery hadn’t gone unnoticed. Some people had quietly recognised these patterns in me long before I did. That realisation—of being seen before I could see myself—was one of the most powerful moments of all.

Acknowledgement from Key People

The journey of self-discovery became even more meaningful when shared with those closest to me. Their reactions ranged from immediate recognition to careful revelation, each adding another layer of validation to my newfound understanding.

My Housemate

My housemate, a social worker with some psychology training, responded with surprising familiarity: “You only figured it out now? That took time! I quickly figured it out shortly after I met you. I was starting to worry!.” Her immediate recognition of traits she’d observed firsthand provided my first external validation.

My Girlfriend

With my girlfriend [for the context, we don’t live together and have an an asexual atypical relationship], the process was more delicate. As she experiences anxiety, I was particularly cautious about how to share this discovery. I worried about causing her concern and also facing disbelief, so I initially offered only subtle hints. This created an elephant in the room dynamic where we both sensed something important remained unspoken. In fact, she had recognised autistic traits in me almost from the beginning of our relationship – her half-brother being autistic gave her a frame of reference – but she had been reluctant to say anything. Finally we removed that barrier. I cried a lot on that evening. Then, her beautiful observation that she likes me better now became one of the most affirming moments of this journey. I didn’t need to explain to her my self-discovery methodology, she would have replied that just the idea of it was already an evidence of autism.

Interestingly, she had suggested I might have ADHD in the past. At the time, I dismissed it after a cursory internet search – the name itself seemed misleading. ‘Deficit’ didn’t resonate with my experience. My curiosity has always allowed me to dive deeply into various topics, making the common descriptions of ADHD feel inaccurate. It was only through this more comprehensive self-study that I came to understand how ADHD can manifest differently, especially when combined with other traits. This taught me an important lesson about the limitations of quick searches and the value of deeper exploration.

My Mother

With my mother, the conversation took on additional layers of meaning. Initially, she simply acknowledged what I shared. But after a few hours of reflection, she began identifying behaviours from my childhood and adulthood that aligned with autistic patterns. Her growing recognition added another dimension to my understanding, connecting present realisations with past experiences.

Our discussion then turned to my father, who I actually barely knew because my parents separated when I was a baby. He passed away several years ago after a long struggle with drug addiction. My mother confirmed that he had always been different – his troubles were described as bipolar disorder in the 1970s, when that diagnosis was often a catch-all term for anyone who didn’t fit societal norms. With our current understanding of neurodivergence, I can’t help but wonder if his struggles were related to sensory overload and emotional flooding, which were completely unrecognised in that era. The more I learn about neurodivergence, the more I suspect his heroin addiction may have been an attempt to self-medicate undiagnosed neurological differences.

I’ve reached out to people who knew him well before his addiction took hold. They remember him as a genius – brilliant but troubled. This new perspective is helping me reframe his story with more compassion. Rather than just remembering how he let his family down, I’m beginning to understand how the world may have let him down first by failing to recognise or accommodate his differences. This process of investigation and reframing feels like an important step toward forgiveness – both for him and for myself. (Each time I read this part, I cry)

Another Friend

I used a different approach with another friend. I politely declined one of his invitations to an event he was organising, explained to him that there were already many events I had to attend during the same week, and the accumulated social gathering and sensory experience is likely to be too much for my autistic brain. He understood and replied with a lot of compassion, and suggested that we should catch up in a more quiet environment. I was very glad that I didn’t have to use a dummy excuse to avoid his event.

[ Read the Part 4: Moving Forward ]