Tips and Tricks for Autism Awareness Month

By Mikaela Stone

“When was the last time you relaxed your face?” I had been confused at the question. I knew that the friend asking had autism, knew that we were plenty similar. At that time I had attributed it to the overlap between autism and ADHD. I had been diagnosed with ADHD in the third grade, and considered myself a veteran. We had been elbow deep in a conversation about how exhausting it was to deal with our diagnoses, how frustrating it was that we had to act a certain way to be accepted.

I thought about that question the rest of the night. Once alone, I braced my hands on the bathroom sink and forced my face to relax. The rush of tension leaving my cheeks sent the room spinning around me so fast my knuckles went white with the effort of keeping me upright. For the first time in my life I realized my face ached. Years of digging through memories resurfaced some early memory of a frustrated preschool teacher telling me not to give her a dirty look. I don’t remember the resultant trial and error. I don’t remember figuring out that if I, an excellent ear wiggler, kept my ears in the farthest back position I could, kept my eyebrows raised, and the corners of my mouth just slightly perked, I would never be mistaken for unfriendly. My real, completely relaxed face had eyebrows that hung low over deep-set eyes and a mouth that naturally frowned. I had been holding a pose for almost seventeen years. 

I began to wonder if I had autism shortly after this incident as friends with similar personalities received their diagnoses. The possibility of my being autistic had been suggested before, by a date who was also on the spectrum, a third-grade bully, and a therapist whose office my mother had promptly marched me out of. When I finally brought it up to my therapist as a twenty-two-year-old, she agreed with me, but withheld an official diagnosis because I had graduated college, the last place a diagnosis may have netted me resources, and promised to revisit the matter should I pursue graduate school. Beyond graduation, she informed me, the only thing such a “preexisting condition” would do for me is raise my already hefty insurance bill. The best resource for neurodivergents is other neurodivergents. However, if you, dear reader, are not autistic yet you find my advice helpful, feel free to also incorporate it into your life. I do not speak for all neurodivergents, as needs and experiences vary widely across the spectrum, but I can speak to my own experiences. So relax your face and continue reading. 

Masking is the act of putting on a performance to make oneself more palatable to one’s peers. This can involve changing one’s voice, facial expressions, body language, and interactions to blend in. When one masks for years, it can become second nature. The acceptance gained is at the cost of the energy it takes to consistently self-monitor and one’s true self. I thought I was a master at masking. I certainly fooled every teacher I ever had into putting “a pleasure to have in class” on my report card. This self-assessment shattered very recently as I started to tell my friends that I was autistic, only to be met with various versions of “I know.” These were the very friends I had connected with over niche interests and social anxiety, who comforted me after I blundered into awkward situations due to missing social cues, who noticed how my mask would drop when I got tired. After years of thinking no one would love me for me, I found the people that did completely by accident. 

Unmasking takes almost as much self-monitoring as masking does. In a situation where one might mask, such as at school, in the office break room, or at the bus stop, try noticing which muscles are the tensest and let that pressure go. The most important part of unmasking is learning to relax. In the moments where one is with people they trust, chilling at home alone, or engaging in their favorite hobbies—that is when the mask slips and the true self can be found. Being comfortable with that self is important when trying to relearn who one once was before masking. Because I was a very young child when I began to mask, I do not have a clear idea of who I really am when I am not posturing, but I know what I enjoy. Ignoring what others may think of what you enjoy—letting yourself be “cringe”—is the first step to unmasking. I write fanfiction in my freetime, but that does not detract from my professionalism as a writer. Throughout my life I have ardently loved Egyptian mythology, the Erin Hunter books, and Superwholock. While I no longer move in those circles, I do not have to put those interests down. Younger me is still a part of me, and the reactions to her that caused her to hide herself away are not something I want to allow any power over me. 

The art of accepting help takes a lifetime to master. I have consistently failed throughout my life to recognize when I needed help because I assumed my brain was exactly the same as everyone else’s. Finding out that no, not everyone can hear the electricity running through the walls came as a real shock. It is as though everyone is handed a tool and given the same task: to hammer in a nail. Some are handed a hammer and some are handed a screwdriver. The screwdriver-havers figure out a clever way to knock in the nail using the handle of the screwdriver, all the while feeling guilty for not finishing the task as quickly as those with hammers, never considering that life is different for them. Much of the accommodations I have received were things I never considered as an option. Forgetting books during the transitions from school to home? My 504 plan, the accommodation plan for students with “minor” learning disabilities, got me two sets of books. By comparing notes with other neurodivergent people, I began to realize what life experiences were universally neurodivergent rather than being universal. 

The next step in accepting help is understanding that accommodations do not make one lesser. My freshman year of high school, I hated that I could not accomplish the same things as everyone else. I struggled with forgetfulness, an ADHD problem, emotions running high, and exhaustion, both of which often plague both autistic and ADHD individuals. One lunch break, a senior friend offered to sit with me while I talked to her favorite counselor. I remember trying to express in an incoherent rush of words that I hated having to be here but did not hate my friend for bringing me. The only words I remember from the speech were “and I’m so stupid I have to clip my lunchbox to my backpack or I’ll walk away without it!” The counselor slowed me down and pointed out the flaws in my logic. I thought of myself as lesser for being in her office, yet my friend had visited the counselor often and I did not think less of that friend. She added that she did not think less of me for needing to clip in my lunchbox to my backpack—in fact, she was proud of me for thinking of such a “smart workaround.” After years of thinking that the need for accommodations was the problem, I had never stopped to realize that I had solved my problem with the accommodation. 

I’m not good yet at asking for help, but I have a therapist and a commitment to being better at it. The biggest part of asking for help is communicating to the person you are asking that you expect them to set boundaries so they are not pouring from an empty cup. Should they tell you that such a boundary is crossed, listen. With the right people it comes down to mutual respect, trust, and communication. 

The first issue that comes to mind when many people think of autism is the struggle with eye contact. I myself struggle not to make eye contact, but with what “normal” levels of eye contact are. I find myself falling to one of two extremes—staring so intensely into someone's eyes that they become unsettled, or avoiding eye contact entirely. I have found that the way to simulate comfortable levels of eye contact are to look at the bridge of the other person’s nose. However, I do also wish to challenge this societal norm. If one finds themselves frustrated with a neurodivergent person for not making eye contact, I encourage them to ask themselves “who is being hurt by this individual not making eye contact?” “Are there preconceived notions at play to my reaction to this individual?”

One of the biggest struggles of autism is sensory overload. Many people with autism struggle with both sharper senses and difficulty processing sensory elements. I get overwhelmed easily when my brain has to process too many different sounds at once. After a trip to Vegas, overwhelmed by bright lights, bass boosted music, and cigarette smoke, I collapsed into bed and slept the next twenty-four hours. Here are the best work-arounds I can offer: Headphones cut down on noise and replace it with a sound one can anticipate. In a space where smell is overwhelming, carrying around a food that one likes and holding it close to one’s nose in the way an Elizabethan would a pomander helps. Sunglasses can help with visual stimuli to an extent. For touch, I find that certain fabrics and fits bother me, so I avoid shopping online so that I can feel how it moves on my skin. When my hair starts to irritate my neck, it’s time for a haircut. If I am too aware of everything touching me, from how my clothes fit to the pressure of my seat against my legs, I know I need to either pace around a bit to get my blood flow moving or take a shower for a full sensory reset. If all fails, sometimes taking a day in bed is the only option. 

Overstimulation can lead to autistic meltdowns or even burnout, which takes far more than one day to recover from. Autistic meltdowns are different from tantrums or panic attacks, though they might look the same to an outside viewer. Autistic meltdowns are not voluntary, and are not something one can “grow out of.” The only way to prevent them is to recognize the signs of overwhelm and reduce the offending stimuli, either by taking preventative measures or stepping out of the room. The meltdown, which can take the form of crying, freezing up, or hyperventilating, is caused by the brain reaching its breaking point and grinding to a metaphorical halt. Some people respond by seeking comfort, while others prefer to be alone. Whatever works for the individual while reducing strain on the senses is best. My most recent autistic meltdown occurred during a social jazz night. Between the music, the people talking, and the heat from so many bodies packed into a gymnasium, I felt like my skin was crawling. Thankfully, I was able to remove myself from the room before it escalated too far. I spent the rest of the evening outside enjoying the cool air and talking to a fellow autistic friend on the phone. 

While autism may seem like a modern phenomenon, with the first person to be diagnosed with autism, Donald Grey Triplett, diagnosed in 1943, neurodivergence has existed since the dawn of civilization. Many have theorized that Albert Einstein’s unique way of thinking may have come from autism. Nikola Tesla’s genius is documented to have cohabitated with his sensitivity to light and sound, while Dian Fossey’s flat affect voice, single minded academic focus, and preference for the society of animals over people cause speculation over her neurotype. Fear-mongering and ignorance, much of which is perpetrated by Autism Speaks’ controversial mission to “cure autism,” the neurology equivalent of cutting down the forest to save the trees, has led to stigma surrounding autism diagnoses. The fact of the matter remains that an autistic individual is still autistic with or without a diagnosis—a diagnosis affects how the world sees the individual and more importantly, how an individual sees themselves. While most people would never bully someone autistic, they might bully someone who seems oblivious to the invisible rules that society runs on. (Why is a joke a joke? Why is that action flirting? What are you doing with your eyes? No, really, I can tell you’re telling me something with your eyes but I have no idea what!) It feels better as an individual to know that I am part of a community who can relate to my experiences. X user @OMGImAutisticAF said it best: “there is comfort in knowing that you are a normal zebra, not a strange horse…it is impossible for a zebra to be happy or healthy spending its life feeling like a failed horse.” 

Now that I know why I miss social cues, I can recognize that the solution is not to simply “pay attention better,” but to say “please tell me things up front, I struggle to understand social cues.” Many people live their entire lives not understanding why simply “trying harder” does not equal success. Diagnosis or not, empathy, healthy communication, and patience go a long way to bridge the gap between neurodivergents and neurotypicals.