Most people adjust their behavior, appearance, and speech to the people around them in some way, at least subconsciously. It’s a natural human instinct. For some people, like autistic folks, though, the effort of fitting in becomes such a huge part of daily life that it has even earned its own name. It’s called masking: the act of camouflaging one’s autistic traits.
It might start with well-intentioned feedback from parents and teachers, or painful bullying at school. And it is so emotional to be called out on your natural behavior that it might just take one comment to put you on high alert for anything that might call down more negative attention.
On a related note, we MUST also recognize that many BIPOC autistic folks face increased misunderstanding and discrimination regarding meltdowns, as well as things like stimming. In such cases, masking is not just about comfort, but about safety (see also code-switching). I just requested Autistic & Black* by Kala Allen Omeiza from my library to learn more from firsthand experiences, so check back soon for a summary of that work.
In the meantime, here are the top ways I’ve realized I was masking.
Performing Emotions
I’ve gotten a lot of feedback in my life that I can appear unreadable or aloof. When I was a child, though, this was offset by my “precocious” nature. Adults seemed to find it amusing that I was very into facts and ideas, and spoke like a small grown-up. And I could be fun and goofy with peers on the playground, leaning into my “glimmers,” which I’ll discuss in a moment.
This changed as soon as I entered the workforce as a teen. My first jobs were in retail and food service, and in each case I had to make a certain impression on customers. While I was always very accurate in my work, on time, and efficient, I had difficulty with showing the kind of enthusiasm my managers wanted. It took about two weeks in that food service job of studying my coworkers to master it. “We worried about her at first, but she’s great now!” one of them reflected when my parents came to the little French-themed cafe. I still found it painful to smile on command, but I could emulate the pitch and inflection of the cheerful “Bonjour!” with which we were forced to greet diners.
This type of difficulty continued throughout my young adult life. New friends at college confessed they thought I hated them at first. Discussion based classes led to me seeming shy or quiet, when in retrospect I was just not sure how to participate in a free-form discussion. And while my academics had given me lots of opportunity when I was younger, there was an X factor that I couldn’t identify in this new world.
Seeking Out New Opportunities
For example, I wanted so badly to be an resident assistant, but it took me two years and a stint as an alternate. I couldn’t understand it! I answered thoughtfully during my interview, and had a great resume. But I came across as less enthusiastic than the other applicants. Even after getting a position, I heard from my quad leader, “You could never be in a first-year dorm!” I was heartbroken. That was in fact exactly where I longed to be, to help first-years who were struggling like I did. Instead I found myself in a senior building with all single rooms, a “better fit” for my personality.
Even in graduate school I received feedback on my exams that I appeared “diffident.” I didn’t like to get heated even during a disagreement on a topic. I thought I was being professional, but some professors wanted more from me, and so did students.
So I started performing, mainly by studying the people who seemed most successful in the classroom and at conferences. By listening closely, I learned to vary my tone more on purpose, smile and gesture, and speak louder (sometimes so loudly it hurt my own ears!). I thought of cute or spunky things to say, often copying the “dames” of old movies like His Girl Friday. I wanted people to see me as sharp, together, and confident. To be clear, I didn’t want to manipulate anyone. Rather, I needed help to translate what was on the inside to the outside in a way others could understand.
This reached a peak when my partner confessed to finding me hard to read, too. I remember thinking to myself, “Am I supposed to do more with my face on purpose when I feel mad? Or sad?” But it did not feel natural no matter how much I practiced.
Now, I am much more prone to use my words to express my feelings, and let my face do what it wants. It helps when people know that this is my approach, because some studies show that when body language and words appear incongruent, people might be more prone to believe the body language.
Crafting a Visual Identity
Part of my performance involved creating my visual identity. To be clear, everything I crafted was indeed a part of myself. But these were only the parts that felt safest to share, leading to a feeling of being incomplete.
When I was a child, I did not care at all how I looked, beyond whether I thought what I was wearing was comfortable and fun. As other kids grew more style-conscious, I had one last rebellion. In 8th grade, I formed a fashion design collective with my friends. A couple of us were much more enthusiastic than the rest, but we were all accepted in our group.
And I was the model. The one who would not hesitate to wear my friend’s new belt design, which featured about 100 pom poms of various colors and shapes that she’d carefully glued together. I also tried my hand at several designs. In one case I staple gunned a couple of plastic plates to the bottom of red high heels. Next came the hot glue to secure a cornucopia of fake plastic fruits and veggies that spilled from the body of the shoe onto the plate. But by high school, it felt safer to conform. No more cornucopia shoes.
I settled eventually on an image inspired by the gamines of old Hollywood: Audrey Hepburn and Leslie Caron. Perhaps some Marlene Dietrich, Katherine Hepburn and Marilyn Monroe thrown in if I was feeling wild. Again, it was me, but a very controlled version that I’d constructed like a collage. I had the pixie cut, the red lip, and the cigarette pants with the boat neck striped shirts. And it helped me. People had more of a read on me, I felt, if they could see some of my interests in my fashion. It started conversations about movies when people recognized a look. And so, I struck a delicate balance between standing out and fitting in.
A New Way
The pandemic broke that down pretty quickly. I remember dressing for an in-person event for the first time in years. Pants, shoes, and shirts quickly formed a donate pile on the floor. I marveled at the amount of discomfort I’d been putting up with on a daily basis! And then I started to rebuild. I thrifted things to try out, and landed on Sinead O’Connor as my new (and harder-core!!) gamine inspiration. Fashion became a renewed special interest as I launched into color analysis, Kibbe, and style roots to figure out what I liked. I’m a soft summer, soft gamine with Sun, Moon, and Stone roots, in case you’re into any of this!
I could see a link to my old style still, but I was letting something new in. The 2000s twee quirkiness that yielded so much gamine style clothing was turning into something more rebellious. I was showing a darker, messier side of myself, while still exercising my eye for color. If something was uncomfortable, no thank you. And if it made me happy, yes please. Bring on the pink and purple, the glitter, and the faux fur. It’s glimmer time.
Suppressing Glimmers
Another part of my autistic experience involves being swept away by a positive sensory experience, or a “glimmer.” I love this account from another autistic person who finds glimmers in some of the same things I do, like plants and creative pursuits.
In the past, I worried just as much about judgment from my glimmer response as my meltdowns. When I am delighted, I giggle or squeal. My hands ball up into little fists and I shake them in front of me, like some of my favorite Anime characters, or I might spin and run on my tiptoes.
I don’t have a lot of specific memories of negative feedback here, but as I start to let this out (when safe), I can feel the restraint in my body. I was definitely trying very hard to appear in control in the past. This was likely due to pressure to “sit still” or “calm down.” Now, I emphasize safety to myself over fear of embarrassment. I don’t want to run into anyone, or startle our four cats. But simply turning on some spatial awareness is such a different feeling from entirely restraining my joy, and I’ll take it!
Ultimately, I hope people can understand me better when I show them this side of myself. It’s so ironic that as I was receiving feedback on being “stoic,” I was actually keeping myself from jumping up and down with joy at certain things. Or from showing my upset by crying! Now I know that I just express myself differently from some people. And by hiding that from my closest friends and family, I’m not letting them see me.
Masking Meltdowns
Just last week I had a meltdown. It was strange to watch how I behaved now that I am not trying so hard to hide my feelings, at least around safe people like my partner. I cried, paced, flapped my hands, and rocked. I asked for a very tight hug when I felt ready for that. And I did not hide one bit of the discomfort I was in.
Compare this to an experience many years ago. I was a grad student sitting in a seminar in Oxford, still jet lagged and exhausted from staying in a hostel the past few nights. In other words, on the brink of a meltdown. I was trying to decipher the handwritten ancient Greek text in front of me, but nothing seemed to make sense. My brain was shutting down on me. I could feel myself flushing, then my eyes burned and started to water. I was mortified!
The instructor spoke kindly to me, and helped me figure out the text on the page. I swallowed my tears and embarrassment, and went into autopilot for the rest of class, praying that I would not have to translate again. In my shame, I followed up with an email to the teacher: “Sorry about that, and thanks for your patience. I barely slept the last three nights!”
Shutting Down
In retrospect, this was dissociation, and it was the only way I could mask a meltdown. I walled a part of myself up inside, while the rest of me smiled and nodded. But if I was called on to do too much mental activity, as in this case, the cracks would start to show.
It wasn’t until after diagnosis that I truly realized how many meltdowns I’ve had in my life, and tried to disguise in this fashion. This is perhaps because accounts of meltdowns from autistic perspectives have been lacking, as have been accounts of autistic joy.
How was I, or anyone else, supposed to recognize something I was so determined to hide? Whether restraining my joy or masking my meltdowns, I was not fully me, and it’s a relief to let myself be myself.
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What is your experience with the everyday toll of autistic masking? Leave me a comment below!
