A hallmark of autism is extreme sensitivity that can be expressed in ways that don’t appear socially “acceptable” or typical.
This tends to be through movement, silence, or sound. We may become agitated or overwhelmed/overstimulated and begin moving or vocalizing … or we may do the opposite and shut down. We may suddenly feel physically sick or we may get really excited and enjoy the stimulation — again, moving and vocalizing in ways that might seem different … or in the very least … passionate … to you.
People who are not familiar with autism, including some parents, caregivers, and “professionals” of autistic children, sometimes don’t understand these differences, so may feel frightened, confused, angry, annoyed, “put out,” overwhelmed, troubled, exhausted, or whatever other adjective you’d like to insert.
Other times, they may enjoy watching how intensely we find something pleasurable, if not a bit mystified. Some find us rather curious, maybe even fascinating. I’ve had a handful of boyfriends (or potential boyfriends) get pretty fascinated by my ability to experience and express intense joy and pleasure.
Sometimes our sensitivity can feel overwhelming for us.
Some of us are able to hold in and control our overwhelm until we’re in a private space … but the floodgates open once we shut our front door—which means you may not ever really see or experience what we’re feeling within us, the toll it can take, and how our nervous system gets activated unless you’re behind those closed doors, too.
Recently, after lack of sleep and food, during a stressful time and multiple doctor appointments several hours away, I felt more sensitive to sensory input—especially sound—than I normally do. I’m sensitive, even on a quiet day.
On the drive home from Seattle, the sound of the semis’ engines, the roar of their vibrating motor, the splashing of the extended pools of water from the asphalt, spraying on cars, combined with the level of heat inside my car, caused my ears to ring and ache; I felt nauseated at every turn.
Because I was with my daughter and partner, I kept quiet, trying to breathe slowly; but every part of me wanted to cover my ears, scream, vomit, and curl up in a ball with a tight blanket where it was quiet, still, and the perfect temperature—away from people.
Instead, I breathed as tears streamed down my face. Silent. Holding my boyfriend’s hand as he drove.
That’s because I know how to hold it in and control it as best I can. But the toll this takes is enormous.
I could barely work for four days—I did just the bare minimum.
I was unable to make simple decisions or problem solve a change in the schedule, like getting my daughter to a playdate after school so I could meet another appointment.
I’d wake up, take my daughter to school, then crawl back into bed for four hours.
I had to recalibrate my nervous system. My body. Allow quiet, rest, sleep, nourishment to take its time so I could resume executive functioning and get back into my rhythm.
…But … unless you lived with me, you would never know this.
It’s the double-edged sword of extreme sensitivity. It can bring a painful awareness at times—physically—to the forefront of your life. The way your body moves. How you process information and the senses. How you are attuned and feel the subtleties around you that most just don’t register.
Yet, this also opens pathways for diverse self-expression because we experience the world in different ways. This brings a richness.
Here’s a few examples:
I can feel words. Literally. I feel them in my body.
I’m able to experience heightened, ecstatic states of arousal and pleasure that I’ve learned is extremely rare.
I can vision connections that weave into a coherent theme, noticing patterns with great ease and depth.
I’m able to feel turned on by the sun on my skin, the scent of the roses in my garden, the feel of soft, red clay under my bare feet.
A lover can bring me raw, primal joy with a single touch or their breath on my neck. (Hello.)
I am blissed out when I’m with another person who can meet my intensity at a close level and not hold themselves back. (I am also rather bored with someone who can’t.)
So … as autistics, we are sensitive. We’re live wires with a nervous system attuned to all the senses on a much higher level than most.
This informs the way we see and experience the world. How we receive information. What stays with us. What becomes valuable.
For me, it’s beauty and allowing myself to become fully present through my senses.
Why would I ever want to give that up, despite the fact that it means there will be times I will become overwhelmed?
This is part of the gift of our sensitivity, our empathy, and the amount we feel in our bodies, on every level.
It’s the gift of being autistically alive.