From Day One: The Struggle of Masking as an Autistic Adult

Mar 20, 2024

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An Invitation to Neurotypicals

In the silence of self-reflection, I usually wonder about the principle of true connection. What does it mean to see and understand someone beyond the surface? For someone like me, an autistic adult, this isn’t just theoretical; it’s my daily experience, defined by a concept known as masking. Masking involves adapting our behaviors and thoughts to blend into a world designed by and for neurotypicals. It’s a survival mechanism, but it comes with serious emotional costs.

I’m trying to reach out to you, dear neurotypical, and invite you to step into my shoes and see the world through my lens, even if it’s just for a few minutes. This is about recognizing the unseen efforts and the desire for acceptance shared by many autistic adults. Understanding masking is a step toward empathy, seeing beyond the disguise, and appreciating the shared humanity that ties us all. What I’m about to say isn’t life-changing. It’s a recycled plea to work with us, not against us. And it needs to continue being recycled until we can gain some traction.

From our very first breath, society hands us a script full of rules about how to act, speak, and be. For most people, slipping into these roles is as easy as breathing. But for those of us on the autism spectrum, it’s like being handed a book in a language we don’t understand, yet we’re expected to perform a play from it flawlessly. This act of constant, deliberate adjustment is masking. It’s our way of trying to fit into a world that doesn’t naturally accommodate us, a survival technique that bears an emotional toll.

In this post, I want to take you behind the scenes of living with this mask, especially from the viewpoint of someone who discovered their place on the spectrum later in life. Through my maskapades, I hope to underline the complexities of masking, not for pity but for a genuine connection from an autistic adult to a neurotypical one. This gap needs to be bridged.

Born without a Mask

Imagine childhood as a playground where most kids run freely, their unique traits celebrated as part of the game. Now, picture standing just on the outside, peering in. For those of us on the autism spectrum, this is often our reality from a young age. Our distinctions, rather than being accepted, mark us as “different” in a harsher light. I remember feeling separated by an invisible wall, observing the other kids, wishing I knew how to be like them. So they would accept me. Jokes that flew over my head, games with rules that made no sense, and the ease with which other kids formed friendships appeared to me as elaborate mysteries I’d never be able to solve.

Figuring out I was different didn’t come as a lightning bolt of insight but a collection of small, sharp slices to the heart. It was in the birthday party invitation that never found its way to me, the confused looks from friends when I laughed a bit too loud, and the subtle withdrawal of classmates who obviously struggled with closing the distance my very being seemed to impose.

The rift between how I was expected to behave and how I naturally reacted to the world around me led to an extreme sense of loneliness. It wasn’t that I didn’t want connection or friendship. Of course I did. But that invisible barrier separated me from these experiences, a wall built brick by brick with every failed attempt to engage, every misunderstood gesture, and every misplaced word.

As a kid, the idea of putting on a mask to better fit into this world hadn’t yet occurred to me. Instead, I crawled my way through my early years with a bewildering mix of directness and confusion, trying so hard to find my place in a society that didn’t seem to have room for someone as fundamentally unscripted as me. It was an isolated existence.

Yet, it was in these developmental years, during the uncertainty and loneliness, that the seeds of masking were inadvertently sown. In every puzzled look, every whispered comment, and every well-intentioned but ultimately alienating attempt to “help” me fit in, I was being taught that my natural way of being was not acceptable. Unbeknownst to me, these experiences were the groundwork for the mask I would soon begin to construct—a mask designed not for my comfort but as a means to survive on a planet that had little patience for anyone who deviated from its norms.

The Formation of the Mask

The trek from an unmasked existence to the adoption of a social facade was neither straightforward nor conscious. It began as a survival mechanism, a way to mitigate the discomfort and misunderstanding that marked my interactions with the world. The formation of the mask was gradual, a process of trial and error, of mimicking and rehearsing behaviors observed in others, behaviors that seemed to earn acceptance and ease social transactions.

Initially, my attempts at masking were improvised and regularly misunderstood. I would mimic the phrases and expressions of my peers, parroting laughter without knowing what the hell was so funny, adopting interests that held absolutely no fascination for me, all in an attempt to blend in where I’d always stood out as the weird kid. These early attempts at masking were exhausting, each interaction a performance that left me drained and even more aware of my differences.

The emotional toll of these initial attempts was intense. With every mimicked gesture and rehearsed conversation, a piece of my authenticity seemed to erode. I was caught in a paradox, where the mask that was meant to protect and integrate me into society also served to alienate me further from my sense of self. It was a lovely endeavor, one where the accolades of “You’re doing so well!” felt less like compliments and more like confirmations of my fading authenticity. It was working. I was becoming like everyone else.

The mask began as a shield, a way to deflect the embarrassment and sometimes outright hostility my unmasked self provoked. However, what started as a tool for specific social situations soon became a constant requirement. The realization that I was treated more kindly, more considerately when masked, was both a revelation and a curse. It revealed a painful truth: my acceptance was conditional, predicated on my ability to perform normally to the satisfaction of others.

As I grew older, the mask became more sophisticated, refined by years of observation and practice. I learned not just to mimic expressions and phrases but to anticipate and react in ways that were expected in various social contexts. The mask adapted, evolving from a clumsy imitation of social norms to a well-crafted person who could traverse complex social situations with ease.

Yet, this sophistication came at a price. The more adept I became at masking, the more it demanded of me. Each interaction, each day spent behind the mask, intensified the exhaustion and the sense of disconnection from my true self. The mask that had started as a means to an end had become a permanent fixture, a barrier that not only separated me from the world but also from my own identity.

In this part of my story, the mask was no longer just a strategy; it had become a necessity, a second skin that I couldn’t shed without exposing myself to the very vulnerabilities it was meant to protect me from. The realization of its permanence was not a moment of epiphany but a gradual, sinking acceptance of the cost of social survival.

The Mask Solidifies

Transitioning from adolescence into adulthood felt like walking a tightrope, with the mask becoming my only safety net. It wasn’t just a part of me; it started to feel like it was me. This phase of my life was defined by a subtle yet relentless merging of my authentic self with the persona I presented to the world. It wasn’t a choice but a survival strategy that gradually became a cage. A dark, heavy, unbearable cage.

In the realm of personal relationships, the mask was both my armor and my prison. I longed for genuine connection, for someone to see me—really see me—and say, “I understand.” But the fear of rejection kept the mask firmly in place. Each smile, each nod, and each laugh was calculated, leaving me wondering whether I was being loved for who I was or for the mask I wore so well.

Professionally, the mask was a double-edged sword. It granted me the ability to function, to appear competent and confident, even when I was internally grappling with overwhelming anxiety or sensory overload. The praise and nods of approval I received felt hollow, though, because they weren’t truly mine. They belonged to the mask. The disparity between my outward success and my inner instability was awful, a constant reminder of the outward show I was trying to uphold.

Allowing the permanence of the mask was a quiet kind of heartbreak. Gradually, it dawned on me that I’d lost sight of what was masking and what was me. The times when I let myself imagine a life without the mask were brief and filled with fear—fear of the unknown, of whether I could be accepted unmasked, and longing for a freedom that seemed distant.

Cracking the Mask

Becoming more self-aware and eventually figuring out I’m autistic was fraught with internal battles and external obstacles. It was a path marked by vulnerability, where each step felt like peeling away layers of a mask that had become my skin. I was exposed, now the version of myself that I was told nobody wanted.

The process of lowering the mask, even slightly, was like standing on a cliff, each act of authenticity a leap of faith. There were spaces and people with whom I could be more myself, where the mask could slip, revealing my true self. These times were rare and precious, tinged with both liberation and a deep feeling of vulnerability. The fear of being truly seen after years of hiding was pretty scary. Yet, there was also huge relief in those tiny moments of connection, a hope that maybe I could be loved for who I was, not for the mask I wore.

The reactions to my unmasked self were as varied as the people in my life. (I’m referring to when I had traditional jobs, when I had no idea I’m autistic, and had gotten to a point in my life where I knew I’d been pretending and was done with it. I consider that unmasking, albeit unknowingly, but I was unmasking all the same.) Most of my coworkers (and management) were unwilling to adjust to the person emerging from behind the facade. If I thought they didn’t like me before, they sure as hell didn’t like me when the mask started cracking. However, some people surprised me with their acceptance and efforts to understand, offering glimpses of what true acceptance could look like. Each reaction was a lesson, a step on the road to reconciling both my masked and authentic selves.

We Need Allies

If this message resonates with you, I urge you, as neurotypicals, to become active allies for the autistic community. Start by listening to our stories, educating yourselves on the realities of autism, and speaking out against stereotypes and misinformation. We can create a world that embraces diversity, values realness, and celebrates people for who they are. Your actions, no matter how small, contribute to a larger movement of change. Let’s make that movement together. We’ve been sidelined, misunderstood, and excluded for far too long. The time for significant change is not in the distant future—it’s now. I’m tired of waiting for the world to catch up.

— Autistic Ang

Let’s lift the mask together. Share to help others understand the reality of adult autism.

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