When you find out you are autistic…
“I am not shy, I’m autistic” — When Your Autism is Mistaken for Your Personality
Before I knew I was autistic, people throughout my life had described me as “shy.” That word kept recurring ever since I was a child, but it never sat right with me. It felt like a big, almost cosmic misunderstanding. I didn’t feel shy; I did not feel like that was my personality. Why did everyone keep saying that?
I felt other things, and admittedly, a lot of them were negative. I felt confused. I felt different. A lot of times I felt a barrier between me and the world. I felt my brain coming to a halt and bailing on me in group settings; I felt exhausted and dissociated a lot. I felt scared because everyone seemingly knew what was socially acceptable and what wasn’t, except me. I felt unacceptable a lot. I felt peaceful sometimes, just enjoying things. I felt angry sometimes. I felt adventurous and curious. But shy? No. Did I really come across like that?
Misunderstandings
While autism, as a neurotype, naturally permeates our whole life, it is important sometimes to differentiate between autism and personality. Knowing I am autistic, I realize that a lot of my “shyness” was actually overwhelm — a processing issue, more than a personality trait. I was overwhelmed by the visual, the auditory, the language, the social aspects of interactions, and my brain did not physically have the resources to express my sociable intentions in a new, open or chaotic environment, or with new people, or for too long, etc.
In addition, a lot of the time, my brain honestly struggles to think of something to say. That’s different from being “shy”. It’s like the brain function that automatically produces language, jumps from one topic to another through association and memories, etc is simply off. I also have an impaired episodic memory — the kind of memory that makes you remember anecdotes and events. Cherry on top, my processing speed is slow, and I have auditory processing issues, so literally understanding what people are saying is already a whole thing for my brain, and it takes longer than expected. As a result, conversation takes a huge effort to “manually” force these brain functions that other people simply rely on without thinking (how lucky of them). That surely makes me quiet and withdrawn — makes me look “shy.”
One time, I took a stimulant pill (nope, it wasn’t illegal, though no judgement here). All of a sudden, producing speech was not much of an issue for my brain anymore. Processing the conversation, the environment, and my thoughts at the same time became easier. The conversation was flowing. My brain was making connections on its own — it felt great. On that day, I became “sociable” — my brain was allowing me to express my sociable personality. I spent a long time chatting with the neighbours. It was great. My personality didn’t change; my brain’s capacity did.
Autism being a disorder/difference in communication, a lot of the way we carry ourselves physically also often gets misinterpreted. My brain doesn’t “do” much body language — I am fairly inexpressive, and I don’t use many gestures. It’s just the way it is. My body language does not reflect my internal state; there is a mind-body disconnect. It takes too much processing power to manually do that, and it feels fake. So, I can feel very warm towards someone, but it won’t show like that, and I may come across as aloof. I can feel peaceful,l but people see a closed body language and conclude that I am not at ease. People interpret my lack of body expressiveness as “shyness.”
Gender Affects How We Are Perceived
I have always found all this pretty irritating, actually. I was being read as a “shy girl” while I was an (unidentified) autistic queer person, with a strong sense of opinion and independence who had fiercely and loudly pushed back at abuse from a young age. It felt offensive — not because being a shy girl is an issue in itself, but because a whole subjectivity was being forced onto me in that way. My processing and communication differences were mistaken for my personality — it made me feel invisible, like no one could see me for who I really was, and I didn’t know why.
In fact, it felt a lot like a curse — to be treated as a “poor sweet thing” for no reason all the time, just because I’m quiet. I felt a lot of unexplained anger at the time, which I now understand had to do with this (and the fact that I was wearing tight pants all the time, what an unnecessary sensory torture). Gender played a role in how my quietness was read as passivity, and I am sure that if I looked male, it would have often been read as a signal of aggression instead. There is nothing like silence for people to project all sorts of things onto it.
I am not “shy” when the environment is right, and my brain does not have to process things beyond its capacity. I am not “shy” when I am alert, energized, and awake rather than exhausted. I am not “shy” in more predictable interactions, in manageable all-autistic settings, etc. I am not shy; I’m autistic.
