The true cost of keeping it all together

A personal essay on masking, burnout, and the myth of being an easy going autistic

Things have been a bit quiet around here, and ngl, I’m not sorry, I’m healing from a life altering burnout and in the process have realised the true cost of being ‘chill’. There’s no neat takeaway, no big epiphany, just the honest truth of what happens when you spend your whole life trying to not ask for too much, playing a games where the rules are forever changing. So yeah this one’s for anyone who’s ever swallowed their needs to keep the peace, and ended up disappearing in the process.

T xx

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As the train pulled into Stockport and I wiped my tears, I decided I was done.

Where has being chill gotten me?

Gazing out the window as the trees blurred past, feeling like a depleted and dysregulated sack of flesh, unable to hear the announcements over the sound of my own thoughts, and hoping the inevitable few days out of routine don’t trigger a depressive episode.

Being chill has gotten me here, but it’s also gotten me the career I’ve always dreamed of, a couple of friends, living alone but was it worth it?

All the times I’d said “I’m easy” or “I don’t mind” when I did. The times I swallowed how I really felt and let the anger, hurt or disappointment simmer in my stomach rather than rock the boat. The days I spent catching up on life when last-minute changes of plans threw off my fragile routine.

Autism is inconvenient by nature. Inclusion requires slowing down and thinking in a world that’s so fast-paced. And when there’s no time, we’re the ones who are expected to be flexible, to suppress our needs, and go with the neurotypical flow.

To suck it up and crack on.

“Crack on” is a funny phrase, innit? There’s only so many cracks something can take before all the pieces fall apart. And being chill means not asking for help, not being bothered when people don’t show up for you, so in the end, the only one holding the pieces together is you.

But what happens when you can’t anymore?

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The tension in your traps niggles at you all day. The thought of food makes you gag. Your gut gargles every time Slack pings, WhatsApps go unanswered, you lose interest in everything, your house is a mess.

You start losing pieces of yourself. You’ve become someone you don’t even recognise.

And when you call on people to help or hang out, things don’t look bad enough for them to step up or step in. You’ve held it together for so long, they only know the chill you, the put-together you, not the fragile you that could fall apart if mishandled.

So it’s still on you.

To pull yourself out of the hole.

To accept that you’re not chill.

To ask more of those around you, if they want access to you.

To start setting some fucking boundaries.

What’s there to lose, if you have nothing to begin with?

Whatever depended on you being chill wasn’t built to last. That belonged to the broken you.

Picking up the pieces, they all look a bit different. They might not all fit together to begin with.

Maybe you need to call in a therapist to help make sense of things.

Maybe you need to take things slower.

Maybe you need to reject the pace of the world and go with your own flow.

Maybe the changes are small. Maybe they’re massive.

Maybe it’ll be uncomfortable for a while.

Maybe you need medication to get you through the transition.

But it’ll be worth it in the end.

(Hopefully)