Category: Neurodiversity & Identity

  • Isolation Vs Exposure

    Isolation Vs Exposure

    An AuDHD look at working from home, office life, and what happens when your comfort zone becomes very comfortable indeed.

    One of the great promises of working from home is that you can finally escape all the unnecessary nonsense of the office.

    No commute. No fluorescent lighting. No mysterious person microwaving fish at 11:14 in the morning. No conversations happening three desks away while somebody else is on Teams without headphones and somebody behind you is apparently trying to destroy a keyboard using only their index fingers.

    For someone with autism, ADHD, or the increasingly common buy-one-get-one-free combination of AuDHD, this can feel less like a perk and more like the removal of several dozen small obstacles you previously assumed were simply part of having a job.

    I can work from home quite effectively.

    Increasingly, I do.

    And yet I’ve noticed something slightly inconvenient.

    If I work from home for a long stretch, the next time I go into the office I find it much harder.

    The noise seems noisier.

    The movement around me becomes more distracting.

    Conversations interrupt my train of thought more easily. People appear beside my desk unexpectedly, which is apparently a completely normal thing for humans to do to each other.

    By lunchtime I can feel as though I’ve already done a full day’s work, even if most of the morning was spent doing entirely ordinary office things.

    None of this is particularly surprising. What did surprise me was the contrast.

    I used to cope with it.

    Or at least I coped with it better.

    Which left me wondering whether removing stress from my working life had also reduced my ability to deal with stress when it returned.

    Had working from home made me softer?

    I dislike that wording, because it sounds like something said by my high school PE teacher (Ex Army PT instructor and bane of my youthful existence!) while making me run through freezing mud, but there is something in the question that I haven’t quite managed to dismiss.

    The appeal of the cave

    There are very good reasons to retreat from environments that exhaust us.

    For autistic people, an office can contain a remarkable number of things demanding attention at once.

    Phones ring. Doors open. People walk past. Conversations appear and disappear. Somebody has adjusted the heating to a temperature normally associated with commercial bread production.

    Then there are the social calculations.

    Should I say hello?

    Have I said hello already?

    Was that person talking to me?

    How long am I supposed to stand in the kitchen after making coffee?

    Is someone going to ask what I did at the weekend, and if they do, are they expecting the accurate answer or the approved two-sentence version?

    ADHD adds its own complications. An office can provide stimulation, which sometimes helps, but it can also provide far more stimulation than you actually ordered.

    Working from home gives you control over a surprising amount of this.

    You can choose the lighting.

    You can control the noise.

    You can decide when to speak to people.

    You can arrange your desk properly and leave it arranged properly, safe in the knowledge that nobody from Facilities will suddenly announce that everybody is moving three floors down on Thursday.

    You can sometimes work according to your natural rhythm rather than the rhythm produced by twenty other people existing nearby.

    That control has value.

    It can mean having more energy left at the end of the working day.

    It can mean concentrating for longer.

    It can mean fewer headaches, fewer shutdowns, less masking, and less time spent recovering from things that had almost nothing to do with the actual work.

    For some people, home working may simply allow them to do their job better.

    There is no prize for completing a spreadsheet or fixing a code bug while simultaneously tolerating a noisy air-conditioning unit.

    The problem with becoming too comfortable

    Comfort, unfortunately, is rather good.

    Once you have discovered that work can happen in a quiet room with your preferred lighting, your preferred chair, your own toilet, and access to coffee that costs considerably less than £3.80, voluntarily returning to the office can feel like an administrative error.

    The difficulty is that life rarely agrees to remain inside the environment we have carefully designed for it.

    There are meetings.

    Appointments.

    Family gatherings.

    Training days.

    Conferences.

    Restaurants.

    Public transport.

    People.

    Awful lot of people, actually.

    And my working theory, based entirely on observing myself rather than conducting anything remotely resembling respectable science, is that tolerance can change.

    Things I encounter regularly become familiar.

    Things I avoid can start feeling larger.

    When I was regularly in an office, I expected the noise. I had routines. I knew where I sat, when I took lunch, where I could disappear for five minutes, and which parts of the day were likely to be chaotic.

    After a long period at home, I lose some of that familiarity.

    Then I return and suddenly notice everything again.

    The office itself has not necessarily become worse.

    My baseline has moved.

    That leaves an awkward question, especially for neurodivergent people who have spent years being told to endure environments that were genuinely harmful.

    When does protecting yourself become avoiding something?

    And when does exposing yourself to something stop being useful and start being pointless suffering?

    I don’t think those questions have universal answers.

    Annoying, really. A five-point solution would make this article much easier for me to finish.

    Exposure is not automatically good

    There is a dangerous version of this argument that says we should deliberately make ourselves uncomfortable because discomfort builds resilience.

    Don’t get me wrong, sometimes it does.

    Mostly it just makes Tuesday horrible.

    There is a difference between gradually maintaining familiarity with an environment and repeatedly forcing yourself through something that leaves you exhausted for days.

    If spending one day in the office costs you the following evening and half of Wednesday, that belongs in the calculation.

    If home working means you can concentrate properly, communicate more clearly, and finish the day with enough energy to cook dinner rather than staring into a cupboard for six minutes, that matters too.

    Avoiding unnecessary stress is not cheating.

    We have air conditioning because being too hot is unpleasant and sweating buckets into your laptop isn’t a useful skill to learn. We wear glasses because it transpires that squinting at everything builds character and increases resilience remarkably slowly.

    The fact that just because you can tolerate something does not mean you actually need to maximise your exposure to it.

    Isolation has a cost as well

    At the same time, I know what happens when my own world gets too small.

    Things become easier.

    Then easier becomes normal.

    Then normal becomes necessary.

    A trip into the office starts feeling like a major event.

    Going somewhere after work becomes less appealing because I have become accustomed to finishing the day already at home.

    I have a tendency to become a virtual hermit in my own home on self imposed house arrest. I look out the window and “THE OUTSIDE” in the same manner as Gollum reacts to the Elvish rope he’s tethered to. “IT BURNS US !!”

    Casual conversations disappear.

    I miss information that never makes it into formal meetings.

    I lose those peculiar little workplace interactions that are mostly pointless but occasionally lead to something useful.

    There is also the social equivalent of getting slightly rusty.

    If I spend several days mostly communicating through text and scheduled calls, spontaneous conversation can feel harder when it returns. Not impossible. Just less automatic.

    There is a strange contradiction here.

    Removing friction can give me more capacity.

    Removing too much friction can sometimes reduce what I feel capable of doing.

    I’m still trying to work out where that line is.

    The office is not one thing

    Part of the problem with conversations about remote working is that we talk about “the office” as though everybody is attending the same one.

    They aren’t.

    One person’s office is a quiet room with eight colleagues and decent lighting.

    Another person’s office is an open-plan aircraft hangar containing ninety-seven people, six sales teams, a coffee grinder, and a man called Steve who conducts all telephone conversations at the volume normally reserved for emergency evacuations.

    Likewise, home is not automatically peaceful.

    Some people live alone and have a dedicated office.

    Some work from a kitchen table.

    Some have children, partners, neighbours renovating a bathroom, poor internet, nowhere comfortable to sit, a dog who has appointed itself Director of Incoming Deliveries, or a cat that thinks your laptop keyboard is the most comfortable cat bed ever!

    Some people get energy from being around colleagues.

    Others spend energy being around colleagues.

    Some ADHD brains work better when other people are present because the activity creates momentum and accountability.

    Others experience every passing conversation as a new browser tab opening in their head.

    Autism varies just as much.

    What is calming routine for one person can become claustrophobic repetition for another.

    A universal recommendation starts falling apart quite quickly.

    So what are you actually trying to optimise?

    This may be a more useful question than asking whether home or office working is better.

    Better for what?

    Productivity?

    Energy?

    Concentration?

    Career visibility?

    Social connection?

    Learning from colleagues?

    Mental health?

    Family life?

    Tolerance of busy environments?

    The answer might change depending on what you are doing.

    If I need several uninterrupted hours to write, analyse something complicated, or disappear into a problem, home has obvious advantages.

    If I need informal conversations, quick feedback, or a sense of what everyone else is doing, the office can be better.

    There are also days when I simply benefit from leaving the house.

    I resent this because it means all those people who say “you’ll feel better if you get out for a bit” occasionally have evidence.

    Finding your own mixture

    I suspect the useful compromise begins by treating this less like a question of identity.

    You do not have to be A Remote Worker or An Office Person.

    You can treat location as another part of how you manage your workload.

    A few things might be worth watching.

    What does the day actually cost you?

    Not just whether you survived it.

    Notice what happens afterwards.

    If an office day is productive but you need the entire evening to recover, that is part of its cost.

    If a home day feels comfortable but you achieve very little because the washing machine, fridge, internet, and sudden urge to reorganise a drawer have formed an alliance against you, that belongs in the calculation too.

    What happens after several days of either environment?

    One day tells you something.

    A pattern tells you more.

    Does a week at home leave you refreshed?

    Or do you become increasingly reluctant to leave?

    Does several days in the office help you settle into a rhythm?

    Or does fatigue accumulate until Friday becomes a matter of staring at Outlook and hoping nobody notices?

    Which tasks work where?

    You may not need one rule for every working day.

    Deep concentration might belong at home.

    Collaborative work might be easier in person.

    Routine admin might work anywhere.

    There is nothing particularly noble about doing a task in the environment least suited to it.

    Are you avoiding discomfort or avoiding damage?

    I find this one difficult.

    Some discomfort gets easier with familiarity.

    Some does not.

    If something feels difficult at first but becomes manageable once you settle in, occasional exposure may be useful.

    If repeated exposure consistently leaves you overloaded, exhausted, or unable to function properly afterwards, simply doing more of it may not achieve much beyond proving that you can suffer repeatedly.

    How much recovery do you need?

    Recovery time is easy to ignore because it happens outside the official working day.

    An arrangement can look perfectly sustainable between nine and five while quietly consuming everything between five and nine.

    That seems like fairly important accounting.

    What are you losing by staying home?

    This will vary enormously.

    Maybe nothing.

    Maybe informal learning.

    Maybe friendships.

    Maybe visibility.

    Maybe confidence in dealing with unpredictable situations.

    Maybe just the strange comfort of complaining about the same printer with another human being.

    It is worth knowing.

    What are you gaining?

    The same applies in reverse.

    Better concentration.

    More control.

    Less sensory overload.

    More sleep.

    No commute.

    More time with family.

    The ability to construct a working environment around how your brain actually behaves rather than how office furniture companies imagine it behaves.

    Those gains count.

    An experiment rather than a verdict

    One thing I am considering for myself is treating office attendance less as an all-or-nothing decision and more as an ongoing experiment.

    Maybe I need regular exposure to the office without needing maximum exposure to it.

    One or two days might maintain familiarity.

    Five days might drain me.

    Zero days for several months might make returning unnecessarily difficult.

    That is only my version.

    Someone else might discover that four office days and one quiet home day works beautifully.

    Someone else might realise the office contributes almost nothing useful to their job and that forcing themselves to attend because they ought to be “more resilient” is just a complicated way of becoming tired.

    Another person might discover that working from home slowly turns them into a slightly feral creature who considers answering the door an unreasonable social demand.

    All valid data.

    The useful part is noticing what happens rather than deciding in advance what ought to happen.

    Keep track for a few weeks.

    Where did you work?

    How productive were you?

    How tired were you afterwards?

    How much did you dread the next day?

    Did you speak to anyone?

    Did you concentrate?

    Did you recover?

    Did you enjoy any of it?

    That last question deserves to be in there somewhere.

    Then change the mixture.

    One more office day.

    One fewer.

    Half-days, if they are possible.

    Office days for meetings and home days for concentrated work.

    Avoid consecutive office days.

    Or deliberately use consecutive days because the first day is always the difficult one and the second is easier.

    There are a lot of combinations between permanently hiding in your house and enthusiastically hot-desking five days a week.

    I’m fairly sure my own answer sits somewhere in that untidy middle.

    I like working from home. I am better at some things there.

    I also suspect I need to keep putting myself into the world often enough that the world does not start feeling impossibly loud whenever I encounter it.

    How often that needs to happen is something I am still working out.

  • A Little Of Nothing. Emphasis on the Nothing.

    A Little Of Nothing. Emphasis on the Nothing.

    Burnout is a funny word for something that feels so completely unfunny when you’re in it.

    At the moment, even putting pen to paper, or more accurately fingers to keyboard, feels harder than it should. Creativity has wandered off somewhere, motivation seems to have gone with it, and most things feel more like chores than choices. The mood is low, joy is proving annoyingly difficult to locate, and there isn’t much spare energy left for turning any of that into something clever, witty, or worth reading.

    So that’s why things are a little quiet here right now. I could probably force myself to write something, but I’m not sure that would help. For the moment, I’m trying to accept that sometimes there just isn’t much in the tank. Hopefully that changes. Until then, this is about as much as I’ve got.

  • Sorry Seems to Be the Easiest Word!

    Sorry Seems to Be the Easiest Word!

    British musician Elton John once sang the words “Sorry Seems to Be the Hardest Word” in his 1976 hit of the same name.

    But, y’know, I’ve never had this problem.

    If anything, I find the word “sorry” easy.

    TOO EASY!

    I’m forever saying sorry. Sorry for things that are my fault, sorry for things I THINK are my fault, sorry for things that aren’t remotely my fault, and even sorry for things that couldn’t possibly ever be my fault.

    Put it this way, later in Elton’s song he asks what he should do when lightning strikes him.

    Me? I’d probably apologise to the cloud for causing it to strike me just because I happened to exist within its sphere of awareness.

    Know how I’ve mentioned my lack of ego and self-effacing tendencies before? Well, it also seems I have a nigh-on pathological urge to accept blame for the woes of the world.

    I’ve apologised when somebody else bumped into me.

    When someone asked me a question I didn’t know the answer to? “Sorry.”

    When I’ve needed to squeeze past somebody who has positioned their trolley sideways across an entire supermarket aisle? Somehow, some way, I apologise.

    Someone misunderstands something I thought I’d said perfectly clearly?

    “Sorry, what I meant was…”

    If the weather is disappointing while somebody is visiting me, a small part of me feels I should probably apologise for that too.

    Perhaps the ultimate British achievement is saying sorry to an inanimate object after I’ve walked into it.

    I’m beginning to suspect that “sorry” isn’t an admission of guilt for me.

    It’s punctuation.

    The evidence against me

    It’s 1989. I’m in my “gap year” before university, except my gap involved going to a local technical college to pick up a plethora of assorted qualifications while I decided what I actually wanted to study at uni.

    I did a ScotVec certificate in computer science because it interested me, and I thought it might prove useful when I went on to study mathematics. Probably.

    I lived in the halls of residence directly across from the college. Literally less than a five-minute stroll from my room to class.

    I was a goody two-shoes student. Always on time, usually early, and always near the top of the class. Teacher’s pet, some would say.

    My friend?

    He had real issues getting out of bed.

    At weekends he’d emerge at around 4pm. Not ideal when classes started at 8:30 in the morning.

    Anyway, his attendance had become so bad that he was at risk of being dropped from the course. As he was my friend, I said I’d help get him up and into class.

    So I went to his room, knocked him awake, got him ready, and ushered him along. It was like waiting for ice-cold honey to pour. I eventually managed to get him out of his room and across to college.

    We walked into class, ooh, ten minutes late?

    Which, for him, was early.

    The teacher exclaimed that he was “almost on time for once!”, basically acknowledging my role in getting him there at all.

    Then he added that if my friend fell back into his bad ways, he’d be out on his ear.

    And, totally unbidden, I responded:

    “Yes, sorry sir. It won’t happen again!”

    Both the teacher AND my friend looked at me with bemused puzzlement.

    Hang on.

    What exactly was I sorry for?

    Sorry for getting him there almost on time? Sorry for making an effort to help a friend?

    Why exactly did I feel I had to apologise?

    Sorry, but WHY am I sorry?

    I am naturally subservient. I’ll walk at the rear of a group or let others pass through a doorway before me. If I join a queue at the same time as someone else, or sometimes even slightly before them, I’ll often let them go ahead.

    I’m also very conscious of people entering my personal space, so I think I’ve unconsciously concluded that everyone else must feel the same way. I therefore spend an unreasonable amount of time trying not to inconvenience people who have shown absolutely no sign of being inconvenienced.

    This frequently involves moving out of somebody’s way when I wasn’t actually in their way, thereby moving directly into their way.

    “Sorry.”

    I’m constantly apologising.

    Sometimes “sorry” seems to mean:

    I don’t want you to think I’m rude.

    I’m about to inconvenience you by approximately four seconds.

    I disagree, but I’d quite like us still to be friends afterwards.

    I need something from you.

    I have an opinion.

    I’m sorry I exist where you can see or hear me.

    Actually, I’m sorry I exist.

    Full stop!

    I do wonder how much of my constant apologising is actually about guilt, and how much is simply social lubrication.

    But it’s got out of hand.

    My wife will yell at me:

    “PETE! For goodness’ sake! Stop saying sorry all the time!”

    To which I naturally respond:

    “Yeah… sorry about that!”

    And the worst thing is, I’m not even trying to be funny. The apology has already left my mouth before the part of my brain responsible for quality control has arrived at work.

    I have created the infinite apology loop.

    I just need to find a way to extract energy from it and I’ll make my fortune in power generation.

    The tiny negotiation hidden inside “sorry”

    I think an apology can be less about admitting I did something wrong and more about signalling intent.

    “What I’m about to say isn’t intended to make your life more difficult.”

    Or:

    “I realise we’re at odds with our expectations here, but I’m not deliberately trying to annoy you.”

    It’s an attempt to defuse a situation before anyone has actually planted the explosive device.

    One small word has ended up doing an awful lot of jobs.

    It covers remorse, politeness, embarrassment, sympathy, interruption, disagreement, and the complex diplomatic negotiations involved in passing someone on a narrow pavement.

    Frankly, “sorry” is overworked.

    Sorry for taking up space

    If I constantly apologise before speaking, asking, disagreeing, or needing something, I do wonder if that affects how I think about my right to do those things.

    Not in some grand, life-changing way.

    Just in the accumulation of tiny moments.

    There is a difference between being considerate and acting as though my very existence requires an apology. I’m not always entirely sure where I cross that line.

    Sometimes “sorry” is kindness. Sometimes it’s habit. Sometimes I simply want to avoid friction.

    Sometimes I probably just need to get out of the bloody doorway.

    Retiring a few unnecessary sorries

    Perhaps I need an intervention of sorts.

    Not to stop saying sorry altogether, but at least to notice some of the unnecessary ones before they escape.

    Maybe “Sorry to bother you” becomes “Have you got a minute?”

    Maybe “Sorry, can I just say…” becomes me simply saying it.

    And maybe “Sorry I’m late!” becomes…

    No, actually, I’ll keep that one for when I’m late.

    I’m not an utter barbarian.

    I wonder which of my many apologies I’d actually want to keep?

    Sorry, I seem to have written an entire post about apologising

    I don’t think I want to stop saying sorry.

    I’d just like to become slightly better at distinguishing between I did something wrong and two people arrived at the same door at roughly the same time.

    There must be some room between never apologising and accepting personal responsibility for the entire human experience.

    I’ll try to find it.

    Sorry if that takes a while.

  • Two Wolves? No. Inside Me Are Four Petes

    Two Wolves? No. Inside Me Are Four Petes

    There’s an old story about two wolves fighting inside each of us. One represents kindness, the other anger. The one that wins is the one you feed.

    That’s all very profound.

    Unfortunately, my brain has slashed the internal budget, and I can no longer afford the zoo bills for two argumentative Canis lupus.

    I don’t have two wolves.

    I have four Petes.

    They all live inside my head, they all think they’re in charge, and they hold regular committee meetings. Sadly, nobody ever bothers to appoint a chairperson, so very little gets agreed.

    Meet the Committee

    First, there’s Adult Pete.

    He’s the one who pays the bills, books the dentist, washes the car, remembers to renew the insurance, and insists vegetables are an important part of a balanced diet.

    He’s sensible.

    Nobody likes him very much.

    Then there’s Five-Year-Old Pete.

    He wants to visit every museum, gets ridiculously excited by sweet shops, believes every bookshop deserves “just a quick look”, could happily spend an hour staring at fossils, and firmly believes chores should be postponed until after another game of Minecraft.

    He’s also convinced that pudding is a perfectly acceptable main course.

    Autistic Pete is a man of systems.

    He likes routines. Autistic Pete alphabetises things that don’t really need alphabetising. He becomes mildly irritated if someone uses his favourite coffee mug. He’s already planned what we’re doing next Tuesday.

    It’s currently Saturday.

    And finally, there’s ADHD Pete.

    He has absolutely no interest in Tuesday.

    Or Saturday.

    Or chronology in general.

    He’s currently suggesting we learn Norwegian, buy a new soldering iron, reorganise the bookshelves, write half a blog post, and spend the afternoon researching medieval trebuchets because… well… why not?

    Committee Meetings

    This arrangement presents certain challenges.

    Adult Pete decides it’s time to review the pension.

    ADHD Pete has just discovered lock-picking and won’t stop talking about it.

    Five-Year-Old Pete wants to watch Minecraft videos on YouTube.

    Autistic Pete simply wants everyone to sit down, stop interrupting each other, and quit moving the metaphorical furniture.

    Planning a day out requires unanimous agreement.

    In fifty-six years, unanimous agreement has been achieved approximately never.

    For a long time, I assumed maturity meant eventually becoming one consistent person. I imagined that one day I’d simply know what needed doing and quietly get on with it, without internal debate or distraction.

    Instead, I’ve become a reasonably competent referee and arbitration expert.

    Growing Older Without Growing Up

    I’ve written before about growing old without growing up.

    Perhaps this is why.

    The five-year-old never actually leaves.

    He simply has to negotiate with the adult who now owns a mortgage.

    The more I think about it, the less I believe this is really an article about ADHD or autism.

    It’s about identity.

    We like to imagine that healthy adults are internally consistent. They know exactly who they are, what they want, and why they make the decisions they do. They stride confidently through life without ever arguing with themselves over whether to tackle the washing up or spend three hours learning about medieval castle architecture because one interesting fact led to another.

    I don’t think that’s how people work.

    I think we’re all a collection of competing ideas, instincts, responsibilities, hopes, fears, and impulses. Most people have an internal dialogue.

    Mine just sounds more like a committee meeting where everyone insists they’re the chair.

    Getting diagnosed with autism and ADHD didn’t create those different voices. They’d been there all along. The diagnoses simply handed me a couple of name badges. Suddenly the part of me that craved routine made sense. So did the part that could cheerfully demolish that routine because it had discovered an exciting new hobby before breakfast.

    Perhaps that’s true for all of us.

    We’re not contradictions waiting to be resolved.

    We’re complicated people learning to live with all the different versions of ourselves, each convinced they know best.

    The Bookshop Test

    The other day I wandered into a bookshop intending “just to have a look”.

    Those are among the most dangerous words in the English language.

    Adult Pete quietly reminded me that I already own enough unread books to last until at least the next ice age.

    ADHD Pete had discovered three entirely new interests before I’d even reached the history section.

    Autistic Pete was admiring how beautifully everything had been organised. Whoever decided biographies should be shelved alphabetically deserved a small medal. He’d also straightened three piles of books and answered enough questions from other customers that I suspect at least one of them thought he worked there.

    Meanwhile, Five-Year-Old Pete had wandered off to the science section wearing the expression of someone who’d just discovered dinosaurs for the very first time.

    “LOOK! DINOSAURS!”

    I left with two books I hadn’t intended to buy, a bag of jelly beans from the sweet shop next door, and absolutely no regrets.

    Perhaps growing up was never about evicting the child inside us.

    Perhaps it was never about becoming one perfectly sensible, endlessly responsible adult.

    Maybe it’s about learning to let every version of yourself have a voice.

    Adult Pete makes sure the bills get paid.

    Autistic Pete stops life descending into complete chaos.

    ADHD Pete reminds me that curiosity is very rarely wasted.

    And Five-Year-Old Pete still has the wonderful ability to point excitedly at something unexpected and remind the rest of us that the world is still full of amazing things.

    I wouldn’t want to silence any of them.

    I just try very hard not to let ADHD Pete chair the meetings.

  • The Surprisingly Bearable Lightness of Being Alone

    The Surprisingly Bearable Lightness of Being Alone

    My wife and I can happily spend an entire evening in the same room, each doing our own thing. She’s reading, knitting, or crocheting. I’m probably tinkering with something, researching some obscure Minecraft modpack code on my tablet, or catching up on Mastodon. The cat is supervising, as befits her position as Supreme Leader of the Household.

    We’re together without constantly demanding each other’s attention.

    Our cat has very clear rules about social interaction.

    She wants company.

    Until she doesn’t.

    She wants affection.

    Until she doesn’t.

    She wants to sit on your lap.

    Until she suddenly remembers she’s an apex predator and bites you.

    In many ways, she’s taught me something rather profound about companionship. It’s perfectly possible to enjoy company without needing it every waking moment.

    I do, however, usually manage not to sit in people’s laps and bite them.

    Growing Older (Or How I Learnt to Stop Socialising and Love Solitude)

    From my mid-twenties to my mid-thirties, I lived alone in a flat in Aberdeen. I had an extensive movie collection, back when films came on gloriously space-hungry VHS cassettes instead of DVDs. I had my PC, my World of Warcraft account, and my hamster, Quark.

    Also I had a group of ex-university friends who regularly dragged me out to clubs, pubs, Sunday morning greasy fry-ups, and parties.

    I went because I thought that was what people were supposed to do.

    Don’t get me wrong. I had fun… ish.

    I didn’t know I was autistic back then. That particular bombshell hadn’t even been manufactured yet, never mind dropped from an overhead B-52.

    But most of the time I was on my own. I’d spend evenings watching films, playing games, or trying to work out where Quark had managed to roll his exercise ball this time.

    I was content.

    I enjoyed my own company.

    Even then, I instinctively understood there was a profound difference between being alone and being lonely.

    I’m now in my mid-fifties, and that feeling hasn’t changed.

    As I’ve written before in Growing Old without Growing Up, getting older hasn’t made me feel old. If anything, it’s made me more comfortable ignoring society’s expectations.

    I genuinely enjoy my own company.

    That doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy spending time with my wife. Quite the opposite. She’s my companion, my best friend, my soulmate, and the person I most enjoy sharing life with.

    But we don’t live in each other’s pockets.

    She has her allotment. While I greatly appreciate eating what she grows, that’s her thing. She’ll happily disappear there for hours while I disappear into my home office to write code, build a new Minecraft mod, or update this blog, as I’m doing now.

    She’s even been known to disappear to Greece for a fortnight on one of her spiritual retreats while I stay at home, work, look after the house, and consume quantities of junk food that would never pass Wife Quality Assurance.

    Two Whole People

    I’ve never liked the expression “my other half”.

    It suggests we arrive in the world as unfinished jigsaw puzzles, wandering around until someone finally turns up holding the missing piece.

    I don’t believe that.

    When my wife and I married, we were already two complete human beings, each with our own interests, quirks, ambitions, and ways of spending our time.

    We simply chose to walk through life together.

    Sometimes our paths overlap completely.

    Sometimes they briefly diverge.

    Most of the time, they run happily alongside one another.

    Healthy relationships aren’t two halves making a whole. They’re two complete people choosing to share their lives. Otherwise we accidentally make relationships responsible for fixing problems they were never designed to solve.

    Alone Is Not Lonely

    I’m not antisocial, and I certainly haven’t given up on people.

    I just don’t need quite so many of them.

    I’ve stopped mistaking constant interaction for happiness.

    It turns out the old saying “quality over quantity” applies to friendships as much as almost everything else.

    Being alone is a description while being lonely is an emotion.

    One tells you who’s in the room, the other tells you how you feel about it.

    You can feel desperately lonely in the middle of a crowded pub.

    You can spend an entire weekend by yourself without feeling lonely for a single moment.

    They’re completely different states.

    We often assume one causes the other.

    It doesn’t.

    Why We Fear Solitude

    Modern life seems oddly suspicious of solitude.

    There’s an unspoken expectation that adulthood should involve an ever-expanding network of friends, colleagues, networking groups, WhatsApp chats, neighbourhood associations, social media platforms, and community events.

    As though popularity can somehow be measured by unread notifications.

    But relationships aren’t Pokémon.

    Collecting more doesn’t necessarily improve your life.

    You certainly don’t need to catch them all.

    Learning to Enjoy Your Own Company

    If you can’t enjoy an afternoon by yourself, adding another person doesn’t magically create contentment.

    Sometimes it simply creates another person to disappoint.

    There’s a quiet confidence in being able to entertain yourself, pursue hobbies, disappear down strange rabbit holes of curiosity, spend an afternoon wandering around a museum, sit beside a river watching the world go by, or simply think.

    Many of us have felt far lonelier surrounded by people we couldn’t truly be ourselves around than we ever have sitting quietly on our own.

    Company is wonderful when it’s shared with people who let us be authentic.

    Company simply for the sake of avoiding silence can feel surprisingly empty.

    I’m not suggesting we all become hermits.

    Please don’t finish reading this article, delete all your social media accounts, and move into a cave somewhere in the Highlands.

    We’re social creatures, and spending time with people we care about can be deeply rewarding.

    Some of my happiest memories involve my wife.

    Others involve good friends.

    But some involve nobody else at all.

    Cycling through the countryside.

    Sitting in a park watching deer run across a field.

    Heading into London with absolutely no plan beyond wandering wherever curiosity takes me.

    Looking at things.

    Really looking.

    Watching boats drift along the Thames.

    Eating an excellent burger.

    Drinking great coffee.

    Spending far too long in a bookshop.

    Simply sitting and watching the world move around me without feeling any obligation to join in.

    Bliss.

    Maybe the goal isn’t to spend less time with people.

    Maybe it’s simply to stop measuring the health of our lives by how many people happen to be in the room.

    Being alone isn’t the opposite of belonging.

    Sometimes it’s simply the place where you finally belong to yourself.

    As I finished writing this, Spotify decided to shuffle on All By Myself by Eric Carmen.

    I laughed out loud.

    Not because it proved my point, but because somewhere inside the vast collection of algorithms analysing my listening habits, a computer had spectacularly misunderstood me.

    Then again, perhaps that’s the whole point.

    Being alone and being lonely aren’t the same thing.

    Spotify still hasn’t worked that out.

    Besides, the song got one thing wrong.

    I wasn’t by myself.

    My wife was in the next room.

    The cat was almost certainly plotting something.

    And, perhaps most importantly, I was already exactly where I wanted to be.

  • The Curious Freedom of Pretending to Be Somebody Else

    The Curious Freedom of Pretending to Be Somebody Else

    (Or: How Dressing as a Victorian Ghostbuster Became the Most Authentic Version of Me.)

    I’ve spent most of my life pretending to be somebody else.

    Every day I slip into the role of a “fully functioning adult”, whatever that’s supposed to be. I mask, I moderate my behaviour, I soften the rougher edges of my personality and generally do my best impression of somebody who has absolutely everything under control.

    At weekends, however, the mask begins to slip. I’m far closer to my authentic self and considerably less restrained by the image I’m expected to project in the office. That isn’t to say I suddenly become a different person. It’s more that I stop spending quite so much energy trying to look like everybody else.

    Masking takes a tremendous amount of mental effort. It’s one of the biggest contributors to the autistic burnout I’ve written about previously, which is probably why people find it rather odd when I tell them one of my favourite hobbies involves dressing up as a Victorian Ghostbuster.

    Surely, if I spend all week performing one role, the last thing I’d want to do for fun is perform another?

    Well… not quite.

    My Everyday Performance

    I’ve written before about masking, about my “stage voice” developed to hide my stammer, and about the burnout that often follows from constantly monitoring my behaviour. I won’t repeat all of that here, but it essentially boils down to one simple observation.

    To some extent, Everyday Pete is a carefully rehearsed performance.

    I monitor how loudly I’m speaking and pay attention to my body language. I’ll try to maintain the right amount of eye contact. I avoid wandering too far down conversational rabbit holes, no matter how desperately I want to explain why TCP handshaking is the perfect analogy for small talk or why slide rules are infinitely more interesting than calculators.

    It’s a performance I’ve become very good at.

    It’s also exhausting.

    Enter the Ghostbuster

    You’d therefore think that taking this daily performance and turning the dial up to eleven would be the last thing I’d choose to do for enjoyment.

    Oddly enough, the exact opposite is true.

    Before I explain why, let me introduce the character.

    Not the costume.

    The personality.

    He’s confident, bombastic, friendly, outgoing, slightly pompous, and considerably larger than life. He’ll happily wander up to complete strangers, pose for photographs, chat to children about ghosts, and generally behave as though the world is one enormous stage.

    In other words, he’s the sort of chap who cheerfully says hello to strangers.

    I generally hope strangers haven’t noticed me.

    Even his name is rather revealing.

    He’s called Professor Mycroft Spengler, which, if you’re familiar with my literary and cinematic tastes, tells you almost everything you need to know about me.

    He’s a shameless fusion of Mycroft Holmes and Egon Spengler.

    Mycroft Holmes is hyper-intelligent, analytical, quietly formidable, happiest solving problems rather than socialising, and far more comfortable working behind the scenes than standing in the spotlight.

    Egon Spengler is a scientist, collector of obscure knowledge, enthusiast of spores, moulds and fungi, socially awkward, endlessly curious, and gloriously unconcerned with appearing “normal”.

    Neither of them are conventional action heroes.

    Nor are they particularly charismatic.

    Neither are especially loud.

    So naturally my subconscious looked at those two characters and thought:

    “Yes… let’s combine them.”

    Apparently, given complete creative freedom, my brain built a character whose defining qualities are intelligence, curiosity, scientific obsession, and spectacular social awkwardness…

    …and then gave him brass goggles and a wooden proton pack.

    When I stop and think about it, that probably says something important about my personality!

    The Tax

    Let’s clear one thing up, though.

    For years Comic Con terrified me. I’d travel all the way there, reach the entrance, see the crowds stretching off into the distance and quietly turn around and go home. On the occasions I did make it inside, I’d often become overwhelmed within twenty minutes and leave feeling thoroughly dejected.

    Mycroft changed that.

    He’s become a form of armour. Not armour that hides me, but armour that allows me to function in an environment that would otherwise overwhelm me. He gives me a role to play, a script to follow and, perhaps most importantly, permission to interact with people in ways that everyday Pete would normally avoid. I no longer worry about whether I should talk to strangers because, quite frankly, that’s exactly what a Victorian Ghostbuster ought to be doing.

    It works.

    But it isn’t free.

    I can never manage more than one day at a convention because afterwards I have to pay the bill I’ve quietly been running up. I’ve hyper-masked for most of the day. I’ve spoken to hundreds of people, posed for countless photographs, answered questions, smiled, joked, improvised, stayed in character and absorbed the noise, lights, crowds and sheer intensity of the event. By the time I get home my social battery isn’t merely low, it’s running on fumes.

    The following day I usually disappear. I’ll spend it quietly reading, listening to music, tinkering in the workshop or simply enjoying the blissful absence of people. Not because I didn’t enjoy Comic Con. Quite the opposite. I loved every minute of it. I’m simply paying yesterday’s invoice. It’s worth every penny, but it’s an expensive hobby in ways most people never see.

    The Subtle Difference

    I should probably correct myself slightly because calling cosplay a form of masking isn’t entirely accurate. It’s a useful analogy, particularly as I’m technically wearing a physical mask of one sort or another, but the two things are fundamentally different.

    Masking, at least for me, is about hiding parts of myself. I minimise my differences, smooth away the rough edges and quietly blend into the background. The aim is to become less noticeable, less awkward and, if I’m honest, a little more forgettable.

    Cosplay does exactly the opposite.

    Instead of hiding my differences, it exaggerates them. It takes my enthusiasm, curiosity, theatricality and love of the absurd and turns the volume right up. It’s the difference between whispering and standing on a table shouting:

    “THIS IS ME. I’M WEIRD, AND I’M PERFECTLY HAPPY ABOUT IT.”

    There’s something wonderfully liberating about that.

    Why Ghostbusters? Why Steampunk?

    People occasionally ask why I chose Ghostbusters.

    My usual answer is simply:

    “Why not?”

    Ghostbusters has always been one of my favourite film franchises because, when I stop and think about it, none of the characters are conventional heroes. Ray Stantz is wonderfully enthusiastic and endlessly curious. Egon Spengler is socially awkward, intellectually brilliant and entirely unconcerned with appearing “normal”. Peter Venkman presents himself as confident and charismatic, but I’ve always suspected the sarcasm and bravado are simply another form of armour. Whenever life becomes complicated, he deflects it with humour.

    They’re not superheroes.

    They’re underdogs who accidentally become heroes.

    I find that strangely reassuring.

    Steampunk satisfies a completely different part of my personality. If you’ve read my article about museums you’ll already know I have an enduring fascination with discovery, invention and curiosity. The Victorian and Edwardian periods were full of people pushing at the boundaries of science and engineering, trying to understand how the world worked and asking, “What if?”

    Now, before the historians reach for their keyboards, I’m well aware that Victorian Britain had more than its fair share of problems. Steampunk isn’t history. It’s alternative history, a world where Babbage’s Difference Engine really did work, where Jules Verne reached the Moon. A fantasy world where Wells and Poe somehow became engineers instead of novelists. It’s a world of steam-powered computers, impossible inventions and outrageous imagination, but without the poverty, colonialism, misogyny and social inequality that accompanied the real Victorian era.

    Put Ghostbusters and Steampunk together, add a dash of amateur dramatics and an unhealthy enthusiasm for brass and mahogany panelling, and out walked Professor Mycroft Spengler.

    In Closing

    The funny thing is that my Ghostbuster costume isn’t really hiding who I am. It’s revealing parts of me that everyday life quietly encourages me to keep folded away. He’s louder than I am, more confident than I am, and considerably more theatrical than I am, but none of those qualities are fake. They’re all me.

    Just with a proton pack.

    Eventually the goggles come off, the proton pack goes back on its stand and Mycroft quietly disappears until the next convention. The exhaustion arrives shortly afterwards and, as always, the masking tax has to be paid. For a few glorious hours, though, pretending to be somebody else allows me to stop pretending to be somebody I’m not.

    That’s a trade I’ll happily keep making.

  • The Slow Creep of Autistic Burnout

    The Slow Creep of Autistic Burnout

    One of the more irritating things about autistic burnout is that it rarely arrives with the theatrical flourish I imagine. There is no dramatic collapse, no warning klaxon, and no helpful message from my brain politely informing me that I’m running critically low on mental resources and should pull over at the next convenient lay-by for a recharge. That would be far too convenient. Instead, burnout usually sneaks up on me.

    It’s less like falling off a cliff and more like gradually walking into the sea. I don’t notice the water reaching my ankles because I’m too busy concentrating on the horizon. Then the water is up to my waist and I’m still too busy focusing on my destination. Before I realise it, I’m out of my depth, floundering slightly, unable to feel the bottom, and wondering which direction the shore lies.

    My day involves a surprising amount of invisible effort. There’s the social masking, the “stage voice” I wrote about in my stammering article, filtering background noise, monitoring facial expressions, trying to remember whether I’ve made enough eye contact to appear interested without accidentally crossing into “slightly unsettling”, keeping track of conversations, and trying not to infodump about slide rules, cravats or my nihilistic theory of human existence. None of those things are particularly difficult in isolation, but together they’re like dozens of little computer programs quietly running in the background. Each one consumes a little memory, a little processing power, and a little battery until, eventually, I simply run out of something to give.

    I’ve started thinking about burnout less like stress and more like a battery. Most people notice when their phone reaches five per cent. My autistic battery has the remarkable ability to leap directly from sixty per cent to, “Why am I irrationally irritated because somebody stacked the dishwasher incorrectly?” Looking back, the warning signs are actually fairly obvious. The world seems louder than usual, conversations start feeling like hard work, and even simple questions such as “What do you fancy for dinner?” suddenly require the computational resources of a AI server farm. Eventually I reach the point where I no longer want to see or speak to anyone, not because I dislike people or because I’m depressed, but because my brain has quietly put a little sign on the door saying, “Capacity reached. Please call again tomorrow.”

    This is perhaps the biggest misconception about burnout. It isn’t laziness, a lack of motivation, or “not trying hard enough”. If anything, it usually arrives because I’ve been trying too hard for too long. I often picture it as carrying a rucksack while somebody quietly drops another pebble into it every day. One pebble isn’t a problem. Neither are ten, or fifty. The trouble is that one day I realise I’m carrying several thousand of the things and I’ve become so accustomed to the weight that I’ve forgotten life wasn’t always supposed to feel this heavy. That’s what burnout feels like to me. It isn’t one dramatic event. It’s the cumulative effect of hundreds of tiny demands, each insignificant on its own, quietly adding up until my brain eventually decides it’s had enough.

    The frustrating thing is that I already know what helps. The solutions are spectacularly uninteresting. More sleep. Less noise. Fewer demands. Time with people I trust. A walk somewhere green. Music. Noise-cancelling headphones. A mug of coffee. None of this is revolutionary, and none of it would sell many self-help books, but it works. The difficult part isn’t discovering the solution. The difficult part is giving myself permission to stop before my brain makes that decision on my behalf.

    At fifty-something I’ve become slightly better at recognising the warning signs. Not because I’ve become particularly wise, but because I’ve ignored them often enough to recognise the consequences. These days, if the world suddenly seems louder than usual, if every conversation feels like hard work, and if the thought of another Teams meeting fills me with existential dread, I know it probably isn’t the world that’s changed. It’s me. That’s usually my cue to slow down before my brain pulls the emergency brake and does it for me.

    Sadly, I do not always pull the emergency cord in time, and sometimes I get so overloaded that I am barely capable of leaving the house. The most banal tasks become Herculean, and routine things I do every day suddenly take on a distinctly Sisyphean quality until it all becomes, well, too much. I have been in that stage fairly recently. Instead I ignored the warnings, went on against my brain’s better judgement, and then promptly fell over. Naturally, I paid the price and am now trying to pick up the pieces. At least I noticed it fairly early in the burnout process and had not sunk too deeply into the depressive mire that can accompany it. I am still close enough to the edge to grab a low-hanging branch and haul myself back out. Muddied, exhausted but still in one piece.

    Perhaps the biggest lesson burnout has taught me is that being autistic or having ADHD isn’t just about the things other people notice. It’s also about the invisible effort that nobody sees. The conversations that looked effortless. The office that seemed manageable. The shopping trip that appeared uneventful. The social gathering everyone assumed I enjoyed. Sometimes my greatest achievement on any given day is convincing everyone else that I’m coping effortlessly. Burnout is often the bill arriving several weeks later.

    I’ve finally stopped thinking of myself as a machine that ought to run continuously. Batteries aren’t defective because they eventually need recharging, and neither am I. Every time I’ve ignored the warning signs and tried to keep going, my brain has eventually overruled me anyway. These days I try to recognise when my own battery is running low and quietly plug myself back into the charger before the screen goes completely black.

    Even if, occasionally, I don’t manage. At least I tried.

  • Smell Is Basically a Superpower

    Smell Is Basically a Superpower

    People often ask me what it’s like not being able to smell.

    The honest answer is:

    I haven’t the faintest idea.

    If that sounds odd, then consider this: I’ve never experienced life with a sense of smell, so how can I possibly say what life is like without it?

    To me, smell occupies roughly the same category as telepathy, X-ray vision, and flying.

    I understand the theory.

    I simply have no frame of reference for the experience.

    What Exactly Is Congenital Anosmia?

    Put simply, anosmia is the lack of a sense of smell.

    Anosmia is to smell what blindness is to sight, or deafness is to hearing.

    Congenital means I was born this way.

    I didn’t lose my sense of smell later in life.

    I never had it in the first place.

    Technically, anosmia is the complete absence of smell. There is actually a spectrum of smell-related conditions, of which anosmia is just one.

    Anosmia

    The complete absence of any sense of smell.

    Hyposmia

    A reduced sense of smell. Think of it as turning the detection volume down.

    Phantosmia

    Smelling things that aren’t there.

    I hear this one can be pretty awful for sufferers.

    My brain obviously never generates imaginary smells. It has enough trouble detecting real ones.

    Parosmia

    Distorted smells.

    Coffee may smell like burning rubber. Perfume may smell acrid or unpleasant.

    Unfortunately, following COVID, cases of parosmia, hyposmia, and anosmia all became significantly more common.

    So now you know what the various smell disorders are.

    How is congenital anosmia different?

    You Can’t Miss What You Never Had

    Well, I’ve never had a sense of smell.

    Never experienced what smell is.

    To me, the sense of smell is effectively a fictional experience.

    Someone who acquires anosmia later in life, through illness, infection, head trauma, tumours, or simply old age, experiences a genuine sense of loss.

    They remember smell.

    They miss smell.

    They know what coffee smelled like.

    Freshly baked bread.

    Cut grass.

    Rain.

    Those memories remain even after the sense itself has gone.

    In some ways, being born without a sense of smell is easier.

    That may sound strange, but it really doesn’t bother me.

    That’s not to say it isn’t serious.

    Depression among people who lose their sense of smell later in life is sadly quite common.

    I do not envy them their memories.

    People often ask whether I feel I’ve missed out.

    It’s a bit like asking how I cope with losing £100 billion on the stock market.

    I haven’t lost £100 billion on the stock market.

    I never had £100 billion on the stock market.

    I’m aware that both smell and £100 billion exist.

    My emotional relationship with either is somewhat limited by their complete absence from my life.

    Smell as a Superpower

    I’ll tell someone I’m anosmic and can’t smell, and invariably I get variations of the same conversation.

    “What? You can’t smell coffee?”

    “No.”

    “What about burnt toast?”

    “No.”

    “What about aftershave?”

    “No.”

    At this point the conversation starts descending into that famous scene from BBC’s Red Dwarf.

    “Everybody’s dead, Dave.”

    “What, Captain Hollister?”

    “Everybody’s dead, Dave.”

    “What, Peterson?”

    “Everybody’s dead, Dave.”

    No.

    I can’t smell coffee.

    I can’t smell toast.

    I can’t smell aftershave.

    I can’t smell anything.

    Funny as it is, it becomes a little tiring after the hundredth repetition.

    These days, when someone asks:

    “So you can’t smell roses?”

    I sometimes reply:

    “Can you see through walls?”

    Both questions are equally unhelpful to understanding.

    I then explain that I know smell exists and I know Superman can see through walls.

    I understand the theory.

    I simply don’t, and never will, understand the experience itself.

    I understand smell intellectually in much the same way I understand quantum mechanics.

    I accept that it exists.

    I can even comprehend some of the details of the process.

    Beyond that, things become rather fuzzy.

    Things People Forget Smell Does

    Once people understand that I can’t smell, I occasionally get this sort of response:

    “Ooh, lucky you. You’ll never have to experience a hot, sweaty Tube train.”

    I usually have rather less patience with this one.

    My response is generally something along the lines of:

    “And blind people never have to experience what passes for modern art these days.”

    Smell is an important sense.

    Not only is it heavily linked to flavour, but it also contributes significantly to memory and environmental awareness.

    Taste itself is largely handled by the tongue and remains unaffected. We can detect sweet, sour, salty, bitter and umami flavours, as well as sensations like the cooling effect of menthol and the burning sensation of capsaicin.

    Smell, however, contributes enormously to the richness and complexity of flavour.

    It’s also closely connected to memory.

    The olfactory bulb has direct connections to parts of the brain involved in emotion and memory, particularly the amygdala and hippocampus.

    There’s a reason certain smells can instantly transport people back to childhood and why senses are important in laying down new memories.

    My memories simply use different triggers.

    Smell also provides environmental awareness.

    It helps detect danger.

    It warns of fires, gas leaks, spoiled food and other hazards.

    I’ve had so many cases of food poisoning over my lifetime that I’ve genuinely lost count.

    So yes, there are disadvantages.

    Detecting spoiled food.

    Detecting smoke.

    Detecting gas leaks.

    These are all things I have to think about differently.

    That said, there are advantages too.

    I grew up on a dairy farm.

    Without going into too much detail, I’m sure you can imagine at least some of them.

    Summing Up

    Do I wish I could smell?

    Of course.

    Curiosity alone would make it worthwhile.

    I’d love to know what coffee smells like.

    Or petrichor after rain.

    Or my wife’s perfume.

    Or whether everybody has been telling the truth about bacon all these years.

    But congenital anosmia isn’t really a story about loss.

    You can’t lose something you never had.

    It’s simply a different way of experiencing the world.

    Besides, the only thing I know for certain that stinks is my sense of humour.

  • The Difference Between Sound and Noise.

    The Difference Between Sound and Noise.

    I’m a bit of a contradiction when it comes to my autistic sensibilities.

    I cannot tolerate noise.

    Office chatter, traffic noise, dripping taps, ticking clocks, snoring, eating sounds (misophonia), or other people’s phone calls and conversations in general.

    This would lead you to think I am sensory avoidant and, to some extent, I am.

    However, My autistic noise sensitivity has an exception, I adore music.

    Music is one of my great pleasures in life.

    My noise-cancelling headphones are rarely off my head. I wear them as soon as I leave the house or office and listen to music constantly.

    My musical tastes can best be described as:

    “Yes.”

    On any given day I might listen to progressive rock, punk, heavy metal, opera, film soundtracks, musical theatre, dad rock, classical music, or, on particularly unusual afternoons, Mongolian throat singing.

    Spotify’s recommendation algorithm has long since given up trying to profile me and now simply appears to be selecting tracks using a random number generator and mild panic.

    In the world of sound there is a profound difference between music and noise.

    Music is controlled, predictable, and chosen.

    Noise is intrusive, random, unwarranted and, in most cases, unavoidable.

    I live in London.

    It’s hardly a haven of peace, calm and quiet serenity and not a place for someone with autistic noise sensitivity!

    Well, bits of it can be. More on that later.

    But the city isn’t designed to be noisy. It’s not even designed to be quiet. Noise is simply an unavoidable side effect of being a large, bustling metropolis.

    London is a loud place.

    Then again, it’s not always about volume.

    It’s about the inescapable wall of sound and its chaotic, unpredictable nature.

    Noise Fatigue

    Being constantly immersed in a sea of sound is draining.

    Much like Chinese water torture, it slowly chips away at my calm and increases my cognitive overload. External noise increases my internal static and makes my stammer worse.

    This results in difficulty concentrating, feeling worn out, exhaustion and an increased likelihood of meltdown.

    Death by a thousand auditory paper cuts.

    The Survival Equipment

    In order to get through the day with minimal fuss, I have an everyday carry survival kit.

    • My noise-cancelling headphones (a battered pair of Sony WH-1000XM3s held together with duct tape)
    • Loop Quiet earplugs
    • A spare set of fallback Bluetooth earbuds (some cheap brand, as I keep losing them)

    My morning routine as I leave the house is:

    Headphones.

    Keys.

    Wallet.

    Usually in that order.

    I’d rather discover I’d forgotten my wallet or my keys than my headphones, which probably says something quite worrying about me.

    More worrying, perhaps, is that I’ve frequently forgotten the latter, but as long as I have my headphones I’m fine.

    I may not be able to get back into the house.

    I may not be able to buy lunch.

    But hey, at least I’m not exposed to noise.

    Havens of Calm in the Chaos

    As mentioned above, not all of London is a hellish soundscape.

    For all its flaws, London has an astounding number of parks, museums, churches and galleries.

    When I’m in the middle of London I can often find much-needed respite by nipping into one of the many parks and listening to birdsong, or by popping into a museum or gallery to calm my inner turmoil.

    And although I’m not a religious person, I do love the peaceful calm of a church or cathedral.

    I can understand why those of a more spiritual nature feel something in such places.

    The peace is almost palpable.

    Like a comforting presence.

    Closing Thoughts

    So yes, I love sound.

    At least, I love music and the sounds of nature.

    I love birdsong, babbling brooks, complex harmonies, soaring orchestras, distorted guitars, operatic voices and whatever noise Mongolian throat singers have somehow persuaded their anatomy to produce.

    What I don’t love is my brain trying to process every single noise in the environment simultaneously.

    The difference between music and noise isn’t volume.

    It’s consent.

    One I invited in.

    The other kicked the door down and started defecating on the furniture.

  • Pride Month and the Anxious Asexual

    Pride Month and the Anxious Asexual

    This is a post I thought I might not write.

    Not because I’m ashamed or anything, but mainly because I wasn’t sure I could do it justice.

    It’s LGBTQIA+ Month (June), coinciding with and commemorating the Stonewall riots. It’s a month of marches, festivals and parades celebrating the LGBTQIA+ community, promoting equality and acceptance, and remembering the activism that laid the bedrock for many of the rights we enjoy today.

    Every June, my social media fills with rainbow flags, Pride events, celebrations and discussions.

    And every June I find myself wondering the same thing:

    Am I allowed to be here?

    The Invisible Letter

    I’ve always carried a nagging feeling that perhaps I shouldn’t.

    Maybe if I expand the acronym from LGBTQ+ to LGBTQIA+, I feel a little more comfortable including myself. It’s that all-important A at the end.

    A for Asexual, Aromantic or Agender.

    I am, for my sins, asexual.

    One of the main reasons I struggle to include myself in LGBTQIA+ festivities is what is often called passing privilege.

    Nothing about me, save perhaps my asexual flag pin or rainbow lanyard, immediately singles me out as “different”.

    My autism is invisible.

    My congenital anosmia is invisible.

    My asexuality is equally invisible.

    I’ve never been picked on, abused, beaten up or discriminated against for things people couldn’t see.

    Most people assume I am straight, and unless I choose to disclose my asexuality, I can move through the world without attracting much attention.

    That can create a feeling of awkwardness, or even guilt, when engaging with LGBTQIA+ spaces.

    I feel as though others have fought battles that I have largely been spared.

    Yet invisibility brings its own challenges.

    Asexuality is frequently misunderstood, dismissed or erased entirely.

    The result is a curious sense of standing both inside and outside the community at the same time; connected to its struggles and history, while sometimes feeling hesitant to claim a place within it.

    The Feeling of Not Being “Queer Enough”

    I often wonder whether I should even be here.

    Am I taking up space meant for others?

    Do I really belong?

    Am I part of the community or merely an ally?

    Should I even describe myself as LGBTQIA+?

    These questions are surprisingly common among asexual people.

    I and those like me spend so much time being overlooked that we can end up overlooking ourselves.

    Pride Isn’t Actually About Sex

    One of the reasons asexuality can seem confusing to people outside the community is that many assume LGBTQIA+ identities are fundamentally about sex.

    Mention Pride and some people’s minds immediately jump to attraction, relationships and sexuality.

    Viewed through that lens, asexuality appears to be an odd fit.

    After all, how can someone who experiences little or no sexual attraction belong within a community that many outsiders mistakenly define by sexual attraction?

    The answer is simple.

    Pride has never really been about sex.

    At its heart, Pride is about identity.

    It’s about authenticity.

    It’s about visibility and community.

    It’s about recognising that human beings don’t all fit neatly into society’s expectations and that nobody should be shamed for existing outside those expectations.

    Asexual people understand that experience all too well.

    Many of us grew up feeling different without quite understanding why.

    We watched friends develop crushes, navigate relationships and talk about attraction in ways that simply didn’t resonate with our own experiences.

    Some of us spent years wondering whether we were late bloomers, broken, repressed or somehow missing a piece of ourselves.

    The journey may look different from those of other LGBTQIA+ people, but the underlying themes of self-discovery, acceptance and belonging are often remarkably familiar.

    The Ace Spectrum

    It’s also worth remembering that asexuality isn’t a single, uniform experience.

    The ace umbrella encompasses a wide spectrum of identities, including demisexual and grey-asexual people whose experiences of attraction may be infrequent, conditional or significantly different from what society considers typical.

    In my own case, I’ve been very happily married for seventeen years, which often surprises people when they learn that I’m ace.

    One of the most persistent misconceptions about asexuality is that it somehow excludes relationships, intimacy or deep emotional connections.

    It doesn’t.

    Being ace isn’t necessarily about the absence of love, companionship or commitment; it’s about the way attraction is experienced.

    The ace spectrum is broad enough to include people who never experience sexual attraction, those who experience it only rarely, and those for whom it emerges primarily from strong emotional bonds.

    Human relationships, as it turns out, are rather more nuanced than simple tick-box categories.

    Why Pride Matters

    Pride celebrates the freedom to exist honestly.

    It celebrates the right to be seen as who you are rather than who society expects you to be.

    Those are things asexual people share completely with the wider LGBTQIA+ community.

    You don’t need to experience sexual attraction to understand the importance of authenticity.

    And you certainly don’t need to experience sexual attraction to deserve a place at Pride.

    In Closing

    Perhaps that’s what I’ve slowly come to realise over the years.

    Pride isn’t a competition.

    It’s not awarded based on visibility, hardship or how obvious your identity is to strangers.

    It’s not about proving you’re “queer enough”.

    It’s about recognising that people come in many different forms and that none of them should have to hide who they are.

    Including those of us whose differences are invisible.

    Including those of us who sometimes stand at the edge of the parade wondering whether we should even be there.

    We do.

    And maybe that’s reason enough to celebrate.