I’d always wondered why I found it so hard to maintain relationships throughout my life. Friends, romantic relationships, even family at times. So much about social interactions would drain me.
I’d find myself constantly overanalysing every part of the interaction, myself and them. I’d think, “Oh, their tone just changed, they’re angry with me,” or, “I feel like I’m always saying the wrong thing.”
Growing up, I always preferred one-to-one friendships. It didn’t necessarily mean they were easier, but they felt less draining. Large groups of people, particularly unfamiliar groups, would leave me feeling emotionally exhausted, and I’d often find myself dissociating.
Once I found a friend I felt comfortable and safe with, I would tend to cling to them and had a tendency to overshare. I’d sometimes become overly invested in the friendship and feel jealous if a close friend had other friends. I couldn’t understand why they needed multiple friendships.
I’d feel betrayed easily by a close friend because of my strong sense of injustice. If they didn’t match my high standards, or if they let me down in any way, I felt a deep sense of hurt and disregard.
It took me a long time to understand this.
I used to think, “But I’d never let them down.”
However, I eventually realised that this often came at the expense of having boundaries. I was a people pleaser who would give too much of myself and then feel hurt when other people didn’t do the same.
I didn’t realise at the time how much my autism was contributing to my powerful response to perceived unfairness or inconsistency. I would notice when people didn’t do what they said they would do. I would remember it. I would think about it.
That deep feeling of injustice, alongside a need to cling to what felt familiar, made relationships complicated for me. Change has always been hard, and routine is a strong staple in my life. This was no different when it came to people.
As I got older, I started to distance myself more. After being let down by a few close friends, bar my long-term bestie who has stuck by me through thick and thin, I started asking myself, why can’t I get it right? Why is socialising so hard for me and easier for other people?
It’s interesting because when I mentioned to family members, acquaintances and peers that I was having an autism assessment, they all seemed surprised.
“You don’t strike me as autistic.”
Of course I don’t.
I’m bubbly. I’m smiley. I laugh a lot, mostly to cover the uncomfortableness I often feel. I make eye contact. I can hold a normal conversation.
But no one is seeing what’s happening internally.
Appearing socially capable while feeling exhausted internally.
The scanning for changes in body language, tone and energy. Looking for anything that might indicate danger, such as rejection or dislike towards me. Overthinking conversations for hours, days and sometimes even weeks later.
Many autistic women are highly skilled at masking. We learn social rules consciously and work hard to understand people, navigate social situations and present ourselves in ways that fit expectations.
Which takes effort.
I’d always been called sensitive throughout my life. I thought being sensitive was something to be ashamed of. I thought it was a weakness.
It took me years to understand that actually, it’s one of my biggest strengths.
My sensitivity has kept me safe, albeit sometimes too safe, but it has also helped me develop my self-awareness, become highly reflective and ultimately led me towards the career I’m in now.
Counselling.
My sensitivity is part of what makes me a good trainee counsellor. My tendency to hyper-analyse helps me with pattern recognition and picking up on the little things others may not notice. Subtle changes in tone, shifts in behaviour and energy, habits and quirks that others might overlook.
But the same qualities that can be strengths in my professional life can become exhausting in my personal relationships.
Romantic relationships have probably been the biggest minefield.
I always wondered why they seemed so much easier for other people and so damn hard for me. Why couldn’t I just get it right?
I tend to take things quite literally. If someone says they are going to do something and they don’t, I can feel deeply affected by it. Because I feel things so intensely, rejection, perceived inconsistency, disappointment and feeling misunderstood can hit me hard.
If a partner’s behaviour changed, my first instinct would often be, “What does this mean about me?” rather than assuming there could be many possible explanations.
There has always been a strong need for consistency, predictability and clear expectations.
But people are human. They make mistakes. They change their minds. They have bad days.
Yet something inside me would often keep score.
I couldn’t let things go easily. I’d obsess over them to the point of pushing someone away.
It was either black or white, no grey.
Safe or unsafe.
Good or bad.
Cares or doesn’t care.
I also struggled to maintain my own identity within romantic relationships. I could become so focused on the relationship that I would lose sight of myself. Constantly analysing where we were going, matching the other person’s pace and rhythm whilst abandoning my own.
It became less about experiencing the relationship and more about monitoring it.
I could never fully relax.
Then I became a mother.
And motherhood changed the way I experienced relationships again.
Suddenly, friendships weren’t just about me anymore. I had a little person with me. My time became limited. My energy became limited. My tolerance for social situations that drained me became even lower.
Motherhood can be incredibly isolating, and I think this can be particularly complicated when you’re autistic.
There is already this expectation that mothers should build a village. Go to baby groups. Make mummy friends. Arrange playdates. Join WhatsApp groups. Keep in touch. Remember birthdays. Organise coffee dates.
For some people, this might feel natural.
For me, it can feel like another social system I have to consciously navigate.
Now, at three years old, my son is becoming more independent and his social world is growing too. That means my own social world is changing alongside his.
There are the other parents at nursery. The mums at activities. The parents at parties. The people I meet through my son.
And sometimes I still find myself wondering where I fit.
I can enjoy talking to someone and then spend hours afterwards replaying the conversation. Did I talk too much? Did I say something strange? Did they actually like me? Did their tone change at the end?
Sometimes I’ll decide that I’m better off keeping to myself because it feels safer than navigating all of that uncertainty.
But I’m also learning that motherhood doesn’t mean I have to force myself into friendships that don’t feel right just because we both have children.
I’ve started to understand that I don’t need a huge friendship group.
I need people who feel safe.
People I can be myself around.
People who understand that sometimes I might disappear for a little while because life is overwhelming, not because I don’t care.
And perhaps most importantly, people who don’t make me question where I stand with them.
Being a single mum adds another layer to this.
I don’t have a partner automatically built into my social life. I don’t have someone beside me at every family event, every children’s activity or every difficult parenting moment.
Friendships can become incredibly important because they can provide connection, support and a sense of belonging.
But at the same time, being a single mum means my availability doesn’t always look like other people’s.
My weekends might be my time to recharge. I might not always have the capacity to socialise after a long week of parenting. And sometimes I need to prioritise myself without feeling guilty about it.
I’m learning that maintaining relationships doesn’t have to mean constantly performing them.
It doesn’t have to mean always replying immediately, always being available, always knowing what to say or never getting things wrong.
Perhaps this is one of the biggest things my autism diagnosis has given me: perspective.
I can now look back at some of my friendships and relationships and understand myself with a little more compassion.
I wasn’t deliberately being difficult.
I wasn’t too sensitive.
I wasn’t a weirdo who just couldn’t get relationships right.
I was trying to navigate a world of unspoken social rules without understanding why it felt so exhausting.
Feeling different from others has been a recurring theme throughout my life.
Feeling like I don’t fully belong.
Feeling misunderstood.
Feeling judged by family and friends.
Wondering why things seem easier for other people.
But I’m slowly learning that relationships don’t have to look the way I once thought they did.
I don’t need to fit into someone else’s idea of what friendship, motherhood or connection should look like.
I can have a small circle.
I can need space.
I can be sensitive.
I can overthink.
I can communicate differently.
And I can still be a good friend, a good mum, and someone who is worthy of healthy relationships.
Ambiguous communication can still be particularly challenging for me. Uncertainty can still lead to intense analysis. How someone feels. Where a relationship is going. What someone means. Whether something has changed.
That probably isn’t something I’ll completely grow out of.
But now I understand where it comes from.
And there is something incredibly freeing about finally understanding yourself.
I feel less like a “weirdo” and more accepting of myself.
I’m still learning how to navigate relationships as an autistic woman, a single mum, and simply as myself.
But at least now, I’m learning to do it without abandoning who I am in the process.
No comments:
Post a Comment