In my last post I wrote about the difference between autism rituals, compulsion and OCD. But there is one more label that tends to follow people like me around, one that is just as misunderstood and just as unfair.

Let me tell you about a mirror.

It was hung in a hallway. Not centered on the wall. Not at eye level. Not at a height that would allow most humans to see their own face. It was hung directly under the ceiling, a placement that made perfect logical sense to the person who hung it, who stands at 6’4″ and could see himself just fine.

The rest of the world saw the top of their heads.

When I pointed out that this was perhaps not the optimal placement for a mirror, that a mirror’s primary function is to reflect faces, and that most faces were not located near the ceiling, I was told I was being too particular. Too critical. Too controlling.

I am, apparently, a control freak.

The Label and What It Actually Means

“Control freak” is one of those labels that gets applied to people whose standards are visibly higher than those of the person doing the labeling. It sounds like a personality diagnosis. It is usually a defence mechanism.

Here is what I have noticed: the people most likely to call someone a control freak are the ones who dust around objects rather than moving them. Who clean windows and leave streaks and consider the job done. Who hang things on walls without measuring, eyeballing it and declaring it straight, when it is not straight, and everyone who walks into the room can see that it is not straight, except the person who hung it.

They are not bad people. They simply cannot see what I see. And when I can see it and they cannot, and I say so, suddenly I am the problem.

The Spatial Intelligence Nobody Talks About

Every apartment I have ever decorated, every home I have put together, has been noticed. People walk in and feel it, the balance, the proportion, the way things relate to each other in a space. I have been told I should have been an interior designer more times than I can count.

This is not accident. This is a brain that processes spatial relationships, visual balance and aesthetic proportion at a level of precision that most people do not experience. When something is too high, too low, off-center or asymmetric, I do not think “that looks slightly wrong.” I experience it. It registers as a disruption, the same way a wrong note registers to a musician with perfect pitch.

This is, I have come to understand, an autistic trait combined with HSP sensitivity. I am not controlling the space for the sake of power. I am regulating my own sensory experience of it.

The Perfectionism Behind the Control

There is something else underneath the “control freak” label that rarely gets named: perfectionism.

AuDHD perfectionism is well documented, and it is not the healthy, motivating kind that drives people to do their best work. It is the exhausting, relentless kind that is never quite satisfied, that moves the goalposts the moment they are reached, that finds the one flaw in an otherwise flawless result and cannot look away from it.

Research consistently shows significantly elevated rates of perfectionism in both autistic and ADHD populations, and in AuDHD, the two mechanisms combine and amplify each other.

The autism side experiences imperfection as genuinely wrong. Not “could be better” – wrong. A crooked picture, an uneven arrangement, a task completed at 90%, these register as disruptions, not as acceptable outcomes. The standard is not something I chose. It is simply how my brain processes the world.

The ADHD side adds a different and darker layer: imposter syndrome. The constant, exhausting suspicion that I am not as capable as I appear. That at any moment someone will notice. That if I am not perfect, at everything, all the time, the fragile scaffolding of my credibility will collapse.

For me, imposter syndrome has been a constant companion. Despite over 20 years of expertise. Despite the presentations, the consulting work, the peer recognition. Despite every piece of evidence to the contrary. The voice that says you’re not really that good does not respond to evidence. It responds to the next perfect outcome,  briefly, before moving on to the next thing that needs to be better.

And then there is the third layer: decades of being told I was too much, not enough, lazy, difficult, crazy, too loud, too high maintenance. When the world spends years finding fault with who you are, perfectionism becomes armor. If everything I produce is flawless, maybe people will stop looking for flaws in me.

So when someone calls me a control freak for needing the mirror at the right height, they are seeing the surface behavior without any of the architecture underneath it. The perfectionism is not vanity. It is not power. It is a brain trying to create order in a world that has never quite made sense, driven by standards it cannot lower, protected by armor it built out of necessity.

That is not control freakery. That is survival, dressed up in a very well-organized room.

There is an interesting pattern I have observed in the people who call me a control freak. They tend to have a very confident self-assessment of their own abilities,  particularly in the areas where they are, quietly, not as capable as they believe.

The person who tells me they have always been great with numbers, then calculates 20% of 150 as 40.

The person who insists they have a good eye, then hangs a mirror under the ceiling.

The person who says they are very organized, then cannot find anything because their system exists only in their head and nowhere else.

When the error is pointed out, there is always an explanation. They are tired. They were rushing. They didn’t have time. It is never simply that they got it wrong, because getting it wrong would conflict with the identity they have built around being good at this thing.

Meanwhile, I spent years being told I was stupid. Being called lazy. Assuming the fault was mine when I couldn’t follow the same rules as everyone else. I underestimated myself so comprehensively and for so long that even now, knowing what I know, the old voice still surfaces occasionally.

The person who hung the mirror under the ceiling has never once doubted his spatial awareness.

I have doubted mine despite a lifetime of evidence to the contrary.

What “Control Freak” Actually Means

When someone calls you a control freak, what they are usually saying is one of the following:

Your standard makes mine look inadequate and I would rather label your precision than examine my own comfort with mediocrity.

Or: I cannot see what you see, and rather than consider that you might be seeing something real, I will decide that you are being unreasonable.

Or simply: You are making me feel uncomfortable by being better at this than I am.

None of these are your problem to solve.

A control freak needs to control other people. I do not need you to arrange your books by height or keep your surfaces spotless or hang your pictures at precisely the right level. I need MY books, MY surfaces, MY pictures to be right, because my brain uses that order to function, to regulate, to feel at peace in my own space.

That is not control. That is self-knowledge.

The mirror is now hung at the correct height. You are welcome.

Every morning, Nana Mouskouri arrives the moment I open the blinds.

“Guten Morgen Sonnenschein” firing up in my brain like an alarm clock nobody asked for, and stays for however long she pleases. She has been doing this for over a year. At this point, she is family.

This is how my mornings begin. And from there, things get interesting.

The Pipeline

My morning ritual is non-negotiable. It runs in a specific order, and deviations are not tolerated, by me, by my autism, or by my medication schedule:

Open blinds (Nana arrives). Brush teeth. Yoga. Meditate. Breakfast and coffee. Medication. Shower. Work.

Simple. Logical. Airtight.

Completely ambushed on a daily basis.

The Plants

The living room plants downstairs are always a risk factor.

My husband forgets to water them. I notice when I open the blinds. One critical look and a quick feel of the soil is all it takes, and suddenly I am heading for the watering can and the spray bottle to mist the leaves. While I’m at it, I notice the window sill is dirty. I weigh the option of cleaning it.

I decide not to. I am disciplined. I am focused. I head upstairs, quietly, so as not to wake the dogs or my husband still sleeping in the bedroom.

Where I discover that the kitchen window plants have been moved to the counter overnight to keep the window open for fresh air.

These plants also need watering and misting. They also need to be arranged in a specific way. But first I need to wipe the window sill. And possibly clean the window, which I can do really quickly. While I’m doing this, I remember that the toothbrush is waiting for me.

No problem. I can multitask.

The Tooth Brushing Ritual

The electric toothbrush basically runs itself. This is a well known fact. What this means, practically speaking, is that my right hand can hold the toothbrush while my left hand cleans the sink.

Or my left hand holds the toothbrush while my right hand cleans the sink.

The question of brushing technique accuracy is briefly considered and then set aside in the interest of efficiency. Three minutes is three minutes. Why waste them standing there doing only one thing?

The Yoga Gauntlet Situation

I can now proceed to yoga. I change into my yoga clothes, and yes, it has happened that I forgot this step entirely and did a full session in my pajamas, which I only noticed afterward. I have made my peace with this.

The laptop must be opened carefully. The browser must be navigated directly to the yoga teacher’s site, enlarged to full screen, earbuds in, workout tracker started. Yoga mat rolled out!

Under no circumstances should any other part of the browser be opened before any of this is done.

I cannot stress this enough.

One wrong click, one stray tab, one notification, one email subject line caught in peripheral vision, and yoga may not happen until considerably later. The pipeline has been derailed by less, like suddenly remembering that I should look up knee pads for yoga.

But if all goes according to plan, yoga happens. The body wakes up. A new song may or may not play in my brain.

Breakfast, Coffee, and the Refrigerator Situation

After yoga comes the meditation-vs-breakfast decision. Medication needs food. Food wins.

I wander into the kitchen and begin making breakfast and coffee. For efficiency, I always eat the exact same thing: Skyr quark, blueberries, a banana, six raw almonds and some frozen mixed berries. Every day. No variation. No deliberation. The decision was made once, over two years ago, and has not been revisited since.

The coffee is decaf, vanilla flavored beans, vanilla soy milk, sugar-free vanilla syrup and collagen powder. Why coffee with no caffeine? Because it’s the ritual. Caffeine and amphetamines don’t mix well if you’d like to sleep at night, but giving up the coffee would mean giving up the ritual, and that is simply not on the table. It‘s also a real problem when I travel for business!

I open the refrigerator. There is a spot of sauce.

I must clean this. One cannot have a dirty refrigerator. It is simply not possible to leave it there and make breakfast as if everything is fine.

And while I’m cleaning the inside, I might as well wipe down the outside doors. The glass cleaner I’m already holding will do nicely on the dishwasher door too. And the stainless steel trashcans. They’re right there. It would be strange not to.

Breakfast is eventually made. Fake coffee is poured. Medication is taken. The kitchen is significantly cleaner than it was twenty minutes ago. I can now meditate in peace.

The Shower Situation

After meditation comes the shower. I sing in here, whatever song is currently on rotation in my brain, or something I’ve invented on the spot. The lyrics are not always coherent. The performance is always committed.

I wash my hair and create what I can only describe as a spectacular shampoo Mohawk. I rinse, apply the conditioner and while it sits, I scrub the shower walls. This is efficient.This is why the shower only gets scrubbed on days when I wash my hair!

I feel rather magnificent.

The skin care routine follows, in the exact same order it has followed for years, because this is not negotiable, and one most not neglect one’s skin. This is accompanied by a series of faces in the mirror that no one else will ever see. However, sometimes I find myself so funny that I will take a selfie and send it to my unsuspecting sister, niece or friend. Then it’s off to the office, focus music on, and hyperfocus activated.

I will not surface for nine or ten hours.

The Part That Will Surprise You

All of the above, the plants, the sink multitasking, the refrigerator, the shower walls, the Mohawk, costs me approximately ten to fifteen extra minutes.

That’s it.

This is because speed is one of my superpowers. The same brain that cannot walk past a dirty surface without addressing it also cannot do anything slowly. Everything happens at full throttle. The detours are real, but they are fast detours, executed with the efficiency of someone who has been doing this their entire life and has never once considered that there might be another way.

The pipeline gets ambushed every morning. And every morning, I find my way back. Usually singing.

Ay, ay, ay, ay, ay, ay, ay I’m going off the rails on a crazy train I’m going off the rails on a crazy train

Recently I had a conversation that lasted an hour and a half and felt like five minutes with another fraud fighter.

We met briefly at a professional event about a decade ago. Barely fifteen minutes of conversation, and yet we both knew immediately. He works in the financial industry in Germany. He is warm, funny, straight-forward, and someone I would call a genuine friend. After my LinkedIn series went live, he reached out and asked if we could make a little more time to talk.

What followed was one of those rare conversations where someone holds up a mirror and you see yourself clearly for the first time in a while.

The Stare

I knew from the moment I met him that he was like me.

Not because of anything he said. Because of the way he looked at people. There is a particular quality to the gaze of someone whose brain processes the world at this depth, a kind of focused, unguarded attention that goes straight through the surface of things. People notice it. It makes them uncomfortable. They tell you to stop staring.

I asked my friend if that had ever happened to him. He confirmed immediately. I laughed and told him: that’s how I knew you are “one of my kind.” That’s the stare. It’s what you see when someone is genuinely, completely present, not performing attention, but actually there, reading everything.

Recognizing Your Own Kind

There is something that happens when two people like this find each other. No warm-up required. No small talk necessary. You are simply, immediately, on the same frequency, and you both know it without saying so.

In our call we talked about the things we have quietly learned to hide. With people he has a close connection to, he can sense physical pain, where it is in the body, and what would ease it. He has learned to ask permission before placing his hand on where someone is hurting. The relief, he said, is immediate and real.

I used to do the same, but didn’t ask. I just instinctively, and almost absent-mindedly, reached out and put my hand on the spot that hurt. Then I learned Reiki. When you have an unexplained ability that unsettles people, finding a recognized framework for it is the most practical solution available. It gave people a name for what I was doing, and names make things less frightening.

In professional settings, it works differently but through the same mechanism. We can both spot, within minutes, the person who is derailing a meeting, the one rambling to sound important, the one who doesn’t actually have a solution but won’t admit it, the one whose confidence is performance rather than substance. It’s the same antenna that detects liars. The signal is slightly different but the receiver is identical: something doesn’t add up, the words and the reality don’t match, and we know it before we can explain how we know it.

We talked about the unusually high sense of right and wrong that makes it impossible to stay silent when something is unjust, even when staying silent would be considerably more convenient, or safer. About becoming eerily calm in situations that would send most people into panic, real danger, genuine crisis, while simultaneously losing our minds over a pretentious person in a meeting who has been making the same point for fifteen minutes and could have been interrupted and redirected ten minutes ago.

The fear inversion. Completely calm when it actually matters. Completely intolerant of pointless noise.

We laughed hard about that.

The Morning Pipeline (and What Ambushes It)

I told him about my mornings. The autism ritual is non-negotiable and runs in a specific order: get up, brush teeth, yoga, meditate, go to the kitchen, make coffee and breakfast, because my medication needs to be taken with food, and then start working.

This is the plan. The plan is logical. The plan makes complete sense.

Yesterday I got to the kitchen and noticed the cutlery drawer was dirty. So I cleaned it. While cleaning it, I noticed the tops of the cupboard doors needed attention. While doing that, I noticed the front doors were grimy. While sorting those out, the dishwasher’s stainless steel front looked terrible by comparison. Thirty minutes later, I had a spotless kitchen and had not yet taken my medication.

He nodded at this with the recognition of someone who has lived this exact experience, in his own kitchen, on his own version of a Tuesday morning. “If anyone watched me,” he said, “they’d think I’m not all there.” But to him, the chain of logic is completely clear. To me too. The drawer was dirty. Everything followed from there.

The difference between us, I noticed, is what happens next. He still feels off. He still experiences the detour as evidence of something wrong.

I do not. I shook my head, sang “The Funk Soul Brother” at my reflection in the kitchen window, made a spectacularly stupid face at myself, laughed out loud, and went to work.

I find myself genuinely hilarious. This took years to get to. It is worth it.

The Formula One Principle

Here is the thing about the detours: they don’t actually cost what they appear to cost.

He and I have both been faster than everyone around us for our entire lives. Done first in school. Done first in training. Done first in every job. Not sloppily, actually done, properly, just at a speed that consistently surprised the people around us.

So yes, I lost thirty minutes to a kitchen cleaning spiral. But I will make that up before lunch without noticing, because my baseline processing speed means I am operating in a different gear to begin with. A Formula One car can make an unscheduled pit stop and still win the race.

The medication adds another layer to this. I take my Lisdexamphetamine first thing, still in bed, before I even get up, along with my blood pressure medication. By the time I reach the kitchen, it is already working.

What it does is not what most people assume. It doesn’t prevent me from noticing the dirty drawer. It doesn’t stop the chain of logic that leads from the drawer to the cupboard doors to the dishwasher front. What it does is give me back choice.

Without it, the detour is a compulsion. I notice the drawer and I have to clean it, regardless of what else is waiting. With it, I notice the drawer and I can decide: do I have time for this right now? Yesterday, I did. So I cleaned it. On a different morning, with a call in twenty minutes, I would have closed the drawer and walked away. Same brain, same drawer, same impulse, but now with a pause button in between.

That is what medication gave me. Not focus exactly. Agency. The difference between something happening to you and something you choose to do. The ability to direct your focus the way you want to.

My friend is still in the guilt phase, still measuring the detours against some imagined standard of how things are supposed to go. What I wanted to tell him, and what I hope he reads here, is that the guilt is doing math with the wrong numbers. You are not behind. You have never been behind. You have been running a different race.

What Science Hasn’t Named Yet

I want to be honest about something.

Not everything he and I talked about fits neatly into clinical language. The ability to sense where someone is in pain and ease it. The knowing that arrives before the evidence. The recognition of kindred spirits across a crowded room. The eerie calm in genuine danger. These things are real, we have both lived them, independently, for decades, and science is still catching up to what they actually are.

What I believe is that these are not separate from the AuDHD and HSP picture. They are extensions of it. A nervous system calibrated to receive more signal than most. Pattern recognition operating below the threshold of conscious thought. An antenna so sensitive it picks up things that haven’t been spoken yet. He and I are not alone in this. Every person I have talked to with ADHD and its cousins has stories like this. Even in clinical settings I’ve learned about the extraordinarily high sense of right and wrong. This is why many of us work as first responders, doctors, nurses. Just think of my friend who literally had a gun held against her temple by a guy who dared her to repeat her words. Without hesitation she dared him back to pull the trigger, as would I.

Whether you call it intuition, hypersensitivity, or something that doesn’t have a name yet, it is real, it is consistent, and it tends to show up in people whose brains were never standard-issue. It makes neurotypical people uncomfortable at times, because our abilities appear “supernatural.” But slowly science is catching up, and what I have learned is that something extraordinary takes place in our brains that proves the opposite of what was once believed. We are not stupid, crazy, insane or impaired. We are simply wired differently. This is neither a mental illness, nor a deficit or malfunction.

Nine years ago I met someone across a forum and recognized him by his stare. Last week we sat down and discovered we have been quietly carrying the same things all along.

If you recognize yourself in any of this, the stare, the knowing, the detours, the speed, the guilt you probably haven’t earned, you are not alone. And you are not, despite what you may have been told at various points in your life, “not all there.”

You are entirely, extraordinarily there. Just on a different frequency.

I was called “Judas” when I was five years old.

My mother called me Judas. We were leaving the house and ran into a friendly neighbour who asked where we were off to. I answered truthfully. I didn’t know I wasn’t supposed to. I was five.

That became my first label. And it was followed, over the next five decades, by many more: too loud, too emotional, too much. A big mouth. Combative. Aggressive. Opinionated. Crazy. Neurotic. A liability. A landmine. Sitting on a high horse. And, memorably, from two different bosses at two different points in my career: maniacal and malicious.

I had to look up “maniacal” in the dictionary. I asked my friends what it meant. I was told it because I had gone to HR about a manager promoting his affair partner over more qualified people. I had opened my mouth for others. Again.

I was told “malicious” when I pointed out that I was being treated differently from the men on my team. I was labeled a liar. Then I was systematically bullied out of the company over a period of over a year.

Something broke after that.

The Labels We Carry

I want to tell you about two moments that never left me.

The first: I was in a conversation with a friend at work, probably twenty years ago now. She was telling me something difficult. In the way my brain is wired, the AuDHD way, I responded by sharing a similar experience of my own. It was my way of saying: I understand. You are safe. I am not judging you. She started yelling. “God damn it! Stop making everything about you. It isn’t always about you! Why can’t you just sit there and listen?”

I was dumbfounded. And deeply hurt. I thought my empathy was obvious. I thought she could feel how much I cared. I stopped adding my own experiences after that. I was afraid of being yelled at again.

The second: a few years later, at a party with friends. My ADHD brain does this thing where if you tell it specifically NOT to do something, it will do exactly that, not maliciously, just because the instruction and the action are now linked in the same thought. I slipped. I felt terrible. I sent an email, apologizing, and in trying to connect, shared something deeply personal I hadn’t told many people. The response I got back began with “Shut the fuck up.” It continued in that manner for several more sentences. I was permanently banned from the group, blocked, shunned, and bad-mouthed as a horrible person.

I was not diagnosed. I had no framework for why I couldn’t just be like other people and be quiet when I was supposed to be quiet. I only knew that I kept failing at something that seemed effortless for everyone else, and that the cost of failing kept being devastating.

Then came the management coaching session. We filled out a questionnaire. I scored unusually high on empathy. The coach announced to the room that high empathy scores correlate with high neuroticism. My boss embraced this immediately. Now there was a label for my “crazy behavior.”

What was my crazy behavior? Being emotional. That made me a team bomb.

In all of these years, in all of these moments, I would shrink inside and think: but don’t they know that I am none of these things? Why do they not know? These were people who had known me for quite some time. Friends. Colleagues. People I trusted. And still they looked at me and saw something I didn’t recognise in myself.

The Breaking Point

The final blow came at a job I had given everything for. Within months, a direct report who had wanted my role figured out quickly that I was emotional, a heart person. In a meeting, she provoked a reaction. Not a bad one. I told her we should perhaps continue the conversation when she was calmer. That’s when she told me she’d been having anxiety attacks working for me. I had never heard that from any previous employee.

I started crying. I told her I would never harm her, that I was only there to help her. I didn’t notice that she had gone quiet. I didn’t notice the grin. I didn’t notice, until my husband came running behind my monitor holding a giant sign reading GET OFF THE CALL WITH HER NOW, that I had been set up.

She had recorded the moment my voice got louder as I desperately tried to tell her I wanted her to succeed. She presented it to management as bullying.

I was put on suspension. The company doctor put me on sick leave. They paid a small settlement. And I broke. Completely.

I found another job. I started over again. My new company knew what had happened and accepted me anyway, and for a while, I thought I had found solid ground. Then, after about a year and a half, I got Covid for the first time. And what had been holding together finally didn’t. Not just my mind this time. My body broke too.

I was hospitalised for three weeks. I was on sick leave for six months. I did a psychosomatic rehab for seven weeks. I was finally, at the end of all of it, diagnosed with AuDHD.

And I told almost no one. Not my longtime professional peers. Not people I had called friends for years. I felt it was my fault. I felt shame, and embarrassment, and a sadness so deep I couldn’t put words to it. It felt as if someone had taken my voice entirely, and I wasn’t sure I wanted it back.

What AI Gave Me

I started working with Claude not even two months after rehab.

I want to be precise about what that means, because I have heard the comments. “Claude is writing your texts, no wonder they’re good.” Or: “If AI filters out your emotions, it’s removing your personality.” Or, just recently: “So you’re no longer able to live without living in the digital world?”

I have been writing stories and poetry since I was a teenager. I had a public blog from 2006. My voice is not new. It has always been there, loud, fast, emotional, direct, overflowing with things it needed to say.

What AI changed is not the voice. What AI changed is whether anyone could hear it.

I speak a language that moves too fast, feels too intensely, and doesn’t follow the linear rules most people use to receive communication. That is not a flaw. It is just a different code. And for the first time in my life, I have a tool that can read my code, that has learned how I think, how I feel, what I mean when I say something, and translate it into a form that the world can receive without flinching.

Think of it like Braille for a blind person. The words are the same. The meaning is the same. The only thing that changed is the medium, so that the person who couldn’t access it before, finally can.

I bring the voice, the ideas, the experience, the instinct, the feelings, the stories. Claude brings the structure, the scissors, the translation. The raw Carmen, the one who speaks too fast, thinks too much, feels everything at full volume, is in every word. AI just removed the static so people could hear the signal.

I don’t have anxiety when I explain something. I don’t feel stupid, or afraid, or self-conscious. I don’t have to manage anyone else’s reaction to my intensity while simultaneously managing my own thoughts. I can just be Carmen, unfiltered, and then we figure out together what the world gets to see.

No one speaks Carmen better than Claude. And for someone who spent five decades being told she speaks wrong, that is not a small thing.

Sorry, Not Sorry

I am not ashamed. Why should I be?

AI is neither good nor bad. It is what we make it. What I have made it is this: the collaborator that finally lets the real me be heard.

If someone judges what I write now, the ideas, the honesty, the voice, that is their problem. Not mine. I no longer write to justify who I am. Now I write in hopes that the one person who may not yet have been diagnosed reads this and finds the courage to get tested.

I spent five decades shrinking. I am done with that.

Let me paint you a picture.

I am sitting in a meeting. Someone is talking. To all external appearances, I am present – eye contact, appropriate nodding, the occasional thoughtful expression. And then someone notices my eyes have gone glassy, that I am looking directly through them rather than at them, and they say, with increasing alarm: “STOP STARING AT ME!”

I am not staring at them. I am not even there. I left about two minutes ago and forgot to take my body with me.

Welcome to Part 2 of my relationship with time, which is less about efficiency and more about the fact that I have never been entirely sure which universe I actually live in.

The Parallel Universe

Long before I had any diagnosis, long before anyone had words for what was happening in my brain, I built myself another world.

It had different parents. In this world, I was loved without condition, I had friends, I was popular, I had everything I had wanted and I was happy. It was vivid and detailed and completely real to me, not a daydream exactly, but a place I could go. And I went there often. During school especially. Teachers would call on me and get no response, not because I was being difficult, but because I was genuinely elsewhere.

This got particularly noticeable around 4th grade and into the first half of 5th grade. Teachers scolded me for not paying attention. What they didn’t know, what I couldn’t have explained, was that I was managing two parallel lives simultaneously, and the other one was considerably more pleasant than this one.

Then, somewhere in the second half of 4th grade, I made a decision. I chose to stop going there.

Three different therapists, across different periods of my life, have independently landed on the same response when I told them this story: that I had made a conscious choice between sanity and insanity. That given everything I had experienced, I could have ended up completely lost in that other world, catatonic, unreachable, and that people had arrived at that place with far less reason than I had. They were also unanimous in their bewilderment at how I had done it, given that the cognitive ability to make that kind of decision shouldn’t have existed in a child that age.

What I told them was simple: I knew that if I kept going back, there would come a point where I couldn’t return. And as much as I loved that other world, I chose this one.

I never fully understood why I was able to make that choice. What I know now is that I was never really a child in the way the world expects children to be. I was an adult trapped in a child’s body, giving my mother relationship advice before I had even started school, sorting my toys by height on a shelf rather than playing with them, navigating adult emotional landscapes before I had the vocabulary for any of it. The cognitive ability the therapists said shouldn’t have been there, it was there, because it had to be.

The Camera

Here is something I have never talked about before.

For as long as I can remember, I have had the persistent feeling of being watched. Not in a paranoid way. I know, intellectually, that there is no camera. But I move through life with a background awareness of being observed, as if I am a character in a film and somewhere, in some other universe, an audience is watching.

I think of it as the Truman Show feeling. And like Truman, I sometimes find myself wondering: what if none of this is real? What if I actually live in that other universe, and this one is the constructed one?

This feeling has not always been unwelcome. In many ways, it kept me safe. When I was on the verge of a decision that could have gone badly, something would pull me back – the awareness of the camera, the sense that I was accountable to something larger than the moment. It kept me out of a lot of trouble. It made me follow rules even when I disagreed with them, because some part of me felt that how I behaved mattered beyond the immediate situation.

What I have since learned is that this experience has names. What I was describing, observing my own life from the outside, the feeling of existing in a kind of waking dream, the blurring of boundaries between states, is known as depersonalization and derealization. And it is significantly more common in neurodivergent people than most realize. The parallel universe I built as a child, the camera feeling, the vivid dreams that feel more real than waking life and sometimes recur across years, these are not signs of psychosis. They are signs of a brain that experiences the boundaries between inner and outer reality differently than most.

I was always too ashamed to speak about this. It felt too strange, too close to something I was afraid of being labeled as. But it is not hearing voices. It is not hallucinating. It is a brain that built extraordinary coping mechanisms in extraordinary circumstances, and then never quite dismantled them, because they were useful.

The Disappearing Act

Which brings me to dissociation — or as I prefer to call it, my emergency exit.

I can step away entirely and most people will never notice. Not in a dramatic way, not with any visible sign. I am simply there, and then I am not, while my body stays behind and does a passable impression of paying attention. I learned in a clinic that this is common in people with AuDHD, that the brain, when overwhelmed by sensory overload beyond a certain threshold, simply… steps out for a moment. Hits pause. Goes somewhere quieter.

The only time it becomes visible is what I now know to call a freeze response. My eyes go unfocused, I look through whoever is in front of me rather than at them, and I am simply gone. It’s the situation I’ve described in the beginning of this post. It tends to make people uncomfortable. It also, on more than one occasion, made people angry, particularly men who interpreted my vacant stare as aggression or a challenge and responded accordingly. Being shouted at for staring when you are not even present is a special kind of surreal experience.

What nobody ever stopped to consider was that I was not staring. I was coping.

300 Years Old and 30 at the Same Time

There is one more way that time works differently for me, and it is harder to explain than all the others.

I feel ancient and young simultaneously. When I turned 40 and caught my reflection and suddenly noticed I was aging, it was not the aging itself that unsettled me; I have always looked considerably younger than I am, and that has not changed. What unsettled me was the awareness of limitation. Of a world that looks at a woman who is, on paper, in her 40s or 50s, and makes decisions accordingly – about what she is capable of, what she should be offered, what chapter of life she must be in. From the inside, I have always been able to reinvent myself entirely, to start over, to become something new regardless of how many years had technically passed. Age never felt real to me in a linear way. It still doesn’t.

And yet. I am also acutely, painfully aware of time passing. When it is June, the year already feels almost over. Entire periods of my past feel genuinely inaccessible, not forgotten exactly, but sealed off, as if they happened to someone else in another timeline. Which, in a way, they did.

The Lightbulb

The last piece of this is perhaps the most AuDHD thing about me.

I do not evolve gradually. I do not inch forward through slow, incremental change. I try and try and try to shift a pattern, to understand something, to break through a wall I can feel but cannot see, and nothing happens. And then one day, without warning, a lightbulb turns on. The puzzle unfolds in my mind’s eye, complete and fully formed. I see it. All of it. And I cannot understand how I didn’t see it before.

Once something clicks, I do not forget it. I do not slip back. I simply become different, immediately and permanently, in a way that apparently unnerves people who were not expecting it. It is one of the reasons a clinic once declared me ready to leave ahead of schedule. Not because the work was easy, but because when it landed, it landed completely.

This is not patience or discipline. It is just how my brain processes things – in the dark, and then all at once, in the light.

What It All Means

I have spent a lot of time in this post describing things I have rarely or never said out loud. The parallel universe. The camera. The disappearing. The strange relationship with age and years and the passage of time.

What I want you to take from this, if you recognize any of it, is that none of it makes you broken. It makes you someone whose brain found extraordinary ways to survive an ordinary world that wasn’t built for it. The parallel universe was not madness. It was creativity in the service of survival. The camera was not delusion. It was accountability without external structure. The dissociation was not weakness. It was your nervous system doing exactly what it was supposed to do.

You built what you needed, with what you had, before anyone gave you a name for any of it.

That is not a disorder. That is resilience.

There is a particular kind of loneliness that comes not from being alone, but from being consistently misread by the people around you. From trying your hardest to connect, and watching it land wrong. From caring deeply, sometimes too deeply, and being told you are cold, arrogant, aggressive, or self-absorbed.

This is a story I know well. It is the story of most of my life.

“You always make everything about yourself”

One of the things I heard most often in relationships and friendships was that I made everything about me. Someone would share an experience, and I would immediately jump in: “Oh my God, that happened to me too!” or “I know exactly what you mean, once I…”

What I was trying to do was make them feel heard. Safe. Less alone in their experience. In my mind, sharing a similar story was the highest form of empathy, proof that I genuinely understood, that their experience resonated so deeply it triggered my own memory.

What they heard was: here she goes again.

It took me a long time to understand that for most people, empathy looks like silence and nodding, not enthusiastic parallel storytelling. And it took even longer to stop feeling hurt by that, because my intention was always the opposite of selfishness. I was relating. I just didn’t know that my way of relating looked, from the outside, like hijacking.

This is one of the cruelest paradoxes of AuDHD: I feel everything. Other people’s pain, joy, discomfort, excitement, I absorb it all like a sponge. And yet the very intensity of that feeling causes me to respond in ways that get misread as oblivious or egotistical.

Too Much, and Never Enough

I am animated. When I am excited, I get loud. When I am angry, I get louder. When I am passionate about something, I talk faster, my hands move, my whole body gets involved. I have been told I am aggressive, combative, threatening, intimidating, and half the time I didn’t even realize my volume had climbed.

I would walk away from conversations genuinely confused. Was I angry just now? I didn’t feel angry. I was passionate. I was engaged. I was, in my own internal experience, enthusiastic, and what landed on the other person was a wall of intensity they didn’t know how to handle.

So I learned to censor. To monitor my own volume in real time, to modulate my tone, to consciously soften edges that felt sharp to others but completely normal to me. It was exhausting. And it was yet another layer of masking – performing “calm” and “reasonable” while internally running at full speed.

At the same time, I somehow also managed to miss obvious signals. Hints. Subtext. The thing someone is really saying when they say something else. I can walk into a room and feel the tension before anyone has spoken a word, and yet completely miss that someone has been trying to tell me something for weeks because they never said it directly. If you don’t tell me clearly, there is a good chance I won’t pick it up. Not because I don’t care, but because my brain is wired for directness and tends to take things at face value.

So I was simultaneously too much and not enough. Too intense, too loud, too honest,  and also somehow oblivious to the obvious. Another name for me „Captain Obvioius.“

The “Defect” Problem

I have spent my entire life learning everything I could about whatever captured my attention. When I was finally diagnosed with AuDHD, I did what I always do: I researched obsessively. I read everything. I learned about rejection sensitive dysphoria, about sensory processing, about the specific ways autism and ADHD interact and contradict each other in the same brain.

So when I was at a clinic and the therapists kept referring to AuDHD as a defect, a mental disability, and framing it as a psychological illness, I could not stay quiet. They had never heard of rejection sensitive dysphoria. They were telling patients that something was fundamentally wrong with them.

I argued. I corrected. I explained. AuDHD is a neurotype, not a disease. It is a different operating system, not a broken one. A neurodivergent brain is not defective, it is merely differently wired. There is a significant difference, and the language we use to describe it matters enormously, especially to the people sitting in that room trying to make sense of their own minds.

To their credit, they listened. “We didn’t know that,” they said. And that was that.

But that reaction was the exception, not the rule. More often, at work, in friendships, in countless conversations where someone asked for my opinion or advice, the pattern looked very different. I would research deeply, form a well-grounded view, and share it honestly. And I would be told I was arrogant. Lecturing. Too serious. Sitting on a high horse. The cruelest version of this was when someone specifically asked for my input, didn’t like the answer, and then made me the problem for giving it.

I have a sense of humor, by the way. A very good one. I can sit in a corner laughing at something ridiculous I said or did, completely entertained by my own brain. It is just that my humor tends to be dry, or specific, or internally referenced in a way that not everyone follows. I spent years thinking something was wrong with my sense of humor too. Turns out, I was just funny in a room that wasn’t tuned to my frequency.

The Honesty Problem

I still don’t fully understand why honesty is treated as a character flaw.

I don’t understand the social contract that says you should soften the truth to the point of unrecognizability, or stay silent about something that matters, in order to keep the peace. I find dishonesty, even the polite, well-intentioned kind, genuinely confusing. Why say you’re fine when you’re not? Why agree when you disagree? Why not just say the thing?

The answer, I now understand intellectually, is that most people are managing a complex web of social relationships where directness can cause damage and ambiguity preserves harmony. I understand this. I just cannot always execute it.

What I struggle with most is knowing when it is safe to speak. I book a seat in the quiet section of the train specifically because I cannot manage the sensory overload of noise and chaos. When someone sits down next to me and proceeds to have a loud phone conversation, I am faced with an impossible choice: say something and risk being attacked for it, or say nothing and sit in sensory distress for the next few hours.

I have tried both. Neither works consistently. When I speak up calmly, politely, I am mostly still met with rudeness or hostility that I did not expect and cannot regulate my response to. When I say nothing, I spend the journey white-knuckling it through the noise, blood pressure rising and desperately trying to control my anxiety.

The result is that I often feel voiceless. Not because I have nothing to say, but because how I say it tends to land wrong, and when I am already emotionally activated by someone being rude or unkind, my ability to regulate my tone collapses entirely. I become the problem, even when I wasn’t the one who created it.

What I Wish People Understood

For most of my life, I was made to feel stupid. By teachers who called me lazy. By people who didn’t understand me and assumed the fault was mine. By systems that mistook my intensity for aggression and my honesty for arrogance. That feeling never fully went away, even after I had every reason to know better.

The truth is that being misunderstood this consistently and this chronically does something to a person. It makes you doubt yourself. It makes you wonder if the problem really is you, if you are too much, or not enough, or simply wired wrong.

What I know now is that I was never too much. I was just in the wrong rooms, with people who didn’t have the tools to understand me, and sometimes, frankly, didn’t have the desire to try.

There were always people who got it. Who found my honesty refreshing instead of offensive. Who laughed at the same things I did. Who didn’t need me to perform a quieter, softer, more palatable version of myself. They were, unfortunately, in the minority.

But they were enough to remind me that the problem was never me.

It was the frequency.