Part 2: The Pain of Misunderstanding
Masking, Misreading, and the Struggle to Be Heard
There is a particular kind of heartbreak that comes with being misunderstood — not just occasionally, but constantly, chronically, and deeply. For many autistic people, especially those of us who were undiagnosed or misdiagnosed for years, misunderstanding wasn’t just a painful moment here or there — it was a lived reality.
Masking became my survival strategy. I learned how to silence myself, to shape-shift, to dull my light so others wouldn’t feel threatened by it. But no matter how much I tried to fit in — walking on eggshells, muting my joy, quieting my voice — people still found a reason to dislike me. My silence was read as arrogance. My excitement was mocked as immaturity. My expertise was questioned, dismissed, or handed off to someone else with less knowledge but more “social capital.”
I wasn’t just unseen — I was misread at every turn.
Even in places where compassion was supposed to be central — churches, friend groups, family circles — the judgment still found me. I was labeled “too much,” “too intense,” “too different.” And when I did speak up, I was told I was lying. Not exaggerating — lying. Over and over, someone else’s version of a story would be chosen over mine, no matter how clearly I remembered it or how much evidence I had.
This chapter dives into the weight of that ongoing erasure — how it felt to be emotionally frozen, how masking kept me from expressing my truth, and how the pain of being misunderstood took a toll that few could see but many contributed to.
For those of us who live at the intersection of autism and chronic invalidation, the wounds aren’t just from what was done to us, but also from what was never believed, never acknowledged, and never made safe to say.
Held Hostage by Hospitality
There was a woman from church I once called a friend. She seemed warm and well-meaning, the kind of person others gravitated toward — social, talkative, and always planning something. She quickly noticed something about me that most people in my life eventually did: I preferred one-on-one settings. Large group environments overwhelmed me, drained me, and often left me spiraling into silence.
But instead of honoring that difference, she used it as a control point. She always insisted on doing the driving, never trusting my ability to navigate or get us around — not because I couldn’t, but because she needed control. Her actions made it clear: it wasn’t about being helpful, it was about keeping the power.
There were so many times she’d take me places I hadn’t agreed to — usually to someone’s house I didn’t know, a group setting I wasn’t prepared for, a social environment that would trigger my selective mutism and trap me in silence. Once we arrived, I couldn’t leave. I didn’t have a car. I didn’t have an escape plan. And she’d stay and stay, fully immersed and comfortable, while I sat there unable to speak, burning in silence and anxiety.
She called herself a Christian, but her behavior was anything but compassionate. She normalized my shutdowns and ignored my discomfort. She never once asked, “Is this okay for you?” Instead, she grew comfortable placing me in these situations and then making me feel like I was the problem for not speaking.
I wasn’t rude.
I wasn’t cold.
I wasn’t being antisocial.
I was frozen. Frozen in fear, anxiety, and internal overwhelm — unable to speak, even if I wanted to. That’s what people don’t understand about selective mutism. It’s not a choice. It’s not being standoffish. It’s a neurological shutdown, a physiological response to overwhelming stress and social overload. And still, I was judged. I was seen as strange. I could feel their dislike in the room — their stares, their polite small talk that made it obvious I didn’t belong.
Eventually, I started pulling away from her. I stopped going places with her altogether. If I agreed to something, I’d insist on driving myself so I could leave when I needed to. Over time, I realized what had been happening all along: she didn’t like me. Not really. She liked what she could control in me. She liked seeing me uncomfortable. She liked presenting herself as the warm extrovert while I was the awkward shadow in the corner.
She was a narcissist. And my silence had always made me easy to manipulate.
I’ll Drive, Thanks: The Freedom of Saying “No”
That experience became a turning point for me.
I began to see the pattern — how narcissists were drawn to my discomfort in social settings like moths to a flame. They could sense that I was different, that I processed the world differently, and instead of honoring that, they exploited it. Whether they were conscious of it or not, they used my silence, my anxiety, and my desire to avoid conflict as tools to manipulate and control me.
It wasn’t just that one church friend. This dynamic played out over and over again in other relationships. Friends would promise a low-key one-on-one meetup, only to “surprise” me with someone else tagging along. They’d laugh off my discomfort, claiming it was no big deal. But it was. It always was.
Eventually, I stopped bending over backward to make them comfortable. I stopped accommodating people who had no intention of ever accommodating me. I stopped sacrificing my peace for their entertainment.
I started driving myself. I started declining invitations. I started living by one powerful truth: If I don’t have a way out, I don’t go.
That shift cost me a few “friendships” — but honestly, they were never true friendships to begin with. They were relationships rooted in control, not care. People who needed me to shrink in order for them to feel bigger.
Now, I live authentically. I live freely. And I do not apologize for it.
Why should I be uncomfortable to make others feel okay?
Why should I silence myself to keep the peace?
Why should I mask who I am just to be accepted?
I won’t anymore.
And I am better for it.
When the Silence Became My Strength
After years of being misunderstood, manipulated, and worn down by the emotional labor of constantly adjusting myself for others, I reached a quiet turning point. I stopped trying to explain, to prove, to shrink, or to mask.
I began to detach — not out of bitterness, but out of clarity. I saw patterns for what they were. I recognized how certain people thrived off my reactions, my discomfort, and my attempts to fix what wasn’t mine to fix.
That detachment became my peace. My boundary. My protection.
In Part 3, I share how I stopped reacting and started observing. How I learned to hold my center, and how boundaries — once viewed as walls — became windows to my emotional freedom. This is the story of silent strength and the kind of healing that doesn’t always need to be loud to be powerful.
My Voice Unchained 