There’s a deeply unsettling realization that comes with being neurodivergent in a neurotypical world: the mask you’ve worn to survive isn’t just hiding your autism—it’s shielding your soul from a world that often feels hostile to your very existence.
After escaping narcissistic abuse in personal spaces, I thought I might find safety in professional ones—where rules and roles supposedly offer structure and fairness. But as I ventured into workplace after workplace, the patterns became unmistakable: the narcissist doesn’t just wear a parent’s face or a partner’s voice. They wear company badges, carry laptops, and smile in meetings. They come dressed as teammates, sometimes even as fellow neurodivergent individuals. And the most painful betrayals can come from those who should understand.
The Mask and the Mirage
As an autistic adult, I’ve mastered the art of masking—an exhausting performance of what others expect to see. In professional settings, this mask becomes both armor and prison. I smile when I want to cry, nod when I want to scream, retreat when I want to speak up.
Yet behind this facade, I was constantly being targeted. Not openly—oh no, that would have been too obvious. Instead, the bullying was quiet, calculated, cold. Passive-aggressive comments whispered to others, silent treatments that chilled entire rooms, and triangulation tactics that placed me in impossible positions.
I’d sense it—like a shift in the air—but I’d question myself. Was I imagining things? Was I being too sensitive? Years of gaslighting conditioned me to doubt my intuition, to internalize mistreatment as personal failure. The war wasn’t just in the office, the classroom, or a department—it was inside my own head.
Flying Monkeys in the Conference Room
At times, the subtle digs became coordinated efforts. A coworker who claims to be on the spectrum herself constantly jabs at me in underhanded ways. Her friend and a third coworker—also neurodivergent—join in. They speak poorly of others behind their backs, including someone else on the spectrum and even a child with autism.
It’s heartbreaking—devastating, actually—to see how our shared neurodivergence is used as a weapon against me. I thought I had found a circle where I could finally be safe. Instead, I discovered another narcissistic ecosystem, one that dressed itself in false solidarity.
Their actions aren’t always overt—but the body remembers what the mind tries to rationalize away. My heart races when I hear them whisper. My chest tightens when they laugh at jokes I’m not part of. I carry my tasks with diligence, speak only when needed, and retreat when I must. Still, the weight of it all presses down on me.
The Breaking Point and the Truth Bombs
When the pressure becomes unbearable, I sometimes break. Not in ways they expect—no screaming, no scenes. But I speak. And when I do, it’s with unfiltered clarity. I lay bare the truth they’ve tried to bury. I don’t raise my voice—I raise the mirror. I say the things no one else dares to say.
And that’s when the real rage shows up.
They cry. They stonewall. They retaliate. They exile.
But deep down, I always knew: I was never accepted. I was merely tolerated… until I spoke truth to power. And for that, I paid the price.
Protecting My Peace While Contributing Meaningfully
I’ve learned that survival is not the same as peace. Contributing meaningfully doesn’t mean being everything to everyone. It means staying true to who I am while keeping my nervous system intact.
Here’s how I protect my peace now:
- I disengage with dignity. I no longer try to prove myself to those committed to misunderstanding me.
- I document everything. Not just for HR or defense—but for me. It’s proof that I’m not imagining things.
- I ground myself spiritually. Whether through prayer or silence—I come back to myself.
- I reclaim my story. Writing this blog is one way. Speaking my truth is another.
- I let go of forced belonging. Real community doesn’t require contortion. If I must twist myself to fit, it’s not my space.
Final Reflections
I am tired. Bone-deep tired. But I am also awake. And that awakening, painful as it is, reminds me of one thing: I am not alone in this.
If you are reading this and seeing yourself in these words—please know, you are not too sensitive. You are not broken. You are not imagining things.
You are a mirror—and that’s why they flinch.
My Voice Unchained 