A touch of the tism

On Saturday, 17th May 2025, I was officially diagnosed with autism spectrum disorder (ASD).

At 35 years old, it’s been a long, winding journey to reach this point—a journey filled with questions, reflection, and, ultimately, self-discovery. Strangely enough, my path to diagnosis didn’t start in a doctor’s office—it began with meeting Naomi, my partner. As our relationship grew and deepened, Naomi gently began to ask questions—thoughtful, perceptive questions that nudged me toward looking inward. One stood out:

“Have you ever considered that you might be autistic?”

She started to point out certain patterns in my behaviour that aligned with autism: my hyper-independence, a strong preference for solitude, an intense resistance to change, the comfort I find in routine, and my deep, focused interests—especially in music and football. Then there were the repetitive movements—something I had become so skilled at masking over the years that even Naomi, someone incredibly close to me, took a long time to notice them. That conversation was the spark. It set me on a path of self-exploration, reading, reflecting, and eventually seeking a formal diagnosis. Don’t get me wrong—I fought it at first, just like I would any other seemingly inaccurate accusation thrown my way. I just couldn’t see it. How could I be autistic? I am already diagnosed as dyslexic and dyspraxic. I didn’t want the full deck of neurodivergence. It took months for me to even entertain the possibility. But slowly, bit by bit, I started researching autistic traits and behaviours for myself. And the more I read, the more undeniable it became. Shit. All this time feeling like a hopeless, misfit alien—and the reason had been staring me in the face.

For all my 35 years on this planet, people have been trying to shove me into boxes that were never made for me—parents, teachers, bosses, partners, friends. No wonder I was an angry, solitary kid. Not much has changed on that front. Ultimately, autism cost me my relationship with Naomi. Or rather my unwillingness to seek help for my anger. My meltdowns and outbursts became too frequent, too intense, for my partner to handle. We’ve since gone our separate ways.

I’m not writing this to dissect where the relationship went wrong—I already know. I’m writing this because I need to be accountable for my behaviour. I’m ashamed of the things I said to someone I loved so deeply. There’s no excuse. The truth is that’s the only way I’ve ever known to express myself in conflict. And she’s not the first. Just one more in a long line of people who’ve been on the receiving end of my sharp tongue. That’s the part that stings the most.

Truth be told, all the change and information is completely overwhelming.
With a bit of distance, I can see now that I need help managing my anger. I know I need therapy—but I’m scared of it. I don’t even fully understand why, because I’ve been before and it helped me massively.
Still, I keep hitting this wall: a deep resistance to change. That same old pathological demand avoidance I keep tripping over.

How do I feel about my diagnosis?

I still don’t quite have the words. Maybe it’s too soon. One thing I’ve known about myself for a long time is that it takes a while for me to adjust—longer than for most people. I need to step back, sit with the information, analyse it, digest it. Only then can I even begin to make sense of it, let alone make any changes. If I’m being honest, I’ve spent more time looking for someone to blame than looking inward.

During the consultation with the psychiatrist, I remember having to hold back tears—especially when we talked about my school years. I couldn’t stop thinking about little Tadhg and how much he struggled. How misunderstood and alone he felt. That feeling only grew stronger as I got older, especially during my teenage years.

I've always found it hard to make friends, to feel understood and accepted by people. The most recent example of this still stings. My 'best friend' of the past three years—who's also autistic and was diagnosed in childhood—went to America, met someone, and got married in the space of six months. We stayed in regular contact for a while, and then suddenly... nothing. They just stopped talking to me.

They moved back to the UK and still, silence. People seem to disappear from my life, and I never understand why.

What I do know is that, more than anything, I feel relieved. For the first time, I feel seen. Recognised. Like the world has finally acknowledged something I’ve known deep down all along. I wasn’t expecting to get a diagnosis that day. I thought the psychiatrist would take the information away, assess it, and maybe get back to me later. But towards the end of the session, he told me plainly: I have ASD—autism spectrum disorder. He also strongly recommended I get assessed for ADHD, because I meet a significant part of the criteria.

I wasn’t prepared for that. A mix of emotion washed over me. I didn’t want to cry in front of someone I’d just met, so I swallowed it and gave some awkward, half-formed response. But inside, everything shifted. Years of being misunderstood, ostracised, gaslit—feeling like an alien. It suddenly all made sense. It felt like an endless struggle, demoralisation, frustration, and heartache—condensed into one six-letter word: Autism.

I have a lot of luggage to unpack.

P.S. – If you’re reading this and any of it feels familiar—if you’ve ever wondered whether you might be neurodivergent—I really encourage you to push for an assessment. It can be daunting, I know. But understanding yourself, truly understanding yourself, is one of the most powerful things you can do.

Self-discovery is a lifelong journey. There’s no destination, no moment where everything suddenly makes perfect sense. But the better you know yourself, the easier it becomes to navigate life. Things start to click. You stop blaming yourself for being “too much” or “not enough.” You begin to meet yourself with a bit more compassion.

I’m still figuring it out. My recent autism diagnosis hasn’t solved everything, but it’s taken a huge weight off my shoulders. It’s helped me make sense of years of confusion, self-doubt, and exhaustion. And maybe most importantly, it’s encouraged me to be gentler with myself.

Like I said—I'm working on it.