You’ve Always Been This Way is a column written by Taylor Harris, a late-diagnosed neurodivergent woman and 1980s preschool dropout identifies every moment from her past that filled her with shame, and mutters, “Yep, that tracks. I see it all now.”
I stopped writing when I no longer recognized my world. What a profound betrayal to rifle through your everyday belongings—your thoughts, your days, your life—only to find that nothing quite fits.
So, what changed?
Fair question. Should I make you a list? I love a good list, but rarely finish one. I can’t possibly finish a list of this magnitude, which is more like a to-don’t (at least not all at once) list. But I owe you something. An assay. Let me give it a try.
In the past five years, my family and I have crushed that Holmes and Rahe stress scale:
DOUBLE MASTECTOMY AND RECONSTRUCTION; NEW DOGS THANKS TO THE PANDEMIC; TWO INTERSTATE MOVES; LOSS OF CHURCH AND COMMUNITY; SEVERAL NEW JOBS; MULTIPLE ER AND SPECIALISTS VISITS; ONE HOSPITAL ADMISSION FOR PNEUMONIA; DEATH OF LOVED ONES; PUBLIC TENURE BATTLE; DEBUT MEMOIR AND VIRTUAL BOOK TOUR; FREAK DENTAL INJURY ON ICE; ROOT CANALS; BRACES; FIVE NEW SCHOOLS; NEW ASSESSMENTS AND DIAGNOSES FOR KIDS; NEW ASSESSMENTS AND DIAGNOSES FOR ME; BEHAVIORS THAT CARE NOTHING ABOUT OUR GENTLE OR HARSH OR MODERATE PARENTING STYLE; PUBERTY; PERIMENOPAUSE; TRAUMA; (T)RAUMA; RESENTMENT AS A THREE-COURSE MEAL AND BLAME FOR DESSERT; THERAPEUTIC INTERVENTIONS GALORE; HOURS OF PODCASTS AND MASTERCLASSES AND BOOKS TO FIND ANSWERS; MULTIPLYING NEEDS OUTPACING OUR INCOME; SAYING MANY WORDS WE CAN’T TAKE BACK; HEARING MANY WORDS WE CAN’T SHUT OUT; WE HUMANS BEING SO VERY HUMAN; THE WORLD OUT THERE CONTINUALLY BURNING…
and, finally, me
in BURNOUT.
It took years for me to arrive at autistic burnout, took time for the demands of life to exceed and exceed and finally exceed my capacity. I’d been at this masking and conforming and performing for forty years. Burnout, like love, is patient. And consuming.
At some point, I became a writer with no words. No wit or hard-earned wisdom. No insightful or literary thoughts. No depth, except in the levels of heartbreak and disorientation. No vision, except for one:
A black sky falling over me.
This sky—like a parachute in PE class, once taut and gloriously full bellied—gasped and hawed and sputtered. Gave up its girth and gave into its center; lost its expanse, and regressed a whole dimension. But I heard no giggles, no squeals, no classmates warning, Heeeere it comes! Just me, sitting, beneath hot air turned nylon, black tarp turned trap. The sky, in one layer, licked the back of my neck.
It didn’t fall like a building. It didn’t crush me, but I couldn’t see daylight through its seams.
Why didn’t you lift its edges? Just pull yourself out from underneath?
Fair question.
But have you ever tried lifting the sky off your back?
So, not that you’ve missed me, but that’s where I’ve been. Autistic burnout is not in the DSM, but neither is Hamburger Helper, and we all know that’s real. Dr. Dora Raymaker ’n them define it in a 2020 study as “a syndrome conceptualized as resulting from chronic life stress and a mismatch of expectations and abilities without adequate supports.”
What does it look like? Meh on steroids. An emotions wheel, but in shades of charcoal gray, and every feeling is “nope.” Raymaker says: “It is characterized by pervasive, long-term (typically 3+ months) exhaustion, loss of function, and reduced tolerance to stimulus.”
For long stretches of the past few years, I’ve been exhausted, foggy, surviving, grieving the version of Taylor who thought she’d Succeed by being herself; then by overextending herself; then by changing herself and overextending her new self. And when none of those tricked-out selves worked, I spent a lot of time hating myself.
A year and a half without publishing a word doesn’t sound epic, but it’s just long enough to mess with your head. You have to tell your favorite editors you’re still in the same mental and physical morass where their last email found you.
Thanks for Your Email, and Hello from Burnout Land! (Maybe that’s my next book.) An aging woman, playing competitive whack-a-mole with her anxiety and estrogen, finally wins a brand new AuDHD diagnosis. But can she convince the local pharmacist to fill her Vyvanse prescription, or will she be sent to a Wellness Farm? And could this have been avoided if she’d chosen ANY OTHER PROFESSION but writing?
You don’t have to pledge to preorder my book today just to make me feel better. But I wouldn’t be surprised if it gets optioned as a cartoon with the stressed-out teacher from Daria, Mr. Anthony DeMarTINO, voicing me.
Okay, maybe my projected comeback doesn’t sound as sexy as Grammy-winning Doechii’s in her hit “Denial Is a River,” but it’s the same idea—only she’s rich and got Hollywood drugs and strippers when her life took a turn, and I got a bottle of stimulants, some Dunkin’ Donuts coffee, and my annual breast exam.
My self-worth tanked too! I’d yell to Doechii at her concert. And that line about turning guts into soup beans—brilliant and reminiscent of chili!
Let’s be honest. The charts (or book lists) don’t need me like they needed Doechii. And my narrative isn’t as crisp or chronological as the one she tells in the song. I don’t know exactly where or when I slid into autistic burnout versus my “regular degular” transient depression versus mothering neuro-complex kids, and how those intersected with fluctuating hormone levels and a vitamin-D deficiency. See? That’s not bars. But I relate to her need to make sense of things.
I think I’ve got about one foot and an unshaven leg out of burnout. It’s hard to measure and chart what I’ve just learned to name. Coming out of burnout and building a life that protects me from returning to burnout will take time. It’s a project all three of my Executive Function neurons will likely avoid. I’m gradually learning not to shame myself when I can’t keep up with what seems to be the “normal” pace of life. I’m acknowledging that routines soothe my anxiety, and finding deeply discounted Legos and sneakers is not only my spiritual gift, it’s a dopamine rush. (Father, forgive me, for I have hoarded thine minifigures and Nike Dunk Low Pros.) If I need to sleep in and nap the day after two social events, then I do. Or if I need to turn down the next invitation, then: Sounds lovely, but it’s a nar for me.
The good (and mildly horrifying) news is I can, once again, be seen laughing at my own creative ideas, like a merch shop featuring neurodivergent pets who manage a Vape Hut, from the driver’s side window of my minivan. It’s wild and ridiculous proof that I’m still in here.