Picture this—it’s December 2019, and I’ve just been hurt by a boy (again). I’ve no work over the Christmas period, so my days are spent drinking wine in my room, crying and calling men trash on Call of Duty (they’re not happy). After too long feeling sorry for myself, I decided to give Dry January another go. I’d tried before, but this time felt different—this time, I needed to stick to something, to feel better about myself after yet another boy stamping all over my heart (I was so dramatic).
Roll on to January 2020. This was before lockdown… before everything changed. I didn’t want sobriety to stop me from doing what I loved—going to the pub with my friends, dancing at my favourite rock club. My first night out that month was at BrewDog, with two friends I’ve known for years and years. There was a deal on—buy one non-alcoholic beer and get free refills all night as a reward for being sober. Sounds great, right?
Only, that night didn’t feel like the others. Sitting there, with two people I talked to every day, I suddenly felt “off.” Anxiety, maybe? I couldn’t figure out what to say or when to say it. The lights seemed too bright, the noise louder than usual, like everything around me was closing in… and why do I feel the compulsion to stack every plate within the vicinity, so the mess isn’t taking over my mind? I’d never noticed it all so intensely before.
The next time I went out was to a nightclub. I’ve always loved dancing. Loved the noise, the movement, the way you could just lose yourself in the music and not have to worry about small talk—just the occasional, “I LOVE THIS SONG!” But this time, it was different, like I was so hyper-aware of my body and didn’t know how to move anymore. My arms, my legs—nothing felt right. I felt like everyone could see how awkward I was, and I couldn’t relax. It’s never felt like that before.
After that night, I started to think back on things. People had asked me in the past if I was neurodivergent—ADHD, autism, whatever. I always shrugged it off, thinking I was just a bit “peculiar” from growing up the way I did. Past traumas and all that… I mean, I’ve never really fit in, have I? Even at work, I’ve been the one the cliquey girls wouldn’t talk to. They’d make fun of me, too. But I just assumed that was life. That was me.
But doing Dry January made me question all that. I realised that from about fourteen years old, I’ve only ever gone out and socialised when alcohol was involved. It wasn’t just a habit, and it certainly wasn’t an addition—it was just my way of feeling like I fit in. When I drank, I didn’t worry about whether I was walking funny or dancing wrong. I didn’t overthink hugs with my friends (which I still find super uncomfortable, by the way). I became the person I thought everyone wanted me to be.
This thought stuck with me. It was different this time. So, I decided to seek an autism diagnosis. That was back in 2020, and it took four-and-a-half years of waiting before I got diagnosed. But in those years, I started to piece things together—I thought about how I’d always felt different and “masked” parts of myself without even realising. The more I learned about autism, the more I saw myself. But it was also confusing. How had I not realised sooner?
When I finally got my diagnosis, it was both a relief and a shock, I guess. I mean, here I am, mid-thirties, and I finally get an explanation for why I’ve always felt like I was living life on “Hard Mode.” (Sorry, that’s the gamer in me coming out.) But it hasn’t really made everything easier. I’m still trying to figure out who I am. I suppose the best way I can describe it is that it’s like I’m mourning two versions of myself—the person I thought I was, and the person I could’ve been if I’d known sooner.
I don’t know if I can say that finding out I’m autistic has been freeing… I suppose it has, in some ways—it explains why small talk drains me, and why I’ve never been able to join in the way other people do—but it’s also complicated because I still rely on alcohol in social situations. (Trust me, I hate it, but it’s better than avoiding people altogether.) Working in an office again, even just a couple of days a week, still fills me with so much dread because I don’t want to be judged for being “different.” I know I’m different… I’m just not sure how to fully accept that yet.
So here I am, thirty-six, and finally learning who I really am. It’s terrifying. I’m still too scared to speak up and ask for the help I know I desperately need. If it hadn’t been for a breakup and a month of sobriety, I might never have started asking these questions, and I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing yet. But by sharing my story, I hope to connect with other people who’ve felt different their whole lives, like me. Maybe, one day, I won’t need alcohol to feel “normal.” Maybe, one day, I can just be me (whoever the heck that is).