An Autistic Narrative of a Night Out (During a Pandemic)

“My skin is on fire. I am simultaneously numb and pinpricked. My senses are wrapped in spin-glass, piercing my skin a thousand times a minute. My blood, my precious life source swims to the surface of the world, and no one blinks in my direction. I am an open wound, but my society-friendly smile carries the currency.”

For me, the pandemic has been difficult, but not without its positives for my autistic burnout from social settings. Burnout comes with the territory of being autistic, which I have been told countless times by friends and professionals alike. ‘Accept it’ was what was said. ‘… and get over it.’ was what inferred. Like the obedient human I am, I yap and nod, eager to please. The reward for my good behaviour is societal acceptance and I lap it up, despite its sour taste. For autistic people, burnout is different than neurotypical people’s experiences. Like candle flames winking out, one by one, your capacity to think, communicate and process information vanishes. All that remains is a cruel, residual pain from knowing that you overspent what you did not know was limited.

I have been in this particular bar twice before in my life, despite its popularity. When my brain began to pulsate as we enter the bar, I hold my breath. It’s hard to focus on pain when you’re counting your every breath. The man at the door takes our names, pulling his mask from his face as though it enhances his hearing. I look around. No spacing, no masks. My heart flutters and I realise that I have been holding my breath for too long. Girls Just Want to Have Fun is playing, but it’s a traumatic remix. We follow the bartender to our table and somehow, I am leading the way. My brain pulses to the erratic beat and I wonder what a snow angel might look like if I moved my limbs against a surface to match the beat. I snort a laugh and a boy with a buzz cut and an Umbro jacket whispers ‘fucking weirdo’. His friends laugh, but I frown. He doesn’t even know me.

The next few minutes skip over one another. It is a pain in my neck that brings me back to myself, and I realise I have been holding my shoulders locked tightly, trying not to brush against anyone else. My friends pull some stools around a circular table, and I end up with a sticky seat of green faux leather, without a back. After I get seated, I focus on structuring my body in a way that will make my friends comfortable. I cross my legs, release my handbag from my lap and unlace my fingers, running them through my hair casually. All the while, I comment on the décor, compliment a nearby girl’s braids, and reapply my lipstick. These are signals of ease and I learned them off my heart before I could read. I take in the position of our table and note that my key triggers to avoid are the flashing flame of the firepit light nearby and the ashtray on our table. I shift my body to move the flame out of my line of sight. A man taps his cigarette into our ashtray, coughing over our glasses. Ash lands on my mask and I can already feel how my eyes will burn when I wear it to leave the bar later.

The song changes to a techno beat that is the sonic equivalent to verbal harassment and I consider how much happier I would be at home. Immediately, I shirk this idea from my mind with the age-old narrative that I need to ‘toughen up’ and enjoy what everyone else enjoys. When the server asks for our order, I do not know what to do. Is this a cocktail night? Is this a night for a cider? I pretend to lace up one of my boots in a bid to hear my friends’ orders first. Vodka white. Pink gin. My brain thrums in acquiescence and I know what is expected of me. Yet I fumble with the clasp of my bag, and the server smirks. This single judgment wipes my mind clean of all logic and before I know it, I am ordering by memory, ready to accept a drink I do not even like.

I received my booster shot one hour before entering this bar, and my arm is beginning to feel heavy. Or maybe I am beginning to feel heavy. Gravity’s graveness varies from day to day – right now, I am anchored to the centre of the earth, and no one realises that I am sinking. I am the open chasm in the centre of my friendship group, ripped apart and full of howling, thunderous wind. Those at either side of me/the chasm simply raise their voices to continue their conversations.

Smiling, I listen to my friends tell me about their lives, and this is the moment when I feel truly right. The setting is damaging, but my friends are an extension of my soul. My friend talks about her dating life and I am interested. I am contributing. I am interested and contributing, and I am also experiencing the electricity of every living thing at once. In the distance, someone tries to sing Fairytale of New York but breaks off into a spluttering cough. A girl behind us is swiping through Tinder with her friends, with her screen on full brightness. A glass-picker that looks to be no older than sixteen drops a full pint of Guinness on the slate flooring. I am the shards of glass, set loose and broken. Still, I am interested and contributing.  

I have reached my limit. My autistic limit. Which means I will make myself stay and smile for another hour at least. When my sister collects me, I do not immediately cry. Instead, she just drives and All Too Well (Taylor’s Version) (10-Minute Version) plays. I might have overreacted, I think. I’m fine. Just fine.

Then my sister asks if I am okay, and I am once again an open wound wrapped in fine-spun glass. This time, I break. The tears come and before long, my sister leaves me alone to decompress. To do so in the proximity of another person would be to expose my heart as an open wound.  

For me, the question is not, ‘why have an autistic meltdown?’, but more so ‘why not?’

My heart is beating as fast as a racehorse. My skin is blistered and being swaddled in barbed wire. How could I not scream from my very soul?

Yet I do not. Instead, I wipe my tears, and take a nap.