You stole my life (trauma journal)

Content: abuse, mentioning of rapist


You stole my identity.

You stole me from myself.

You are similar to a rapist. Because even if you don’t took sex, you treated my and my child like things that you owned. When we said “no”, you took what you wanted anyway.

You even admitted that you don’t ask because you know that I will say no. You admitted that you don’t respect me.

This language isn’t mine, and therefore my words feel hollow. But I still can’t journal in the language that is mine, because I don’t own my story yet.

I’m trying to mourn the life that you stole from me, but I still can’t. The barrier between me and my emotions is still too solid.

One day it won’t be. One day I will scream out loud about what you did. One day, I won’t protect you anymore.

Being autistic and scared (trauma journal)

Content: Pain, trauma, death


The process of trying to understand my trauma is slowly going forward. Very, very slowly. One of the things that hit me earlier today is that during so many years, I experienced something that I had no words for but was (is) similar to fearing for my life. It’s not a good way to express it, but it’s the closest to a description that I have.

I was scared. I am scared. I’ve always been scared. Most of the times not because someone threatened to kill me (although that has happened a few times, but not when I was a kid), but because of the extreme reactions it caused me to having to push myself through school and the rest of my life.

Life was confusion and pain. Sensory pain, physical pain, emotional pain. I was so exhausted already as a kid that I thought I couldn’t live anymore. I was seven the first time I tried to ask for help because life was too difficult.

Living without being punished meant that I had to stop being me, that’s something that I figured out when I was around ten. I tried and I failed. I feared for the pain I had to go through every day but that I couldn’t explain and nobody understood.

I’ve feared for my life for so long because I knew (and know) that interacting with most people and being in most of the world is too painful. I feared that I was going to die emotionally, because I almost did. I can recall a number of times where all I could think was that it was better if I died for real because there was nothing of me left.

This is just… I’m rambling. I’m not making any sense because I have no words for this.

I can’t tell anyone about this because it sounds silly because there are no words. I was so scared because living as autistic in this world meant that I was (and still am) expected to harm myself all the time. But the harm isn’t recognized as harm.

It sounds so silly when I try to describe it. Going to school was so painful. And I still had to go there.

I need help to process my experiences of (not) going to school but when I see how psychologists, teachers and basically most people talk about autistic pupils I get even more scared. I can’t open up and risk getting that thrown in my face. Besides, how am I supposed to explain this to a psychologist when I have no words? I can’t.

I still live with so much fear that I can’t share with anyone, because I can’t explain it.



“What if ADHD really doesn’t exist but is just symptoms of trauma?”

Content Warning: Trauma, Ableism


I admitted to my partner that I feel ashamed and guilty when he hugs me or basically every time he touches me in a way that isn’t explicitly sexual. Secretly, I crave it. When it happens, I partly love it and partly can’t enjoy it because it feels like I’m treating myself to something I don’t really deserve.

I’m trying to take care of myself, but honestly, it’s so hard. Mostly it’s hard because it took me so long to realize what I need.

When I was a kid I tried to protect myself but that was wrong. No human being is supposed to need what I need.

“What if ADHD really doesn’t exist but is just symptoms of trauma?”

What if being autistic and having ADHD means that I’m traumatized by stuff that NT people aren’t truamatized by, like too much noise or too little predictability?

What if I was harmed by being so exhausted from a regular school day but being told I misinterpreted myself?

What if I was traumatized by pushing myself to school one more day, despite it hurting so badly?

I was harmed and traumatized by having to perform NT. My senses were pushed to a limit that was torture every day, but when I tried to protect myself from the torture I was threatened with even more torture.

I was traumatized by stuff that people denied could be even remotely harmful.

I have secret dreams about people actually showing me the consideration I need. Like telling me what’s going to happen and not pushing me to talk with my mouth.

I have secret dreams about support that isn’t trying to discipline me into appear more allistic.

I have secret dreams about people expressing themselves clearly, so I don’t have to guess what they mean.

I have secret dreams of seeing teachers, doctors and psychologists respecting people like me and our needs.

I can’t get rid of the idea that I don’t deserve care and consideration.

I’m Not a Behavioral Problem

I inhale the spicy ginger sensations from my cup of tea, and feel the tase of chocolate melting on my tongue. In one moment, I recall and relive thousands of moments. Memories are flooding through me, memories that I have remembered so many times before but this time, one of them suddenly makes sense. In this particular moment, I understand a situation that happened months or years ago. Pieces of information that up to this moment were just chaotic fragments suddenly make sense. I understand a scent, somebody’s facial expression and what they said. Now, it’s a whole picture that I can grasp, not just chaos.

I process information deeply and I need time, a lot of time, before I can reach the meaning of certain types of information. The moments where some pieces of information fall into place are intense, because most of the times, I can experience so much in just a few seconds. Immense joy, deep fear, true surprise. I feel it all. These moments are overwhelming and I need a little while with some kind of stim toy and no more demands than to just exist.

This is what it means to be me. This happens to me almost on a daily basis, and I have accepted it. I’m okay with it but the world around me tends to call this a behavioral problem.

This is an attempt of a description of a tiny little part of what it means to me to be autistic. A part that most of the times demands a lot of energy from me and ever since I was a toddler, I have time to deal with it. Time to let the waves of processing realizations run through me. I need more time and peace and quiet on my own that what the world I live in thinks I should need. More time than it’s okay to need.

Processing deeply is actually something beautiful. It’s painful too but I can see beauty in the intense experiences it generates. But it’s not considered beautiful or even acceptable. It’s deemed bad and it means that I’m considered having behavioral problems. I see teachers, psychologists and doctors claim that this isn’t okay. I’ve been called rude when I’ve asked for more time to think before responding. I’ve been told that this should be fixed, even though there is no way of fixing this.

This isn’t some kind of behvaioral disorder that I can get rid of. It’s not an external thing that happened to attach itself to me. How I process information IS ME. How I experience the world, how I think and fell – it’s me.

When the world tells me that this should be fixed by me hiding it and denying it, you are telling me that I shouldn’t exist.

Because this is me. This is my autistic me.


The other day, I was talking to my kid about different countries, their capitals and where they are located in relation to each other. After, my kid went out on the balcony and called in through the open window in my bedroom:

– Mom! It was so much fun to talk about countries.

Indeed it was. We had fun. We talked about in very autistic ways, which means ways that most of the allistic world will never understand, and will certainly not see the beauty in. This makes me sad and happy at the same time, just like so much of the interactions with my kid.

I see beauty in it. I see so much beauty in my kid’s way of thinking and communiticating. In my kid’s being. For me, it’s like I finally have someone to share my intuitive self with. Interacting and being with my kid means that everything that I tried to extinct about myself is possible to see in the light of authenticity, purpose and yes – beauty.

I know that the allistic world will never understand the joy of stimming. I know that you will only see deficits and never see the affirmative bond created when two autistic people are allowed to interact in our ways. You will never see the beauty in info dumping.

I’m happy because I know what we have, me and my kid. I’m sad because I know that the world around us will always belittle it.

We have our autistic beauty and you will probably never understand it, but I will always fight for our right to keep it.