I am struggling to speak.
Not because I have nothing to say, but because the system that usually lets me translate internal chaos into words has stalled. This is selective mutism — not silence as avoidance, but silence as survival.
So this is me using a different route.
This post is a bridge between what is happening inside me and the people who care about me. It exists because talking, explaining, reassuring, and making things sound “okay” is currently beyond my capacity.
What I need most right now is for this to be read as information, not drama. As context, not confession.
This Is Not Who I Am — It’s a Shift From Baseline
One of the hardest things to communicate when you’re autistic and depressed is that the world often can’t tell the difference between how you’ve always been and a clinical decline.
I can.
As recently as a few weeks ago, I was attending exercise classes several times a week. I was functioning. I was working hard to find meaning. I could see my strength, even when things were difficult.
Even two weeks ago, I could still touch that version of myself. Right now, I can’t.
This is not a personality change. It is not a lack of effort.
It is not me “giving in.”
It is a baseline collapse.
What the Data Says (Because Sometimes Data Speaks When I Can’t)
I recently completed the Autistic Depression Assessment Tool – Adult (ADAT-A). It’s designed specifically to measure change from baseline in autistic people — the thing most standard depression scales miss.
My score was 149 out of 168.
That means 20 out of 21 clinical indicators are present, and they’ve been present for nearly two weeks with an extreme impact on my life.
One detail matters:
I am not slowed down. I am not flat.
Instead, I am restless, fidgeting, buzzing — like a system overheating rather than powering down. This matters because it explains why I can look “active” while internally I feel completely emptied out.
What It Actually Feels Like
This is where poetry steps in — because interviews fail when language goes.
How can I feel so numb and yet so overpoweringly full of emotion How can I be missing myself when I’m right here in this moment
My brain feels like static. Radio interference.
A continuous monotonous dictation lesson that suddenly drops into abstract silence — with a high, keen ringing underneath.
I wonder… if this is what my brain is now, an endless ream of white. Empty pages flying from the printer.
A sudden misstep upon a slope and an avalanche creating yet more white.
That’s concentration loss. That’s cognitive collapse.
That’s what “just try to focus” doesn’t touch.
The Lifeboat Metaphor (Or: Why I’m Scared)
I’m drowning in a sea that isn’t mine. Holding back the damn for those that can’t
Heralding the lighthouse so others can know And yet I am the broken lifeboat adrift, patrolling, A moment from the edge
This is what passive suicidal ideation looks like for me. Not a plan.
Not intent.
But sticky thoughts — the same images looping when distress spikes. Pills. Trains. Powering off.
But what if like a tired piece of technology I power off and never return to life.
In DBT terms, this is a high-risk state, even if I’m doing the “right things.” I am safe — but safety currently requires external awareness, not just internal effort.
Executive Dysfunction Is Not Laziness
I live alone.
That matters more than people realise.
I’ve moved from cooking everything to managing only the basics. Tasks don’t just feel hard — they feel impossible to sequence.
Sometimes I just sit.
Sometimes I lie on the floor and cry because the tiredness feels like jet lag that never resolves. This isn’t sadness.
It’s depletion.
Autism Burnout: When the Mask Is Gone
The autistic-specific section of the assessment was maxed out. Completely. That means masking has collapsed.
I am often verbally mute in social spaces now — not by choice, but because speaking costs more than I have. Chit-chat has become terrifying. The cognitive load of “being normal” is unbearable.
I’ve stopped going to things I once loved, not because I don’t care, but because I do — and I can’t afford the cost.
My sensory system has shifted too. Light hurts. Screens hurt. I’m using stim toys I don’t usually need. I surround myself with blankets and soft things just to regulate.
This is autistic burnout — having all your internal resources exhausted and no clean-up crew left
What Helps (And What Doesn’t)
This is the DBT part — not as theory, but as survival. What helps:
- Low-demand contact
- Presence without pressure
- Communication that doesn’t require me to perform wellness
- Validation that this is a state, not a failure
- Quiet check-ins that don’t require chit-chat What doesn’t:
- “Have you tried getting out more?”
- “Maybe you just need sun / a break / to push through”
- Silence that assumes I’m fine because I haven’t spoken
Why I’m Sharing This
I am not asking to be fixed.
I am asking for this moment to be seen accurately.
This is me doing opposite action — not by going out, but by letting myself be known without having to talk.
This is me seeking the clean-up crew.
This state is frightening, but it is not permanent. I know there is a version of me who can once again see her strength. I just can’t reach her alone from here.
If you’ve read this, you already know more than I can say out loud. That is enough for now.
Georgina
Healthwatch Essex Trauma Ambassador