#latediagnosed
There’s a light above me.
No —
There are twenty-three lights above me.
And I’ve counted every single one,
Because looking at people’s faces feels like drowning
.
And the ceiling is safer.
Even when it burns.
Fluorescent.
That word sounds too pretty.
For what it does to me.
It hums.
It flickers.
It pulses like it has something to prove.
Like it’s in a fight with my nervous system
And it’s winning.
I am supposed to be learning.
Taking notes
Solving problems.
But my only equation is this:
Flicker + hum + silence = meltdown I’m not allowed to have.
Because I am autistic.
Because I am transmasc.
Because I didn’t know I was
Until 2020 slapped me with a diagnosis
and said,
“Hey, here’s your permission slip —
too late for recess, but just in time to explain the ache.”
Before that?
I was just the weird kid.
The quiet one.
The one who "zones out"
Because no one could see the war behind my eyes.
These lights don’t just glow,
They interrogate.
They pick at the edges of my thoughts.
Like static under my skin.
Every buzz is a “why can’t you just pay attention?”
Every flicker is a “Why are you always so dramatic?”
They say light is knowledge.
But this kind of light
Feels more like punishment.
And I sit in classrooms built like cages.
Every desk is too sharp,
Every rule is too loud.
I stim with my fingers under the table.
Because above it is performance.
Because masking is survival.
Because I’ve learned how to script my face
Into something safe for others.
But inside,
My brain is shouting.
My body is aching.
My heart is tap-dancing in Morse code.
And nobody reads it.
Because of them,
Fluorescent is normal.
Expected.
Unnoticed.
But to me,
It’s a constant scream
Dressed up in polite brightness.
It is the reason I can’t think straight.
The reason my pen shakes.
The reason I leave school
I feel like I ran a marathon through fog.
I try to explain.
But how do you make them see light as violence
When does it not bruise?
How do you explain
That autistic overstimulation feels like drowning
In a room full of air?
They say,
“Well, the other students seem fine.”
And I want to scream:
I’m not like the other students.
Diagnosed too late to stop the damage,
**** just in time to give it a name.
So no—
I’m not being dramatic.
I’m being honest.
I’m being electric.
I’m being every buzz those lights make
When no one else is listening.
And maybe someday,
The classrooms will be dimmed.
The rules will bend.
The world will stop calling my survival.
A disruption.
Until then,
I’ll keep counting the lights.
Not because I want to—
But because my brain is trying to find
any pattern
In a world
That won’t stop flickering.
Jan 12
Jan 12, 2026 at 11:38 PM UTC
I know why I was running as fast as I could
I know why I still felt as though I wasn’t good
When everyone else understood what was said
While I was thinking what’s wrong with my head
The signs were all there
I wish I had known
I wish I had seen them
Each time they had shown
No I am not lazy
Nor am I dumb
I am not broken
And there’s no need to run.
Yes I still need them
To speak to me different,
I need things explained to me
Slowly, just need a second
My brain works differently
And I sense more than most
I hear the electricity
Louder than your voice when you talk
There’s no race that I’m running
So I can’t be behind
I do things my own way
that works for my mind
I’m different than them
But that’s nothing wrong
I’ve learned a lot about me
And who I’ve been all along
I am at peace now
I know where I belong
I’ve found others just like me
I’m not helpless after all
I am just me
And you are just you
And we are both different
Your needs are special too.
Feb 5, 2021
Feb 5, 2021 at 9:44 PM UTC