I wondered for years whether I had ever actually liked myself.
It fluctuated, but the fact that it was a question at all told me the answer was negative more often than not.
I don’t think I would go so far as to say I hated myself. But at times I wasn't a fan; I allowed myself to be judged by the opinions of others rather than my own.
We’re all trying to be the best version of ourselves, for the most part, and not everyone is going to like that.
My problem was that for a long time I was changing that version depending on who was looking.
I did not understand at the time that I was masking. I learnt to adjust myself to rooms, people and expectations. If enthusiasm for something was poorly received, I would dial it down. If I was too quiet, I would force myself to speak. If an interaction felt awkward, I would replay it afterwards and consider what I should have done differently.
It was rarely conscious. I was simply trying to fit in.
But constantly considering how you are being perceived has consequences. If your instinct is always to alter yourself in search of acceptance, eventually you start wondering whether the unaltered version is acceptable at all.
That contributed heavily to my unease with myself.
Autism has become a buzzword in recent years. The word is sometimes thrown around negatively, casually applied to behaviour someone considers strange or used as a catch-all for neurodivergence.
That can obscure the fact that autism is a spectrum and presents very differently from one person to another.
I am at the high-functioning end of the spectrum. I work, socialise, have relationships, and, from the outside, can probably move through much of everyday life without anyone suspecting I am autistic.
That does not mean those things are always easy.
Something as ordinary as meeting somebody new can produce disproportionate anxiety. Speaking confidently can require considerable effort, even if the person listening would never know it. A social interaction can bring an internal checklist of when to speak, what to say, whether one is talking too much or too little and how one is coming across.
They sound like small difficulties. Repeated every day, they become exhausting.
Before my diagnosis, I did not have a framework for understanding why some seemingly simple things required so much effort. The natural response was to assume I was deficient in some way.
Why couldn't I just be more confident? Why did certain situations feel harder than they should?
A diagnosis did not answer every question, but it gave me context.
It also allowed me to look back at myself with considerably more kindness.
I could recognise that some of the things I had spent years trying to correct were simply parts of me I had never understood. Being quiet did not always need fixing. Neither did becoming intensely interested in something, needing time alone or finding particular social situations difficult.
Perhaps most importantly, I began to understand how much energy I had spent trying to appear comfortable when I wasn't.
I still mask. Everybody behaves differently depending on whether they are with family, friends, colleagues or strangers.
The difference now is that I feel less compelled to hide myself simply because somebody else might find the real version unusual.
More people get to see that person.
I am more comfortable being quiet when I have nothing to say. I can be enthusiastic without immediately wondering whether I should tone it down. I can admit that something makes me anxious instead of exhausting myself trying to appear unaffected by it.
And the more comfortable I have become allowing other people to see me, the more comfortable I have become with myself.
That has been one of the unexpected gifts of diagnosis.
It did not change who I was. It changed the way I interpreted who I had always been.
Self-acceptance has not arrived all at once. There are still moments when I catch myself viewing my behaviour through somebody else's eyes.
But I do it less.
And on World Mental Health Day, perhaps it is the one thing I would urge others to consider.
If you are old enough to have spent years feeling that there is something different about you or wondering why seemingly ordinary parts of life present challenges others do not, try to find out why.
Take reputable screening tests. Read about the experiences of others. And where possible, speak to a qualified professional and seek a proper assessment.
Symptoms could be consistent with autism, anxiety or another form of neurodiversity, or they may have a different cause.
But there is value in knowing.
For years, I could see the difficulties without understanding where they came from. Once I had a clearer picture, the path ahead became easier to see. The challenges did not disappear, but I became better equipped to manage them and less inclined to blame myself for having them.
I spent much of my life thinking acceptance had to come from other people first. If they liked the version of me I presented, perhaps I could like myself too.
I had the order wrong.
Understanding myself made it easier to accept myself. Accepting myself made it easier to show other people who I actually am.
And that has made me considerably happier.
