Taking a crowbar to a stiff and weathered fortress.

excerpts from the unmasking journey

It is an incredibly courageous act to be yourself.

For those of us with a history of trauma and/or neurodivergence, being ourselves in childhood often came with some kind of a price. I and many others like me learned how to hide our very essences away - tucked deep inside some kind of impenetrable metal fortress that had no port of entry.

A few years ago, I learned about my autism. I had to clear some smoke from my eyes - smoke in this case being childhood and adult trauma - in order to even see it inside my fortress, but once I saw it, it was undeniable. Freddy, my son, has actually been a key teacher in this way for me. In watching him exist as he is, I feel myself have body recognition and remembrances. Once I started to look into autism in a real way, I unlocked a bunch of childhood memories that had been previously lost to me.

I remember being in elementary school, and being labeled “the kissing girl” for a year or two because I didn’t understand that kisses were only reserved for family; I just thought it was one of the ways to express love.

I remember being able to speak and read before anyone else could, and always being far beyond my peers in reading level.

I remember being called hyper on a regular basis, and I remember the events at home that led me to become the type of person who rarely moves. I remember everyone thinking I was annoying. Too loud, too smart, too honest, too energetic.

I remember how uncomfortable it was to make eye contact with anyone at all, until I made myself figure out a way.

I also remember being with my friends, who we now know are also neurodivergent babes, and feeling like it was the only place I could just be. It is those memories that are helping me re-embody.

Some of the people photographed here are still my closest friends to this day.

Parenting is a trip, because it puts a big ol’ spotlight on the parts of you that need attention, that need healing, and that need recognition. I knew I had trauma, but before I had Freddy, I didn’t believe that trauma affected me. I knew I had ADHD, but I thought I was living with it just fine. I had no idea that I had autism or sensory needs, but at this point, nothing could be more clear. (My spouse, Corey, has had similar realizations as she discovered her PTSD, bi-polar disorder, axiety, and OCD.) A lot of the time, these things are a Venn diagram; they are friends. Comorbidities.

Do you know what I think about sometimes? I don’t know if this happens to you, but it happens to me - I will be watching something, or listening to a piece of music, and I’ll choke up at something in particular. I often will not be able to place the “why” of it, and I know that’s due to my many lost childhood memories. It’s starting to make sense. I recognize those moments now as a trapped part of me that is longing either to grieve or to be seen - or both. I don’t have to know exactly what it means, but each time I allow myself to feel it, I heal a piece of it. (here’s a little playlist of songs that hit me “there,” wherever that is)

Anyway. I am at the place where I am actively in the process of unmasking, and it is equal parts difficult and easy. Sometimes, my body and my brain slam the door closed without even a moment’s notice, deeming my efforts unsafe. That’s the hard part. That’s what makes this feel like I am prying myself open with a crowbar. “No, no,” I say to myself. “It’s safe. That wasn’t too much. They don’t hate you for it. And even if they do, then they aren’t a part of your crew anyway, and I will never hate you.” My safe-keeping mechanisms are stronger than even I thought. Makes me think of a lyrics from “Disco Smile” by Bent By Elephants: ‘those painful fissures that could heal with attention and a softening.’

A little jump here. Allowing myself to stim freely there. A little less policing of the volume of my voice. A little more explosive laughter. A lot more echolalia. A lot more clothing choices based on comfort. A lot more asking for what I need. Singing Aqua in the kitchen with my best friend with reckless abandon, leaping chaotically as I cook at the stove. Softening. Softening. Softening. I want to be a little kid again. I aim to be a little kid again. Just with all the self-regulation skills I’ve come to learn as well. If I can allow my body to exist the way it wants to, maybe it won’t be so tired anymore. Maybe it will hurt less. Maybe my fascia will move freely again. I deserve this. You deserve it too, if any of this is hitting home for you.