Content note: this article contains several references to suicide and suicidal ideation that readers may find upsetting.

When I was 16, I believed whole-heartedly that I didn’t belong in this world, that I was broken in some way, and that nothing would ever change that. I had known that I was different for as long as I could remember. My brain didn’t seem to work in the same way as everyone else’s. I interpreted things incorrectly, became overwhelmed easily and appeared ‘awkward’ in social situations. I did my best to copy those around me and suppress parts of myself that I was told were ‘weird’, but despite this, I never quite fitted in. My anxiety intensified to the point I was having daily panic attacks and developed OCD. This led me to the conclusion that the world simply wasn’t designed for me. I didn’t believe I had a future.

After attempting suicide, I was admitted to a children’s mental health unit, where I was sectioned under the Mental Health Act. The whole experience was incredibly distressing, though there were some professionals who were kind and helped me as much as they could. I was unwell, but the environment made everything worse. My notes from my admission say that I had “hysteric attacks” when I didn’t “get my own way”, but they were meltdowns from sudden changes, noise, lack of predictability and fear. My parents queried if it might be autism, but my doctor said I just had high social anxiety. I was diagnosed with generalised anxiety disorder and mixed personality disorder (emotionally unstable and obsessive-compulsive type) and discharged more traumatised than when I was first admitted.

Six months after my discharge, my life changed with a single sentence from a psychiatrist: “I think there is one explanation for everything that you have gone through… that explanation is autism.” I remember not understanding entirely what autism meant but feeling an overwhelming relief at finally knowing why I was different. I’d collected many labels already – weird, drama queen, gifted, stupid, hysterical, over-dramatic, personality disordered – but this was the first one that made sense. I didn’t yet have the full picture – three and a half years later, at the age of 21, I would be diagnosed with ADHD, too, but it was the start of a journey towards understanding myself. The diagnosis didn’t change everything immediately. It didn’t take away the challenges I experienced on a day-to-day basis, but understanding my brain saved me in more ways than one. 

My autism diagnosis meant that (most of) the mental health professionals working with me stopped viewing my difficulties through the lens of a personality disorder I didn’t have. Therapy could be adapted to accommodate my autism: I had a CETR (care, education and treatment review), which aims to prevent autistic young people being admitted to hospital, and my medication was adjusted. I didn’t need to be medicated with antipsychotics; I needed to be understood. Too often, autistic people’s needs are not understood in the mental health system, resulting in misdiagnosis and inappropriate treatment. 

Connecting with the neurodivergent community showed me that I wasn’t alone. Although every autistic person and person with ADHD is different, there are things that unite us – like the depth of our intense interests and our experiences of feeling misunderstood. Just because someone shares the same diagnoses as me doesn’t mean we will be best friends, but learning that there were other people who experienced the world in a similar way to me was a revelation. I wasn’t the only one. This made me think: I didn’t believe that other neurodivergent people didn’t have a place in the world, so why did I believe that to be true for myself? 

I threw myself into learning everything I could about autism and ADHD. This gave me the language to describe the experiences that I’d never understood. I wasn’t having ‘hysteric attacks’; I was having autistic meltdowns – an involuntary response to overwhelm. I wasn’t a ‘drama queen’; I was experiencing sensory overload because of my heightened sensitivities to sensory stimuli. I wasn’t ‘stupid’ or ‘lazy’; I was experiencing difficulties with executive functioning – cognitive processes such as planning, prioritisation, working memory and time management that are typically harder for those with ADHD. It wasn’t my fault. I started to be able to reframe core negative beliefs I held about myself: instead of hating myself for being hysterical, dramatic and stupid, I looked at my challenges with more neutrality. I knew now that certain things were harder for me, and I knew why.

With the understanding of my challenges also came an understanding of my strengths. One of the things I’d been criticised for growing up was my expression of joy. I was ‘too much’ and needed to ‘tone it down’. When I read about autistic joy for the first time, I resonated deeply with its description. For me, autistic joy is one of the most beautiful things about being autistic. It is an all-encompassing, intense feeling of joy that completely consumes me and floods my body with warmth. It makes me want to jump up and down, stim (making repetitive body movements and sounds) and squeal with excitement. For so long, I felt ashamed of this. But when I understood that it was OK for me to express my joy differently to other people, and that the authentic version of me was acceptable, I started to embrace it, and it has made life so much more colourful.  

As I learned how my brain worked, I was able to identify ways that could help with my challenges. For instance, knowing that I struggled with executive dysfunction, I was able to implement strategies into my work life, like visual charts and using hyperfocus to my advantage. Small bursts of intense focus mean that I get my work done, but I don’t need to beat myself up for a lack of consistency. Rather than trying to adapt my brain to do things in a certain way, I learned to adapt things to suit my brain. Little by little, life became easier and there were fewer mornings when I woke up wishing I hadn’t.

Simply accepting that my brain worked differently to other people’s – and that it’s OK – meant my life started to change enormously. I started to see that I had been trying to force myself to fit into a mould, desperate to be like everyone else and not stand out. But I was learning that I couldn’t keep forcing myself into situations that I found overwhelming and distressing. The panic attacks and meltdowns were too damaging, and I didn’t want to end up back in a mental health crisis. If I didn’t know I was neurodivergent, I’d probably still believe I was lazy and difficult. But because I have this knowledge and understanding, I can make my own adjustments in my day-to-day life – something that everyone should feel able to do regardless of whether they are neurodivergent or not. There is no one right way to do anything, and it’s OK for people’s journeys to look a little different.

After my ADHD diagnosis, I started ADHD medication. The difference this has made is monumental. ADHD medication doesn’t solve everything, but now my thoughts aren’t constantly racing, my brain feels less exhausting, I am less impulsive, I can think things through properly and work isn’t so difficult. I can’t believe how much quieter my brain feels and how much easier it is to get on with tasks and focus properly. ADHD medication has made my life more manageable. 

Over the past few years, the most valuable thing I’ve learned is that I don’t have to do things the same way that everyone else does. I recently attended my friend’s hen-do – a weekend filled with things that made me anxious, like socialising, noise, new places and a change in routine. But instead of not going or struggling through it, I decided to actively cater to my needs. I told my friend that I wouldn’t be going clubbing because I couldn’t cope with the noise and anxiety. I took breaks when I needed to. I wore my noise-cancelling earphones in restaurants. I didn’t drink alcohol. I was back in my hotel room by 11pm each night with a book. And because I wasn’t panicking, I was able to celebrate my friend properly and we all had a lovely time. Being able to make adjustments for myself and advocate for what I need means that I can enjoy occasions like this, and that makes life feel more worth living.

I am so grateful to have the knowledge and understanding that I am autistic and have ADHD. I don’t know how I would have ever got out of the cycle of self-hatred and self-destruction had I not gained this knowledge or this understanding of myself and the neurodivergent community. I truly believe that understanding my neurodivergent brain saved my life. It’s given me a purpose too – to advocate for others like me. I am the Sunday Times bestselling author of Girl Unmasked: How Uncovering My Autism Saved My Life, a blogger, a mental health nurse and trustee of the charity Autistic Girls Network. I have friends who accept me for who I am, but more importantly, I accept myself for who I am. I never thought I would make it past the age of 16, but I have – and life is now filled with joy.

If I could tell someone who has had a similar journey to me one thing, I would say this: no one is ever too broken or too much of a failure to be in this world. You deserve to have your needs met and your strengths appreciated. Please don’t ever give up hope.

The paperback of Girl Unmasked: How Uncovering My Autism Saved My Life by Emily Katy is available now. 

Frame Of Mind is Stylist’s home for all things mental health and the mind. From expert advice on the small changes you can make to improve your wellbeing to first-person essays and features on topics ranging from autism to antidepressants, we’ll be exploring mental health in all its forms. You can check out the series home page to get started.

Images: Emma Fletcher Photography