Letting the Autistic Side Drive: A Letter I Never Gave My Psychiatrist

The following reflection is about giving voice to the parts of ourselves long kept quiet.

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There are some things I can only write down, because speaking them aloud feels like trying to grab fog with bare hands.

This piece began as a letter I never shared with my psychiatrist.

I’d tried to bring it up during sessions, but the words never seemed ready.

Not until recently — when something began to click into place.

I needed time.

Time to line up the facts, to bring emotional chaos into clarity, to find the language that could wrap around an experience still unfolding.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve struggled to feel heard. Not just misunderstood — misaligned.

As a child, I was told to “shut up” so often that the words embedded themselves in me like scar tissue. They silenced more than just my voice — they muted parts of my identity.

Even now, when I reflect, I notice a strange habit: I refer to myself in the third person.

As if I’ve always been watching from a distance.

One version of me was reckless and brave —

rushing in, causing drama, drawn to danger.

Another was soft and solitary —

imaginative, observant, but shy, often crying to stay close to adults instead of kids.

I lived in stories. But no one ever read mine.

I’ve always gravitated toward older people. Their conversations were like books — filled with subtext, tension, and truth.

I listened, absorbed, and stored everything.

But I never knew what I was storing it for —

until I turned 50.

That’s when I realised:

I’ve been curating a mental library my entire life.

Most people only ever saw the front desk.

The real archive? Hidden in the back. Locked. Untouched.

Until now.

I came into the world already in distress.

My mother — young, exhausted, and medicated in her third trimester — told me I cried constantly. That I cracked her ribs before birth. That I was hard to settle. That she didn’t know what I needed.

Neither did I.

I believe the trauma started there — for both of us.

And like all inherited stories, it never really got told.

It just lived in the silence between generations.

Things began to shift when I started stimulant medication for ADHD.

At first, it helped focus my energy. But slowly, something deeper emerged —

a part of me I didn’t know existed.

It felt like a hidden passenger had taken the wheel.

Not unwelcome — just unfamiliar.

I’d spent a lifetime being led by the impulsive ADHD part of me.

But now, someone else was navigating. And they knew the road.

The ADHD side of me is restless. Risky. It starts everything at 110% and ends most things at 80%.

It’s loud. It fakes confidence. It keeps moving, just to avoid stillness.

But the autistic side?

He listens. He sees. He follows through.

At first, it felt like being in an Uber with a stranger behind the wheel.

But it wasn’t a stranger.

It was me — just a version of me that had never been allowed to lead.

My wife — after 28 years together — has said it feels like she’s married to a new person.

She’s not wrong.

This change has been profound.

Not just in behaviour, but in essence.

Radical self-awareness has a way of unsettling long-held patterns.

But she’s still here. Still adapting.

And so am I.

My nephew — who is autistic — once told me:

“It’s not our challenges that wear us down. It’s other people’s expectations.”

That landed deeply.

It’s not just about masking or managing symptoms.

It’s about reclaiming identity from underneath the noise.

As [Michele Toner] told me once:

“Understanding your brand of neurodivergence is crucial.”

And that’s exactly what I’ve been doing.

Not picking a side. Not choosing ADHD over Autism.

But letting them co-exist.

The higher the dose of meds, the more my autistic traits show up.

It’s a mixed blessing — focus and fatigue often come together.

But for the first time, I can see things through.

Not because I have to.

Because I want to.

I’m no longer suppressing one part to let the other survive.

I’m learning to integrate.

To let the quieter part take the wheel —

even if it makes a burnout or two along the way.

This wasn’t easy to write.

It wasn’t easy to live either.

But I’m learning — slowly — that every part of me deserves a seat at the table.

The loud ones. The quiet ones.

The unfinished and the newly emerging.

I never gave this letter to my psychiatrist.

But I’m giving it to you.

Because maybe you’re on a similar journey.

Maybe you’ve got an unheard voice, still waiting for its turn to drive.

Thanks for reading.

If this resonated with you, feel free to leave a comment, share your own story, or just sit with it.

Sometimes, knowing someone else gets it is more than enough.