No one really knows another person, do they?

Of course, we all present an acceptable version of ourselves to the world, otherwise society would look very different. But if you’re neurodivergent, there’s another dimension; you’ll likely be highly skilled at the game of public vs private persona known as masking.

Peeling back the layers of self is something I’ve dedicated a lot of time to since hitting my late 40s. Driven by the onslaught of peri-meno and the tumultuous whirlpool of hormonally-driven emotions, I’ve made finally getting to know myself a priority. Like so many women my age, late ND diagnosis clashed with the hormonal shifts of midlife. I believe that’s no coincidence, and actually want to thank my raging hormones for unveiling my neurodiversity. Having spent a lifetime acutely aware of my differences and wondering what was wrong with me, it was time to point the spotlight inwards. As it turned out, there’s nothing wrong with me. I’m not special, I’m just neurodivergent.

One of the coping mechanisms hard-wired into my being is using food to smother unwelcome emotions. (But let’s be real, I use food to celebrate life’s wins and the full spectrum of everything in between). Ever since I can remember, I’ve been ‘weird’ around food – especially sugar. You could call it my kryptonite. I was that child at the party who desperately wanted a 3rd or even 4th slice of cake. Only the sheer terror and shame of judgement held me back. Even at 5 years old, my performance radar was finely tuned.

Aged 19, as I stared vacantly at a loaf of bread on the counter top of the tiny loft kitchenette I shared with fellow students, it took everything I had to stop myself from hacking off yet another thick slice. Only 5 minutes had passed since I’d carved the first; eating it with an animalistic hunger that was way beyond physical. The layer of butter was almost as thick as the slice itself. If you couldn’t see teeth marks in the butter, what was the point?

Locked in a lonely world of tumultuous emotions, disturbing images of my mum’s recent deathbed burned into my retina, the 3 hour train journey back to uni was pressure enough. I couldn’t fight the pain with food, not in public anyway.

As I stood there in the tiny loft kitchen, ramming huge wedges of bread and butter into my mouth, I prayed with everything I had to be left in peace to squash my feelings the only way I knew how. Sharing a kitchen, and being acutely aware of others’ judgement meant always performing; pretending I didn’t want a larger portion or a second helping.

It was just after the Easter break, only 6 months into my first year living 200 miles from home. We were all still getting to know one another. Essentially just strangers thrown together at random. How could my housemates possibly console me, the person they barely knew and who wouldn’t let anyone in anyway? I preferred to party and eat my sorrows — the life and soul of every social gathering.

If they peered closely into my eyes, they might have seen the ocean of pain I’d been diligently hiding ever since my first unconscious experience of it as a tiny gathering of cells in my mother’s womb.