End of August Update August always weighs on me. My birthday sits in the same week as the memory of my grandfather’s passing, and that combination pulls me between joy and grief in a way that my body can’t always process. It feels like buzzing under my skin—like my nerves are carrying too much information at once. Sometimes I sweat when no one else is hot, or everything sounds like it’s happening at the same volume, and my body just says, enough. Turning 36 brought mixed emotions. I don’t feel like I’ve “arrived” anywhere in life, and my brain often tells me I should be further ahead. But when I look at the reality, I’ve survived so much. My autistic brain and body make everyday things harder—like interruptions at work that completely throw me off, or noise in the store that makes me lose my focus instantly. Even something as simple as trying to reset after being pulled away feels impossible some days. Still, I made it through, and that counts for more...

Chronicles of a Quiet Fighter: A Day in My Autistic Life Morning Arrival: Senses on Alert The day began with the sun sneaking through the blinds, too bright too early for my brain to process comfortably. I pressed my hands against the hardwood floor, feeling the coolness beneath my palms. Each step on the floorboards made a soft, hollow echo, which my ears picked up more acutely than anyone else would notice. The buzzing started almost immediately, that familiar low vibration in my skin, and I knew I had to pace myself just to get through breakfast. I sat with my simple breakfast, thinking about the routines that guide my life. Even mundane actions—making a peanut butter and strawberry jelly sandwich, pouring a glass of water, checking my medication schedule—require precision and attention. For someone else, these tasks would feel automatic. For me, they are anchor points, moments to assert control over the sensory chaos around me. Preparing for Work: Small Triumphs Putti...

Autistic, Exhausted, Alive: My Fight to Keep My Promise Autistic, Exhausted, Alive: My Fight to Keep My Promise Sometimes I wish I could just end it. That’s the truth, as raw as it gets. I don’t want to die—not really. But the exhaustion, the noise, the endless effort... it wears me down until the idea of not existing feels like a kind of relief. But I made a promise. I made it to my mom when I was 23 after the last time I came close. I made it to Miranda too. I told them I wouldn’t try again. And I meant it. Even when I’m at my lowest, that promise is a lifeline. Today, the noise sensitivity is brutal. The bugs outside are screeching, the white noise in my brain is up to max, and even my best coping tools—my Nee Doh, my stim toys, my earplugs—aren’t cutting it. I’ve been rubbing my feet together to try to soothe the overwhelm. Still, it builds. I wish my brain would just shut down. Funny thing is, it often does—just not when I need it to. I’ve always pu...

When Life Is Full of Square Holes but You're a Round Peg Reflection: Everything I've ever tried to do has been a challenge for me—from tying my shoes to reading to maths. It was never easy. I’ve always had to take extra time, use up more spoons, push through more frustration just to get the job done right. While others were walking through open doors, I was trying to reshape myself to fit into keyholes that were never made for me. I tried. I always tried. But when the world demands speed, neatness, sameness—it doesn’t care that my brain works differently. It doesn’t wait for me to catch up. And that pressure builds. Every little task eats a piece of energy I might not get back for days. Add all the sensory overload that stacks up throughout the day—the lights too bright, sounds too sharp, clothes too scratchy, smells too strong—and eventually it’s not just tiredness. It’s meltdown. It’s shutdown. It’s trauma, piling up like bricks on my chest. Over time, that toll becam...

When the Sound Won’t Stop: My Sensory Survival Toolkit The world hums loud, though others rest, Each sound a weight upon my chest. But still I breathe, and still I try, With tools that help me not to cry. A blanket's hug, a beaver near, I build my calm when none is clear. If you read my last post, you know about the unwelcome summer guest outside my window—the endlessly buzzing cicada who’s been drilling into my skull with a song only I seem to hear. That post ended with a poem and a promise: to share how I cope when the world turns up the volume and my autistic brain can’t turn it back down. So here it is—my toolkit. Not one made of wrenches and screws, but of textures, sounds, comfort, and survival. Because when your sensory system runs hot all the time, you need real strategies to cool it down. 🧸 Weighted Blanket + Buc-ee = My Grounding Duo My weighted blanket is my shield. When the world is too loud, too fast, or too unpredictable, it wraps me in calm. A...

“Hear What?” — When the World Says It’s Quiet But My Brain Says Otherwise “Why are you up so early?” my mom asked this morning, surprised to see me awake before my usual time. I stared at her, exhausted and on edge. “Don’t you hear that?” I said. She paused. “Hear what?” And just like that, I felt like I was losing my mind. Because I *did* hear something—something loud, vibrating, piercing. The never-ending song of a cicada right outside my bedroom window. A sound that might register to others as background noise, if they notice it at all. But to me? It was like a siren made of static and bone. The frequency cut through my walls, my thoughts, and my ability to rest. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t block it out. And no one else could even hear it. Being autistic means my sensory world is cranked to a volume most people don’t notice. It means I hear lights hum, electricity buzz, and insects scream. It means that while others sleep peacefully through summer sounds, I’m curled up ...

A Formal Petition to the Feathered Knights To the noble birds who once called the window outside my room home— I know we’ve had our differences. I’ve grumbled. I’ve complained. I may have even threatened to evict you with muttered curses and half-hearted shoe tosses. Your early morning chirping was not appreciated by a sleep-deprived autistic who wrestles with insomnia and a brain that refuses to shut off. But oh, how the tides have turned. For now, I find myself haunted by a new tenant: the relentless, vibrating, high-frequency Cicada of Doom . Its siren song—made with actual rib bones, by the way—is both biologically fascinating and absolutely torturous to my nervous system. Its buzz drills into my skull with the intensity of a thousand dentist tools on loop. I cannot rest. I cannot think. I cannot even scream because I’m too overstimulated to formulate words. So, to the birds: I take it all back. Your chirps, your fluttering wings, your constant nest rearranging—I would ...

When My Body Hit Panic Mode at Work Yesterday at work, I was just standing at my counter, waiting for the next customer to walk through the door, when out of nowhere, my heart rate spiked. I don’t know what triggered it—nothing obvious set me off—but my body went straight into fight or flight. Box breathing didn’t help much. Stimming didn’t either. I felt trapped inside my own body, my pulse racing up to 130 bpm, according to my smartwatch. I was dizzy, faint, and still—I had to push through. A customer walked in right in the middle of it, and like I always do, I threw on my mask. I covered my autistic traits. I forced myself past a breaking point I should have never crossed. Worst decision I’ve made in a long time. I helped the customer anyway, even though I was falling apart inside. The second I was done, I went straight to my manager and told him I needed to sit down. Thankfully, he said okay. I asked John if he could come back early from lunch, and he did—which I’m g...

Why Does This Have to Be So Hard? My Autistic Perspective on Starting New Meds Some days it feels impossible to explain why something as “simple” as starting a new antidepressant can take over my whole life. But the truth is, it does — and it’s not because I’m weak. I’m autistic. That means my nervous system doesn’t just notice small side effects — it amplifies them. Nausea doesn’t feel like a mild stomach flutter; it feels like my whole body is buzzing and I can’t escape. A little dizziness doesn’t feel small; it feels like the floor tilts under me all day. It’s not drama — it’s sensory reality. Then there’s anxiety. Every tiny shift inside my body becomes something to watch, something to question. Add depression to the mix, and suddenly the fight to keep going gets even heavier. And it’s not just the mental side. I’m already juggling meds for blood pressure, sleep, and mood. Every new pill changes that balance. My heart rate drops too low at night. My mornings turn into a c...

My First Day on Sertraline: Buzzing, Hyper, and Sensory Chaos My First Day on Sertraline: Buzzing, Hyper, and Sensory Chaos So, I started sertraline this morning—and wow, it’s been interesting to say the least. It kicked off with this weird whole-body buzzing sensation. The only way I can describe it is kinda like the sensory overload buzz I sometimes get, which of course made me panic a bit until I googled it (thanks, Internet) and found out it can be pretty common when you first start taking it. Ain’t that nice. By the time I got to work, I figured it’d go one of two ways: either I’d be super drowsy or bouncing off the walls. Turns out, it was the latter. I had a ridiculous amount of energy—like, borderline hyper—which lasted almost until 5pm before the crash finally showed up. Honestly, I’m really hoping that doesn’t keep happening, because it’s exhausting in its own way. To add to the chaos, I accidentally took my morning dose of ...

It’s not that I’m not patriotic. It’s not that I don’t love the country I was born in. It’s the fireworks. The loud, bone-rattling explosions that burn my eardrums, and the blinding flashes that overwhelm my eyes until I can’t see straight. It’s sensory hell. Complete overload. There’s no escape, no peace—not until morning. The city and county put on their big show, and all the neighbors light them off in the street, all around me. So for about eight hours, twice a year—on the 4th of July and on New Year’s Eve—I live in hell. Those are my least favorite holidays. The only one that even comes close is Christmas, but even that isn’t as overwhelming. It isn’t about being unpatriotic. It’s about surviving in a world that’s just too loud, too bright, and too relentless for my autistic senses. — Caleb

Life Lately: A Quiet Fighter’s Update 🌿 Life Lately: A Quiet Fighter’s Update It’s been a lot lately. And honestly? I’m tired—but I’m still here, still trying, still fighting quietly. The past few weeks have felt like living inside a pressure cooker. Between work stress, prepping for bankruptcy to finally breathe again, health flares, and just the weight of existing as an autistic, anxious millennial in this loud world… it’s been overwhelming. Some mornings, before my feet even hit the floor, everything already feels loud and heavy. My health has been a maze of high blood pressure numbers, chest tightness, weird heart rate spikes, and nights where sleep feels impossible. The sleep apnea, insomnia, and random buzzing sensations through my body don’t help either. And the sensory overload? Still there. Three streets over, a truck backup beeper sounds like it’s right beside me, even with earplugs shoved in. Emotionally, it’s been messy. There are moments of laughter—like...

🪶 I Just Want to Hear the Birds: Living in a World That’s Too Loud I’m autistic, and my world is loud — painfully, relentlessly loud. Even with earplugs and headphones, some days all I want is to step outside and just hear the birds. But it’s never that simple. Some days, all I want is to step outside and just hear the birds. Feel the breeze, catch the rustle of leaves, maybe notice a distant dog barking or a squirrel scurrying up a tree. But instead, I hear a truck’s backup beeper three streets over. I hear the low, constant hum of traffic, the deep bass of someone’s stereo vibrating the air, and — always — the ringing in my ears that never really stops. Even with my Loop earplugs in, it feels like the world refuses to turn the volume down. I hate that I need earplugs. I hate that I carry headphones everywhere like armor. I hate that just existing outside feels like fighting a battle my nervous system is already tired of fighting. And yeah — it’s unfair. I’m autistic, a...

Today was one of those days. Therapy with Jennifer went well—she always gets it. Afterward, I made a quick stop at O’Reilly’s, and then, for some reason I still don’t understand, I decided Cracker Barrel sounded like a good idea. Spoiler: It wasn’t. Cracker Barrel is a sensory minefield. The moment I walked in, I was hit with that thick, cloying perfume smell—like walking into a cloud of synthetic flowers and regret. The music? Loud enough to make my teeth vibrate. And the overlapping voices? It felt like I had fifty conversations shoved in my ears at once. Even with my Loop earplugs in, it was pure sensory assault. My nervous system was already screaming before I even sat down. So why did I go? Maybe I was chasing some kind of comfort. Maybe I thought steak would fix it. I ordered a 10 oz sirloin steak, mashed potatoes, mac and cheese, and an extra side of fries. Fries that arrived cold, limp, and flavorless—like they’d been waiting for someone else and settled for me. A small glass o...

So Ryan—my boss here at O’Reilly Auto Parts—asked me to take on the new Welcome Center planogram for the front of the store. Cool, no problem. I pulled all the old merchandise off, got the new stock up on the shelves, and even swapped out all the price labels like a pro. Then came the sales labels. Cue ominous music. Here’s the thing: on the second shelf, there’s only space for four long sales labels total. But surprise! There are more than four different products on that shelf. So now the sales labels are covering up the price labels, which makes zero sense and is completely messing with my OCD and anxiety. It’s like: how do you expect me to finish this when my brain is screaming at me that the layout is wrong, the labels don’t match the products, and everything is visually lying to the customers? Miranda—being the wonderful human she is—noticed I was spiraling and told me to go sit down in the office and close the door. I appreciated that, I really did. But the spiral was already spi...