Wired for Whiplash: The Social See-Saw of a Neurodivergent Mind

First, a quick note: if you've been wondering where the pop culture deep dives and new podcast episodes have been hiding, the answer is a mix of The Music Man and mental health maintenance. Balancing a stage production with life offstage (and in my head) has taken a bit more energy than expected. But I promise—it’s all still coming. 

In the meantime, here's something personal I've been sitting with lately. For most of my life, I’ve had this strange internal tug-of-war: a deep, sincere desire to get closer to people—followed by a near-immediate dread the moment a conversation starts. It always felt like I was playing the role of Two-Face in a very boring indie drama. 

One moment, I’m craving connection. The next, I’m ducking into the bathroom pretending I had a very urgent need to wash my hands. Again. Every social interaction is followed by a familiar post-game analysis. 

Were they just being polite, or did they genuinely want to talk to me? 

Did I scare them off by diving too deep, too fast? 

They laughed at my joke, but now they’re texting someone else—am I being avoided? 

It’s exhausting. Not just for me, but I imagine for those on the receiving end of this social ping-pong, too. 

Recently, though, I’ve found a strange kind of comfort in learning that this isn’t just me. This kind of interaction confusion—the flip-flopping, the overthinking, the mixed signals we interpret even when none were sent—is incredibly common among neurodivergent people. There's even neuroscience behind it. Our brains are often wired for intensity, pattern-seeking, and emotional hypersensitivity, which makes social life feel like trying to solve a puzzle where the pieces change shape mid-game. 

Knowing this hasn’t made me any less awkward. I still find myself rambling passionately about movies or Star Wars in one moment, and in the next, I'm clutching a squishy toy in the corner like it's the only thing keeping me tethered to the Earth. (Sometimes, it kind of is.) And it hasn’t magically made relationships easier. 

But what has shifted is how I see the spirals. I’m slowly learning that many of the fears I carry after social interactions—did I talk too much, was I annoying, did they like me—aren’t rooted in reality. They’re rooted in old narratives, misunderstood brain wiring, and a lifetime of trying to decode a social world that operates on rules I wasn’t given. 

More and more, I’m finding ways to hold all that with compassion. I’m beginning to understand that neurotypical people don’t just act differently—they think differently. Many of them don’t burn fuel trying to interpret every gesture or facial expression. They don’t walk away from casual chats wondering if they just ruined a friendship. 

The social world simply doesn’t take the same toll. That doesn’t make my experience wrong—it just makes it different. This is part of who I am. It’s messy, and awkward, and very real. 

And if you’ve ever felt like your brain was playing a double-agent in your social life, maybe it’s part of who you are, too. And maybe we’re not as alone as we thought.