Before My Diagnosis, I Thought Being a “Good Person” Meant Quietly Suffering

For decades — before my AuDHD diagnosis — I believed that being a good person meant pushing through, keeping quiet, and never making things harder for anyone else.

I thought everyone lived with the same constant background noise in their head — the same internal chaos, sensory overload, and bone-deep exhaustion — but they were just better at coping.

If I couldn’t keep up, it had to be because I was weak. Lazy. A personal failure.

It never crossed my mind that my brain and body were processing the world differently.

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Things I Thought Everyone Else Was Managing Effortlessly

🍿 Theatre Torture
I’d sit in a darkened theatre, trying to focus on the movie, while perfume from the seat behind me burned my nose, made my muscles throb, and sent a pounding headache through my skull. I’d be told to “suck it up” because “it’s not that bad.”

🥄 Food as the Enemy
I’d choke down food that made me gag or gave me headaches, because “a good person eats what they’re given.” If I couldn’t, I’d nibble at it like poison, each bite feeling like a personal attack.

🌩 The Shutdown Days
Some days my brain was foggy and my body refused to cooperate. But crowded parties, loud outings, and high-pressure days still loomed on the calendar. Everyone else seemed to manage, so clearly I just needed to “try harder.”

🗣 Conversation Paralysis
I’d bite my tongue even as my brain overflowed with ideas, terrified of interrupting or being rude. And then — mid-conversation — I’d drift off completely, because staying present felt impossible with so many thoughts crashing into each other.

🤷 Decision Freeze
When a group asked what I wanted to do, I’d just agree with the first suggestion. Making a choice meant wading through an endless swamp of what-ifs and second-guessing, and the quiet dread that my preferences didn’t matter anyway.

🔊 Social Static
In noisy spaces, I’d perfect my “interested face” and carefully time my “yeahs” and “totallys,” even though I couldn’t follow the conversation over clinking dishes, stomping footsteps, bursts of laughter, music, buzzing lights, and my own spiraling thoughts.

🙃 Masking Fatigue
I’d pretend to be fine — even fun — while my brain was on fire. I’d smile through confusion, hide my overstimulation, and keep talking with manufactured energy long after I’d run out.

🔁 Rehearsing Every Interaction
I’d obsess over whether I’d said the right thing, replaying conversations on a loop. I’d rewrite messages ten times before sending them, and mentally rehearse what I’d say the next time I saw someone — all while watching others just… talk.

🎭 Acting “Normal”
I’d laugh at jokes I didn’t get. Nod along when I was lost. Change my interests to match the “right” ones. Mimic social scripts. It was exhausting, but I thought that was just how being human worked.

🛑 Never Saying “I Can’t”
I believed that admitting “this is too much” made me weak or selfish. So I’d push through until I collapsed, feeling like a failure for not lasting longer.

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The Realization

I thought everyone else could handle these things because they were simply better at being human.

I didn’t even understand what “relaxing” meant. I felt guilty for taking time for myself because I hadn’t earned it. And most of the time, my so-called “downtime” was just my body and brain crashing from overwhelm — not actually resting.

But here’s what I know now:

They weren’t doing what I was doing.
They weren’t experiencing what I was experiencing.
They weren’t drained the way I was drained.
They weren’t wrestling with and analyzing every moment the way my brain did.

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The New Rules I’m Learning

I am slowly, haltingly learning that:

✨ It’s okay to advocate for myself.
✨ It’s okay to say, “I can’t process this right now.”
✨ It’s okay to move, to step away, to need quiet, to need space.
✨ It’s okay to be wired differently.

And I’m learning that being kind to yourself isn’t weakness.

It’s healing.