Sorry, I won't be coming to work today.

What I mean when I say I'm really not feeling up to it.

I’m sorry. I know I’ve had a lot of time off lately but I’m just not feeling up to coming in today.

No, I’m not ill; not exactly. I’m Autistic. I’m overstimulated, overwhelmed, drained, exhausted, and today life just… hurts.

Everything hurts. I’m nothing but an exposed bundle of raw nerves. There’s so much tension in my neck and shoulders that I can’t even turn my head. My muscles feel bruised, as though I’ve done a full-body workout with flu: a deep ache with sharp spikes. Sore eyes, ringing ears; racing, pounding heart that seems to skip beats. I try to shut out the outside world with earplugs, but the internal sounds make my stress level rise because I can literally hear my anxiety. Without earplugs, though, external noise is an assault.

You know, it’s one of those days when you experience every sound as a physical sensation.

Oh, but you don’t know, do you? You’re neurotypical: all your senses are in the right place, they never get tangled up and confused. Lucky you!

I know you won’t understand, but still I’ll try to explain. How can I describe the sensation of distant traffic roaring in my bones? The ice pick of a shrieking child? Skateboards on a ridged wooden path making my teeth vibrate? There’s no filter, quiet and loud sounds are equally painful. The piercing whine of an electrical outlet, a police siren, a drill, someone chewing their food. Pounding music from a nearby car makes my organs quiver; my heart rate matches its intensity and I can feel rage building. I’m a human radio receiver, every frequency washing over me from every direction, hitting my body with slaps, stabs and punches.

You’d probably think it was quiet.

I really tried to get dressed for work, but clothes are impossible today. My skin feels flayed; everything is rough, sharp, spiky, itchy. I gave up on underwired bras years ago and now wear the super soft pull-on comfort ones, but today I couldn’t even manage that. Too tight, squeezing too hard, strangling and suffocating, making it hard to breathe. It almost triggered a panic attack.

I failed at socks, too. They felt too tight on my ankles, and I couldn’t make them feel symmetrical. I would have spent all day fiddling with them, trying to get them to sit right, and not been able to focus on anything else. Well, apart from the nauseating sensation of my office clothes. The textures of the fabrics are revolting, and I’m hyperaware of everywhere they touch. The seams are unbearable, and don’t even get me started on waistbands. As if that wasn’t quite bad enough, the sound and sensation of the fabrics rubbing together as I move are like—here’s something you’ll understand—nails on a chalkboard.

Aha, you felt that, didn’t you? I saw you cringe. You get it. OK, let’s take it a step further: imagine everything is like nails on a chalkboard. Every sensory input a variation of that feeling.

You can’t? I didn’t think so. Even so, I’m not making it up or exaggerating just to get a day off; that’s genuinely how the world feels today. I could have come in, but how could I concentrate amid the fluorescent lighting, cacophony of chatter, ringing phones, electronic equipment beeping and whirring? People speaking to me, expecting a reply when I couldn’t even process what they’d just said—let alone come up with the correct, socially-acceptable response they’re waiting for. I wouldn’t be able to trust myself not to have a huge meltdown. I’d end up hiding under a desk, rocking, with my hands over my ears; probably making some really bizarre noises. There would likely be hysterical sobbing. Imagine how embarrassing that would be for everyone!

If I’m being honest, that’s what I feel like most days at work, but I have a lifetime of experience in masking; I can hide the pain and have my meltdown later, in the privacy of my own home, so you’ll never have to witness it.

I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, you see. I don’t want to draw attention to myself, or inconvenience anyone. I worry enough about how I’m perceived, regularly lose sleep over interactions you wouldn’t think twice about. You’ll never meet the real me; only the avatar, the construct I send out into Neurotypical World. The socially, professionally acceptable version of me. That’s the hardest work of all, this performance. It’s exhausting. I’m actually doing two jobs all day while the rest of you are only doing one.

What’s that? Have I seen a doctor about my symptoms? Oh, yes. Many times over the years. Before I was finally correctly diagnosed with Autism & ADHD, I was labelled with a wonderful variety of disorders such as clinical depression, anxiety, panic disorder, bipolar disorder, and fibromyalgia. All fancy names for what I consider to be a perfectly natural and normal response to intolerable pressure and a toxic environment. The answer was always:

Take these pills, they’ll numb your feelings enough to get you back to work.

Everyone has aches and pains (yes, a doctor actually said this). Have some painkillers.

Not working? Have stronger pills. Take these other pills to help with the side effects.

Have a couple of weeks off until the side effects subside, then get back to work.

You need to talk to someone, the waiting list for counselling is only about 6 months. 3 sessions should get your head straight. In the meantime, take these pills so you can get back to work.

I tried all that. All kinds of pills. I tolerated the side effects, felt my mind go numb, gained 30lbs from the carb cravings, lost imagination, creativity, my sex drive, interest in pretty much anything I ever cared about, my ability to feel joy. But that’s OK, because I still managed to go to work—until they gave me a drug so thoroughly disabling that I was no longer capable of… well, pretty much anything, really.

I won’t be taking the pills this time. I’d rather be a bundle of raw nerves than lose myself again to medication. This is my one life, and I’m not letting capitalism send me to an early grave.

So I’m very sorry, but I won’t be coming to work today.