selfharmawareness

🧠💔 A personal essay on autism, ADHD, self-harm, and the journey toward self-compassion

⚠️ Note to Readers

This post contains personal reflections on self-harm, mental health, masking, and neurodivergence. Please read with care and compassion. If you are struggling, know you are not alone—resources are listed at the end of this post. I’m sharing this in hopes that someone else might feel seen.

I Didn’t Know Why I Did It

I was 21 the first time I self-harmed. It was the night of my sorority’s spring formal—an event I had spent weeks planning as the Vice President of Event Planning for Pi Beta Phi. That role wasn’t one I wanted; I took it on out of guilt and obligation when the original officer stepped down for her own mental health. No one else was willing to step up, and I didn’t want our chapter to fall apart under pressure from national headquarters.

So I did what I’d always done: I took on too much. I wore the perfect face. I planned the perfect party. I made sure everyone else had the time of their lives—even though I was barely surviving mine.

After the event, I went out with my boyfriend and friends to celebrate. Everything seemed fine. But later, back in my boyfriend’s room at his fraternity house, something broke. I sat down on the floor and started crying—hard. Full-body, couldn’t-stop sobbing. And then I started scratching the back of my neck, my arms, my shoulders. I pulled at my hair in sharp, frantic handfuls. It wasn’t premeditated. It wasn’t attention-seeking. It was a release. It was a meltdown. I didn’t know that word back then, but that’s what it was.

He pulled me into his arms and stopped me. And then I never spoke about it again.

The Perfection Trap

Looking back, it’s not surprising that it happened then. I was exhausted—emotionally, mentally, physically. But I didn’t know how to name it, and I didn’t feel like I had permission to admit it. I was a “high-functioning” sorority girl with leadership roles and a big smile. I was the girl people could count on. And I believed that being good meant never showing pain.

So I didn’t.

I buried it. I kept moving forward. I acted like it had never happened—because that’s what perfection required of me.

The Part of the Story I Didn’t Know Yet

It would be years before I’d begin to understand that I’m autistic. That I have ADHD. That my brain has always processed the world more intensely than others. That I’d been masking—hiding my real self to fit in, to survive—for most of my life.

That night wasn’t random. That moment on the floor was my body and brain screaming out after months (maybe years) of chronic overstimulation, internalized pressure, and emotional dysregulation. I wasn’t crazy. I wasn’t weak. I was melting down in the only way my nervous system knew how to.

But without a diagnosis, without language, without community or support—I thought it was just me. I thought I had snapped. I thought I was broken.

Teaching Burned Me Out Again

The next time it happened, I was a teacher—three years into my career at a public elementary school in Florida. I was overworked, under-supported, and living on Diet Coke, potato chips, and 3 hours of sleep a night. I stayed late at school. I brought home papers to grade and lessons to plan. I gave everything I had to my students and had nothing left for myself.

One night, the scratching and hair-pulling came back. I remember the sting, the sharpness, the brief moment of stillness that followed. The next day, a fourth grader asked about the marks on the back of my neck. I wore my hair in a bun every day, so they were visible.

I lied. “Oh, it was my cat,” I said. She believed me. Of course she did.

But they didn’t look like cat scratches.

It Wasn’t for Attention. It Was to Survive.

Self-harm is so misunderstood. Especially in neurodivergent people.

It wasn’t about getting someone to notice me. It was about trying to regulate a body that had gone completely dysregulated. It was a way to feel when I felt nothing. Or to distract myself from feeling too much. It was my brain’s desperate attempt to cope with things I didn’t know how to express in words.

And even when I did try to speak, I didn’t feel like I was allowed to.

Now I Know Better. Now I Treat Myself Kinder.

Today, I know that autistic and ADHD people are more prone to self-harm. Not because we’re “crazy” or “unstable” but because our brains and bodies are wired to experience the world in intense, overwhelming ways. We are more likely to internalize shame. More likely to mask. More likely to burn out quietly.

I’m not immune now. But I have better coping tools. I’ve found gentler ways to let the feelings out—through art, poetry, walking in nature, meditation, painting galaxies and wildflowers. I’m learning to ask for help. I’m learning to listen to myself when the early signs show up.

And I’m not pretending to be perfect anymore.

A Letter to My Younger Self

Dear Me at 21,

You weren’t crazy.
You weren’t too sensitive.
You weren’t weak.

You were breaking under the weight of a world that never taught you how to live in your body.
You were trying to carry everyone’s expectations without dropping your own.
You were masking pain with smiles and success and silence.

And when you finally cracked, you thought that meant something was wrong with you.

But all it meant was this:

You were overwhelmed.
You were hurting.
And you needed help.

I see you now.
And I love you fiercely.

You made it.
And you’re still making it.

Love,
The version of you who finally knows she never had to be perfect.
The one who wears softness like armor now.

Healing Isn’t Linear—But I’m Not Hiding Anymore

Up until this past summer, the self-harm moments had become more frequent than ever. It scared me. It felt like I was back in that place again—on the floor, overwhelmed, and alone.

But this time was different.

Because this time, I finally had answers. I was diagnosed with autism. And instead of shame, I felt relief. I was getting the help I needed. My parents, my siblings, and my friends showed up for me with love and support. There was no judgment. No pretending. Just care. And that made all the difference.

I still have moments. The past year has been one of the hardest of my life. So many changes. So much processing. So much unraveling.

But I also have more tools now. I can talk about the hard stuff instead of hiding it. I can lean on my boyfriend and my family. I can say “I’m not okay” without feeling like I’ve failed.

It still happens sometimes—but I don’t carry the shame anymore. I don’t keep it secret. And every time I speak it out loud, every time I let someone in, it loses a little more of its power over me.

I’m still working on it.

But the more I understand what’s really happening inside me—the sensory overload, the masking fatigue, the emotional spirals—the more I can show myself compassion. And the less alone I feel.

And that, to me, is healing.