I thought it was just me,
this leg that never learnt to rest,
the fingers scratching at my skin
while saying I’m not even stressed.
The quotes I say on constant loop,
the same song playing through the day,
because once my brain has found its groove
it doesn’t want to move away.
The label scratching at my neck,
some fabrics feeling far too loud,
and wool against somebody’s teeth
can turn my stomach inside out.
Those little holes all grouped as one
make every nerve inside me crawl,
yet hold me tight and stroke one spot
and suddenly I can sleep through it all.
Sometimes I put my head beneath
the shower running hot and strong,
because the pressure drowns the noise
when everything inside feels wrong.
Autism likes the proper brand,
the same meal waiting, same old jeans,
the coffee made at the same time,
and knowing what tomorrow means.
It needs my keys where keys belong,
my home in order, plans in place.
Move one thing or change the time
and calm can vanish without trace.
ADHD forgets the swipe card twice,
then checks the door another three,
rushes forms and crosses words,
then wonders how that could be me.
It buys the kit, begins the job,
goes all in hard, forgets to stop,
then one morning the spark has gone
and something new takes up the top.
I’ll learn a subject inside out,
every bolt and every fact,
notice one small sound across the room
but miss the wider picture’s track.
I can leave an obsession for months,
then pick it up like yesterday.
The interest never truly leaves,
it waits until I look its way.
I’ll watch the same old film again
because I know each turn and scene,
but ask me to sit through something new
and staying seated feels obscene.
Small talk feels like wasted breath,
but mention something that I know,
and suddenly you’ve lost an hour
while facts and stories overflow.
I interrupt and finish lines,
not because your words don’t matter,
my answer simply reached my mouth
before I caught it in the traffic.
I might not read your face quite right
or know you’ve had enough of me.
I miss the hints between your words
because I hear what words should mean.
Eye contact isn’t simple either,
it can make the whole room bend.
So I look away to hear you better,
though you may think I don’t intend.
I feel emotions far too fast,
yet struggle knowing what to do.
I can sense the smallest change in you,
then fail to show I noticed too.
Rejection doesn’t feel like no,
it feels like every no before.
One quiet change in someone’s voice
can keep me pacing round the floor.
I’m all or nothing, now or never,
full speed ahead or fully still.
I can organise the impossible
but not begin one simple bill.
My thoughts don’t queue or take their turn,
they all arrive and shout at once.
One remembers something from ten years back,
one asks where I have left my lunch.
At work I wear the version built
to look composed and fully able.
Nobody sees the shaking leg
or everything beneath the table.
I smile, perform, remember lines,
keep every difficult feeling hidden.
Then reach the safety of my home
and find my whole body has given in.
A shutdown isn’t me being cold.
It’s every system saying no.
Too much sound, too much change, too much life,
and nowhere left for it to go.
I thought I was lazy, rude or strange,
too loud, too much, yet not enough.
I thought I simply lacked control
and needed to be twice as tough.
But these were signs across my life,
in every habit, choice and scar.
Not excuses written after the fact,
just reasons why some things feel hard.
Autism gave me depth and detail,
ADHD gave speed and drive.
Together they can drain me empty,
but they’re also how my words come alive.
So these aren’t quirks I’ve gathered up
or labels worn for sympathy.
They’re forty years of little clues,
the things I thought
were only me.