I flick through my wardrobe and grab a white collared shirt, pulling it on over my binder. I choose a pair of black dress pants, immediately wondering if I might get away with jeans instead. The pants are too tight, accentuating my hips. I sigh as I pull on a cardigan, covering up the tattoos on my arms, and add a pair of dress shoes. 

I watch my reflection as I run some hair gel through my hair, slowly, recoiling at the way it feels on my hands. It makes my hair slightly crunchy. I use a couple of sprays of cologne before grabbing a small satchel and filling it with my lip balm, keys, and phone. It feels oddly empty. 

I glance around the room before I leave. The books that follow me everywhere in my tote are getting left behind. My stim toys on the desk don’t come with me either. I gaze longingly at the vans on the floor, wishing I could trade these awkward dress shoes for my trusted comfort shoes, but I don’t. I give Henry the giraffe a little pat before leaving them on the bed next to my pillow. 

Are you happy now? 

I arrive and the room is full of chatter. My head starts to spin as my brain tries to analyse every single conversation, all at once. Add that to the sound of plates being stacked in the corner and the music playing too loudly from the speaker, and it feels like my eardrums are about to burst. I don’t have any headphones to rescue me today. 

I move through the crowd, little by little, trying not to drown. I can feel the uneven floorboard through my shoes. The lights overhead are piercing, even with my eyes fixed on the floor. The smell of the food mingling with the scent of my own cologne threatens to choke me. But I don’t turn around and leave, despite all my senses telling me that this isn’t okay. 

Are you happy now? 

I join your group. A conversation about… traffic? I stand up straight, shoulders back, chin up. I twist my mouth into a smile. I can still hear the plates and the voices and the music and I can still feel the floorboards and the piercing lights and I have nothing to say. I can’t construct a sentence while my brain is still trying to process the unfamiliar room, the unfamiliar people. The collar of my shirt is too high, and I can feel the pressure against my neck, making it hard to breathe. I can feel the seams pressing against me on the inside of my pants and it’s like they’re pressing right through my skin and into my bloodstream, sending my body into a state of panic. Breathe in, breathe out.

I see your gaze focused on me; mouth turned down slightly at the corners. I know that expression. You’re disappointed. You’re angry. Is it because of my clothes? Am I making the wrong facial expression? Or is it because I haven’t spoken yet? 

I already feel so vulnerable, I’m afraid if I open my mouth anyone listening will be able to see straight into my soul and learn all of my most guarded secrets. 

I have nothing to say about traffic, so I decide that I’ll pretend I haven’t already been standing here awkwardly for several minutes, and say hello. As soon as there’s a gap in the conversation. But when is there a gap? If I interrupt, I’ll seem rude, but I can’t find any pattern in this conversation. If I wait much longer without saying anything then I’ll also seem rude, and you won’t be happy. 

A brief pause. I take my chances. 

“Hi! How is everyone?” 

Everybody stares at me blankly for what feels like hours. I’ve fucked up. Did I misinterpret that lull in conversation? Did I wait too long? 

“Good thanks love. And you? How’s work?” 

I don’t even recognise the person that finally answers me. But that’s okay. I know this script. I’ve enacted it many times before. 

“It’s good, thank you. Busy, but it keeps me from getting bored.” 

Simple. Answer the question, give a little detail, but no more than a few sentences. People don’t like when you talk about yourself for too long. I copy the facial expression of the man opposite me, eyebrows relaxed, lips slightly pursed. I twirl my fingers in the strap of my bag.

Are you happy now? 

I stay in this conversation until it feels socially acceptable to move on. I count the topic changes. 1, 2, 3. Okay. When everybody is focused on Marianna’s engagement ring, I slip away. Easier than waiting for another gap in the conversation to excuse myself. I try to beeline for the bathroom without making it obvious that I’m in a rush. I know where it is, I found a layout of the building online and studied it before I arrived. 

But that was the wrong decision. “She’s off already?” I hear someone say behind me, from the group I just left, and my spine goes rigid. They, I think furiously. Not she, they. But I’m too overwhelmed to turn around and correct whoever it was for the incorrect use of my pronouns.

The rising panic pushes me back on the path to the bathroom, and it’s like every pair of eyes in the room is boring right through me, watching my heart beat. I hate this place, and these people, for setting my whole nervous system on fire and pushing me to a point where I can’t even defend my own gender identity. I feel alien, forced into an unknown planet where the voices are too loud and the smells too strong and I don’t know how to communicate with anyone. My personality is strung together with pieces of what everyone wants from me. I’m fighting to meet their expectations, knowing it will never be possible. My hands start fluttering at my sides, but I force them to stop, cradling them to my chest. 

When I’m finally in the stall with the door locked, I breathe out fully for the first time since I arrived. There’s no one else in here. It’s quiet and I’m alone. Breathe in, breathe out. Fiddle with my shirt. Fiddle with my nails. Actually go to the bathroom. 

I examine my reflection before I leave. I wish I were at home, out of these uncomfortable clothes, away from these awkward conversations, but I’m stuck here. Breathe in, breathe out. I need to make you happy. I have one hand on the door to leave when something inside of me tears open. Why am I doing this? Why am I torturing myself with these uncomfortable conversations? In this overwhelming environment? I turn back to the sink to wet my hands and scrub at the gel in my hair. It doesn’t fully come out, but it’s better. My hair is a mess now, but I don’t care. I try to smile in the mirror. 

You won’t be happy now. 

I leave the bathroom and I see you watching me. I was away for too long. I didn’t talk to enough people. I haven’t mingled. Now my hair is a mess. I move behind a group of people to escape your line of sight. I weave between groups, disguising myself amidst the crowd until I reach the nearest exit. 

I open and close the door as quietly as I can. The air out here is fresh and cool... Calming. The world gets quieter the further I get from the venue, but my body is still on high alert. I pull out my phone, but the usually reassuring piece of technology sends alarm bells through my fingertips. It feels greasy, slippery. I’m feeling too many things. I’m shaking and nauseous, my body overwhelmed from the amount of stimuli. My brain is fighting to catch up to realise that we aren’t there anymore. 

I fumble with the keys as I try to unlock my apartment, too desperate for what awaits me behind this door that I can’t focus on actually getting it open. I feel my phone start to vibrate in my bag as soon as I get inside. I know it’s you, but I let it ring. 

You won’t be happy now. 

I tear at the buttons on my shirt. I can’t get it off fast enough. I throw my clothes across the room, getting away from them as fast as I can, and get in the shower. It’s warm. The pat pat pat of the water on my back is soothing, familiar. Every drop feels like someone giving my nervous system a little pat, a little reassurance. It washes away the sounds of the voices and the plates and the music, and the feeling of the floorboards and the lights, and the smells of the food and the cologne. As I scrub myself clean, the lingering awkwardness of the day starts to fade.

You won’t be happy now. 

Trackies. A loose black t-shirt. Slippers. I curl up on the floor with Henry under one arm and a squishy ball between my hands. I rock back and forth, urging the chaos of the world to leave my mind, leave my body. I look at my books on the bookshelf and the fidgets on my desk and the tote bag hanging on its handle. My collection of sticky notes plastering the walls. I close my eyes and breathe out slowly, remembering who I am. 

It’s not who you want me to be. 

I have spent so long fighting to live up to your expectations, but at what cost? I am tired of fighting my way through conversations and environments that distress me. I do not want to keep masking all the things that make me excited, resorting to social scripts that rob me of my own passion and personality. I am sick of hiding who I am. I am autistic, and I do not have to live up to your neurotypical standards. I am done pretending to be a girl, pretending to be neurotypical, pretending to be anyone except me. Isn’t it time for the world to love and accept me for who I am? 

You won’t be happy now.

But I will be.