I Don’t Want Admiration for Masking, I Want a World Where I Don’t Have To
My journey through social masking, inspired by Frankenstein’s Monster
There’s a scene in Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein that haunts me, not for its horror in the conventional sense, but for its profound, aching familiarity. It’s the creature, hidden, observing the DeLacey family. He yearns desperately for connection, for the warmth he sees in their interactions. He becomes a meticulous student, hidden from view, absorbing their language, deciphering their emotions, and noting the subtle dance of their social cues. He is intelligent, capable of learning, but always fundamentally outside, looking in.
For the vast majority of my nearly 50 years, I didn’t know I was autistic. But I knew that feeling of being perpetually on the outside. Like the creature in his hovel, I spent my life observing, trying to understand the baffling script of human interaction that seemed to come so naturally to others. I always felt uncomfortable around people, gripped by a quiet panic, never really knowing what to say or how to act. Honestly? I still often don’t.
This intense observation, this constant effort to decode and imitate, is something many neurodivergent people will recognize. It’s called social camouflaging, or masking. It’s the conscious or unconscious effort to hide our natural autistic traits — the stimming, the directness, the difficulty with eye contact, the unique ways we process the world — to blend in, to navigate a neurotypical society that often doesn’t understand or accept difference.Over decades, I’ve observed enough interpersonal activity to get the gist of it, at least enough that I can sort of fake it. I learned the lines, the expected pauses, the approximate facial expressions. I learned the script.
But the performance is exhausting, and sometimes, inevitably, the mask slips.
The creature, yearning to connect, doesn’t initially reveal himself. Instead, he performs anonymous acts of kindness — gathering firewood, clearing snow — hoping these contributions might earn him some measure of acceptance, a way to belong without the risk of immediate rejection. I see my own attempts at connection reflected in this. There’s a deep desire to fit in, to be liked, to contribute. But the fear of getting it wrong is immense.
Years ago, after my first marriage ended, I tried dipping my toe back into the social world. I started attending a weekly dance for older singles. I wasn’t necessarily looking for romance, just connection. I became somewhat friendly with one woman over a few weeks. After one dance, feeling a tentative warmth, I walked her to her car. As we said goodbye, I hugged her. It was meant as a simple, friendly gesture — in my marriage, my wife and I hugged close friends goodbye all the time. To me, it felt no more intimate than a handshake.
I knew immediately I’d messed up. She went stiff. The air thickened with awkwardness. I stepped back, we mumbled goodbyes, and went our separate ways. The script I’d learned in one context didn’t translate. The mask had slipped, revealing my misinterpretation of social norms. The wave of humiliation that followed was intense, and it’s a memory, like countless others, that still pops into my mind at random moments, a fresh stab of mortification decades later. I remember every single one of those slip-ups. They are the ghosts of my social failures.
Then there’s the oversharing. Small talk is an enigma to me. Keeping a light, superficial conversation going feels like trying to juggle invisible balls. In my attempts to fill the silence, to connect somehow, I often end up revealing far too much about myself. Not necessarily embarrassing secrets, but deep dives into personal history when a simple comment about the weather would suffice. I’ll find myself recounting my earliest memory — crawling after our black and white cat through the dining room of my childhood home — to someone I barely know. See? There I go again. It’s another way the script fails me, another way I reveal my different wiring.
Like the creature, who finally gathers the courage to reveal himself to the blind father, hoping for acceptance based on his words rather than his appearance, I just want to be understood. I want to feel comfortable around others, not constantly on edge, scanning for cues, terrified someone will try to engage me in the conversational minefield of small talk. The creature’s hope is tragically shattered when the rest of the family returns and reacts with horror and violence. His careful learning, his yearning heart, his gentle intentions meant nothing once they saw him, once the mask of anonymity was gone.
That rejection resonates deeply. It mirrors the fear autistic people often have about unmasking — the risk of negative reactions, misunderstanding, or outright rejection when we reveal our true selves in a world not built for us. It speaks to the painful reality of conditional acceptance, feeling valued only when the ‘different’ parts of us are hidden away.
Maybe if I’d been diagnosed earlier — but comprehensive testing wasn’t readily available then. Kids like me were often just labeled “shy” or “quiet.” Hell yes, I was quiet! I was terrified! I had no idea how to interact, how to join the play, how to read the room. An early understanding could have perhaps spared me decades of feeling fundamentally broken.
And it’s not just the social awkwardness. Autism often travels with companions: ADHD, Pathological Demand Avoidance (PDA), OCD, Sensory Processing Disorder, even a general clumsiness.
Take Sensory Processing Disorder, for instance. Even at family gatherings, environments that should feel safe and fun, I can experience intense sensory overwhelm. What should be the pleasant background noise of relatives talking and laughing becomes the roaring crash of an unwanted symphony in my ears. The comforting aroma of food cooking might become as pungent and overwhelming as hot trash on a summer day. Clothing, even fabrics chosen for comfort, can begin to feel unbearably restrictive and chafing after a short time. It’s not just special occasions; even the simple act of getting ready in the morning — the shower’s changing temperatures, the scents of soap and shaving cream, the sensation of product in my hair — presents a routine so fraught with potential sensory overload that if it’s significantly interrupted, it’s almost guaranteed to trigger a meltdown. Each of these sensitivities adds another hurdle to overcome in the simple act of existing in the world, another reason fitting in feels like an impossible task, and another drain on the energy needed to maintain the social mask.
Looking back, my life feels saturated with unnecessary anxiety, punctuated by moments of false hope swiftly followed by the searing pain of misunderstanding and the deep, enduring sorrow of social isolation — all stemming from navigating the world as an undiagnosed autistic person.
Burnout is the ultimate, devastating cost of this lifelong masking. The unending exposure to the anxiety and sheer exhaustion of constantly trying, hoping, and wanting to fit into a world not designed for you takes a profound toll on both body and mind. For me, burnout manifests as a complete shutdown of my internal operating system. Nothing holds meaning or interest anymore — my hobbies, my family connections, my job… I simply go through the motions, detached and depleted. Throw in the heightened justice sensitivity many autistic people experience, especially reacting to the misinformation and prejudice prevalent in today’s climate, and it becomes a recipe for emotional disaster, pushing you further into that shutdown state.
And that burnout, that emotional disaster, is amplified exponentially by the current state of politics. Frankly, I’m scared. It feels unavoidable to get political here because this is what is affecting my life most acutely right now, plunging me into the burnout I just described. When figures like RFK Jr. promote dangerous, anti-vax rhetoric about the causes of autism, it’s not just insulting to the neurodivergent community; it’s an assault on science itself. His recent claim that he’ll somehow identify the ‘cause’ of autism by September and eliminate exposures isn’t just scientifically ludicrous — it signals a pre-determined, harmful agenda. We know autism is primarily genetic; the rise in diagnoses correlates with better testing and understanding, not some nefarious external cause. The vaccine lie has been debunked repeatedly for decades.
To learn that the head of his planned study, David Geier, is a discredited vaccine skeptic — not even a physician — who subjected autistic children to chemical castration drugs like Lupron based on debunked conspiracy theories… that fills me with cold rage. This isn’t about health; it’s about treating autism as a disease to be ‘cured’ or eliminated. It feels terrifyingly close to eugenics, aiming to demonize and eradicate a group of people who already struggle profoundly to be seen as acceptable, let alone valuable. This isn’t just abstract political discourse; it kicks my justice sensitivity into overdrive, making me fear not just for myself, but for the entire autistic community, fueling the anxiety and exhaustion that leads straight back to burnout. It transforms the metaphorical fear of being seen as Frankenstein’s monster into a chillingly real political possibility of being labeled defective and targeted for elimination.
So, we return to the creature, hidden, rejected, his yearning for connection met with fear and violence. His story, born centuries ago, remains a chillingly potent metaphor for the autistic experience of masking — the meticulous learning of scripts, the desperate hope for acceptance, the crushing weight of rejection when the mask inevitably slips or is torn away.
But after reflecting on the very real anxieties of today — the burnout fueled by navigating an unwelcoming world, the outright demonization disguised as political discourse, the promotion of harmful pseudoscience that treats difference as disease — the metaphor takes on a sharper edge. It forces us to ask: Who are the real monsters in this narrative? Is it the individual who is different, neurologically divergent, striving for understanding and a place to belong, much like Shelley’s creation initially sought only warmth and companionship?
Or does monstrosity lie elsewhere? Does it lie in the willful ignorance that fuels prejudice? Does it lie in the cynical manipulation of fear for political gain? Does it lie in the systems and voices that seek to ‘cure’ or ‘eliminate’ human variance, echoing the villagers with their torches, ready to destroy what they refuse to understand?
The creature’s tragedy was society’s failure to see beyond his appearance, to recognize his inherent worth and capacity for feeling. Our challenge, now more urgent than ever, is to actively dismantle the harmful narratives that cast neurodivergent people as ‘other,’ as problems to be solved rather than individuals to be respected. True acceptance isn’t passive tolerance; it requires actively challenging misinformation, cultivating empathy, and creating spaces where diverse ways of being aren’t just accommodated, but genuinely valued. Like the creature, we yearn for connection, for understanding, for the simple right to exist authentically without fear. The fundamental human need for acceptance remains, but in the face of current threats, it becomes less a gentle plea and more a necessary demand for a more just and compassionate world.
I don’t want admiration for masking. I want a world where I don’t have to.
Where stimming hands don’t get tucked beneath tables. Where silence isn’t seen as awkwardness to fix, but space to breathe.
Frankenstein’s creature wasn’t born a monster. He became one when the world turned away. When kindness was withdrawn. When difference was met with fear.
And we still do that.
What if we didn’t?
What if the mask slipping wasn’t the moment everything fell apart — but the moment something finally began?
Maybe that world isn’t here yet. But I believe it can be. And sometimes, believing is the first act of defiance.