Welcome back to the chaos that is my mind today. Sit back, enjoy, and join me on this journey as I figure out who I am—because learning never stops, and apparently, neither does my curiosity.
I’ve always known I have ADHD, but I never really learned much about it because it was often misdiagnosed due to the nature of kids in class. Schools historically pushed children into rigid structures, expecting them to sit still, follow instructions, and remain quiet despite the natural energy of childhood. ADHD became a convenient label for kids who didn’t conform, leading to widespread overdiagnosis. While this was once a valid concern, diagnostic criteria have improved, and assessments today are more refined. However, misconceptions still linger, with some believing ADHD is still overused as a catch-all explanation for childhood restlessness.
In my case, I now admit to it because I see it and know more. On January 07, 2019, I got my ASD diagnosis. Honestly, there aren’t many days that would be perfect for this assessment. This is the birthday of my late daughter, so masking and concealing my differences becomes less effective—if I can do it at all.
When I left, I asked what came next. What do I do? How do I learn to manage? The answer I got was, “Do you recall where you parked?” That was a dead end. No guidance, no direction—just a realization that I would have to figure it out on my own. Getting the old terminology out of them was difficult, but being in the medical field, I knew ASD had recently shifted to a broader spectrum and absorbed other diagnoses, such as Asperger’s. Yes, I know people don’t like that word anymore, and honestly, I could get sidetracked on that alone.
After serious pushing, I finally said, I know the terms changed recently, but that doesn’t make the old information any less valid. To find the correct classification, I need to understand what it was before. This wasn’t simple curiosity—it was a necessity. Since they didn’t have answers for what I should do next, that was already a bad sign. It showed just how little support exists for adults who receive an ASD diagnosis later in life and have no idea what behaviors are involved—let alone how to function with them.
So to help myself, because the Autism Clinic had no supports for adults, I had to access those documents. This wasn’t really a request—I needed the information. At first, I phrased it politely, but the reality was that their failure to provide adequate support meant I had no choice but to dig for the details myself. And then something shifted .
“Oops, did that sound like a request?” The words came out calmly, almost casually. “I was trying to be polite; however, you—who specialize in Autism—can’t direct me to anything but my car. You will give me the name so that I can access the medical journals and documents that are still valid scientific information today. After all, a rose by any other name smells just as sweet. That applies here. So, what is the name of where I would have fallen before this became a spectrum? And make no mistake, I am not asking—that was me being polite. There’s also the little issue of my right to make an informed decision, and withholding this information directly prevents that. I do believe this is rather frowned upon.”
I had slipped into advocate mode. Deceptively calm, my posture was relaxed—leaning casually, ankles crossed, arms positioned just so or idly fiddling with something. But if anyone had really looked at my face, they would have seen it—the deadpan, do not underestimate me expression that dared them to push just a little further. That unspoken challenge: See what happens next. I dare you. I don’t like the game, but I’ll play it. And I will win.
I won that fight, and simply knowing the terminology changed things .
I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about how ADHD and ASD shape the way I seek out information. It’s not just curiosity—it’s a deep drive, a need for mental stimulation, a craving to understand how things work. I don’t just want to know—I need to know.
ADHD brings the constant shifting of thoughts, the impulse-driven distractions, and the hyperfocus that locks me into a deep dive where hours slip away. But hyperfocus isn’t just about zoning in—it’s about the need to know. It’s chasing understanding like a puzzle that has to be completed, a cycle that doesn’t stop until every possible detail has been explored. ASD fuels that same search for knowledge, but with a different lens—it’s about structure, about making sense of things, about feeling secure in the logic of the world around me. ADHD and ASD, which is starting to be commonly called AuDHD because the combination needs a totally different approach to everything, take this need for knowledge to another level—sometimes beautifully, sometimes chaotically.
This very piece I’m writing right now? It’s the perfect example. A few months ago, I had no idea AuDHD was even a thing. Learning about it? That became its own deep dive. The realization that ASD and ADHD together need to be approached differently than either one alone—that hit hard. Because the combination is being looked at differently, maybe it will actually get formally recognized in mental health medicine. However, this is so new that finding information on it is extremely difficult. That lack of available research is one of the primary reasons I am taking you into my deep dive today. There is so little to go on, yet so much that needs to be explored.
This is probably why, even though I want my coffee hot, I’ll take a few sips from the fresh cup and then completely forget about it until it’s cold. Hmmm… need to solve that one. And good luck getting our attention if we’re in deep dive mode—because when we lock into something, it crosses over into everything. As you’ll soon see, this isn’t limited to research alone. It’s a mindset that spills into how we process the world, how we interact, how we get completely absorbed in something until something else manages to catch our focus instead.
Of course, that hyperfocus also comes with its fair share of derailments. While looking into all of this, I’ve gotten sidetracked more times than I can count—because, well, baby snakes hatching are adorable. Oops. That’s ADHD at play, throwing in something unexpected, something novel, something that briefly steals my focus before I snap back into the original topic. It’s a constant tug-of-war between intense absorption and sudden shifts in direction.
It’s a balance between chaos and clarity. Some days, hyperfocus saves me—allowing me to accomplish things that require intense concentration. Other days, it derails everything because my mind refuses to shift gears when needed. That craving for knowledge, for understanding, is one of the most powerful forces in how I navigate the world.
Stimming is vital, but it’s misunderstood far too often. Most people assume it looks a certain way, but for me, it shows up in ways people don’t expect. Sometimes, I get sleepy until I hit a meltdown, which isn’t a tantrum—it’s a reset. Stimming isn’t always obvious. It’s not just movement or repetition; it’s about regulation, control, and finding balance in the middle of sensory overload. Some people notice it in repetitive gestures, but for me, it’s quiet things—pressing against textures, moving in small, barely visible ways, and sometimes, just disappearing into a new topic entirely. And with ADHD mixed in, it wasn’t just about sensory input—it became tied to focus, hyperactivity, and the need for something to keep my mind occupied before it spiraled.
Stimming as a child starts to change as an individual grows up. Looking back, I can see the meltdowns where I got aggressive, overwhelmed, and drained—the moments where I was stimming, even though I kept those behaviors hidden. Picking at the grass, rolling objects in my fingers, keeping something in my pocket. I think rocking was something I only did when I was alone, when I didn’t have to worry about who might notice. ADHD fueled this in its own way—it made me restless, desperate for constant movement, yet equally scattered. I wasn’t just stimming I was also fidgeting, bouncing thoughts between different sensations, needing something to engage me before my attention darted off.
As an adult, everything shifted. The first time I distinctly saw the difference was when I was pregnant, and we were moving. Change—and people with ASD and ADHD—don’t mix well. Change pulls the rug out from under everything familiar, leaving behind unpredictability, stress, and too many things happening at once. ADHD makes it harder to stay focused and adjust, while ASD heightens the sensory overload and emotional weight of it all. When both are involved, it’s not just stressful—it’s completely exhausting. ADHD added another layer to it—it made the emotions hit faster, the frustration sharper, and the distraction stronger. My brain wanted to latch onto something familiar in the chaos, but ASD wouldn’t let me process it fast enough, and ADHD kept throwing new thoughts into the mix. It wasn’t just overwhelming—it was messy, chaotic, and impossible to control.
At this point, I still didn’t know much about ADHD, and I had no clue about the ASD. But I do remember feeling more physically tired than everyone else, which didn’t make sense at first. I was far enough along that my body had shifted into full nesting mode—ready to get everything done, reorganize, make space. That momentum kept me going at first. But eventually, it crashed. ADHD made it even harder to pace myself—one moment I was full-speed ahead, hyper focused on organizing, the next I was drained beyond reason. The inability to regulate my energy was always a problem, but back then, I didn’t have words for why.
I remember saying I needed to lie down for a bit, that my back needed a break. Being pregnant, no one thought twice about it. No one realized that I was already masking—that what I was really experiencing wasn’t just tiredness but a full shutdown. I could barely keep my eyes open. I curled up on the hard laminate floor, pressed against the wall, out of the way, and fell asleep.
Apparently, no one could wake me beyond some barely conscious response of “Let me be.” This wasn’t normal exhaustion. This was a full autistic shutdown—my brain forcing itself into recovery mode after hitting an unmanageable limit. With ASD, meltdowns don’t always look like distress or physical outbursts; sometimes, they look like silent crashes. The exhaustion was so deep that I wasn’t just sleeping I was unresponsive. My ability to wake up properly was delayed, like my brain needed extra time to reboot before I could register my surroundings again. ADHD didn’t help in situations like this—while ASD forced the shutdown, ADHD made the shift jarring. One moment, my brain was overwhelmed with racing thoughts; the next, everything went dark. The extreme contrast made it harder to understand what had even happened.
I woke up hours later, confused. Everything looked different, like time had skipped without warning. My first comments got me strange looks, which immediately triggered my instinct to mask, adjust, and apologize. I felt guilty for sleeping so long, even though I didn’t understand why it had happened. People assumed I was just extra tired from the pregnancy, but the truth was—it was a meltdown. And I wouldn’t realize that for years.
Everything I experience—from sensory overload to meltdowns—shapes how I interact with the world. But just as much as emotions, regulation, and shutdowns affect me, so does something else: the need to know. The drive to understand things runs deep, and that’s not random—it’s tied to how my brain seeks logic, clarity, and control.
Processing information isn’t just about collecting facts—it’s about making sense of things in a way that feels clear, structured, and reliable. For those of us with AuDHD—where autism and ADHD merge—communication isn’t a guessing game. It isn’t layered, implied, or something you must decode. It’s literal.
Repeating information—whether in a similar story or a familiar example—helps us ensure we truly understand what was said and when we say this story that we went through, it’s not because we’re trying to make the topic about us—it’s because we want to be sure we got the right idea. It’s a way of saying, we get you. This only intensifies in adulthood, even though you’d assume it would become easier. Since we need to know the why, we don’t just struggle to read between the lines—we can’t. It’s not a skill that improves with practice, it’s simply not there. We take words at face value, and we expect others to do the same when we speak. There’s no hidden meaning in what we say, no extra layers to decode, so trying to read between the lines won’t work—because for us, there are no lines to read between.
With AuDHD, distraction and hyperfocus constantly work against each other. We get distracted incredibly easily—not because we’re unmotivated or lazy, but because sights, sounds, and movement pull our attention away so fast we don’t always notice it happening. But when something locks in our focus, pulling us out of it can be just as difficult.
If it’s a hard day, this happens even more frequently, and when it does, the last thing we want is extra noise piling on top of it. This is why noise-canceling headphones are such a lifesaver—I use AirPods (the two latest generations) because they have built-in noise filtering that lets me tweak it exactly how I need it. With the right settings, I can make sure the noise canceling turns off when I speak or adjust it so if someone is physically close, I can hear them.
Truthfully, if I could afford it, I’d have two pairs because of battery life limitations. If I need them, I need them for the rest of the day, and the charge doesn’t last nearly long enough. They also give me far less sensory input than over-ear styles do—because those tend to feel like too much physical pressure all at once, making things even worse.
Forgetfulness is another constant struggle with AuDHD. You have no idea how many times I’ve misplaced my keys because something caught my attention at the worst possible moment—like the cat bolting for the door yet again, forcing me to rush after her before realizing I don’t remember where I put my keys.
And it’s not just things like keys—I’ve gotten up with a specific goal in mind, like filling my bottle with water for my glass or my Keurig, only to forget the bottle completely. I’ll set it down in a random spot, get comfortable again, and then curse five minutes later when I realize I still don’t have my drink.
This might explain why I forget my coffee so often until it gets cold .
Medication plays a huge role in managing AuDHD, but even that has its challenges. ADHD meds are stimulants, which would hit too hard for someone without ADHD, but for us, they balance things out instead of making it worse. I personally take Concerta, which works pretty well, but I also add fresh-ground coffee to help settle my mind and regulate the ASD aspects.
And here’s the kicker—people with ADHD alone already struggle with social cues, so when you mix ADHD and ASD together, things get even harder. If someone is flirting with me and they aren’t making it ridiculously obvious, I won’t pick up on it. Subtle hints don’t work. Casual jokes or playful comments don’t register. I need it spelled out—otherwise, I’ll just assume you’re being friendly and move along, completely missing the fact that you were trying to signal something.
Then there’s the emotional regulation battle, which is intensified by AuDHD. ADHD makes emotions impulsive, while ASD makes them deep and consuming, which means our reactions can be instant and overwhelming, even when we try to control them. That mix creates situations that can either go well… or spiral fast.
All of these things also explain why I crave information—not just for no reason, but because it grounds me, makes me feel productive, gives me a sense of accomplishment, and makes the rest of the world fade away for a little while, reducing sensory overload .
So, if I suddenly dump a pile of information in your lap, just bear with me—it’s not random, and it’s not meaningless.
Hmmm, maybe this is why I’ve always loved reading. I’ve been drawn to books my whole life, even when I got mercilessly teased for it—by classmates, and even by my father. The more I think about it, the more it makes sense. Books give me information, they reduce sensory overload, they let me process things in a way that feels structured, and they create a space where distractions don’t pull me away every few seconds. They provide a steady mental rhythm, allowing me to focus deeply without unpredictable interruptions. Unlike conversations, where I might struggle with subtle meanings, books lay everything out directly—no need to guess, no hidden implications, just clear words on a page. So, yeah—this might not just be a hobby. It might be the perfect way to regulate everything.
Who am I? 
I would love to hear from you!