Oh boy, where do I even begin with this tangled web of AuDHD and the deceptively shiny mask of being verbal? I suppose I’ll just tumble head-first into the chaos and hope the words arrange themselves in something vaguely coherent. That’s kind of how my brain operates anyway—equal parts caffeine, hyperfocus, and a dash of existential confusion.

So let’s talk about this strange phenomenon: being verbal but utterly wiped out by the sheer effort of it. I’ve always spoken fluently, sometimes too fluently—words tumbling out at warp speed, jumping from topic to topic like an over-caffeinated squirrel doing improv. On the outside? Verbal, articulate, chatty even. But inside? It was like running a marathon with ankle weights made of molten anxiety and a crowd of invisible judges keeping score of every syllable. Sound exhausting? It is.

When I learned about AuDHD—Autism and ADHD cozying up in the same brain like two chaotic roommates—I started unpacking layers of my behavior I’d long written off as quirks or personal failures. Turns out, my dazzling verbal performance wasn’t a sign of “doing just fine,” but rather a mask so well-worn it had grooves carved into my soul. I wasn’t just communicating. I was surviving. Mimicking the cadence of “acceptable speech,” trying to hit neurotypical notes like I was auditioning for a role I never really wanted. I could talk, sure. But I didn’t always *want* to. Or have the energy. Or the processing bandwidth. Or the ability to hold a thought long enough to wrangle it into words without it shape-shifting into three tangents and a quote from a cartoon I saw in 2003.

Here’s where it gets wild—people often assume that because someone is verbal from an early age, they must not be struggling. But that’s like saying someone who’s great at smiling can’t possibly be sad. Verbal speech, especially in the context of AuDHD, isn’t always a gift wrapped in gold—it’s sometimes more like a glitter bomb that explodes in your face every time someone expects you to use words to explain something you haven’t even finished experiencing yet.

Growing up, I didn’t have what you’d call a speech delay. I hit those milestones right on time, even early in some cases. My parents probably thought, “Well, she’s clearly not autistic—look at her babble.” But nobody thought to ask why I’d cry after social events, or why I’d retreat into my room and talk to my toys for hours in accents and voices that were, frankly, far too dramatic for a preschooler. Nobody clocked the emotional whiplash I felt after performing verbal normalcy at school, only to collapse into nonverbal silence at home like a puppet with the strings suddenly cut.

The strange part is that masking as verbal doesn’t just trick other people—it tricks yourself too. I started believing I was “fine.” That my exhaustion was laziness, my meltdowns were overreactions, my tangled thoughts were just me being difficult. It wasn’t until I began learning about neurodivergence—specifically the unholy union of ADHD’s attention chaos and autism’s sensory sensitivity—that the puzzle started to make any sense. It was like discovering that my brain wasn’t broken, just wired for a different kind of operating system. One that can speak fluently while simultaneously crashing behind the scenes.

And let’s be clear: being verbal doesn’t always mean being *communicative*. I can rant for 20 minutes about the socio-political implications of squirrels hoarding food but freeze up when asked how I’m feeling. I can debate abstract philosophical concepts and yet struggle to describe the sensory hell of a buzzing fluorescent light. Sometimes the words just aren’t there—or they are, but they’re hiding under five layers of executive dysfunction and social anxiety.

The thing about AuDHD is that it’s like trying to play chess and dodge dodgeballs at the same time. The ADHD part wants to tell you EVERYTHING, RIGHT NOW, IN GREAT DETAIL. The autism part wants to pull the emergency brake and overanalyze whether that everything is appropriate, necessary, or too loud. Verbal masking becomes a coping mechanism—a way to pass as “fine” while the internal traffic jam of thoughts, feelings, and sensory input reaches peak gridlock.

Now that I’ve started to deconstruct the mask, I notice how often I slip it back on without meaning to. I’ll feel the pressure build—someone asks a simple question, and instead of answering it honestly (“I’m overwhelmed and mildly existential”), I launch into a cheerful monologue about productivity hacks, complete with jazz hands. My brain has been trained to perform normalcy so well that authenticity feels like rebellious theatre.

It’s complicated. And confusing. And yes, a little chaotic. But now I know the truth behind the mask, and that discovery has been liberating. I’ve begun giving myself permission to be quiet, to pause, to stammer, to say, “Actually, I don’t have the words right now.” I’ve started challenging the belief that being verbal is the gold standard, and embracing the moments where communication happens in sighs, glances, or the sacred art of sending memes instead of explaining my mental state.

So if someone tells you they’re verbal, don’t assume it’s effortless. Sometimes it’s the most exhausting performance they’ll give all day. And sometimes, behind that smooth delivery and witty banter, there’s a brain juggling flaming pineapples while trying not to fall off a unicycle.

It’s messy. It’s beautiful. It’s loud and silent all at once. And honestly? It’s a vibe.