There is a growing tendency in some online circles to trivialize autism. Many in the "neurodiversity" movement portray autism as merely another natural variation of human cognition rather than acknowledging the reality of it as a debilitating neurological disorder. Many of these individuals lack a formal medical diagnosis, self-identifying as autistic based on perceived traits. They often wear this self-diagnosis as a badge of identity or even pride. However, these same neurodiversity spaces that seek to normalize autism frequently overlook those who experience severe symptoms. Cases where autism leads to significant debilitation and suffering do not fit their narrative of autistic individuals as simply misunderstood, unique thinkers.
I was formally diagnosed with autism in my early 20s. My social struggles were evident throughout school, but autism was not widely recognized in my region at the time. When I was in sixth-form college, a counselor suspected I might be autistic, and I began seeing a specialist. However, relocating caused me to lose contact with the medical service, and I did not receive an official diagnosis. Years later, after continuing to face difficulties in adulthood, I sought out a professional assessment and was formally diagnosed.
Autism has been a major obstacle in my life. I feel significantly more affected than some others on the spectrum, with my condition being more severe than that of the average "aspie."
Autism is far from trivial. It is not merely a collection of social quirks, as many in the neurodiversity community seem to believe. Those affected often experience profound social difficulties, language impairments, hypersensitivity, information-processing deficits, and a tendency toward sensory overload and mental fatigue. Personally, my social impairment is obvious. I struggle with dysprosody, and my speech fluency is weak, even though I can write well. I also become mentally fatigued easily and am prone to anxiety and depression. Autism is associated with abnormal neural connectivity—insufficient in some regions, excessive in others—leading to these challenges.
One of the most significant difficulties has been my inability to form romantic relationships. I simply did not know how to adapt to social situations, and even when I gained knowledge of social interactions, I struggled to apply it in real-life contexts. My profound social impairment kept me isolated and prevented me from forming meaningful connections. Between the ages of 15 and 23, I was completely involuntarily celibate (incel), including during my time in Japan. Despite the stereotype that Japan is an "autistic paradise," I found that my social deficits still severely hindered me.
Autism has been a weak link in my life, particularly in dating and social success. I possess intellectual ability and athleticism, but I lack the crucial third component—social competence. By contrast, individuals like @PAG excel in all three areas: intelligence, physicality, and social acumen. As a neurotypical, he is charismatic and naturally adept at social interactions, which is why he has never experienced inceldom. If I had been competent in social interactions, I likely would not have suffered extreme social alienation.
Some self-identified autistic individuals, like Outcast and others, tend to blame "normies" (a term I personally dislike) or societal structures for their struggles. However, this does not change the fundamental reality: autism is a neurological disorder that causes genuine social and cognitive deficiencies. While some neurotypicals are understanding and supportive, dating an autistic person is an entirely different matter. Many people have been tolerant of me, but few women have been willing to pursue a relationship with me. They sense that I have a deficiency, which has a strong genetic component with high heritability. I can understand why some women might not want to date an autistic individual—passing on the condition could result in a severely impaired child.
Most people, particularly women selecting a mate, seek biological fitness. Social competence is a critical survival trait. It is logical that someone would prefer a partner without a heritable neurological disorder—someone more like @PAG than myself. While this may be uncomfortable for some autists or members of the neurodiversity movement to hear, it is an honest assessment. Even though I am autistic, I do not live in denial of reality.
At one point, I believe I experienced a temporary glimpse of what it feels like to be neurotypical. In 2018, I attended a spiritual retreat in Spain where I took Ayahuasca. The experience felt like a neurological "reset," giving me a newfound cognitive fluidity that lasted for about a week. My speech became clear, my ability to socialize improved, and I felt as though I could engage with others naturally and effortlessly. For the first time, I felt free from the constraints of my condition. The effect, however, was temporary, and I eventually returned to my usual state.
If my Ayahuasca experience truly allowed me to see the other side of the coin, then I can say that living with autism is frustrating and constraining. It feels as though my consciousness is restricted by abnormal neural connectivity, preventing me from fully expressing myself. The feeling is both suffocating and exhausting. I know what I want to do, but my brain does not respond accordingly. By contrast, the neurotypical state—where information flows smoothly and effortlessly—felt almost magical. It was akin to removing crutches after years of dependency and finally being able to walk unimpeded. I would love to have neurotypical cognition permanently and experience that level of freedom all the time.
I recognize that my perspective may not sit well with the neurodiversity movement, but I believe people should be more honest about their own limitations rather than glorifying a neurological disorder. Autism is not some unique, special gift—it is a disorder that comes with real challenges. While society has its flaws, I attribute my struggles more to defective biology than to external circumstances. Accepting this reality does not mean resigning oneself to suffering; rather, it means acknowledging one's weaknesses and seeking ways to improve within the constraints that exist.
Denying the impact of autism does not help anyone—it merely fosters complacency and prevents individuals from addressing the real difficulties they face.
I was formally diagnosed with autism in my early 20s. My social struggles were evident throughout school, but autism was not widely recognized in my region at the time. When I was in sixth-form college, a counselor suspected I might be autistic, and I began seeing a specialist. However, relocating caused me to lose contact with the medical service, and I did not receive an official diagnosis. Years later, after continuing to face difficulties in adulthood, I sought out a professional assessment and was formally diagnosed.
Autism has been a major obstacle in my life. I feel significantly more affected than some others on the spectrum, with my condition being more severe than that of the average "aspie."
Autism is far from trivial. It is not merely a collection of social quirks, as many in the neurodiversity community seem to believe. Those affected often experience profound social difficulties, language impairments, hypersensitivity, information-processing deficits, and a tendency toward sensory overload and mental fatigue. Personally, my social impairment is obvious. I struggle with dysprosody, and my speech fluency is weak, even though I can write well. I also become mentally fatigued easily and am prone to anxiety and depression. Autism is associated with abnormal neural connectivity—insufficient in some regions, excessive in others—leading to these challenges.
One of the most significant difficulties has been my inability to form romantic relationships. I simply did not know how to adapt to social situations, and even when I gained knowledge of social interactions, I struggled to apply it in real-life contexts. My profound social impairment kept me isolated and prevented me from forming meaningful connections. Between the ages of 15 and 23, I was completely involuntarily celibate (incel), including during my time in Japan. Despite the stereotype that Japan is an "autistic paradise," I found that my social deficits still severely hindered me.
Autism has been a weak link in my life, particularly in dating and social success. I possess intellectual ability and athleticism, but I lack the crucial third component—social competence. By contrast, individuals like @PAG excel in all three areas: intelligence, physicality, and social acumen. As a neurotypical, he is charismatic and naturally adept at social interactions, which is why he has never experienced inceldom. If I had been competent in social interactions, I likely would not have suffered extreme social alienation.
Some self-identified autistic individuals, like Outcast and others, tend to blame "normies" (a term I personally dislike) or societal structures for their struggles. However, this does not change the fundamental reality: autism is a neurological disorder that causes genuine social and cognitive deficiencies. While some neurotypicals are understanding and supportive, dating an autistic person is an entirely different matter. Many people have been tolerant of me, but few women have been willing to pursue a relationship with me. They sense that I have a deficiency, which has a strong genetic component with high heritability. I can understand why some women might not want to date an autistic individual—passing on the condition could result in a severely impaired child.
Most people, particularly women selecting a mate, seek biological fitness. Social competence is a critical survival trait. It is logical that someone would prefer a partner without a heritable neurological disorder—someone more like @PAG than myself. While this may be uncomfortable for some autists or members of the neurodiversity movement to hear, it is an honest assessment. Even though I am autistic, I do not live in denial of reality.
At one point, I believe I experienced a temporary glimpse of what it feels like to be neurotypical. In 2018, I attended a spiritual retreat in Spain where I took Ayahuasca. The experience felt like a neurological "reset," giving me a newfound cognitive fluidity that lasted for about a week. My speech became clear, my ability to socialize improved, and I felt as though I could engage with others naturally and effortlessly. For the first time, I felt free from the constraints of my condition. The effect, however, was temporary, and I eventually returned to my usual state.
If my Ayahuasca experience truly allowed me to see the other side of the coin, then I can say that living with autism is frustrating and constraining. It feels as though my consciousness is restricted by abnormal neural connectivity, preventing me from fully expressing myself. The feeling is both suffocating and exhausting. I know what I want to do, but my brain does not respond accordingly. By contrast, the neurotypical state—where information flows smoothly and effortlessly—felt almost magical. It was akin to removing crutches after years of dependency and finally being able to walk unimpeded. I would love to have neurotypical cognition permanently and experience that level of freedom all the time.
I recognize that my perspective may not sit well with the neurodiversity movement, but I believe people should be more honest about their own limitations rather than glorifying a neurological disorder. Autism is not some unique, special gift—it is a disorder that comes with real challenges. While society has its flaws, I attribute my struggles more to defective biology than to external circumstances. Accepting this reality does not mean resigning oneself to suffering; rather, it means acknowledging one's weaknesses and seeking ways to improve within the constraints that exist.
Denying the impact of autism does not help anyone—it merely fosters complacency and prevents individuals from addressing the real difficulties they face.
