“Autistic hijacking,” she declared. Immediately, I felt flawed. Visceral repulse fluttered in my stomach. Sitting on the floor, my seat bones began to ache as moments passed, pressing deeper into the beige carpet, and greeting the plywood underneath. Eyes redden by streams of tears, paying glory to this uncontrollable parasympathetic force, I gawked at my counselor through the computer screen. Hair pulled up into bun that resembled a newly established bird’s nest, and teeth feeling fuzzy, I was not ready to begin my morning with what felt like a criticism.

Until a few years ago, my idea of mental health was analogous to that third cousin you “knew of” but only acknowledged at mandatory family reunions. Yet, I eventually found myself hitting the inevitable rock bottom that makes you yearn for peace. Oh sweet, internal contentment. Since then, I’ve delved into family patterns, unconscious pains, and wrestled each emotional alligator to the ground–almost nearing an enlightened Steve Erwin, if you will. But “autistic hijacking”? This was outside my niche of cognition.

You see, I have been holding back my truth—my own words—for years. Decades, really. This process was subconscious—an overriding attempt to hide in silence. A defense to living in a home riddled with alcoholism, quieting myself meant survival. And so, as my words (truth) bubbled in my gut, rising to my diaphragm, teasing my vocal cords, I would, as my counselor explained “redirect (your words) elsewhere in an attempt to acquiesce.” I would steal—hijack—from my truism in attempts to stay unseen. Colloquially, we may call this “biting one’s tongue” to prevent discord (and no one appreciates the sudden surprise of chomping on that fleshy muscle mid-bite by happenstance).

Resultingly, conversations, no matter how simple the topic or with whom, would evoke a difficulty. Even more dangerously, from that, I would become riddled with frustration. How maddening it is to not speak! To not let loose the cannons of verbal recourse—no matter the mundaneness of the topic! Instead, I would recoil. What would happen if I spoke and no one agreed? Rejection. Shame. Misjudgment. I would, in all ways, become socially awkward and untoward. Frustrated at myself, but expelling these tendencies to those around me, I began to recognize how this had a metaphoric flavor of a social disorder.

Although sitting on the floor in confusion with tear-soaked eyelashes that morning, this ignited a quest to speak one truth per day. A small, attainable goal. Yet, this has propelled me into a realm of freedom like no other! Albeit I have failed and retreated once too many, stuffing the words away. But with a gentle tug back, I am reminded to untangle my words so they may flow and meet the estuary of the surrounding environment; without departing my soul. I choose to no longer hide in incongruent falsity. And so, from my gut to mouth, I slowly reclaim each word as it journeys to tell the whole story, my story.