Clues appeared early. Throughout my life I’ve been told I’m too sensitive, too needy, too talkative, too direct. I have always been sensitive to bright light, loud sounds, scratchy fabrics, the sound of people chewing or clicking pens. I’ve often struggled with sleep, sometimes full-blown insomnia. I get migraines, which by the way, are not headaches but a debilitating full body response to over stimulation. My antennae can sense a hostile person across a crowded room. Rejection. Exclusion. Criticism. All are kryptonite for me, leading to self-judgment, anxiety, and depression.

For years, I thought of myself as a mutant, someone not built for life on planet Earth. I seemed to be an order of magnitude more sensitive than those around me. In order to fit in, I masked my traits, I tried to camouflage my true self. I read self-help books by the dozens. I spent years and thousands of dollars in therapy. I took supplements. Then prescribed antidepressants. I learned to meditate. I practiced Yoga. And yet, after seven decades, I still didn’t get it.

It wasn’t until I married a man with autistic traits and found myself mired in a high conflict marriage that I finally followed those breadcrumbs down the correct rabbit holes. I discovered neurodivergence and how it affects relationships. I plunged into a search for resources to help us; then, in desperation, to save myself. I was forced to confront the meltdowns, shutdowns, alexithymia, demand avoidance, and context blindness that come along with an autism spectrum disorder.

During my research I discovered that it is very common for ADHD women to pair with autistic men. They seem so calm, so dependable, so devoid of affect. It’s refreshing. I generate all the emotional intensity I can handle, so having a partner who seemed devoid of drama was appealing. Until it wasn’t. Until his lack of empathy seemed like emotional cruelty. Until the communication misfires and shutdowns led to loneliness so profound I lost touch with my center.

A few years before our late in life marriage ran off the rails, one of my close relatives was diagnosed with ADHD. As I struggled to save my marriage, I also realized that there is a genetic component to ADHD and to autism. Were we unknowingly passing these traits through the generations?

I began to read essays written by ADHD and autistic women, and to learn how differently neurodivergence shows up in girls and women – so differently that it is often misdiagnosed or not recognized at all. The breakthrough came during COVID lockdown. Thousands of women began to explore their ADHD traits, and seek treatment and medication, a phenomenon well documented in the podcast “Climbing the Walls: ADHD, Women, and the Stories We’ve Missed.”

At last, the dam had burst. Women were talking about late-diagnosed ADHD and autism in droves! I followed the Substack newsletters Carmen_Authentically ADHD, Adulthood with a Chance of Autism, The Dopamine Dispatch, Flourish: A Newsletter for ADHD Women, Untangling Chaos, and so many more. I joined a weekly online Flourish support group for ADHD women run by therapist Kristen McClure. I found my people.

Suddenly, I don’t feel like a mutant anymore. Suddenly, the past looks different, and my struggles make more sense. I’ve become less hard on myself, less critical, less trying to force myself into the mold called “normal.” Now, I know that I was not the neurotypical partner in my marriage as I had believed. Instead, I was an ADHD woman who had fallen in love with an autistic man. We were both neurodivergent, but our operating instructions were different.

These realizations come with consequences. Grief for missed opportunities and for suffering that could have been alleviated if I had known sooner. Anger about all the ways I twisted myself into a pretzel to accommodate the demands of the neurotypical world. Fury over memories of being teased, rejected, excluded. And, at the same time, forgiveness for my own ignorance, and the ignorance of others. A renewed determination to care for myself, to drop the mask, to find ways to accommodate my needs and advocate for myself.

In my Flourish support group I get to talk with women who understand. Many of us are undiagnosed or late diagnosed; some of us are on ADHD medication, some are not. But we all share the urgency of our discovery: ADHD is not just for hyperactive fifth grade boys. It can and does affect anyone, and it lasts into adulthood and through old age. We deserve recognition, treatment, and support.

Until now, my health plan has refused to evaluate me. I could get a private evaluation and pay out of pocket, but it would be expensive. I’m not giving up. I’m not sure if medication would help. I’ve done such a fine job of self-care over the years, that I can mostly get by with a combination of Chinese herbs, supplements, and a generic anti-depressant. But how much better could I be with the proper medication?

For now, I’m focused on re-evaluating and reframing my past, particularly my relationships, and on sharing what I learn with readers. I’ll be writing a series of essays about how ADHD shows up in women and how it affects us over a lifespan.

May is National Mental Health Awareness Month. It seems like the right time to raise the issue of underdiagnosis, of stigma, of masking. Because what I know for sure: We all deserve to be our authentic selves.