I Thought I Was Just "Weird" — Living on the Spectrum.

How living with autism shaped my silence, my faith, and my fight to be understood.

Sometimes I feel like if I share this, people are going to think I’m posting it for attention.Or trying to make excuses.

Or they’ll think I’m lying.

Or weak.

Or broken.

Or too smart to be “special ed.”

And I’m just... tired. Tired of worrying about what they’ll say. Tired of trying to explain myself to people who already have their minds made up.

For most of my life, I thought I was just different. Intense. Awkward. Overly sensitive.Too blunt. Too serious.Too much.

But the truth is, I was diagnosed with something when I was 15.

Nobody talked about it afterward. I was never brought back to the psychologist.

It was easier to ignore it — to pretend it never happened — than to face what it meant.

That’s been the pattern all my life: big emotions, no instruction manual.

So I carried it in silence for over 30 years.

Only two people ever knew what I was dealing with: me and my mom.

And now… it’s just me.

I didn’t grow up in a world that talked about mental health or neurodiversity.I grew up in a world that said, “Quit crying,” “Man up,” “Don’t be weird,”and “You just need a good whooping.”

So that’s what I tried to do — man up.

I masked everything I didn’t understand.

And now I’m sitting here, trying to undo a lifetime of silence,and I still can’t figure out how to talk about my feelings without staring into the wall like I’m not even in the room.

I don’t post this to get attention.

I post it because I’m tired of pretending.

Tired of people assuming I’m just angry or cold when I shut down.

Tired of trying to explain why I overreact to some things and can’t respond at all to others.

I don’t want pity. I don’t need a label.

I just want to be understood.

This is what life on the spectrum has looked like for me:

Deep focus, but constant overwhelm.

Loyalty, but very few real friendships.

Big feelings, but no words when I need them most.

A face that looks cold… but a heart that breaks constantly.

You might not get it. That’s okay.

But if you’ve ever felt like you don’t belong,

like you’re too much and not enough at the same time —

you’re not broken. You’re wired differently.

And God doesn’t waste His wiring.

I spent a long time thinking something was wrong with me.

Because people didn’t just misunderstand me — they reacted to me.

They’d say I was rude when I didn’t know what to say.

Cold when I was just overwhelmed.

Too serious when I was just trying not to lose it.

I’ve always felt like I was living behind glass.

Seeing everything. Feeling everything.

But not able to get it out the right way.

So instead of trying, I’d shut down.

Freeze. Withdraw. Stare at a wall. Go blank.

Because that was safer than saying something I’d regret…

or something I’d have to explain later.

Even now, I can write all this, but ask me to say it in person?

I’ll lock up.

Not because I don’t feel it — but because I feel it too much.

I’ve had a lifetime of being misunderstood:

• Got kicked off the bus for drawing something dark after a breakup.

• Asked to drink coffee in elementary school — I never knew why.

• Hung out with older folks just to avoid the chaos I kept attracting.

• Followed people I shouldn’t have, because I didn’t have anyone else.

• And got in trouble with the law not because I was bad — but because I didn’t know where else to fit.

I wasn’t trying to cause problems.

I was trying to survive.

And now, as a husband, a father, a Catholic man trying to live with purpose…I still freeze when someone asks,

“How do you feel?”

My wife sees it.

The priest sees it.

And I see it too —That wall I’ve carried since I was a teenager.

And I hate it.

But it’s hard to tear down what was built to protect you.

But here’s what I’m learning now:

God never called me a mistake.

He didn’t call me defective.

He never said, “You’re too much.”

Instead, He says:

“You are fearfully and wonderfully made.”

“My power is made perfect in weakness.”

“You are mine.”

So I’m done hiding behind silence.

Done pretending I’m fine when I’m just frozen.

Done apologizing for being wired differently.

I was wired by the Creator of the universe.

And He doesn’t do accidents.

If you’re still reading this and thinking,

“That’s me…”

then just know:

You don’t need to explain yourself to everyone.

But you do deserve to know that you’re not alone.

You’re not lazy.

You’re not cold.

You’re not broken.

You’re not a freak.

You’re wired this way.

And that wiring has a purpose.

I didn’t always know that.

For most of my adult life, I walked away from the Church.

I knew God was real, I believed… but I didn’t feel like I belonged.

I wasn’t the guy with the warm smile and the perfect handshake.

I wasn’t polished or socially graceful.

And honestly, I carried too much guilt to even sit still in a pew.

So I drifted.

But God didn’t.

He never stopped calling me back.

And when I finally returned — when I came back to the Mass,

when I picked up the Rosary again,

when I started praying not to perform but just to be heard —

something clicked.

I realized I wasn’t just dealing with a “quirk” or a personality flaw.

I was dealing with something real.

A cross, maybe.

But also a gift.

And for the first time in my life,

I stopped asking “What’s wrong with me?”

and started asking “God, what do You want to do with this?”

The Church gave me back something I didn’t know I’d lost:

my identity.

Not as a misfit.

Not as a diagnosis.

But as a soul — created, loved, and redeemed.

And even though I still struggle — I still freeze,

still say the wrong thing,still overreact,

still shut down —

I know now that I don’t walk through it alone.

Christ walks with me.

Our Lady intercedes for me.

And my wiring?

It may not always make life easy…

but it keeps me aware.

It keeps me honest.

It keeps me on my knees.

I’ll never be the loudest guy in the room.

I may never be the easiest one to read.

But I was built for something more than fitting in.

I was built to be faithful.

“But he said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.’

I will all the more gladly boast of my weaknesses, that the power of Christ may rest upon me.”— 2 Corinthians 12:9

If you’ve ever wondered what’s “wrong” with you…

maybe nothing is.

Maybe you were just wired this way.

And maybe that wiring was never meant to hold you back —

but to lead you somewhere only you could go.

Somewhere only you were built to carry grace.

To the people who’ve misunderstood me…

Who’ve looked at me and only seen a scowl,

Who thought I was arrogant when I was overwhelmed,

Who called me difficult, cold, or “too much” without ever asking why —

I forgive you.

Because most of you didn’t know.

You saw reactions, but not the reasons.

You saw the surface — not the storm underneath.

And to be honest, I didn’t know how to explain it either.

For a long time, I didn’t even try.

But I’m not here to stay bitter.

I’m not writing this to shame you.

I’m writing this so maybe, next time,

you’ll look at someone like me and ask yourself:

“What might this person be carrying?”

Because we’re not all wired the same.

Some of us feel more,

process slower,

speak differently,

break down under pressure,

or get quiet when things get loud.

That doesn’t make us broken.

It makes us human.

And we need people who don’t just react to our rough edges —

but are willing to see the soul underneath.

And for the record —

There are no pills to “fix” me.

Because I’m not broken.

I am the way I am.

I was made this way —

on purpose. With purpose.

Most people just see me as a mad, angry butthole jerk.

They say I’ve only got one emotion: anger.

But that’s not really true.

It’s just that sometimes, I need 30 minutes to process what happened —

before I have a meltdown or say something I regret.

And in those 30 minutes, if I’m pushed or expected to respond instantly,

that one reaction people see —

is anger.

But it’s not anger.

It’s overload.

It’s confusion.

It’s shutting down before I explode.

I don’t need fixing.

I need space.

I need grace.

And I’ve found that —

in Christ.