Caring Too Much? My Autistic Journey with Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria

That Voice in My Head: My Autistic Journey with Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria

There’s a voice that lives in my mind, and it’s not a very kind tenant. It doesn’t pay rent, it makes a terrible mess, and its presence is almost constant. It’s my inner critic, and it’s a bully.

I’ve talked before about my tendency to ruminate, but one of the things that lives in my mind almost constantly is this loud, hurtful critic. It’s the voice that whispers in my ear that I’m not good enough. That my best could always, always be better. It’s not balanced or supportive in the slightest.

One area where this inner critic truly excels is in judging my relationships and my social life. It’s a familiar story for so many of us, I think. You send a message, a heartfelt text or a quick check-in, and… nothing. The hours tick by. And that’s when my brain spins up. It doesn’t just wonder if they’re busy; it creates entire, feature-length films where I have undoubtedly upset them. Scenarios where I’ve dropped the ball, said too much, said too little, or said precisely the wrong thing. It’s utterly exhausting. And the worst part? I believe it—every single time.

This is the reality of caring too much about what others think. It’s a fear that has followed me for decades. Even now, writing this blog, I find myself thinking about people I haven’t spoken to in years—people I feel I must have offended or crossed in some way. And I give their imagined opinions of me as much weight and importance as I did all that time ago. It’s a heavy, heavy coat to wear every day.

Giving a Name to the Fear: What is Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria?

For the longest time, I just thought this was a personal failing. A quirk of my personality that I needed to ‘get over’. But since my late autism diagnosis, I’ve been given new language for my experiences. And this intense, painful reaction to perceived rejection? It has a name: Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria (RSD).

RSD isn’t an official diagnosis, but it’s a concept that resonates deeply within the neurodivergent community, particularly for those with ADHD and autism. It describes an extreme emotional sensitivity and pain triggered by the perception—not necessarily the reality—of being rejected, teased, or criticised.

That’s the key, isn’t it? The perception. My friend who hasn’t replied to my message is probably just having a busy day with her kids. The people from my past? I think, in reality, I could safely assume that they do not give two hoots about what I write, think, or feel today. But my brain, wired the way it is, interprets the silence as a verdict. It’s a kind of perception sensitivity; my brain takes a neutral event and paints it in the darkest colours of social failure. Realising this didn’t magically fix it, but it gave me a starting point. It told me I wasn’t just ‘making it up’ or being ‘too sensitive’. There was a reason for the intensity of the feeling.

More Than Just Autism: Unravelling the Threads of a Life

But is it just the autism? I find myself pulling at that thread often. How much of this is because of my neurotype, and how much is because of my life and my experiences?

I can’t separate the threads—they are woven together so intricately to make the fabric of who I am. There’s the fear of being a gay teenager in the 90s, a time when the world felt so much sharper, so much more dangerous. There’s the secondary trauma I’ve acquired along the way, the bullying I endured. Each experience added another layer to the belief that I had to perform perfectly to be accepted. To be safe.

So perhaps my autistic brain provided the wiring for this sensitivity, and then life—in all its messy, complicated glory—plugged it in and cranked up the volume. Being a parent to two wonderful, adopted, dual-heritage children adds another dimension, too. The desire to be a perfect, unwavering source of support for them can sometimes feed that same inner critic. The stakes just feel higher.

Taking the First Step: When a Friend Says, “Talk to Someone”

For a long time, I felt like this issue was just… me. Ingrained into the very fabric of who I am. But when things were at their hardest, a wonderful friend made a simple, powerful suggestion: seek therapy. Talk to someone.

So, here in the UK, I took a deep breath and self-referred for support with my mental health through the NHS. It was scary but I did it. And I talked, and talked, and talked. The therapist said very little in those early sessions. She just held the space, letting me hold a mirror up to myself. Having a professional there helped me to unpick what I saw.

She noticed things I never would have. She gently picked up on how often I use the word “should” when talking about myself. I should do this, I should be that. She recognised that in every story I told, I thought only about the needs of others and never my own. I simply didn’t factor myself into my own life’s equation.

Practical Reparenting: Writing a New Narrative

Her suggestions were gentle, but they changed everything. She suggested I look into the concept of reparenting. The idea isn’t about blaming the past, but about empowering the present. It’s about learning to give yourself the specific kind of internal support and validation that was hard to find as a child, and becoming the supportive inner voice that the younger version of you needed to hear.

So, I started writing letters to the old me. I told him he was good enough. I told him he was trying his best. I told him he was loved.

She also suggested I write letters—letters I would never, ever send—to the people who had hurt me so deeply that I had trouble letting go. I wrote them all, filling pages with all the things I needed to say to finally close those chapters.

And finally, she told me to make time for myself. To start putting myself first, at least sometimes.

The Result: A Kinder Voice in the Mix

I’ve done all of these things, and they’ve helped. A lot. It hasn’t silenced the inner critic. I don’t think that’s the goal, really. But it has thrown another, kinder voice into the mix. A voice that sounds a bit more like a supportive parent than a harsh judge.

I haven’t sorted out this issue entirely. Neuroplasticity abounds, so I know change is always possible, but some days are still incredibly hard. The work is ongoing. But now, when that old, familiar panic rises after an unread message, there’s another, quieter voice that sometimes whispers, “Hey. It’s okay. Maybe they’re just busy. You are still good.”

And for now, that’s more than enough.