It can start with something so small. A message left on ‘read’. An exclamation mark that feels… off. A fractional shift in someone’s tone of voice. For me, that’s all it takes for the spiral of autistic rejection sensitive dysphoria to begin. My mind, which I’ve learned through mindfulness practice should know that thoughts aren’t facts, will suddenly make a leap of monumental proportions. A tiny, innocuous event can send me into a complete tailspin.
The worry, the sheer panic I can feel when it strikes is immense and all-consuming. It’s a physical sensation, a crushing weight on my chest, a hot flush of shame that tells me I’ve done something wrong. That I am something wrong. It feels like the world is suddenly poised to criticise, and I’m standing in the spotlight, waiting for the inevitable blow. But after years of this, I’ve come to realise the harshest critic isn’t out there at all. He’s in here. It’s me.
It hurts. And for the longest time, I didn’t have a name for it.
Is This Just Me? The All-Consuming Panic of Perceived Rejection
I’ve mentioned before on the blog just how sensitive I am. It’s a core part of my wiring. A huge part of that sensitivity is a deep, painful vulnerability to criticism or even the slightest hint of perceived rejection. I have always been easily rebuffed, always taken things to heart. I’ve always felt the sting of a thoughtless remark long after it was made.
This intense experience, common in neurodivergent people, actually has a name: Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria (RSD). Dysphoria, from the Greek, means “hard to bear,” and honestly, I can’t think of a better description. It’s not just feeling a bit sad or miffed; it’s an emotional pain that feels utterly disproportionate to the trigger. The reason bullying as a kid was so hard to take. Why bullying from adults in my recent past felt massively traumatic. It’s hard not to look back and feel that some fairly unpleasant people saw this thin-skinned nature in me and used it as a weapon to cause maximum hurt.
This need to avoid that crushing feeling has, I think, fuelled a lifelong need to please others. To be the good boy, the helpful one, the person no one could possibly find fault with… an utterly exhausting and impossible task.
The Critic in My Head: Why Autistic Brains Feel Rejection So Deeply
Discovering the ‘why’ behind this was a game-changer. It turns out this isn’t a personal failing or me being ‘too dramatic’. It’s about brain wiring. Research suggests that in autistic and ADHD brains, the communication pathways between the prefrontal cortex (the brain’s logical, rational CEO) and the amygdala (the emotional alarm system) can be… a bit different.
Think of it like the bridge of a ship. For many people, when a potentially negative social cue appears there’s a blip on the radar. The Captain in the prefrontal cortex calmly assesses the data and tells the crew, “Steady on, it’s just a bit of interference.” But in my brain, it feels like the emotional officer on the bridge sees the blip and immediately screams “Red alert!” before the Captain has even had a chance to look at the screen. The emotional reaction is instantaneous and overwhelming. This leaves my rational Captain scrambling to make sense of a full-blown crisis that, from the outside, was just a minor flicker. Understanding this helped me shift from self-blame to a bit more self-compassion. It’s not a flaw; it’s my neurology.
A Different Kind of Scrutiny: RSD in a Queer, Adoptive Family
This neurological wiring doesn’t exist in a vacuum, of course. It’s layered with life experience. As a gay man, I grew up with a sense of being watched and judged. I was surrounded by a society that wasn’t always accepting. That feeling of being ‘other’ primes you to look for signs of disapproval.
Then came the adoption process. My husband and I willingly invited the most intense scrutiny into every corner of our lives. Our relationship, our finances, our pasts, our very ability to be parents – it was all laid bare to be examined. It was a necessary process we were privileged to go through, but it undeniably amplified that feeling of living under a microscope. When you’re already wired to be hyper-vigilant to criticism, having your life formally assessed adds a whole new layer of pressure. Every question, every observation, could feel like a potential rejection, not just of you, but of your dream to build a family.
Finding a Gentler Way Forward: My Toolkit for Soothing the Sting
Unlike my empathy, which I can often reframe as a superpower, it’s hard to see the upside of RSD. But I have found ways to soften its edges, to build a life that honours my sensitivity instead of constantly fighting it.
The first, and perhaps most important, has been talking therapy. Having a space to safely unpack these feelings has allowed me to make links I’d never have made on my own, connecting the dots between past hurts and present reactions.
Journalling has also been a lifeline. Simply getting the swirling, catastrophic thoughts out of my head and onto a page can sometimes be enough to rob them of their power. It helps with my tendency to ruminate, to play a negative scenario on a loop. More recently, inspired by Abraham Hicks, I’ve been trying to consciously write a new story. This involves writing about a facet of my life not as it is, but as I want it to be. It feels a bit strange at first, but it’s a powerful way to challenge the negative bias I seem to hold about myself and intentionally cultivate a more positive outlook.
And finally, finding community. This has been huge. Connecting with other autistic people online and hearing them describe the exact same feelings of panic and hurt… it’s like a pressure valve being released. To know I’m not alone, that there are other people who are just as ‘thin-skinned’, who understand the profound impact of a perceived slight – it’s more than helpful; it’s healing.
A Surprising Twist: The Value of Truly Constructive Criticism
Here’s the strange thing, though. For all my sensitivity, if criticism is delivered clearly, honestly, and with genuine constructive intent, I can accept it. In fact, I value and appreciate it. There’s never anything wrong with sweetening feedback a little – as a former teacher, I would never dream of giving negative feedback without highlighting positives, too.
It’s the ambiguity, the perceived malice, the criticism I have to invent in the absence of clear communication that sends me spiralling. It makes me wonder if this intense sensitivity and my deep empathy are two sides of the same coin, tied together in some way I don’t fully understand yet. Perhaps the ability to feel so deeply for others comes with the territory of also feeling criticism so deeply myself.
It’s a journey, this process of understanding and accepting every part of my neurodivergent self. The RSD is a difficult, painful companion at times, but naming it, understanding it, and sharing it has taken away so much of its power.
Have you ever felt this crushing weight of rejection? What helps you find your footing again?
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