So, I’ve been doing a lot of pondering recently about masking.
If you’re a regular reader, you’ll know this is a bit of a recurring theme for me as a late-diagnosed autistic person. I’ve talked before about that strange, blurry line… that feeling of not being entirely sure where my mask ends and the ‘real’ me begins. But lately, my thoughts have been drilling down into something more specific: the complicated, tangled-up interplay of my identity as an autistic and a gay man.
It feels less like one single mask and more like a whole layered collection.
My Autistic Mask: The One That ‘Helps Me Blend In’
First, there’s the version of me I think most neurodivergent folks will recognise. This is my “fit in with the neurotypicals” mask.
It’s the one that tries to hide all the facets of myself that might “give me away” as autistic. It’s the constant, low-level buzz of effort in the back of my mind that’s busy smoothing down my edges.
This mask is the part of me that consciously suppresses a stim when I’m in a meeting, even though my hands are just aching to move. It’s the part that forces a “socially appropriate” smile and nods along whilst pretending I’m not as stressed or deeply anxious as I actually am. It’s the version of me that attempts to make small talk, a feat that feels like running a conversational marathon, and tries to blend in socially, all whilst feeling my internal battery plummet into the red.
It is, in a word, exhausting. And for the longest time, I thought that was the only one I was wearing.
The ‘Other’ Mask: Being Gay in a Straight World
Then, there’s the other mask. The one I wore as a gay man.
This one was most heavily in place during my teenage years and very early twenties. It was a dense, heavy thing, built out of fear and confusion. You’d think that “coming out” is the grand removal of that mask, ye? A big, triumphant moment of pulling it off and finally being free.
Well… not completely. Not for me, anyway.
My coming out process was… drawn out, to say the least. I sort of peeked out of the closet, got thoroughly spooked, and then jumped straight back in for a couple of years. When I did finally come out properly and start to embrace who I really was, I found it wasn’t a one-and-done event.
I found myself coming out time and time again. To family members, to new friends, to colleagues at work, to new people I’d meet who would (quite reasonably, I suppose) assume that in a world where most people are heterosexual, so was I.
Over time, thankfully, the world seems to have become more accepting (although recently that’s debatable), and I’ve felt I’ve had to do that big, formal declaration less and less. But the mask didn’t disappear. It just… changed.
Is It Masking, or Is It Code-Switching? (And Does It Matter?)
I still act differently when I’m in public with my partner. Holding hands as we walk along? It just doesn’t really happen. Small public displays of affection are rare, if they happen at all.
I notice I talk differently to people who aren’t gay or who aren’t part of the wider LGBTQ+ community. Topics of conversation will rarely stray into things that might be perceived as “too gay” or might be ill-received.
Is this another mask? Or is it what people call ‘code-switching’—just adapting your behaviour to your environment?
I’m not entirely certain I know the difference, if I’m honest.
When we talk about autistic masking, we’re often talking about camouflaging our core neurodivergent traits to be perceived as ‘normal’. It’s often born from a lifetime of feeling ‘wrong’ or from experiences of rejection.
Code-switching, on the other hand, is often described as a more conscious shift in style, language, or behaviour to navigate different cultural spaces.
Where the Feelings Overlap
But for me, the feeling behind my “gay mask” is almost identical to the feeling behind my “autistic mask.”
I’ve spoken before about how masks have kept me safe, and if the way I act in public or when I’m around straight people is a mask, then it’s definitely one originally born of fear. It’s an attempt to people-please. To fit in. To not stand out too much. It’s that same old drive to avoid rejection, just focused on a different part of my identity.
When your brain is wired for pattern recognition (hello, autism) and you’ve learned from a very young age that being ‘different’ (hello, being gay) can lead to pain or exclusion, you get very good at building defences.
Gently Deciding What to Keep and What to Let Go
So, what’s the big takeaway from all this pondering?
Honestly, I’m not sure I have any solid ‘answers’ or grand solutions. But I am coming to believe that this process—this act of just sitting with the questions and reflecting on myself—is an incredibly valuable thing in itself.
I’m not in a rush to tear all these masks and layers away. Some of them, as I said, were built for safety, and maybe some parts are still useful. But I’m trying to get curious about them.
I’m starting to gently analyse what elements of these masks I actually want to keep, and which ones I might be able to slowly, carefully shed.
Which parts are a conscious choice to navigate the world, and which parts are just old, heavy habits I’m carrying around out of fear? Which parts are protecting me, and which parts are just… preventing me from being seen?
Finding the ‘Illumination’ in the Questions
The more I sit with it, the more I think the ‘work’ isn’t about finding some ‘true’ self buried underneath it all. Maybe it’s about giving myself the grace to be all of these things at once. To be the person who can ‘code-switch’ to navigate a situation, and the person who needs to unmask and stim and be unapologetically autistic, and the person who can be unapologetically gay.
The illumination, perhaps, doesn’t come from finding a definitive answer. It comes from having the courage to ask the question.
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