'Autism saved my life. My cousin was not so lucky.'

WARNING: This article discusses mental health, suicide, and suicidal ideation that some readers may find distressing.

Source: Wix

A late autism diagnosis became a lifeline — but for one cousin, that understanding never came. A personal reflection on recognition, support, and why autistic lives depend on being truly seen.

---

I was on my way to an evening work meeting when the email arrived — my autism assessment report.

There had been a delay because the psychologist had Covid, and the wait had been quietly torturous. I kept circling the same questions:

Was I autistic? It certainly seemed to fit. I’d done months of research.

Or was I grasping for an explanation — a legitimate reason for a lifetime of feeling different, overwhelmed, and somehow out of step with everyone else?

And beneath it all was the question I couldn’t shake: If I’m not autistic, then what the hell is wrong with me?

Heart pounding, I opened the attachment and scanned straight to the diagnosis section.

There it was. Black on white: Autism Spectrum Disorder, Level 2.

Relief hit first — immediate, visceral. It felt like the air rushed out of my body and, briefly, a choir of angels sang somewhere in my brain.

When I read on, I found an unexpected assertion that I also met criteria for Attention Deficit/Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD) – Combined Presentation, that I should explore. Which I did, with a psychiatrist, resulting in confirmation of that diagnosis, as well.

I was forty years old.

The iceberg

From the outside, my life probably looked solid enough. I’d had my son young with my teenage sweetheart, later returned to university as a mature-age student and completed a Bachelor of Arts, married the love of my life and became step-mum to two boys. We’d recently built a house. I was working two jobs in the arts sector. Most of our courtyard pot-plants were green and thriving.

Functional. Capable. Successful, even.

But that was just the visible tip of a lifetime of masking. Beneath the waterline was constant effort: sensory overload, emotional dysregulation, executive dysfunction, anxiety, depression, insomnia, shutdowns, and a relentless internal monologue insisting I was failing at life.

Sometimes it was harsh self-criticism. Other times it was what I now recognise as hyperactive neurodivergent cognition — rapid, looping, intrusive thoughts that simply wouldn’t quiet down.

Life often felt grim.

Source: Pixabay

Many late-diagnosed neurodivergent people follow similar, often maladaptive coping paths before they discover their ND identity: self-medicating, struggling to find effective therapy, experimenting with identity or belief systems, withdrawing socially, or engaging in risky behaviours just to get through.

At nineteen, I overdosed on sedatives and ended up in emergency.

I wasn’t trying to die — at least not consciously. I was trying to make everything stop. I wanted quiet. Relief. Space inside my own head.

I didn’t have the language then to explain overwhelm, sensory distress, or executive burnout. I just knew I couldn’t keep coping the way I was.

Looking back now, with an AuDHD lens, it makes painful sense.

Realising I might be autistic lifted a veil. Receiving the diagnosis felt like being handed a survival manual I hadn’t known existed.

That evening — a date now dubbed my 'Discovery Day' — marked the beginning of a different chapter. I found self-compassion for my past and present self. Access to appropriate support. Community. Language for my experience.

Most importantly, I no longer felt alone.

A meme I found on Instagram (pictured right) describes undiagnosed neurodivergence as being handed a video game, told it's on easy, then getting chastised for failing. An ND diagnosis gives you the crucial insight that you'd actually been playing all that time on hard mode — and so now, you can strategise appropriately.

This resonated deeply for me.

My cousin never got this insight.

What if?

We were about fifteen years apart, but despite the age difference, in the precious time we had together, we always recognised each other as fellow 'black sheep'. There was an unspoken understanding between us — a sense of being slightly outside the norm.

When she died by suicide, I was devastated.

I still remember a phone call we had after my overdose years earlier. She told me she understood how hard life could feel. She said I could call her anytime, day or night. She wanted to help.

My cousin — who desperately needed support herself — was offering it to me.

After her death, I wondered endlessly whether I could have helped her. After my autism diagnosis, that grief resurfaced in a new way. Because I strongly suspect she was neurodivergent too — likely autistic and ADHD.

She had been diagnosed with borderline personality disorder (BPD), a label disproportionately, and often inaccurately, applied to undiagnosed autistic women. I later learned a psychiatrist had told her parents her suicide was probably inevitable. That still horrifies me.

I wish we could have explored our shared 'otherness' together through a neuro-affirming lens. Her differences, like mine, were likely masked by gender expectations and missed entirely.

Without understanding, support, or language for her experience, the traits we shared — sensitivity, intensity, deep emotional processing — became overwhelming rather than protective.

Autistic life expectancy statistics are sobering.

Australian research suggests autistic people may live 20–36 years fewer than the general population, often due to unmet healthcare needs, mental health challenges, and systemic barriers to support. International studies echo similar concerns.

These numbers aren’t about autism itself being fatal. They reflect what happens when autistic people aren’t understood, supported, or safely accommodated.

Environment matters. Recognition matters. Support networks matter.

Sometimes, they are the difference between survival and tragedy.

I often think about how thin that line can be — between hope and despair, thriving and merely surviving.

Autism shaped both my life and my cousin’s. The difference wasn’t autism itself; it was context. I eventually found understanding, community, and tools to navigate the world. She didn’t.

Autism isn’t a curse or a blessing. It’s a neurotype. What determines outcomes is how society responds to it.

And despite decades of feeling 'wrong', I now understand something simple and profound: There was never anything wrong with me. To quote a well-known mantra in the autism community, primarily attributed to Dr. Temple Grandin, an autistic professor and author,

I am different, not less.

I’m sharing this story not to centre despair, but to highlight possibility — and urgency.

Recognition matters. Early diagnosis matters. Listening to autistic voices matters. Gender-informed assessment matters. Neuro-affirming environments matter.

Because lives depend on it.

Receiving an autism diagnosis didn’t magically fix my life. What it did give me, though, was understanding, support, and self-compassion — enough, I genuinely believe, to keep me alive.

My cousin deserved that chance too.

If there’s a core message I hope this article leaves, it would be this:

• Please listen to autistic people

• Value neurodivergent experiences

• Create environments where difference isn’t punished or dismissed.

Because autistic lives — every single one — matter.

Resources — Australia

If this article raised difficult feelings for you: Support is available. You don’t have to manage alone. The services below offer confidential help for carers, neurodivergent people, families, and anyone feeling overwhelmed or distressed.

Feel free to also view the Caves & Bears Resources page for a list of ND-specific services and allied health providers in Australia.

Immediate crisis and mental health support

• Lifeline — 13 11 14 (24/7). Crisis support for anyone feeling overwhelmed, distressed, or in emotional crisis.

• Suicide Call Back Service — 1300 659 467 (24/7). Phone and online counselling specifically for suicide-related distress.

• Beyond Blue — 1300 22 4636. Support for anxiety, depression, burnout, and caregiver stress.

Domestic, family & safety support

• 1800RESPECT — 1800 737 732 (24/7). Confidential counselling and referral service for domestic and family violence or related concerns.

• MensLine Australia — 1300 789 978. Support for men dealing with relationship stress, parenting strain, or mental health challenges.

Neurodivergence, disability & carer support

• Carer Gateway (Australia) – practical and emotional support for carers.

• Autism Association of WA , and

• Autism Spectrum Australia (Aspect) – autism-specific support and advocacy.

• NDIS – participant advocacy services and independent help navigating funding and reviews.

Grief, trauma & post-incident support

• Grief Australia — 1300 664 786. Counselling and grief resources.

• SANE Australia Helpline — 1800 187 263. Support for complex mental health challenges affecting individuals or families.

Emergency

• If you or someone else is in immediate danger: call 000.