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

Image: Supplied by author.

I was on my way to an evening work meeting when I received an email that changed my life. It was my assessment report. I opened it and scanned quickly to the diagnosis section: Autism Level 2. I felt the blood rush from my face. The relief was palpable. A chorus of angels sang briefly inside my mind. All the fear, uncertainty, and disbelief I’d been feeling for the past year drained from my body. Because if it turned out that I wasn’t autistic, then what the hell was wrong with me?

I was 40 years old when I received my diagnosis. At that time, I had a son and two stepsons, was married, had a lovely new house, and was holding down two jobs. I had achieved a bachelor’s degree as a mature-age student. To the outside world, I probably looked pretty functional. But this was just the iceberg of lifelong masking. Bobbing along in the ocean of life, the tip of me looked grand, relaxed, and solid. Hiding underneath the dark water was my daily struggle: sensory sensitivities, emotional dysregulation, executive dysfunction, depression, panic attacks, and a constant stream of internal dialogue telling me I was a failure, useless, and without hope of true contentment.

Image: Supplied by Pixabay.

It was grim. And I know I’m not alone. Many late-diagnosed people I know have had very similar, challenging journeys. Like me, they self-medicated with drugs and alcohol, found no solace in traditional therapies, and inflicted self-harm.

I was once taken to the emergency ward by my parents, following an overdose of pain relief medication. The hospital staff made me talk to a psychologist before I could be discharged. I vomited when she arrived, delaying our conversation as nurses cleaned up. She asked why I tried to kill myself. I told her that was not my intention—I wasn’t lying. I explained that I was just trying to make everything stop.

In retrospect, I understand. I was overwhelmed by things I couldn’t explain. My undiagnosed ADHD brain would not cease its incessant diatribe of thought. I did not have the resources to manage my daily tasks. It was not a rational response; I was simply craving peace.

Realising I might be autistic was like lifting a veil from my eyes. Receiving the diagnosis became my lifeline to self-understanding. I unearthed a wealth of self-compassion I didn’t know I possessed.

I saw an Instagram meme recently describing undiagnosed neurodivergence as being like living life in a game on hard mode, without even realising it. Being diagnosed doesn’t switch off hard mode—but you finally get a cheat manual to manage things better. This resonated deeply for me.

My cousin, however, never received her cheat manual.

Despite being about fifteen years apart, my cousin and I had always connected on a ‘black sheep’ level. We were different, and we bonded in a special way. So when she took her own life, I was completely devastated. My mind went back to a phone conversation we had after my accidental overdose. She said, 'I understand that life is hard. I get it. If there's anyone who gets this, it's me.' She laughed. 'But you’ve got to reach out. I can help you. I can be there if you need help.'

She wanted to help me.

After she died, I wondered if I could have helped her. Now, in light of my diagnosis, I began experiencing a second wave of grief. Because I believe she was also autistic and ADHD.

She had been previously diagnosed with BPD (borderline personality disorder). This is a common misdiagnosis for autistic females. The psychiatrist even informed her parents that her eventual suicide was likely inevitable. When I heard this, years after her death, I was appalled.

I wish we could have discussed our ‘otherness’ together, in a neuro-affirming way, with the benefit of correct diagnoses. Her potential autism, like mine, masked behind gendered expectations, sadly went unnoticed. The same traits that can be protective for some of us—hyperfocus, sensitivity, intense emotional processing—became overwhelming for her. Without support, understanding, or even the knowledge of what was happening inside her, she reached a point where survival was no longer possible.

Life expectancy for Autistic Australians is unacceptably poor.

Recent studies highlight the stark reality of life expectancy disparities among autistic individuals. In Australia, research indicates that autistic people have a life expectancy 20 to 36 years shorter than the general population, underscoring the urgent need for improved support and understanding within the community (Healthed Australia).

In the United States, the situation is similarly concerning. A study published in the American Journal of Public Health found that individuals with autism have a life expectancy of approximately 36 years, compared to 72 years for the general population. This disparity is linked to higher rates of accidental deaths and limited access to appropriate healthcare and support services.

I often think about the fine line between life and death, between hope and despair. Autism shaped both of our experiences, but the difference was in the context: the understanding and support I received, albeit later in life, and the tragic absence of it for her. This contrast has taught me that autism itself is neither a curse nor a blessing—it is a part of who we are. What determines whether it protects or endangers us is the environment we live in, the people we have around us, and the ways we are supported—or not.

I share this not to paint a picture of despair, but to underline a vital truth: autistic lives matter, every single one. Support, understanding, and early recognition can make the difference between thriving and suffering. Autism saved my life. My cousin deserved the same chance.

If there’s one takeaway, it’s this: listen to autistic voices. Value neurodivergent experiences. Recognise how gender intersects with autism. Create spaces where we can exist safely and fully. Because lives are at stake.