Low Frustration Tolerance
Being Irritable Isn’t a Conscious Decision
Sometimes my snappiness shocks me. I was watching my nieces have a crafty day, all curious and clucky, when my dear old dad came to offer guidance on gluing.
Dad! They are playing, not laying gold leaf. Let them discover and have fun.
As the anger simmered, I did not realise my autistic response was rising to meet his.
When my father waded in with expert advice on perfection and the “right way” to do something, I saw my younger creative self get pulled under. The split-second mental acrobatics needed to stop that pattern repeating in the next generation were already underway before I could think.
It took me straight back to that beautifully crafted model he built on my behalf when I was a kid, the one I never truly felt connected to, because I’d barely touched it.
The snap was an overload of memories and frustration. It is born from overwhelm, but anger is the outfit it shows up in.
My nieces were unaware of the unfolding dynamics, as was I until later. My mother saw it immediately. When we spoke afterwards, partly to apologise and partly to offload, she reminded me how she used to buy me rolls of sticky tape to strip from the reel and bundle in my hands, much to my father’s dismay at the waste.
I spent the rest of the day trying to cool the rage and let it go, tangled in regret, shame, and the familiar frustration of losing control.
It is not character. It is wiring.
My neurological threshold sets off a visceral response before my mind can negotiate the moment. Gramps is innocently trying to help and teach. It is not about me, yet I am transported to a place I do not want others to visit.
In relationships, I become the curator of other people’s comfort, masking to ensure control of myself and the situation. Every now and then, the glue gets knocked and spreads everywhere. Withdrawal becomes hostility, and those around me are shocked at what looks like an overreaction. It is simply my tolerance wearing thin until it gives way.
Having a breakdown, discovering autism, and tracing the patterns of my own suffering has added low frustration tolerance to the inventory of my life.
Years of repressed frustration finally pressed against the one place that could not hold and broke what others thought was a functioning mind, even if a depressed one.
But irritability is a vital signal. The early warning that a line has been crossed, that overload is rising, that the nervous system needs protection.
I do not know if I can avoid its visits, but frustration can be a companion worth listening to.
Of all the traits people like to list, the quietest one is how sharply we turn on ourselves. I want deeply to be an ideal member of society, able to meet the expected kindness and patience others summon with ease. My masking is so finely tuned that many perceive me as supremely patient. Beneath the surface lives a subtle agitation, directed at myself as much as the world around me.
It is an exhausting way to live, like trying to craft something delicate while someone keeps nudging the table beneath your hands.
This wiring is not a flaw. It is a clue. When you finally step out of the loop of being frustrated at your own frustration, you realise you can work with it. Not to perfect the craft, but to experiment with it and see what wants to arise.
