The Dangers of Emotional Processing Deficits
Reflections on a Childhood Desire to Disappear
Content note: This essay discusses childhood suicidal ideation in the context of autism and emotional processing. It aims to raise understanding, not distress. If you are struggling or having thoughts of self-harm, please seek support. You are not alone. You can find international helplines at findahelpline.com, which lists free, confidential options worldwide.
For as long as I can remember, my mind has wanted to escape its own confusion, and thoughts of an early and irreversible exit surfaced shockingly early.
As I develop a deeper understanding of my cognitive quirks in middle age, I feel a duty of care to share them. Autistic people are more vulnerable when their emotions misfire and the world stops making sense. That does not mean every meltdown is an emergency. But it illuminates the hidden inner world of those who feel too ashamed to share it. A world I explored earlier in Inverting Autistic Masking.
Growing up, I hid my meltdowns. I was, after all, a good kid. In the face of confrontation, I would maintain a flat affect while my mind whirred with considerations, trying to compute the situation. Once alone, the overwhelm would erupt, my thoughts convulsing with scattered rage, injustice, and sadness.
I have come to realise my values and independence were battling the sanctimony of authority. I would try to remain an immovable mountain, yet the rain of judgement soon crumbled my façade. Much like the early erosions I described in The Quiet Collapse.
That collapse always came in private, unseen but seismic.
In defiance and despair, my revenge was to imagine removing myself from the picture, a fantasy of relief from emotional pain and confusion, paired with the idea that others would finally feel my absence as guilt.
All that darkness rose from an innocent child’s mind that simply could not process life’s basic challenges or guidance.
For the avoidance of doubt, there was no real reason to be so rash. Yet my inner world had built a solid narrative that could not be reasoned with. My mind was blind to the states and suffering of others.
It could start with something simple, like testing authority until patience was lost. In trying to prove myself right, I would be caught in a loop with the balance of power, where, as a child, I had none. But forcing another to lose control could feel like victory.
In truth, I would win and lose simultaneously.
Ironically, after defiantly refusing to go, I would run to my room and plot in a crazed state, toying with the quickest, least painful way to escape all this fizzing turbulence. My mind was at sea in a vicious swell of emotion.
I cannot begin to imagine the pain a parent feels at the loss of a child to suicide, yet that is what my seven-year-old brain was contemplating, simply because I was being told what to do.
It is absurd and deadly serious all at once.
I try to imagine the many autistic children facing far greater problems, including genuine suffering from abuse and neglect, not only the ordinary challenges of understanding life while living with emotional deficits.
When you compound real-world struggles with difficulty recognising feelings, emotional dysregulation, and trouble adapting emotions to seek help, it is no wonder the statistics on autistic self-harm are so grave.
I was lucky. I recognised early that my pattern was a form of psychological escape, a shortcut to freedom from the chains of society’s expectations. It did not stop my mind from revisiting those corners when things got tough, but I learned a shorthand to counter it:
If you want to escape pain, you have missed your chance. You cannot cheat the system; it has already been felt. You will only pass your pain on with interest.
Perhaps understanding your pain is how you keep it from spilling into others. No one deserves the overflow. A truth that sits at the heart of How Hurt Becomes Hostility, where unprocessed suffering reverberates far beyond its origin.
