Art is my refuge. It is a place I can go to for safety and comfort. In a world that doesn’t make sense, art quietens the noise.

 

I am a late diagnosed Autistic woman of colour; half Asian, half White. My diagnosis came in November 2023, just shy of my 40th birthday. Perhaps it was an early 40th birthday gift after being on a two year waiting list. At this point, I felt very broken.

 

2023 was the year that changed everything. It was the year I had a major Autistic burnout. Looking back, I realised I had breakdowns in the past and had always recovered. This time was different. A few years on and I am still in the process of recovery; my brain and body stopped working. I could no longer make simple decisions such as what to wear in the morning or what to eat. I was constantly deep breathing to try and quell the anxiety that felt that the breath was being squeezed out of my chest. Every muscle ached, it was like waking up to permanent flue symptoms without a temperature and snotty nose. My audio sensory sensitivity heightened to the point that even bird song hurt my ears. It was a wake-up call. I couldn’t continue living my life in the same way. I had to stop pretending, stop conforming, stop people-pleasing. So I entered the world of self-discovery. I had to challenge my past views, opinions and prejudices: ableism, societal constructs and expectations, race and religion to name a few.

 

A friend invited me to her art oil painting class, which I will be eternally grateful for, and I was able to join around October 2023. Art has become my joy, my solace. Autistic burnout stripped me of many skills but through art I have managed to learn new ones. I am currently painting in the style of realism as I have always enjoyed photography and classical artists. I am open to trying different techniques to improve my knowledge and understanding of the subject.

 

I have always felt different and like a living paradox. I suspect I may also have ADHD but I’m on the waiting list for a diagnosis. I think the paradoxical nature of my symptoms also confuses people. How can a person with two degrees not hold down a job? How can someone who seems confident and articulate suffer from nerves and be so insecure on the inside? How can person be both organised and disorganised? How can a person be exhausted all the time after doing so little? All these questions and lack of understanding led to an identity crisis. Does my art reflect this? In a way it does. I learnt to mask by copying other people’s behaviour. In classical art, a student copied masters in order to gain technical skills. Once the rules have been learnt, artists then pushed against the boundaries and new styles were born. Perhaps through art, I may one day find my voice again.