Dis-instructions for Use

This past week, I found myself in that surreal space where the body pretends to function but the brain has already left the chat. While the world kept spinning with its dystopian capitalist ease, I was flickering in and out.

In this issue, I talk about autistic meltdown, shutdown, and burnout: not temporary glitches or individual weaknesses, but neurological responses to a world that demands too much and gives back far too little. Spoiler: it’s not our fault when the central nervous system decides to hit reset.

Understanding and Defining

As I explained in the first issue of this newsletter, the most recent studies suggest that what differentiates autistic people from neurotypicals lies in neural connectivity. Autistic brains are wired with denser, more sensitive connections. This makes internal and external stimuli much more intense, sometimes leading to disorganized or unpredictable reactions.

That’s why, at times, the autistic brain resorts to self-protective mechanisms to prevent or process an unsustainable overload. Think of it like a circuit breaker: it cuts off the power as soon as it detects anomalies that could lead to danger, like electrocution or a fire.

A meltdown is an explosive reaction to sensory, emotional, or cognitive overload. It’s not a tantrum, not a panic attack, and definitely not manipulative behavior: it’s a neurological short-circuit after every coping strategy has failed. You don’t “choose” to have a meltdown, just like you don’t choose to sneeze when you have an allergy. The brain simply throws the switch and tells the body: “we need to discharge this pressure—now.”

Meltdowns are usually described through observations of autistic children and teens. That’s why, both in scientific literature and the public sphere, they’re often associated with stereotypical behaviors like crying, screaming, sudden rage, fleeing, or aggression. Thankfully, psychiatry has recently begun to acknowledge that those kids grow up and that autism isn’t a temporary “condition.” It grows and evolves with us.

A study published in January 2023 highlights how meltdowns can manifest in adulthood. Alongside the behaviors seen in younger people, many autistic adults report a type of experience called a camouflaged or internal meltdown.

I definitely belong to this group. I experience meltdowns as implosions. Outbursts are rare. I’ve allowed myself to throw things, slam doors and windows, or hit the wall and scream only on a few occasions—only because I was completely alone and certain no one could see or judge me. Most of the time, my meltdowns are internal.

Usually, they’re triggered by emotional overload, an overwhelming feeling that heightens my sensory hypersensitivity. At that point, everything starts feeding itself in a feedback loop: light, sounds, touch—everything becomes unbearable. The initial emotion swells until it explodes. I feel an unstoppable tide rising inside me, usually a mix of rage, irritation, and frustration. My vision blurs, my head spins, my breath shortens. But I’m an adult, and out of shame and social convention, I can’t let go. So, I retreat to a quiet, safe place where I can lie down, breathe deeply, and cry until I finally fall asleep.

Recovery time varies depending on the intensity, ranging from a few hours to a few days. However, the aftereffects are always the same: mental fog, slow thinking, and physical exhaustion.

Personally, I don’t experience meltdowns very often. I’d call myself more of a shutdown expert: it happens to me at least once a week.

Shutdown, in autistic people, is a temporary inability to interact, communicate, or even function. It can be triggered by different and cumulative factors: sensory overload, emotional stress, intense social situations. When it can no longer process internal and external input, the autistic brain hits the off switch. It’s pure survival.

Shutdowns are part of my weekly routine. They usually hit after several hours of social interaction or emotionally taxing conversations. The first sign is a tingling sensation in my forehead. Then, I lose the ability to maintain eye contact. Next, my muscles give out as if they’re melting. At that point, silence descends—a kind of inner desert: white and mute. I can’t speak. I can’t move. I’m completely dissociated from myself and my surroundings.

If it happens in public, I excuse myself as fast as I can with a half-smile and rush home, craving silence, my pillow, and sleep. Other times, shutdown hits the next morning after a social event. When that happens, I know the day will be hard: I’ll struggle to move, even from one room to another; I won’t be able to focus; even answering a message or call will cause anxiety and unbearable fatigue. Like meltdowns, the aftershocks of shutdowns can last days.

But sometimes, neither meltdowns nor shutdowns are enough. That’s when the third musketeer enters: autistic burnout.

It’s a state of deep physical, mental, and emotional exhaustion that is often accompanied by the loss of previously acquired skills. It’s often misdiagnosed as depression, but it has different roots: it stems from the long-term strain of navigating a world built for neurotypicals. Months—or even years—of masking autistic traits, forced hyper-adaptation, overproductivity, and sensory stress can wear you down. The ability to perform simple daily tasks, like showering or cooking, disappears. Chronic fatigue clouds everything. Sensory input becomes unbearable. Social interaction feels impossible.

Autistic burnout can last months, even years. The main issue is that it’s often misdiagnosed as anxiety, depression, or other psychiatric conditions, preventing people from accessing appropriate tools and recovering in a reasonable timeframe. The good news? It’s not irreversible. The bad? It requires time, safe spaces, and the real possibility to stop functioning for a while—things the world we live in rarely offers.

More than once, I found myself stuck in an autistic burnout without knowing it. I didn’t have a name for it: I called it depression, stress, chronic fatigue, incurable fragility. Without tools, I always clawed my way out, dragging behind an emotional and cognitive exhaustion I could hardly describe. And like clockwork, burnout would return—and still does. This cycle has left deep marks on my mental health. Marks I still grapple with, even during calmer times.

It would be great if there were more awareness of what autistic burnout really is. But even better would be not feeling ashamed for stepping off the capitalist carousel of performance and productivity.

Deconstructing Shame

In his book La città autistica ("The Autistic City"), Alberto Vanolo writes:

"In what sense is a meltdown a problem? Certainly, it’s a difficult situation because the autistic person is in physical and emotional distress. They may be at risk, or endanger others nearby. For some people, crises can escalate into serious behaviors, like self-harm, with dramatic consequences. But as the literature highlights, there are also aspects that relate mainly to the context—how the city is organized, how it works, the social atmospheres it creates. These aspects are often tied to human feelings like embarrassment and shame."

In the last issue of this newsletter, I discussed the concept of disability as relational. No one is inherently disabled. We’re disabled by hostile social and environmental conditions that ignore our specific needs.

The social system built around capitalism is hard to navigate even for neurotypical people. Imagine how it feels for those of us with different brain configurations—who need more time, more space, a different rhythm and way of relating. For us, it’s a daily struggle for survival.

What’s even more tragic—especially for those of us who lived most of our lives not knowing we’re autistic—is that we’ve been exposed since childhood to models that glorify performance and productivity. As adults, we’re expected to play by the rules, be good workers, good consumers. These are the metrics that define success and validate our humanity.

Meltdowns, shutdowns, and burnout short-circuit this narrative. They are moments when body and mind scream for rest. Moments—brief or long—when we become unproductive.

Not long ago, I experienced those shutdowns or burnouts with deep shame. I was embarrassed to be an adult who couldn’t “properly” manage emotions and reactions. I was ashamed to spend hours—sometimes days—doing nothing but sleeping or staring at the ceiling. I felt unworthy, broken. I told myself I would never make it, never get anywhere.

Now, I see my autism as an opportunity. The opportunity to assign value to bodies and minds deemed “unproductive” in the capitalist sense. The opportunity to deliberately and proudly step away from a system that measures our worth by how much we produce, how well we perform, how long we endure this senseless race. And above all, the opportunity to imagine other ways of being. Slower, softer ways. Where rest is not shameful but a right. Where fragility is not a fault but part of being human.

It’s a long journey, full of stumbles. But every time I stop asking what’s wrong with me and start asking what’s wrong around me, I take one step further out of shame.

To end with Vanolo’s words, I want to believe that “our punk weirdness, with all its contradictions, will change the world.”

Thank you for sticking with me until the end.
If you feel like it, you can share your thoughts by replying to this email or leaving a comment.

Talk to you soon,

Camilla

🪼 Sommersə is free by nature, and it always will be. I deeply believe in accessibility and the free sharing of knowledge.
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