A former friend once asked me how I perceived being in love. I replied that it was “a whole lot of unpleasant sensations in the body.” I had not yet been diagnosed, and it amused him a great deal. He had never heard that kind of description before, and my answer was instinctive. I myself think I had indeed never encountered this description elsewhere (I had even researched it thoroughly, like a diligent student, to break it down).
After my accounts of bipolar episodes, I thought I would introduce a brief breathing space before continuing my content about my conditions. A moment I repeat every morning, which awakens my senses and gives me the energy I need to navigate a world designed for allistics. It is the very first thing I do when I get up. I did it every morning for 12 years before a depressive episode managed to sweep away a moment that was nonetheless so precious and simple. And then, naturally, it came back.
Today I’m introducing the “Crossed Spectra” category. The goal: to give the floor to other people concerned. Spectrum & Cycles is not meant only to let me tell my whole life story, but also to share other experiences, just as embodied, raw, and unfiltered. I therefore invited my friend Jeanne to speak and explain in detail what autism in women looks like and to share her lived experience. (And I disclaim all responsibility for her touches of humor in the titles — I did ask her to include some!)
In the collective imagination, an autistic person is someone who is calm, withdrawn, asocial and, for some, exceptionally good at mathematics. Television stereotypes do little to dispel these ideas. Many still have Rain Man in mind, with its autistic character stopping in the middle of the road when the light turns red. The reality, however, is very different. Autism is a spectrum and expresses itself differently in each individual. Following my series of articles describing autism, it is time to produce a summary article addressing it in its full complexity.
Autistic burnout, in a few words, feels like a long-term complete shutdown. It often follows sensory, emotional, or cognitive overload and usually results from extreme compensation (social masking) that has pushed the autistic person beyond their tolerance threshold. Masking is a constant daily effort, activated the moment the person is interacting or exposed in public.
If shutdown is the implosion, meltdown is the explosion. A visible, loud, and often misunderstood crisis. The stereotype of the autistic person banging their head against a wall is common. For many autistic individuals, this is a real experience — but it is not universal. Still, many autistic people experience these crises to varying degrees and frequencies. A meltdown generates an intense emotional discharge that can leave the autistic person completely drained of energy. After discussing autistic crises more broadly, this article focuses specifically on meltdowns.
Autistic crises are an integral part of life for many autistic people. After discussing them broadly in a previous article, it’s important to describe them in detail, starting with shutdowns, often described as autistic collapse or social withdrawal. A shutdown is also defined as autistic withdrawal, an involuntary response triggered by sensory or emotional overload. Yet the reality goes far beyond simple withdrawal — it is a neurological reaction in autistic individuals, designed to short-circuit an overload the brain perceives as danger.
In the collective imagination, an autistic person is someone withdrawn, exceptional at math, calm, and rocking back and forth. What many people don’t realize is that autistic individuals can also experience intense emotional outbursts (meltdowns) and internal shutdowns (shutdowns). These crises have various causes, but sensory overload is the most common trigger.
Recently, I went to the MDPH (French disability support and benefits office) in a region where a cyberattack had wiped out all their electronic files. The waiting room was crowded and loud. Instinctively, I put my sunglasses back on. My caseworker looked surprised, but my mother burst out laughing—she immediately understood what was happening. It was compensation. I needed to be able to hear my number being called and then hear the person at the desk. Noise-canceling headphones weren’t an option. So instead, I used my sunglasses to reduce—not the sound itself—but the overall sensory load my brain was processing.
Stereotypies are those movements or sounds that may look like tics to someone unfamiliar with autism. Yet they are very different — both in how they appear and in what purpose they serve. They are regular, repetitive, rhythmic, and seemingly without purpose. Seemingly is the key word. In reality, they play a role in sensory and emotional regulation. In short, they are essential to the life of an autistic person. In autistic communities, we often use the term stim. It’s the autistic version of the word stereotypy, which is more clinical and carries a negative connotation.
Florent 
Jeanne Pons