I wanted to start this diary about two weeks ago with a post of a very different nature. I wanted to write about how I missed online journaling, how I thought it was dead and replaced by social media. About how I myself had changed, and why.

But life is absurd. Plan whatever you want, it’s never guaranteed to work out.

Online journaling has always been a part of my identity. I was eleven when I first started exploring the online world, and a lot has changed since then. My first diary was deleted forever, and I miss it badly. My second... I abandoned it sometime in 2017. I thought I could replace it with Instagram, but that never worked. Involvement, likes, storytelling — I was spiraling for years, locked in the need to follow constant changes and trends. It never felt real, more like an illusion, a picture of a person I never was, and in that illusion, I could never be sincere.

I miss textual reflection. I miss the nights I spent describing events, writing out my thoughts and feelings. I tried journaling on paper at my psychiatrist’s advice, but it didn’t feel the same. Even with all the nice notebooks I bought, all the stickers I used — it just didn’t work, I suppose. Maybe it’s because I learned to type long before I learned how to use a pen properly. I’ve heard it’s better to write by hand, since handwriting activates the reticular system and helps bring out unconscious thoughts — but maybe it’s simply not my cup of tea. Or maybe my unconscious is always aware of me trying to drag it into the open.

I feel I’ve missed a lot. So many events, thoughts, memories — all vanished, brushed off, some completely forgotten. The absolute circus of an unhealthy relationship I had for three years; my dream university; studying in the Netherlands for half a year; realizing I had feelings for my best friend; our relationship developing; our elopement, and life in general. Some of these memories are still intact because I took a shit ton of pictures, but the most crucial, the most insightful and painful ones — gone. I was left only with a ghostly scent, a sense that I once had these experiences, blurred and nebulous.

i probably relayed on a diary a lot with that.

Sometimes, I still want to hear the voice of the girl I was — how she cried and screamed, how she caressed her shattered heart, how she held herself to impossibly high standards, and how she kept failing. I’m not even sure anymore if she had a voice, or if it was just an echo. But I know one thing for certain: for years, this girl was so afraid of being hurt that she imprisoned herself in an imaginary world and came close to losing her sanity.

It’s hard to accept that this girl was me. I still can’t write about it without crying — that’s how much pain I carried through those years. And no physical evidence of it remains.

Maybe if I had stayed consistent with my diary, I would have seen it sooner — what took me such a very, very long time to understand.

Last Monday, at the age of twenty-nine, I was diagnosed with high-functioning autism. How much irony is in this?

I think I knew this my whole life, that I was autistic. At the very least, I knew I was different in a way nobody around me understood. I developed depression, anxiety, insomnia, OCD, and neither antidepressants nor CBT helped much. Mixed personality disorder, they said. Complex personality structure, they said. Four years in therapy, endless self-digging, sleepless nights. At some point, I was simply done.

There had to be a reason, I thought. A reason why depression always came back, a reason why I was the way I was.

It was this great discomfort — not being able to decipher an answer, even when it felt so close. At the beginning of this year, I decided to rebuild everything. I pulled myself out of social interactions. I limited contact with my friends. I stopped forcing myself into things I didn’t want to do. I stayed inside when the sun and heat felt unbearable. I focused only on the things I liked — or used to like years ago — and dived in headfirst. Depression — gone. Anxiety — gone. OCD? Not quite. That had been a long process of decompensation. But now? It’s moderate. I cope. My life seemed finally in order.

At first, I thought it was just an intermission between episodes. But then I had to go outside, into the heat, into a social situation. I came back utterly drained, even hysterical. A week passed. I thought depression was returning. But then the heat faded, and people left me alone. To my utter surprise, the depression didn’t come back.

I knew only a little about autism — just the basics — but it wasn’t hard to connect the dots. I took a bunch of self-assessment tests. Then I made an appointment with a different psychiatrist, one qualified to work with autistic adults.

It was an entirely new experience. I’d been in therapy for four years, and I hated the office I used to go to: huge but almost empty, overly bright, curtains always open, a leather armchair. It felt medicinal and lifeless. There was no space for honesty there; every little bit of honesty filled the air until it became unbearable.

This new office was different: small, dark, no harsh white walls, heavy curtains drawn, dimmed lights, a very comfortable armchair. For the first time, I think I have fully unmasked.

When we finished the introductory part — name, age, education, job — she asked why I had come.

“I think I might be autistic.”

In those words were years of suffering. Years of unanswered questions. Years of masking. Years of fierce fear of being caught pretending to be human. Years of catering. People-pleasing. Years of me stomping on my own throat. Years of me not being me.

Things invisible to everyone else, painfully visible to me, buried so deep.

She was kind. She listened carefully, asked questions, and answered mine.

“You have high-functioning autism. You’re autistic.”

That was the first time I looked at her during the session. And I cried. I didn’t even hear what she said next. I just cried, jaw clenched. I asked if she would give me a paper with the diagnosis written down. She seemed surprised, but said yes, and asked why I needed it. I don’t believe, I said, until it’s written on paper.

While she was preparing it, my husband came to take me for a walk. He brought my favorite coffee and hugged me. I felt like I was going to explode right in his arms.

An hour and a half later, I had the paper. And I cried again. In a world with so many unwritten, unspoken rules, this paper felt real. When I hold it in my hands, I know my diagnosis is real; and so am I.

I’m still trying to process everything. It isn’t easy. Some days I feel like an imposter. Some days, I embrace the gravity of my diagnosis.

It feels like the first time in my life, I can just be... me? I can plan things accordingly, I can organize routine, friendships, and I no longer need justifications for why I am the way I am. It's freeing. I need to learn a lot still — but the process of learning now has a purpose.

I feel like I'm finally not taking up someone else's place. I'm not lost anymore.