I always felt like I existed in a slightly different reality than the people around me.

Things that seem perfectly logical to me become absurd when they enter the world, and the information I receive from the world is a confusing, confusing jumble that keeps me up at night.

I knew I was transgender when I was four years old. I didn’t know the word, but I knew I wasn’t supposed to be a girl. I wouldn’t have the vocabulary or experience to express this until my twenties.

At 16, I knew I wasn’t straight. I worked very hard to appear straight: I wore dresses, I dated boys, I kept a very private diary with increasingly confusing and distressed entries.

When I was 21, I learned I was polyamorous by stereotypically “saving” a dying relationship by opening it up. This particular relationship blew up quite spectacularly, but left me realizing that I don’t feel limited to loving and caring for one person at a time.

It wasn’t until I was 23 that the final piece fell into place: I am autistic. It’s almost comical that it took me 23 years to realize this, given that my brother – and best friend – was diagnosed when he was 10 years old.

I have known most of my life what autism is and what it looks like, but I didn’t know that I also knew what it looked like.

One thing many autistic people learn to do, especially those assigned female at birth (AFAB), is masking: creating a persona to hide their autistic traits and fit in with their peers. This is an incredibly exhausting process that can lead to burnout and depression. This is also a large part of the reason why autism is so often overlooked in AFAB children.

This is partly why my autism was overlooked, even though my brother and I were practically carbon copies: where he was “difficult”, aggressive and particular, I was gentle, shy and undemanding. .

My mask became so ingrained that I felt the need to reduce my voice and my needs as much as possible so as to never be embarrassed.

There are many similarities in how autistic and queer people learn to navigate a world that is not built for them.

We pretend to be someone else to protect ourselves, we create spaces to suit our communities, we find innate comfort in meeting others like us.

By unmasking my autism, I have become more comfortable and confident in expressing myself the way I want.

I no longer worry about whether hot pink nail polish will make other men uncomfortable or whether I’ll get funny looks while holding hands with both my partners.

Understanding that I don’t need fixing, but accommodation, has allowed me to accept my eccentricities. I’m autistic, queer and happy.

This article was commissioned by ABCQueer as part of ABC coverage and recognition International Day of Persons with Disabilities.