By Sef Scatterbrain
Like many awkward and socially-avoidant autistic kids, I spent a good portion of my childhood observing the world at a distance. Through movies, TV series, advertisements, and countless hours of watching others' lives on social media, I began to form an idea of what my teens and early twenties were supposed to look like. I learned about important cultural milestones like your first time at a bar, going out clubbing or raving with friends in college, and a young adulthood full of concerts and shows. It seemed like these loud, crowded, boozy events were the perfect judgement-free settings for the social connection I so desperately craved. No matter how bad the loneliness or the bullying got as I was growing up, I reassured myself that I would be fine if I could just manage to make it through high school. I skipped school spirit assemblies, ate lunch in my car, and even chose not to walk at my graduation, all because I didn't feel comfortable around people, especially not in noisy crowds.
Unfortunately but unsurprisingly, my first time at a nightclub was not the panacea I expected. Shortly after graduation, I had the opportunity to visit a friend in France, where the drinking age is 18. We got all dolled up and hopped in the cab, buzzing with excitement. We admired everyone's outfits as we waited in line, flashed our passports with a grin, and walked inside for our first legal drink. But just like any other social gathering I'd ever been to, I found myself hiding in the corner after about thirty minutes, fingers jammed into my ears, head pounding, desperate for an exit. I tried to find some solace on the patio, but it doubled as a smoking area and the smell sent me over the edge. I tracked down my friend, who was now standing against the wall herself, and tearfully told her we needed to leave. I was devastated. Not only had I failed at finding enjoyment in the experience I'd been looking forward to for years, I had also failed my friend, leaving her alone on the dance floor and cutting her evening very short.
Thankfully, she was very understanding, and I reflected on the evening on the walk back to the hostel. From my spot in the shadows of the club, I had watched groups of friends dancing in a circle, improvising dances and mouthing the lyrics to each other-- something I enjoyed doing at home alone in my mirror. I watched complete strangers approach each other and flirt-- something I enjoyed doing on dating apps online. Hypothetically, this was everything I've ever wanted, so why was I having such a terrible time?
I didn't find an answer to that question until four years later when I was clinically identified as autistic. Among all of the other mind-blowing epiphanies that come along with discovering you're on the spectrum, I was especially shaken by the realization that other people simply weren't having the same hellish sensory experiences that I was. As a result, people had made me feel like I was "too sensitive" and over the years I ended up putting more effort into diminishing my discomfort than I did into learning how to listen to my body and give it what it needs. As a 22-year-old, I still felt determined to force myself into those situations, and I was tasked with untangling a big ball of hypersensitive nerves through a process of trial-and-error and repeated exposure. That is to say, I kept going out, over and over, and trying everything I could think of.
I'm 25 now, and I've learned that while I'll never like big crowds, flashing lights, or loud, busy environments, there are certain events I don't want to miss out on, like friends' birthday parties or concerts from my favorite artists. Here are some of the things I've found work best for me.
Learn about the location ahead of time.
I like to call the venue to ask about any accessibility needs before I go, even if I've been there before. Different events might have different strobe and/or laser lights, moving visuals projected on the wall, smoke machines, air conditioning, or food options. While you're on the phone, you might as well try asking them if they'd ever consider hosting sensory-friendly events, such as lower volume and consistent lighting conditions, to make their venue more accessible to disabled patrons. Even if the answer is no in the moment, it can't hurt to plant the seed in their mind!
Bring accommodations.
This is probably the most important tip on here, because as you probably already know, you won't be able to physically stay in the room at all if you're going into sensory overload. My go-tos are earplugs or over-the-ear noise-cancelling headphones, some kind of tinted glasses, a small comfort item like a paperclip or pebble, and tight clothing to hug me like a weighted blanket. You can learn more about my personal sensory kit here: https://www.instagram.com/reel/CemU5pTl7Id/?igshid=NzNkNDdiOGI=
Like I mention in the video, what works for me won't work for everyone, but I think it could give you a good starting point for making your own.
Customize your experience however you need.
A lot of autistic people, myself included, have a much easier time tolerating loud noise when it's familiar and enjoyable, so sometimes I'll bring active noise-cancelling earbuds and listen to my own playlist if I don't know or particularly like the music that night. I also really enjoy dancing, but I have hypermobile joints and a poor sense of propioception (the ability to tell where your body is in space,) which makes me clumsy and injury-prone, and in my case, increases the chances that I might accidentally whack someone while I'm trying to dance. Over the years I've solved this problem by prioritizing venues with a mirror or some other kind of reflective surface on the wall so I can dance while watching myself. I'm sure it might look a little odd to see me dancing in the mirror with headphones playing a different tempo than anyone else in the club, but that's the last thing you should be thinking about when it comes to your sensory comfort! As long as you're not hurting anyone, accommodate yourself however feels best.
Take regular breaks.
Usually I like to step outside for some fresh air, but if you're at a venue that doesn't allow ins and outs, or the patio is too full of cigarette smoke and vape clouds for your liking, I've found that the bathrooms in most event spaces act as a sort of sensory oasis. The music is usually a bit muffled, you can check in with yourself in the mirror for a little bit of self-talk, and you can even get some full-body stimming out of your system by jumping or spinning in a stall if you don't feel comfortable doing it in front of other people. In my experience, even something as simple as standing in line for the bathroom can be a welcome break from the action, as it gives you something to focus on other than all the raw sensory input.
If you plan on drinking, set boundaries ahead of time.
Alcohol is regularly referred to as a 'social lubricant' or 'liquid confidence,' and that's even in a neurotypical context. It can dull your experience of sensory sensitivities and make you feel more open to the possibility of connecting with people. As my friend Sonny (@livedexperienceeducator) said to me when I was feeling anxious at a lesbian pool party mixer, "alcohol can be a great tool as long as you're not using it as a crutch." However, I know that when I start to experience the relaxation and openness, I want it to continue and have a hard time knowing when to stop, so I like to limit myself to a pre-planned number of drinks depending on the event. Some studies have shown that loud music can inhibit your ability to sense exactly how inebriated you are, and for people who already struggle with sensory overload and interoception, I'm sure this is amplified. It's better to take things slowly, check-in with yourself regularly, and stick to some sort of plan. You don't want to get sick or end up in a dangerous situation just because you tried to keep pace with the people around you.
Have a back-up plan.
Sometimes things can go wrong no matter how intensively you plan ahead. I've lost an earplug or hyperextended one of my joints in a crowded room more than once. If you get overwhelmed and find that you can't regulate yourself by taking a break in the bathroom or stepping outside for a while, make sure you have a way of getting home so you can prioritize taking care of yourself. If you don't want to ask the people you came with to leave early, this can be as simple as choosing a location within walking distance of your place or calling a cab. This tip seems like it might be obvious, but in the excitement of the moment, it can be difficult to make the decision to leave, so I try to think things through and communicate my plan to anyone I come with before I walk into the event so I can keep myself as safe and comfortable as possible.
Even if you try everything and it still doesn't work out, that's okay! Big social events aren't for everyone-- I can only handle two or three per month. The goal is not to force yourself to have a good time, it's to try and experiment with different ways to make it easier to enjoy being out and about. If you only want to go out a handful of times a year, or if you ultimately find that your idea of leisure and entertainment is incompatible with unpredictable sensory and social environments, that's totally fine too. Regardless of what mainstream culture will tell you, there's nothing uncool about being a homebody. If someone stops reaching out to you to make plans because you don't want to go to bars and parties, you didn't fail at anything, it just means you and that person are not a good match. You always have the option of using apps like Hiki to explore the social world from the comfort of your own room. Once you find people with similar interests, try spending some one-on-one time with them in a familiar environment where you can control the lighting, temperature, and volume, and let me know how that goes for you. Heck, you can even make your DnD characters go to a nightclub if you wanna.