The Ice Forms Slowly
Executive dysfunction is a hell of a reality check
Today, my brain felt like it was underwater or trapped behind thick ice. Ice that distorts light and sound, blurs sensation, and makes simple tasks like reading a sentence feel impossible.
Like my brain was whispering from the bottom of a frozen lake.
Not gone or broken. Just waiting to be heard.
“Hello? I’m still here. Don’t forget about me.”
Photo by Simon Joseph / Unsplash
The executive dysfunction was unreal. And the worst part? I saw it coming, but I was powerless to stop it.
Two days ago, I felt pretty good. Not perfect, but better. Clear enough to do hard thinking work all day. Numbers. Patterns. Connections. The kind of effort I’ve missed. Work that used to feel easy before burnout made me question whether I’d ever be sharp again.
The next day, I still had more to do.
Completion is the old rulebook I haven’t burned yet.
Another round of heavy cognitive lifting, though not as long.
Only this time, it didn’t come as easily.
The fog crept in, and the ice began to form.
I closed the day with something gentle: a quiet meal at a familiar restaurant with my safest friend. It helped. It always helps. But I drove past the exit ramp anyway. That old problem of poor interoception. I didn’t feel how far I was slipping until it was too late.
Today, I crashed.
Behind my eyes, a sharp ache pulsed and spread.
My prefrontal cortex throbbed like it was short-circuiting.
My whole body dragged under a weight I couldn’t shake.
And it’s maddening. Because I want to get better. Quickly. I want to trust a good day without bracing for the crash that might follow.
But I also know this isn’t new. This was my second major burnout. The first one didn’t have an accurate name. They called it panic attacks, fibromyalgia, and chronic fatigue syndrome.
Back then, I stumbled through a maze of wrong labels and well-meaning guesses.
And medications that made me foggier. Sicker.
This was before the DSM-5 would have labeled me autistic. I could have been diagnosed with Asperger’s Syndrome. But let’s be real. Even though the diagnosis existed, many people were missed. Especially women, AFAB folks, and those who masked well. The criteria and cultural bias leaned heavily toward the “classic” male presentation of autism. So while I technically could have been diagnosed in 2007, the odds were not in my favor.
I’m not placing blame, but I do wonder how my life might have shifted if I had known what I know now.
Back then, I didn’t know. But now I do.
It was autistic burnout. Pure and simple. Fueled both times by trauma I hadn’t yet named.
And I know it took six months before I started to feel human again. Well over a year before I felt fully myself.
This time, it has a name.
Words to hold it.
A map to walk myself out.
What I don’t have yet is the structure that helps me stay within my limits.
Some systems are starting to take shape. The supports I need still wobble.
I’m learning to move with rhythm and restraint, guided by practices that help me stay within my container.
I know I’ll need help from outside myself, especially when the signs blur and I miss the turn again.
But I’ll build the structure. I’ll seek out the help.
At my own speed, whatever that is.
The ice formed one layer at a time.
It can melt that way too.
Still contradictory.
Still happening.
P.S. If you're thawing your way back to yourself, I see you.