I have always felt like I exist in a slightly different reality to the people around me. 

Things that make perfect sense to me become nonsense when they enter the world, and the information I receive from the world is a confusing, garbled jumble that keeps me awake at night.

I knew I was transgender when I was four. 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 I was in my twenties.

At age 16, I knew I wasn't straight. I worked very hard to seem straight: I wore dresses, I dated boys, I kept a very private diary with increasingly confused and distressed entries.

When I was 21, I learnt that I am polyamorous by, stereotypically, 'saving' a dying relationship by opening it. That particular relationship blew up quite spectacularly, but left me with the understanding that I don't feel confined to loving and caring for one person at a time.

It wasn't until I was 23 that the final piece clicked into place: I am autistic. It is almost comical that it took me 23 years to realise this, given that my brother — and best friend — was diagnosed when he was 10. 

I have known almost my entire life what autism is, what it looks like, but didn't know that I knew what it felt like, too.

Something that a lot of autistic people learn to do, especially people who were 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. It's also a huge part of why autism is so often overlooked in AFAB children.

It's part of why my autism was missed, despite my brother and I practically being carbon copies: where he was "difficult", aggressive, and particular, I was meek, shy, and undemanding. 

My mask became so ingrained that I felt the need to make my voice and needs as small as possible so I would never be inconvenient.

There are a lot of similarities in the way that autistic and queer people learn to navigate a world that isn't built for them. 

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

In unmasking my autism, I've become more comfortable and confident expressing myself how I want to. 

I don't worry anymore about whether bright pink nail polish is going to make other men uncomfortable or if I'll get funny looks for holding both of my partners' hands. 

Understanding that I don't need fixing, but accommodation, has allowed me to embrace my eccentricities. I am autistic, queer, and happy.

This article was commissioned by ABCQueer as part of the ABC’s coverage and recognition of International Day of People with Disability.