The Abjection of Autism
It is important to recognise that individual experiences of autism can either resonate on a broader scale or remain deeply isolated, depending on how one learns to cope independently. Social engagement often resembles an interpretive game—masking, reading cues, or misinterpreting tone—where meaning is continuously negotiated. For autistic individuals, whether introverted or extroverted, the central challenge often lies not in the desire to connect, but in the inherent difficulty of communication itself.
When I use the term abjection, I refer not only to negative experiences but more broadly to processes of marginalisation, rejection, and internalised stigma. After learning that I am autistic, I realised that much of my life had been spent identifying as neurotypical. In doing so, I internalised stigmas that shaped the way I perceived my social identity.
Julia Kristeva defines abjection as the feeling of horror or rejection that arises when something disrupts the boundaries of identity, order, or the distinction between self and other. This process can manifest when individuals are prejudged—either by themselves or by others—as abnormal or outside societal norms. Kristeva’s concept of abjection helps us understand autism not merely as a neurological condition, but as a social identity that is often marginalised, treated as disturbing, or deemed ‘out of order.’ The central challenge, therefore, is not autism itself, but the ways in which society constructs it as abject—and how autistic individuals may internalise or resist this framing.
My communication patterns and attitudes toward interaction can best be understood through the lens of dramaturgy: social dynamics as performance, where roles are played, scripts are followed, and authenticity is constantly negotiated. Self-reflectively, I have noticed how these dynamics become stereotyped, particularly through the ways behavioural reputations are formed and reinforced.
I am still uncertain about how society interprets autistic communication styles, as they are often standardised against a predominantly neurotypical framework. Autistic people do want to connect, but barriers often emerge through coping strategies such as masking, withdrawal, or hyper-focus on particular communities. These strategies are not evidence of unwillingness to engage, but rather reflect the neurological processes that shape how different communication styles are experienced and expressed.
From the perspective of abjection, the stereotype of autism frames it as something ‘not normal,’ fostering fear and misunderstanding within the public imagination. Autism is not inherently negative, yet historically it has often been scapegoated, with neurological differences being treated as abject—especially for those who internalised the perception of autism as a mental disorder. It is a common experience that my peers are aware not only of my social identity but also of my attempts to navigate or ‘pass’ within neurotypical norms. Even the simple act of socialising becomes a delicate negotiation, where mutual respect is expressed through maintaining distance and acknowledging our differences.
Should autistic people embrace being abject? No—but it can become a necessary compromise. Since society largely operates on neurotypical norms, autistic individuals navigate a complex space of epistemological and emotional awareness of their identity, even amidst social encounters.