Chapter 16: Triple Chocolate Meltdowns
Hello, Done
I’ve been a little out of sync lately. There’s been a rupture in my life that’s made it hard to stay in my routine—my mom recently passed away. She was a guiding force behind this book, and her support meant everything to me while writing it.
That said, I’m back to sharing this work, and if you’re new here—welcome.
This book is deeply personal. It holds a lot of inquiry, insight, and emotional labor, which is why it’s reserved for paid subscribers. However, in honor of Autism Awareness Month, I’m making this chapter available to everyone.
It’s about Autistic Meltdowns—what they really are, how they feel, and how we can hold space for them with compassion.
If this resonates, I’d love for you to consider becoming a paid subscriber. You’ll get access to all previous chapters and future ones to come. Your support helps me keep doing this work—and makes space for stories like mine to be told with depth and care.
With love,
Sher
Throughout my journey, I've been through countless emotional meltdowns, enough that the remnants of my tears could very well fill a hot tub. In the early days, when I was just beginning to understand the depth of these moments, I was met with little patience and a slew of misinterpretations. Labels like “dramatic” or “overreactive” were thrown my way, pushing me further into isolation. So, I learned to weather these storms alone.
These days, whenever I feel the tempest of my emotions rising, my instinct leads me to the quiet solitude of my car or the safe harbor of my home office. It’s not about suppressing the storm but finding a place where it can run its course without collateral damage. In those moments, the world may see chaos, but for me, it’s a necessary release—a recalibration of sorts, however messy it might appear.
A vivid memory of my first major meltdown takes me back to Ms. Lynn’s fourth-grade classroom. It was the perfect storm of relentless teasing from my classmates, particularly the boys, who decided I was too rude, too shy, or just too strange. One particular day, their jabs reached a crescendo. I had taken my mother’s advice to “just ignore them,” a strategy that now seems akin to throwing fuel on an already roaring fire. By the day’s end, I hit my breaking point. Overwhelmed and cornered, I hurled a desk across the room with every ounce of frustration I had bottled up.
It wasn’t my finest moment, but it was a very human moment. Surprisingly, Ms. Lynn seemed to understand the pressure cooker I’d been living in, and I didn’t face much trouble for my outburst. Still, I was mortified enough to internalize a lesson: keep your head down and avoid social interactions that could trigger the teasing. But if the desk-throwing wasn’t memorable enough, the fallout cemented my isolation. My classmates branded me “Scary Sherri,” a nickname that only reinforced my growing belief that I was fundamentally broken and needed to change to fit in.
That nickname stuck for longer than I care to admit. If you’ve ever been a kid—and let’s face it, we’ve all had the misfortune—then you know how cruel children can be without even realizing it. Their avoidance of me stung just as much as the taunts, if not more. I felt like I’d been banished, but to where, I wasn’t sure. My exile wasn’t just from the classroom but from the ease of social connection that I saw others enjoying.
Even though I withdrew from my classmates after that incident, I found ways to channel my feelings into something more meaningful. Despite being shy and introverted, I had a knack for spotting the kids who were being bullied or left out. It was as if my own experiences gave me radar for injustice. I became an unlikely ally to the misfits and underdogs—befriending anyone who seemed to be struggling with the same “otherness” that marked my own existence.
I wasn’t fearless in the face of bullies, but I couldn’t bear to watch someone else endure the same torment I had. This instinct didn’t make me popular, but it gave me a sense of purpose. I learned to navigate the outskirts of social circles, skirting the edges just enough to avoid becoming a target again while staying true to my convictions. It was a delicate dance: being part of the world without fully belonging to it.
But not everyone in my family had the same knack for blending in. My younger sister, Layla, struggled even more than I did. Looking back now, I suspect she’s also Autistic, though in ways that are uniquely her own. Where I learned to mask my differences, Layla wore hers openly, unapologetically. As her big sister, I felt both a fierce need to protect her and an underlying frustration that she couldn’t just “fit in” the way I had painfully taught myself to.
At the same time, I admired her authenticity. Layla’s refusal to conform was both her greatest vulnerability and her greatest strength. She never let society crush her beautifully distinct spirit, even when it seemed like the whole world was trying to. In many ways, this book is for her—for anyone who has felt like they don’t belong simply because they see the world a little differently.
One memory of Layla remains etched in my mind, a reminder of both her resilience and the harshness of the world she faced. It was during my junior year of high school when Layla, attending a different school, called me from the principal's office. She couldn’t reach our parents and sounded distressed, her voice shaky but holding back tears. Something had happened, and though she didn’t say much, I knew it was bad.
I rushed out of school, still wearing my cheerleader uniform, and drove to her campus. When I arrived, I couldn’t believe what I saw. The walls were plastered with copies of her student ID photo, blown up and defaced with slurs like “slut,”“weirdo,” and “dork.” My stomach dropped. Fury boiled inside me as I tore down every single one of those posters, the sheer volume making it feel like they were taunting her from every direction.
When I reached the principal’s office, I was met not with concern for Layla but with a condescending attempt to pacify me. “These things happen,” they said, implying Layla had somehow brought it on herself. The audacity of it all—the victim-blaming, the lack of accountability—ignited a fire in me that refused to be extinguished.
The principal even had the gall to suggest my behavior might reflect poorly on my cheer squad and threatened to report me to my own school principal. I was livid. Here I was, standing up for my sister against cruel, targeted harassment, and their concern was respectability politics? Meanwhile, the bullies responsible faced no consequences.
Despite my efforts, Layla bore the brunt of that emotional and psychological abuse. The weight of it was too much, and later that year, she ran away from home. It was a moment that shook our entire family to its core.
Nearly thirty years later, I can still feel the raw injustice of that day. As an adult, reflecting on Layla’s experience and my own, I see the echoes of systemic failures that allowed cruelty to persist unchecked. For years, I blamed myself for not being able to shield her more effectively, for not dismantling the structures that enabled such harm. But as I've grown, I’ve learned that this burden isn’t mine to carry alone. The responsibility lies with the broader systems—schools, workplaces, communities—that too often prioritize appearance over humanity, convenience over accountability.
My own meltdowns, though less visible than that day in Layla’s school, have followed me throughout my life, often misinterpreted or dismissed. For decades, I believed they were panic attacks, symptoms of an anxiety disorder I had been diagnosed with in my early twenties. But as I’ve come to understand my neurodivergence, I now see them for what they are: moments of sensory or emotional overload, triggered by situations that feel profoundly unjust or overwhelming.
Society doesn’t make space for meltdowns. It’s uncomfortable with visible displays of emotion, whether it’s sorrow, anger, or vulnerability. This discomfort is something I’ve encountered repeatedly, especially in professional settings. I vividly remember a recent virtual meeting where I felt criticism piling on top of a project I’d poured my heart into. Tears began welling up, betraying my attempts to maintain composure. My boss, sensing my distress, kindly but firmly suggested I turn off my camera to collect myself. While her intent may have been well-meaning, the underlying message was clear: my emotions were disruptive, unwelcome.
In another instance, she commented that my strong emotional responses might not be "fit" for professional environments. The implication stung, reinforcing the idea that professionalism equates to emotional stoicism—a standard that is inherently exclusionary. This narrative perpetuates the myth that emotions have no place in the workplace when, in reality, they are integral to who we are as humans.
Masking emotions is a skill many autistic individuals develop, often out of necessity rather than choice. It’s a survival mechanism, a way to navigate a world that struggles to accommodate our emotional landscapes. But masking comes at a cost. It’s draining, alienating, and can leave us feeling unheard and misunderstood. Since leaving alcohol behind as a numbing tool, masking has become even more challenging for me. My emotions have grown louder, more insistent, and harder to hide. And honestly? I’m tired of hiding them.
The notion that my emotionality might hinder my professionalism feels, at its core, discriminatory. Emotional expression is not a weakness—it’s human. And workplaces that prioritize neuroinclusion, that foster environments where people feel safe to express themselves authentically, are better for everyone. They’re better for conflict resolution, for mental health, for employee retention. Doing the right thing doesn’t need justification; it just needs the courage to embrace humanity in all its messy, emotional glory.
This tension between authentic emotional expression and the veneer of professionalism isn’t new to me. In fact, it’s been a theme throughout my life, showing up in unexpected ways—like during a meltdown at Applebee’s in my college years. Unbeknownst to me, the Regional Director was visiting the restaurant that day, and I arrived for my shift frustrated to find that the day staff had once again shirked their side work responsibilities. My irritation spilled over as I grumbled about filling the ranch dispensers, unaware that my complaints had caught the attention of the visiting director.
He approached me with stern authority, scolding me for my attitude. But authority for authority’s sake has never sat well with me. A heated exchange ensued, culminating in him suggesting that I quit if I didn’t like the situation. So, I did. Right then and there, apron flung on the counter, I stormed out—though not before pointing out, with more than a little sass, that he had a rather unfortunate booger hanging from his nose the entire time. Dramatic? Perhaps. But it was a moment that underscored my unwillingness to tolerate unfairness, even at my own expense.
Later in life, working at Applebee’s in Bend, my capacity for emotional outbursts made two more notable appearances. The first came when I cut off a drunk customer, and he responded with the oh-so-charming phrase, “Don’t you know who I am?” Without missing a beat, I fired back, “Do you know who I am? I’m the person calling the cops on you for harassment.” My supervisor was taken aback; I was the reliable employee who avoided conflict and kept the peace. But in that moment, I was done fawning. I was done accommodating behavior that crossed my boundaries.
The second meltdown was more complex and hit at my core belief in fairness. By that time, I had worked as the bartender for the Monday-through-Thursday evening shift for nearly six years. When the day bartender gave her notice, I saw the perfect opportunity to transition to her schedule. My twin boys were starting first grade, and the day shifts would align beautifully with their school hours. My manager and I worked out the details, and I shared my excitement with my colleagues as the summer passed. Everything seemed set.
But then, my manager quit. Enter a new manager, and with her came a new problem: another bartender, Sarah, had requested the day shifts I had already been promised. Sarah justified her request by citing childcare needs and a custody situation—claims that were, frankly, untrue. We all knew Sarah didn’t have custody of her daughter. Despite my pleading and pointing out the unfairness of the situation, the new manager refused to reconsider. Sarah got the shifts, and I was left feeling powerless and betrayed.
I couldn’t let it go. The sense of injustice gnawed at me until I reached my breaking point. I left the job abruptly, causing a scene and thoroughly embarrassing myself in the process. It wasn’t my proudest moment, but it was a reflection of just how deeply I feel things—especially when it comes to principles like fairness.
These moments of emotional outpouring, especially when amplified by the effects of alcohol, became a recurring theme in my life. My emotions would swell into a storm, chaotic and overwhelming, often culminating in blackouts. I’d wake up with bruises or even a black eye, with no memory of how they got there. Once, during an especially turbulent period, Allen described how I had hurled a KitchenAid mixer across our home in a fit of rage. While I don’t remember the incident, his retelling painted a vivid picture of the emotional chaos I was living through.
These experiences weren’t just moments of personal struggle; they were symptoms of a deeper issue—the dangerous mix of autism, trauma, and alcohol as a coping mechanism. For autistic individuals, alcohol can act as a release valve for suppressed emotions, but it can also unleash them in ways that feel uncontrollable. The result is a kind of emotional reckoning that can be as illuminating as it is destructive.
Reflecting on these moments, I’ve come to understand the deeply intertwined relationship between autism, trauma, and the ways we cope—or fail to cope. For me, alcohol was a double-edged sword. It dulled the intensity of sensory and emotional overload, allowing me to mask more effectively and navigate a world that often felt too loud, too bright, and too indifferent. But it also stripped away the fragile balance I had learned to maintain, leaving me vulnerable to outbursts that I couldn’t control or even recall.
The alter ego I jokingly refer to as “Scary Sherri” emerged in these moments. She was the unfiltered embodiment of everything I had suppressed—anger, frustration, pain, and a desperate need to be understood. While Scary Sherri often terrified me in hindsight, she was also a part of me that refused to stay silent in the face of injustice or mistreatment. I’ve since learned to view her not as a monster but as a messenger, albeit one whose methods were often destructive.
The real lesson came when I started to untangle the roots of these meltdowns. They weren’t random explosions of emotion but rather the inevitable result of years spent masking, fawning, and trying to fit into environments that didn’t accommodate my neurodivergence. They were cries for help from a part of me that had been ignored and invalidated for far too long.
One of the most significant revelations in my recovery journey was that these meltdowns weren’t just about alcohol or even autism—they were about unmet needs. Needs for fairness, for understanding, for space to be authentically myself without fear of judgment or rejection. And while the journey to meet those needs has been anything but linear, it’s one I’m committed to for the sake of my mental health, my relationships, and my sense of self-worth.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s this: meltdowns are not failures—they are signals. Signals that something is out of alignment, that a boundary has been crossed, or that an emotional reservoir has overflowed. Recognizing this has allowed me to approach my meltdowns with more compassion and less shame, to see them not as weaknesses but as opportunities for growth and self-awareness.
This understanding has also reshaped the way I view others, especially those who, like me, struggle with emotional regulation. I’ve come to believe that our world desperately needs to rethink how it responds to displays of emotion, especially in professional and social settings. Instead of labeling these moments as “unprofessional” or “overreactions,” we need to create spaces where emotions are seen as valid, as part of the human experience, and as windows into deeper truths.
The journey isn’t over, but it’s no longer a battle. It’s a process of unmasking, of embracing every part of myself, including the parts that are messy and imperfect. And while Scary Sherri still makes an occasional appearance, she’s no longer the villain of my story. She’s a reminder of my humanity, my resilience, and my unwavering refusal to be silenced.
Wrapping up, I find myself reflecting on the intricate dance between vulnerability and strength. The meltdowns, the moments of despair, and even the chaotic appearances of "Scary Sherri" were not signs of weakness—they were cries from a self that had been silenced for far too long. Each outburst was a rupture in the mask I had carefully crafted, revealing the depth of my pain and my need to be seen, heard, and understood.
These experiences have taught me that healing isn’t about perfection or control—it’s about acceptance. Acceptance of my neurodivergence, of my past mistakes, and of the emotions that make me human. It’s about learning to navigate the world with grace while honoring the parts of myself that don’t always fit neatly into societal expectations.
As I close this chapter, I hold space for all the versions of me—the child who hurled a chair in frustration, the young adult who stormed out of Applebee’s with righteous indignation, and the woman who turned to alcohol in her search for solace. Each version played a role in bringing me here, to a place of self-awareness and compassion, where I can finally say, "I see you, I hear you, and I love you."
And to those who’ve felt the weight of emotional meltdowns, who’ve been judged or misunderstood for their intensity, I say this: You are not broken. Your emotions are valid, your experiences are real, and your journey—however messy—is worth every step. Let’s continue to unmask, to feel deeply, and to embrace the beauty of our whole selves. Hello, done. Done with the shame, the masking, and the silence. Done with hiding the parts of me that don’t conform. Done with denying the power of my emotions. I am ready to walk forward, whole and unapologetically me.