I’m alone at The Abbey, a queer bar in West Hollywood, hiding in the bathroom. I’m hyperventilating, plugging my ears, frantically tapping on all my iPhone apps to calm myself down and pass the time. My friends aren’t here yet, so I don’t dare go back to the bar, where there’s loud music, harsh air conditioning, flashing lights, overlapping conversations, people brushing up against me, and the risk of having drinks spilled on me. This is an autistic nightmare. At worst, I will feel awkward, alone, in pain, and physically ill as a result of tonight’s outing; perhaps so nauseous from the sensory input that I cannot drive home. At best, I might dissociate completely, ceasing to register my body, my pain, and my needs.

Tonight is my friend Zara’s coming out party, and I want to be there for her. I vow to try my best. My friends finally arrive, and we claim our private, roped-off section of the dance floor. Drinks are circulating. Everyone around me is dancing and having a great time. I want to ask a bartender for water, but only after I’m certain that no one is waiting to order before me. At last, I see an opening. I blurt out the phrase I have been rehearsing in my head for the past ten minutes: “Excuse me, can I just have a plain glass of water?” I perform a head tilt and furrow my brow — something I’ve noticed other people do when asking for things. Rehearsing phrases is something I’ve done since I was little, to avoid saying the wrong thing, embarrassing myself, or giving the wrong impression when left to my own communication devices. Many friendly inflections and gestures don’t come naturally to me. Tonight, I succeed. The bartender delivers my water swiftly.

As a human being in this world, I need the following things: good friends, genuine connections, comfort and safety, pride, community. As a queer person, I need queer comrades, as well as safety and comfort in my queer community. In attempts to get these needs met, I force myself through scenarios like Zara’s coming out party. Unfortunately, as a queer autistic person, it is shockingly rare to encounter queer (and non-queer) spaces that are accessible and that feel welcoming.

Many queer spaces, events, and practices do not welcome autistic people. These spaces may not explicitly aim to exclude us, but they are not designed or planned with people like me, who have sensory sensitivities, an intense need for structure, and atypical social behaviors, in mind. Crowded parties, nightclubs, protests, and parades trigger sensory overload, something that happens whenever my senses are overstimulated by the environment. Seemingly small details, like cold weather, smoke, coconut scent, or unexpected splashes of water can be a deal breaker in regards to whether or not I can withstand being in a particular place.

Moreover, social gatherings can be unpredictable and vague. It is rare that I consider attending something if I don’t have ample details and a schedule in advance, which causes me to miss out on seeing lots of friends, going to concerts, and dating. I have to put up massive facades to make it through most events, or risk enduring painful comments on my overly formal conversation style, my pickiness, and stolid face. An overstimulating event — like a party at a bar — can leave me feeling hungover and sick for days.

This lack of awareness and accommodation for the autistic community — even among other marginalized people like in LGBTQ+ spaces — is a result of ableism: discrimination and prejudice against disabled people. Whether deliberate or accidental, ableism is harmful, as it sends the implicit message that disabled people are not welcome. Ableism gets in the way of my access to the queer community and in turn makes me less proud to be part of that community. While I feel comfortable in autistic spaces, I do not always feel visible and affirmed as a queer, nonbinary person. I am always dividing myself into fractions in order to be socially accepted; I can never show up as my full queer, autistic self.