Spoon Theory? Masking? I don't think so.

I have a confession to make: as an autistic person, I am deeply uncomfortable with certain metaphors. Not because I lack imagination, but because my very literal brain takes them… literally. And it is exhausting trying to decode metaphors that don’t make sense, especially when they become widely accepted parts of the chronic condition and neurodivergent communities.

Let’s start with the infamous Spoon Theory.

This metaphor is supposed to help explain how people with chronic conditions or disabilities manage limited energy. Don’t get me wrong, I greatly appreciate how this metaphor has helped many people understand the energy challenges faced by people who have autism.  But the concept is odd.  You're handed a certain number of “spoons” each day, and each task you do—showering, cooking, commuting, socializing—costs you spoons. Once you’re out of spoons, that’s it. Game over. Time to collapse into a couch burrito and disassociate into the void.

Sounds poetic, right?

Not for me.  I have questions.

Are they soup spoons? Teaspoons? Those fancy grapefruit spoons with the serrated edges?

What’s in the spoon? Is it energy? Is it physical strength? Are we scooping out existential stamina from a communal ladle?

Who is handing out these spoons? Is there a Spoon Distribution Bureau? Can I file a complaint when I wake up and only get three spoons, one of which is bent?

And most importantly: why spoons at all?!

Why are we using cutlery to explain energy levels when we could use... I don’t know... a perfectly logical metaphor like a gas tank? You know, a system that already exists to measure energy depletion?

"I’m running on fumes" makes sense. There’s no weird cutlery inventory. Just a gauge. Full tank = I can handle life. Empty tank = no emails, no pants, and no phone calls. The only spoon involved is the one I’m eating ice cream with while avoiding responsibilities.

Here’s an example of how I would apply this metaphor.  Having autism is exhausting — it’s like my brain’s running a gas-guzzling monster truck while everyone else is cruising around in smooth, eco-friendly Priuses. They just zip along quietly, sipping their energy, while I’m roaring down the highway, chugging fuel like it’s a race. I need frequent pit stops —  sensory refuels. Meanwhile, the Prius drivers pass me by like I’m stuck in slow-mo traffic, probably wondering why the heck I’m overheating and running out of gas every five miles. Welcome to the wild ride!

And then there’s “masking.”

In autism discourse, “masking” is what we call it when we suppress or hide our autistic traits in order to appear more neurotypical.

But again... masking?!

I'm not Batman. I'm not wearing a cool disguise to strike fear into the heart of my social anxiety. 

It’s not just my face I’m hiding. I’m suppressing hand fidgeting, forcing eye contact, laughing at jokes that make no sense, pretending I’m not overwhelmed by fluorescent lights and background music and the smell of someone's overly ambitious lunch. That's not masking—that’s acting.

Call it what it is: I am pretending to be “normal”. I am performing neurotypicality with all the effort and conviction of someone playing the lead role in a one-person off-Broadway show called "Please Don't Realize I Am Autistic (Because Then It Gets Weird)."

Why use a vague metaphor like "masking" when we could say something more accurate, like:

“I’m in full performative mode today.”

“I’m running my neurotypical simulator.”

“I’ve entered social stealth mode.”

I would like to bring some technical precision to these descriptions. If we’re going to talk about what it feels like to manage energy or hide our true selves, let’s use terms that don’t sound like they came from a silverware drawer or a Halloween aisle.