Autism, Manipulation, Boundaries, and the Long Journey Back to Myself
Introduction: Learning to Follow Other People’s Voices
When I was a child, certain concepts felt like trying to decipher an alien language. Telling time, for instance, was a profound struggle. Analog clocks, with their big hand, small hand, and the relentless sweep of the second hand, were utterly baffling. Even as a teenager, understanding how those hands moved and what they represented took an incredibly long time to click. It wasn’t just clocks; dates, months, and seasons also felt disconnected from my internal sense of reality. I could feel the warmth of summer or the chill of winter, but aligning those physical sensations with specific dates, months, or the abstract “time of year” was a constant source of confusion. It all felt discombobulating — a disconnect that made the academic frameworks of time feel almost otherworldly.
I also struggled with knowing where “I” started and ended. I felt as though reality had swallowed me up whole, and the “Malcolm” felt lost in the whole thing I existed within. This meant it was difficult to feel myself as an individual. This changed as an older adult.
This disconnect extended to my reading experiences. While I could engage with non-fiction books — particularly those that were factual and reference-based — anything requiring significant imagination or the ability to “see things in your mind’s eye” became a battle. The words would simply get confused, blurring together on the page. I’d find myself rereading paragraph after paragraph, struggling to grasp the narrative flow. It was frustrating, almost as if reading fictional or conceptual texts was an otherworldly task I was ill-equipped to perform.
Beyond the abstract challenges of time and narrative, my early years were marked by a profound difficulty navigating people and friendships. Large crowds were always uncomfortable — too big, too loud, too much. Even one-on-one, forming friendships felt like standing on unsteady ground. I remember trying to make friends, yet never feeling truly comfortable or safe. There were moments that filled me with fear — times when boundaries were ignored and I felt powerless to object.
Compounding this was a tendency to readily follow the directions of others. It wasn’t necessarily about being easily led in a bad way, but rather an inability to question or resist. It was as if their requests, their expectations of me, were more important than my own nascent sense of drive and instinct. Looking back, I can see this was the beginning of a lifelong pattern: my internal compass was already being overshadowed by what others required of me. I was learning to follow other people’s voices, rather than trusting my own disconnected voice.
Teenage Years: When Trust Became Vulnerability
As I moved into my teenage years, the challenges intensified. Depression, anxiety, and a pervasive sense of being out of place became constant companions. Yet in my solitary moments — immersed in computing, encyclopedias, books, pen and paper — I found a strange, comforting peace. That peace, however, was so easily shattered by noise, change, or the mere presence of others. The sanctuary I built could be contaminated in an instant.
High school was a crucible. Because I didn’t fit in, because I was awkward, I was targeted. Teasing, humiliation, being pushed and struck — these became part of my daily reality. As I moved into my senior years, the anxiety became physical. I would sneak home at midday, my shirt soaked through with sweat, my entire body filled with tension and stress. At one point, the pain of living this way became so great that I attempted suicide. Things were that hard.
As I moved into older teenage years and early adulthood, I did find connection — with people who were themselves different, who saw the world from a refreshing perspective. Yet in the mainstream groups I belonged to — church groups, youth fellowships — I was pushed further and further to the edges. My awkwardness, my inability to perform or mimic the expected beliefs and experiences, meant I didn’t fit the mold. In one group I had helped found, I was eventually excluded simply because I didn’t belong to their way of thinking. These were difficult years. And gradually, what began as childhood difficulty navigating the social world became a deep dependence on other people’s judgment. I didn’t know how to trust my own.
Adulthood: Living by Other People’s Expectations
By my late teens, I had become independent of my family in daily living, yet my sense of direction remained entirely shaped by others. I didn’t interview well; I was unemployed for a time, then worked on a farm under a good man named Alister Young — and there I discovered I could learn and work with my hands, outside the classroom. I was signed up to a Farm Cadetship scheme and passed all my submitted papers — of all subjects, farming.
But when it came to choosing a path, I believed those who knew more than I did should decide for me. I looked out at the world in confusion, waiting to be told what to do. When people told me I should become a minister or Salvation Army officer, I set my face in that direction — not because I heard it within myself, but because I trusted their judgment over my own.
At twenty, I started dating Tania. Before the year was out, we were married. She chose me because she found me refreshing and different. But that difference also meant I carried difficulty into our relationship. Being with me drew attention, scrutiny, and challenge. My adult life continued to reflect the pattern of my growing up: I was vulnerable, and there were those who learned to take advantage of it.
When Someone Claimed to Speak for God
This vulnerability showed itself in several ways. The first occurred during my ministry training in Upper Hutt. In class, I asked questions — not to be difficult, but because I genuinely wanted to understand. In my second year, a fellow student stood up and told me — in what sounded like spiritual correction but was in fact anger — to be quiet. Later he pulled me aside and said: if I would not accept what was taught as God’s word without question, I should not be there. I must learn to listen and not question. At that moment, spiritual authority was being used to silence my curiosity and enforce conformity.
Later in my second year, I went to the Officer in charge of the college and submitted my verbal resignation. But he told me that I was called to this — and after discussion — I once more accepted that others knew more about my calling and direction than I did. It wasn’t that I had no will or opinion. It was that I had so many ideas, possibilities, and opinions that I could not work out which one was right and from God.
Later in life, after I had built a career in computing and started my own company, a new minister came to my home. He said God had told him I should be his minister. I said no — I did not believe it, and I did not want that burden. He returned, insisting God was clearer now: part-time, so I could keep my business and serve the church. The third time, he came with his wife. They sat with Tania and me, and explained that God had certainly spoken — and I must listen. Because of my lifelong doubt in my own judgment, because of that deep compulsion to comply, I yielded. I believed he knew better than I did what God wanted for my life.
I worked part-time, then full-time. I grew exhausted carrying both burdens. And after some years, he turned on me. He said God had now revealed I should leave. Everything had seemed well, yet suddenly I was told I was damaging his ministry — a concern raised by his wife, he said. To this day, I do not fully understand what happened. But I have learned this: when someone claims to speak for God about your life, they are asking you to set aside your own conscience and your responsibility before Him. Ultimately, I am accountable to God — not through another person’s voice, but through what I myself must discern to be true.
When My Reality Collapsed
The most devastating experience of all came through someone I cared for deeply. Over years, she shared harrowing accounts of terrible abuse she had suffered. Because of my own history, because of my empathy, because I believed her completely, I became deeply connected to her story. I poured myself into caring for her, helping her, wanting her to thrive.
Looking back, I now understand why I was so vulnerable. It is important to say clearly: autism did not cause what happened to me. But certain autistic traits — taking people at their word, interpreting language literally, trusting sincerity, struggling to detect hidden motives — can make vulnerability deeper. A major 2023 scientific review of thirty-four studies found that approximately 44% of autistic individuals experience some form of victimization — significantly higher than average.
(Trundle G, Jones KA, Ropar D, Egan V. “Prevalence of Victimisation in Autistic Individuals: A Systematic Review and Meta-Analysis.” Trauma, Violence, & Abuse. 2023.)
Researchers explain this is not because autistic people are weak, but because we tend to trust what is said. The responsibility for manipulation always lies with the one who chooses to deceive — never with the one who believed them.
When I eventually discovered the truth — that the stories had been fabricated, that she had a history of doing this — I confronted her. She admitted it. And then she carried out the threats she had made. What I believed then was that I had acted rightly in confronting deception. What I later discovered was how thoroughly my trust had been exploited. What I understand now is that my entire reality was shattered. I could no longer trust my own ability to know what was true.
The consequences were catastrophic. I ended up in prison after years of waiting for COVID to reopen the courts. I lost my case, and with significant health issues connected to the experience, I could no longer fight. This experience stopped me in my tracks. It forced me to renegotiate how I see the entire world — and how I see myself in it.
Learning to Set Boundaries
Out of all of this, one thing has become clear. I cannot continue living by other people’s voices. If I am to function, to be safe, to be sane — I must set my own boundaries. Boundaries that are reasonable, that I can hold, and that I can keep.
These boundaries were not something I arrived at entirely on my own. During my prison sessions with psychologists, several of them independently felt that I needed to develop better boundaries so that I would be less vulnerable to significant manipulation in the future. They asked me to look carefully over my life and the circumstances that had led to my imprisonment. Each, in their own way, encouraged me to take greater steps to protect myself and to recognise the particular vulnerabilities I experience as an autistic person.
These are the boundaries I now choose to live by:
- I do not need to carry the crowd. Large groups overwhelm me. Why should I force myself where I do not belong? I will invest myself in those closest to me, and in the small places where I am accepted. Quality, not quantity.
- I do not need to constantly justify myself. What I think, what I feel, who I am — that is enough. I will not endlessly explain or defend my existence.
- I do not exist for the pleasure of others. I love people. I care. I choose to share my life. But I will stay with those who are trustworthy, who have my back, who care for me as I care for them.
- I will be with those who see me as I am. People before whom I do not need to mask, pretend, or hide. They are not intimidated by me, nor embarrassed. They simply see me. That is where I belong.
- I will choose how I navigate the world. Some environments simply are not for me. Crowded places, supermarkets, loud spaces — they affect me physically: my focus blurs, I tremble, I lose the ability to think, and I become exhausted. Saying “no” to those places is not weakness. It is how I survive.
- I will walk away from red flags. If someone arouses deep suspicion in me, or if those who love me warn me — I will withdraw. It is better to leave early than to discover too late.
- People’s emotions are not my own, and it is not my place to carry them. No matter what has happened in another person’s life, their emotions belong to them — not me. That distinction is essential to how I now live.
This sounds hard. It may even sound harsh. But it is not harshness. It is care — for myself.
Conclusion: Saying No Is Saying Yes
As I came to the end of my time in prison — two years and seven months into a four-year-three-month sentence — I was rushed to hospital, where a doctor diagnosed me with FND (functional neurological disorder). In many ways, this became the final experience that drove me to the conclusion I am presenting here.
Living in constant disconnect, with anxiety and depression, being vulnerable to manipulation, and losing the voice so sacred to an individual’s existence, is not acceptable. So here is the ground I stand on now — and I want you to consider your own place, your own voice, and your own wellbeing.
There is one final insight I have carried out of all these years. Saying “no” is not rejection. Saying “no” is actually saying “yes” — to myself.
For decades, I said “yes” to everyone else. I said “yes” to their expectations, their directions, their voices, their claims. I said “yes” so many times that I lost the ability to say “yes” to my own life. Now I am learning: when I say “no” to what is not mine, I am saying “yes” to my own agency, my own peace, my own authenticity.
This is what I have learned. Authenticity requires agency. Agency requires boundaries. And sometimes, the most important thing you can ever say to the world — and to yourself — is simply: No.
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