When the Wires Cross: Living with Autism, ADHD, and Major Neurocognitive Disorder (Post-Radiation Brain Injury)

By Frankie — Disabled Air Force Veteran | Chronic Illness Advocate | Social Scientist

Living with autism and ADHD is already complex. The constant juggling act between sensory overwhelm, executive dysfunction, and social decoding takes a tremendous amount of invisible effort. But when you add Major Neurocognitive Disorder (MND) — the medical term for dementia — caused by radiation-induced brain injury after Gamma Knife surgery, the wires of my mind don’t just cross — they sometimes go completely dark.

Understanding the Overlap

Autism and ADHD alone make life a constant negotiation between ability and exhaustion. For me, that meant years of masking — forcing myself to appear “normal,” pushing through sensory chaos, scripting conversations, and maintaining an image of competence even when my brain was on fire inside. But when I developed MND, masking became impossible.

Major Neurocognitive Disorder is often associated with aging, but it can happen at any age. It’s essentially dementia, caused by damage to the brain. In my case, it was a delayed consequence of Gamma Knife radiation used to treat a cerebral arteriovenous malformation — a rare tangle of blood vessels in my brain. What saved my life also fundamentally changed it.

Losing the Words — and Pieces of Myself

There are large chunks of my memory that are simply gone. I can’t recall moments that once shaped who I was. I struggle to find words mid-sentence, my thoughts evaporating before I can anchor them. Sometimes I lose track of what I’m saying entirely.

Conversations that used to feel natural now require enormous concentration. I can’t always interpret tone or filter background noise, and complex instructions leave me frozen. I get confused easily, lost in places I used to navigate without thinking. And every time it happens, I feel a pang of grief — not just for what I’ve lost, but for the people who’ve lost the version of me who could once keep everything straight.

“I used to be dependable — now I’m not, but not at any fault of my own.”

Relationships strain under the weight of my limitations. People assume I’m the same because I still sound articulate, but the truth is, I’m holding things together with fragile threads. My brain works differently now, and no amount of willpower can restore what radiation quietly took from me.

When Masking Becomes Impossible

Before MND, I could still mask my autism and ADHD well enough to survive most social situations. I could prepare scripts, hide overstimulation, and push through burnout. Now, I don’t have that luxury.

The fatigue that comes from cognitive impairment strips away every buffer I once relied on. The filters are gone. My patience for superficiality has worn thin. I say what I mean, even when it’s not what others want to hear. Some call that “difficult.” I call it unfiltered honesty.

“Neurodivergence stripped away my camouflage — but maybe it also stripped me down to my truest self.”

The Loneliness of Not Being Believed

Even doctors sometimes don’t believe me. I’ve become too good at masking my symptoms — at performing competence long enough to pass brief assessments. They see a well-spoken, intelligent adult and assume my brain injury couldn’t be “that bad.” But they don’t see the hours afterward when I crash, disoriented and drained from holding it together.

Being autistic already means living in a world that misunderstands your inner experience. Adding cognitive decline to that creates an isolation that’s hard to describe. It’s a loneliness not just of company, but of comprehension.

The Grief and the Grit

There’s deep grief in realizing that the person I was — the one who could multitask, solve problems, and organize chaos — isn’t coming back. But there’s also resilience in learning how to live differently.

I’ve learned to slow down. To rely on visual aids, notes, alarms, and routines. I give myself grace when I lose words mid-sentence. I find peace in smaller victories — remembering an appointment, finishing a task, making it through a conversation without losing my place.

“This isn’t the life I planned, but it’s still a life worth living — one that demands compassion, creativity, and constant adaptation.”

A Call for Understanding

Major Neurocognitive Disorder doesn’t just happen to the elderly. It can affect people in their 20s, 30s, and 40s — people with families, careers, and lives in progress. It deserves the same level of recognition, research, and empathy as any other neurological condition.

We need more awareness of what it means to live with overlapping neurodivergence and acquired cognitive disability — how it shapes communication, relationships, and identity. I may forget details, lose words, or repeat myself, but I never lose my capacity for love, empathy, meaning and understanding.

So I’ll keep telling my story — even when the sentences come slowly, even when the memories fade. Because somewhere out there, another person is quietly wondering if anyone understands what it’s like when your brain no longer functions the way it once did.

And to them, I want to say: I see you. You’re not broken. You’re rebuilding.

If this story resonates with you, follow my journey @thechronicallyresilient.

And as always, Stay Resilient ❤️‍🩹

No One’s Coming to Save You: The Day the Military Broke My Faith

By Frankie — Disabled Air Force Veteran | Chronic Illness Advocate | Medical Nerd

I used to believe the Air Force was a family — that when things got hard, when life hit you sideways, your brothers and sisters in uniform would rally around you.
That we’d always take care of our own.

But the day my world crumbled around me, I learned the hard way that the military isn’t a family.
It’s a system.

One that will replace you in an instant, no matter how loyal, hardworking, or dedicated you’ve been.

The Diagnosis That Changed Everything

The day before it all happened, I was diagnosed with an arteriovenous malformation (AVM) in my brain — a rare and dangerous tangle of blood vessels that could rupture at any moment. One wrong movement, one bad day, and I could have a hemorrhagic stroke.

I remember sitting with that news, numb.
It felt like there was a bomb in my head, ticking.
I was in shock, unable to process the words “high risk for rupture.”
I didn’t cry. I didn’t even think.
I just froze — hovering somewhere between disbelief and terror.

The next morning, I went into work like I always did.
I was a medic — an Airman in direct patient care, responsible for the health and safety of others.

But as I walked through the clinic, it hit me that I didn’t feel safe taking care of anyone.
I wasn’t even safe in my own body.

I tried to hold it together through my morning patients, smiling like everything was fine — because that’s what we’re trained to do: push through, show up, be mission ready.

But inside, I was falling apart.

When my last patient left, I sat there for a moment, shaking.
I knew I couldn’t keep pretending.

So I did what I thought was right: I texted my NCOIC but not before looking around for him.
I told him something like,

“I’m not doing well, and I don’t think it’s safe for me to see patients or be at work today. I’ve seen all my morning patients, and I have someone who can cover my afternoon ones.”

It wasn’t perfect communication — I could barely form sentences — but it was honest, responsible, and sent before I left.

What I didn’t know was that he wouldn’t see it until later.

The Next Morning

When I walked into work the next day, my NCOIC was in a panic.
He’d just found out that my Flight Commander was trying to charge me with being AWOL and issue an Article 15 for leaving early.

My heart dropped.
I hadn’t done anything wrong — I had followed procedure, covered my patients, and told my supervisor I wasn’t safe to be in patient care.

I had just found out I had a ticking time bomb in my brain.

He wasn’t angry with me — he was overwhelmed by the situation and scrambling to manage the fallout.

But I was devastated.

I tried to explain what had happened — that I had texted him, that I physically and emotionally couldn’t face anyone that day.

I wasn’t defiant; I was in shock.

And still, I was the one being treated like I’d abandoned my duty.

Hearing that I was being accused of dereliction of duty sent me straight into another meltdown.
I left and went to Mental Health immediately.

I was scared, confused, and broken — punished for being human in a moment when I needed compassion the most.

Fighting for Myself

After that, I did what I always do — I fought back the only way I could.

I went to JAG, requested letters of character from the doctors I worked closely with, and gathered every piece of evidence showing my professionalism, reliability, and record.

My NCOIC barely spoke to me after that.

The same people who used to call me dependable, squared away, and trustworthy now treated me like I had failed them.

Eventually, the Article 15 was reduced to a Letter of Reprimand (LOR) — but the damage was already done.
I had never been reprimanded in my entire career.
That single piece of paperwork erased years of service, dedication, and sacrifice.

Because of it, I was later ruled ineligible for my Meritorious Service Award when I was medically retired — just four months after my diagnosis.

Isolation and Double Standards

What cut the deepest wasn’t just the paperwork — it was the hypocrisy.

Around the same time, my Flight Chief received her own life-threatening diagnosis.

Everyone rallied around her.

The unit bent over backward to support her recovery, to make sure she had time and space to heal.

But when I was the one in crisis — when I was fighting to process the fact that I could die at any moment — I was punished.

It was as if because my condition was rare and invisible, it somehow didn’t count.

I wasn’t seen as a person in crisis.
I was seen as an Airman failing to perform.

It broke something in me.

I realized that my worth to the Air Force was measured only by my output — not my humanity, not my service, not my sacrifice.

Just what I could give… until I couldn’t give anymore.

The Aftermath

Within four months, I was medically retired.
I don’t remember much of that time — just flashes of fear, confusion, and grief.
My career was gone.
My reputation as a good medic, a mentor, a leader — gone.

I kept asking myself: What did I do wrong?
All I did was get sick.
All I did was tell the truth.

And yet, I was punished for it.

What I Learned

It took years for me to find peace with what happened.
The truth is, sometimes no one is going to care.
No one is going to fight for you.
No one is coming to save you.

The military will replace you in an instant — but you can’t be replaced at home.

If you ever find yourself feeling used, dismissed, or broken by a system that was supposed to protect you, remember this:

Take care of yourself first.

Your worth isn’t measured by your rank, your performance, or your ability to keep pushing through pain.
I wish I had known that sooner.

Follow My Journey

If this story resonates with you — if you’ve lived through medical trauma, chronic illness, or the invisible fight to be believed — I invite you to walk this path with me.

You can follow my journey and advocacy work on Facebook and Instagram, where I share updates, insights, and reflections on life after survival  @thechronicallyresilient

And as always,

Stay Resilient❤️‍🩹