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 ❤️‍🩹

Grieving Myself: Living with Dementia as a Young Adult

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

I’ve been really struggling lately — mentally and physically. My fatigue is worse, my pain is worse, my memory and focus are worse, and even my hearing and ability to process sounds is deteriorating. I’m completely burnt out, and I felt like people needed to hear the real thoughts that constantly plague my mind. I think I’m going into Autistic burnout.

As an Autistic person, I have delayed processing, which means when something happens — happy, sad, or traumatic — I don’t process it at the time. Sometimes it hits minutes later, hours later, days later… or even years later.

 The Diagnosis That Changed Everything

I was diagnosed with dementia at 26, but by then, my health had been declining for a few years and I had gone from leading in a high pressure medical environment to being fired for my limitations working as a clinical receptionist... Unfortunately the diagnosis itself fell by the wayside amid the chaos because I simply didn’t have the capacity to fight for it at the time. I was too scared, too tired, too sick.

I lost the version of me who could work, thrive in my special area of interest — medicine. I was sharp, organized, confident. Now, I’m a stay-at-home mom, homeschooling my daughter, and focusing on therapy and medical appointments. I have new purpose — but the grief is still real. Sometimes I wish people understood that losing your hearing or losing your ability to function cognitively feels as if someone has just amputated your arm. I sometimes wish there was a visible sign or indication to prove that yes, I am disabled, but would be insane. I shouldn’t have to prove anything. People should just be more capable of compassion, understanding and empathy. Full stop. Understand us. Accommodate us. Accept US. Just as we accept everyone else.

Coping with Hearing Loss & Cognitive Decline

Along with dementia, I lost my hearing and my ability to process sounds like everyone else. I have to wear hearing aids, and despite using calendars and reminders obsessively, I sometimes show up on the wrong day, at the wrong time, or late.

It’s not just embarrassing — it’s guilt-inducing, because I know my struggles inconvenience others. I’ve always been dependable and punctual, but now I can’t always be the person I used to be.

Phone conversations or any conversation really are extremely difficult because not only do I have hearing loss in both ears so it’s hard to hear on the phone or in a crowded room, I also have auditory processing disorder and memory issues so written communication is honestly the best way to communicate with me if you want me to remember the message you’re trying to get across.

Even on “good” days, I am still sick, still disabled, and still struggling to function in ways most people take for granted.

Anger, Research, and the Medical Response

After my diagnosis, no one cared to investigate the cause of my cognitive changes and hearing loss. I was 26, and no one thought that was alarming so I did what I always do: I hit the research hard.

What I found shocked me: Gamma Knife radiation can cause major neurocognitive disorder (dementia) and hearing loss due to tissue damage. Yet, the medical community refuses to admit it or even investigate it. If I had a confirmed cause, I could accept myself the way I do with my autism. I could explain myself and stop people from assuming, “You just have a lot going on.” This is not the same. 

Grieving Myself

I feel like I’m grieving myself — the person I thought I would be. I look back on my military career as a medic and conversations with the doctors I worked with. One of them said, “Sgt, why haven’t you gone to medical school? You’d be an amazing physician.” That memory rips my heart out. I will never be who I wanted to be.

Even as I’m learning to embrace the new me, I am still in deep mourning — a grief so profound I can’t even put it into words. The person I was, the life I imagined, the abilities I had… they’re gone, and some days that loss feels unbearable. It feels like part of me died.

Living with Invisible Disability 

What makes this journey almost intolerable is the dismissal from people who say, “Well, you look and sound great!.” While this is not ill intended, it’s harmful because my struggle is invisible. They see a smile and assume I’m fine, but this has been life altering for me.

But I’m still here. I’m still fighting. I’m still showing up — even if no one sees the battles I fight inside. Chronic illness and invisible disability are lonely, but I refuse to stop trying.

Finding Purpose & Resilience

I’m learning, slowly and painfully, to embrace this new version of me. I may not be the person I once was or that I planned on being but I’m still capable of love, resilience, and showing up in my own way. I have a lot to give to the world.

If my story resonates with you — whether you’re navigating chronic illness, brain injury, or invisible disability — you are not alone.

If you don’t live with any of this and are just here to learn then I encourage you to follow me on YouTube, Facebook and Instagram to learn more!

And please, reach out! I love swapping stories and bouncing ideas off of each other to help advocate for our health.

And as always, stay resilient ❤️‍🩹