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 ❤️‍🩹