We’ve all heard the story by now:
Autism equals creativity.

Autistic people are the misunderstood artists, the eccentric coders, the savant musicians who just need the right workplace lighting to flourish.

It’s a narrative that’s become so popular in neurodiversity circles, educational reform, and diversity hiring campaigns that questioning it almost feels rude.

But a new study published in the Journal of Psychopathology and Clinical Science just handed that myth a glass of lukewarm water and asked it to sit down.

After controlling for IQ and co-occurring ADHD, researchers found that autistic adults didn’t outperform neurotypical adults on a widely used measure of creativity.

What did they find?

Imagine this: You text a friend. No reply for hours. Most people shrug it off—“They’re probably busy.” But if you’re living with ADHD, your brain might take a detour into catastrophic territory: “Did I say something wrong? Are they mad? Did I just blow up the whole friendship?”

Welcome to Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria (RSD)—a storm of shame, panic, and self-blame that can hijack your nervous system in the time it takes to get ghosted for an afternoon.

It’s hasn’t broken through into popular culture just yet…

But RSD is finally getting the spotlight in ADHD research, therapy rooms, and Reddit confessionals. And for many adults—especially those late-diagnosed—it feels like naming the emotional bruise they’ve been carrying for decades.

So let’s talk about it. What is Rejection Sensitivity Dysphoria? Why does it hit ADHDers so hard? And how can we work with it instead of being wrecked by it?

If you grew up in an Indian-American household, marriage wasn’t just a life event—it was a systems upgrade.

Every life decision before it, from violin lessons to grad school, was a carefully laid protocol leading to marital launch.

But what happens when that launch malfunctions—not because of bad values, but because one or both partners are neurodivergent, and the manual didn’t come in your parents’ native language?

This post is about the growing number of Indian-American marriages struggling under the weight of cultural expectation, unacknowledged neurological difference, and silence.

The kind of silence that doesn’t protect—it isolates.

Yes.
But also, of course it does.

And yet, you’re here. Not because you’re confused, but because you’re tired. Or stunned.

Or quietly Googling this question while your partner builds a Rube Goldberg machine to water the houseplants—while forgetting to feed the dog.

You love them. They love you.

So why does it feel like every conversation ends with one of you misunderstood and the other in tears in the bathroom, Googling again?

This is not just your relationship. This is what happens when neurotypical expectations of love collide with neurodivergent brains trying to function in a world that seems built by robots for other robots.

Let’s break it down like scientists who also cry at Pixar movies.

In a marriage where one partner is neurodivergent—autistic, ADHD, or otherwise neurologically wired with nonstandard issue firmware—things don’t just get complicated.

They get misinterpreted. Sometimes pathologized. Often, ignored. Especially by couples therapists trained exclusively on the neurotypical (NT) template.

Let’s start with a real-world example.

A colleague once told me a story about when he was participating in a high-level training for couples therapists recently.

A case was presented involving a husband described as self-absorbed, emotionally flat, rigid in routine, and indifferent to his wife’s emotional needs. The therapist confidently diagnosed narcissistic personality disorder.

To anyone in the room trained in standard diagnostic frameworks, this probably seemed apt.

But to those of us familiar with autism spectrum conditions (ASCs), it was a red flag of a different color.

If the Coolidge Effect explains why the average neurotypical brain gets bored with sexual familiarity, imagine what happens when the brain isn’t average.

Imagine it’s wired for intensity, pattern detection, hyperfocus—or has trouble with impulse control, reward delay, or sensory overload.

Welcome to the quiet war between neurodivergence and long-term desire, where dopamine isn’t just a pleasure chemical—it’s a survival mechanism, and sexual novelty can feel less like temptation and more like neurological stabilization.

Gentle reader, this post explores how the Coolidge Effect might collide with ADHD, autism, and other forms of neurodivergence.

Love isn’t one-size-fits-all. And intimacy—despite what popular culture would have us believe—isn’t a universal language.

For neurodiverse couples, closeness often takes a different shape, one that doesn’t always look like eye contact, shared emotional vocabulary, or synchronized responses.

But it can still be deep. And real. And fiercely honest.

Terry Real’s concept of fierce intimacy—telling the truth while staying in connection—takes on added dimensions in relationships where one or both partners are neurodivergent.

It’s not just about finding the courage to speak. It’s about learning how your partner listens. And how you both come back to each other after the signal gets scrambled.

What Is Fierce Intimacy—When You're Neurodiverse?

For most people, a gentle hug or a friendly pat on the back is comforting. It's a form of wordless communication—something we instinctively recognize as social, meaningful, and safe.

But for some individuals on the autism spectrum, especially those with sensory sensitivities, touch can feel overwhelming or even invasive.

Why is that?

New research published in Nature Communications (Chari et al., 2024) offers a compelling, brain-based explanation. In a mouse model of Fragile X syndrome—a leading genetic cause of autism—scientists found that the animals' neurons simply didn’t distinguish between social and non-social touch.

For these mice, a plastic object and another mouse brushing against them triggered the same reaction: aversion.

This neural confusion may explain why many autistic individuals find all touch—regardless of intent—unpleasant.

For all its widespread use, methylphenidate—sold under names like Ritalin, Concerta, and Medikinet—still carries a few surprises.

One of them? It might only curb impulsive decision-making in men.

A recent neuroimaging study out of the University of Haifa, published in NeuroImage, offers a startlingly specific twist: a single 20 mg dose of methylphenidate reduced “choice impulsivity” in men, but had no such effect in women. The reason, researchers suspect, lies deep in the brain’s white matter highways—particularly in a region called the forceps major of the corpus callosum.

Let’s unpack that.

What Exactly Is Choice Impulsivity?

It starts with a scribble.

A simple line. Maybe a circle. Then a box with the word “shutdown” inside it, and a sad little arrow pointing to a stick figure sulking under a weighted blanket.

Congratulations. You’ve just begun the ancient, noble, and wildly underrated practice of therapeutic mapping.

If you’re a therapist working with neurodiverse couples—or a neurodiverse human trying to love another human without exploding—you already know this: words are slippery.

Feelings are murky.

And memory? Memory is a drunk historian rewriting your day while you’re still living it.

Enter the map.

Neurotypical jealousy is already a mess—emotional leftovers reheated in the microwave of your frontal cortex at 2 a.m.

But neurodivergent jealousy? That’s a four-dimensional chess game played during a fire drill, in a building you’re pretty sure you don’t belong in.

There’s no diagnostic code for it.

No neat little checkbox on the clinical intake form.

But if you look closely—at obsessive loops in autistic rumination, impulsive flares in ADHD relationships, and the strange emotional shape-shifting in people who’ve spent a lifetime masking—you begin to see its contours. Subtle. Searing. Sometimes silent. But undeniably real.

Let’s walk through it. Carefully. Kindly. And maybe, if we’re lucky, insightfully.

Some people are allergic to peanuts. Others, to bee stings.

And then there are those who flinch at the mere suggestion that it’s time to empty the dishwasher.

For partners living with Pathological Demand Avoidance (PDA) or ADHD, the everyday expectations of life—polite requests, chore lists, dinner invitations—can feel like psychological land mines.

They may deeply love their spouses. They may want to comply.

But the moment a request hardens into a “should,” something ancient and involuntary lights up the threat circuits of their nervous system.

In 2022, I presented on this topic at the American Family Therapy Academy, making the argument that demand avoidance is not a moral failure, not laziness, and not oppositional defiance dressed up as neurodivergence.