Natalie Emanuele

“Synesthesia is how I experience the world,” says SRJC student Noah McSweeney, 23. A blending of senses creates sensory overload. “Your control panel is a mess of tangled wires and the system is on the fritz.”

This journal is my simple attempt to offer readers a unique opportunity to experience a first-person perspective as a non-speaking autistic student. The title refers to how I see the world through my senses.  

Jan. 21, 2025

My love for writing drew me through the open doors of The Oak Leaf Newsroom. Honestly, I should have known that this experience would take a toll on my sensory system. The overwhelm I felt in the first class was crippling. I couldn’t have prepared for it. Realizing that I would need an exit strategy made it nearly impossible to stay present. 

To tell you what sensory overload feels like, I’d need to first ask you to think of your body as an entity fully disconnected from your mind. Your control panel is a mess of tangled wires, and the system is on the fritz.  

 Nothing can compare to the onslaught to my senses. I felt the emotions of everyone in the room. Each anxious thought has its own color. Blue gives hard edges to a person. And red for fear of the unknown. Some yellow streaks fly by my eyes and render them useless. I see yellow when I feel crowded. I can’t hear and see at the same time, a feature of my strange sensory system. 

I want to flee and then we go outside, thank God. My classmates are lined up in two rows in Heritage Plaza doing two-minute meet and greets with each other. My instinct to run takes over and there I go. Having calls to flee is embarrassing, and I’m mortified. I wonder what other students are thinking about me. My hand has blocked my eyes, raising my stress level to a nine out of 10. So much talking has made me a mess. Why must we talk about ourselves? Maybe I’ll have nothing in common with anyone. That would have me in the dumps.

I am an autistic student who communicates by pointing to one letter at a time on a letterboard or keyboard. The pressure to “talk” in a compressed amount of time causes extreme anxiety. 

Jan. 23, 2025

My body buzzes like a frightened baby bee. I am worried I will fail at in-person classes. I need a break. Having my communication partner, Buck, nearby is lifesaving. He keeps me calm with instant happy feelings. He hovers with reassuring looks, and ideas like deep breaths and stretches. Whoa…I am here, I am smart, I can do this. Affirmations give me solace.

We autistics might have differences in all our senses, such as sight, sound, smell, taste, touch, body awareness and internal body sense (interoception), which tells if we are hungry or cold. Sometimes senses blend together creating confusion in perception — synesthesia is how I experience the world. 

Senses can be either over or under-sensitive. My hearing is so acute I can hear whispers two flights of stairs away. My visual sense is harder to describe. Fighting to integrate the two is an ongoing chore. 

Although I can see clearly, sometimes I can’t discern a face. Nothing I see will look the same as others’ perceptions. When my visual field floods, I cover my face. Arms wrapped tightly around my head dampen the insult to my senses. I know it must look strange to others but I need to do it. I envy those able to filter sensory input and still function. Unusual behavior makes me stand out.
My tastebuds are under-sensitive, leading to highly repetitive food choices and difficulty being able to taste spicy things. 

Tito Mukhopadhyay, who has written numerous books about his lived experience with autism, describes his senses as a “fragmented world perceived through isolated sense organs.” This fits my everyday experience, as my body and brain struggle to make sense of my environment. When my senses work together I am calm and can communicate effectively. 

Able-bodied, neurotypical folks cannot understand in their world how having different and inwardly confusing sensory experiences impacts me. 

Jan. 30, 2025

Multiple groups talking at once invade my sense of hearing like a knife slicing a carrot. 

The group on the right is arguing about their story edits; my sense of hearing exits, and I hear only jumbled sounds. Are they mad at each other? Here come the red streaks. 

I must focus now. 

Breathe, Noah!

I can hear again. 

Another group looks at a projector screen. What they see is a mystery to me. I look out of the side of my eyes: peripheral vision is my superpower. Now I can see the screen. 

Focus Noah!  

These superpowers make me hyper-aware so I can know which situations and people create safety. My brain insists on danger assessment to navigate the world.  

Feb. 4, 2025

It was tough to remain focused in my last Oak Leaf class. I covered my eyes because I felt overwhelmed. Many thoughts raced through my head about what others in class think about me. I can sense their gazes when I cover my eyes with my arms to relieve me from the sensory overload. Maybe they’re just curious or haven’t been around a person with sensory challenges. Either way, it’s out of my control. I’ll just continue trying to the best of my abilities. Talking was animated and loud. I can’t have that noise or I’ll get stressed. Talk of podcasts has me wondering how a non-speaker like me could carry this out. I feel hopeless today. 

Feb. 6, 2025

The meeting with teaching assistant Mark Fernquest was good. He liked some of my ideas for an opinion piece. I prefer check-ins with one person over the in-class commotion any day. It’s tough when people expect a certain “there-in-the-moment” interaction, and I need to escape.

It is easier to let it pass when I don’t pressure myself to stop feeling what I fear will consume me. 

Feb. 11, 2025

Less overwhelming today. So many people were including me. They looked directly at me, having no judgement. They see me as one of them. I can just feel the energy shift.  It made me so happy. No one looked at my weirdness with strange looks. They are getting used to me and my instantaneous utterances of saying “Hi.” No one responds, and I like that. They get that I can’t help it.

 It helped to have some structure and less chaos in the newsroom. Listening to one person at a time helps my success in class.  

When fellow student Marty included me by asking me to contribute to his podcast, I had the feeling of total joy. Maybe my words will be valued.

I belong here. I can do this. 

The color blue sings.