Comfortable clothing is hard to find
As someone who has a lot of issues with touch-based oversensitivity, finding clothing that works for my body can at times be a challenge. As an autistic adult, I find I have a lot of difficulty with tight, form-fitting clothing, or outfits that feature multiple different types of fabrics. I find that I am oversensitive to a lot of aspects of fabrics and how they fit with my body. It’s a big enough area of conflict in my life today; it inspired the name of this book. I struggle with clothing tags, which are made of different material to the clothing they are fitted into, and stick out at odd angles, flapping around unpredictably and poking into me, dragging uncomfortably and taking up all my attention trying to manage. Tight-fitting sections of clothing feel like they’re cutting into my skin, and cause a conflict where some of my skin has predictable constants but some areas do not. Thick necklines feel heavy on my skin. Certain materials feel like their fibres are scratching me like a thousand tiny thorns. Some clothing is too flowy and wafty, unpredictable in where it will sit. Some shoulder straps are too prone to falling or shifting. Some clothing rests on the wrong areas, and sets off my organisational tidying obsessions.
Simply put, clothing as a person with an autism spectrum condition can be really tough to manage. While the fact that clothing tags, textures and fit styles can cause problems for individuals on the autism spectrum likely doesn’t come as a huge surprise to many of you reading this book, what is rarely talked about is how that texture sensitivity issue with clothing intersects with learning to manage a new clothing wardrobe after coming out as a trans woman. So, here’s the deal: when you come out as transgender, one very common issue that comes up is having to very quickly and self-sufficiently develop a new clothing wardrobe from scratch. I had probably spent maybe 16 or more years building a wardrobe, and having one built for me, that emphasised traditionally masculine traits and presented me to the world as male. Every item of clothing I had was sort of selected towards that aim, and it’s not until you decide you want to throw that wardrobe out and start over that you realise how herculean a task that is.
First, most people don’t develop a full wardrobe at once; they do so item by item over the years. Getting together multiple outfits so you don’t appear to only own one set of clothing, enough to cover all occasions that come up and enough items that you can for example fit a dress code if needed is expensive as a proposition for anyone, but it comes with a bunch of additionally complicating factors when you’re trans. I didn’t know what clothing size I was, I didn’t know what style suited me, I didn’t know what cuts and fits were flattering, or which clothing items I was buying would pair with others I had at home. I didn’t know the terms to describe items I was looking for, and I didn’t know if there were stores that would accommodate my unique proportions.
I was also in early transition utterly terrified of the thought of going into a shop and trying on female-coded clothing. A lot of this was because of imagined issues: if I went into a shop and bought something without trying it on, I worried someone serving me would somehow know I was trans, rather than simply assuming I was shopping for a partner. Part of that fear however was based in real negative experiences I had when first trying to shop for clothes. Very early on in transition, I remember visiting a UK outlet store chain that has brand name clothing that is no longer sold in the stores that originally produced them, as well as cheap off-brand items. I went up to the changing area, dressed in a skirt and top, and asked to try on a series of very clearly feminine-coded items. The store staff told me to head into the men’s, which I responded to saying I was female. They told me that the men’s changing room was the one I would be required to use, so I reluctantly and defeatedly did. The doors in the men’s changing areas basically only covered neck to knees, so I had to get changed into a dress while a man standing opposite could very clearly see I was changing into female-coded clothing in the men’s room. I quickly changed my mind, put my clothes back on and ran out.
This early encounter put me off actually trying clothes on before buying them for a long time, which is a big part of why I bought so many of the wrong clothes early in my transition. I ended up buying a lot of clothing that was ill fitting, the wrong size or simply looked ridiculous on me, an exercise in time and money that I could scarcely afford at the time. Part of the issue is that as a trans adult, you are somewhat learning what works for you in a vacuum, without parental support or the support of your peers to help guide you through the process. For most young girls, their parents are able to pass on knowledge and expertise on what looks good on them. Most early outfits are selected by parents, which allows the child to get a sense for matching outfits picked for them. Then, when it’s time to start experimenting with clothing themselves, picking their own outfits, they’re generally young enough that they can do that experimentation without fear of judgement. They can pick a pretty dress that really doesn’t go with that hat they want to wear and it’s not a problem that they gave the combination a go. As a transgender adult, I had to go through that period of experimentation by myself, largely unaided, and I wore some truly trashy outfits that would have looked more at home on an adult more than twice my age, or considerably younger than myself. I wore outfits that were not flattering in the slightest, and I had to do so publicly to learn what worked.
I also lacked the ability to really go through that period of experimentation with my peers. Most of the women I was friends with during my transition had sort of found their clothing style a decade or so before, and many of them were afraid to be too critical of mine for fear of being seen as not encouraging me in my attempts. This led to me not getting proper feedback on my outfit choices, which slowed the process of finding suitable clothes considerably. Basically, when your supportive female friends won’t tell you that your outfits look anything other than cute, you don’t really learn what works for you.
However, the biggest issue as a transgender woman on the autism spectrum when finding clothes was walking the line between being feminine coded in presentation, and finding clothes that didn’t set off my sensory issues. As a trans woman who transitioned post-puberty, I often have an uphill climb to be read as female by people around me, and I find the more I wear clothing that accentuates my body shape the more often I am read as female. The maths is simple: if I wear more items that are traditionally coded as feminine, fewer people refer to me as he, him or sir, and I avoid the dysphoria that comes along with that misgendering. Pair that with the fact that I think I just generally look really nice dressed that way and the choice seems obvious. The problem is, a lot of the clothing I like wearing for those reasons plays havoc with that bit of my brain that stresses over tactile sensory inputs. The first time I wore a bra – stuffed with basically two silicon chicken fillet-style mastectomy breast forms in order to make a dress I wanted to wear sit on me correctly – I had to deal with a whole host of new sensations I had never experienced before. There’s the bra straps and clasp, which press tight against the skin and can at times feel like they’re physically cutting in to me, even when they’re loose and properly fitted enough not to leave huge indentations in my skin. The breast forms added weight on my chest that shifted in ways I could not control, and in the summer heat I sweated enough to cause me a great deal of discomfort. I started wearing scarves to hide my Adam’s apple, but the way they gradually shifted and rotated throughout the day made them a constant mental drain, something I had to keep checking on and fixing throughout the day. Tights riding down and not sitting correctly was a distraction that was impossible to ignore, as were strappy tops where the straps shifted around. Clothing suddenly was made of new fabrics and had differing necklines and different cuts. I had a hundred new types of sensory input to process, and it was a lot for me to take in all at once.
For the longest time, my solution to this issue was to basically flip flop my appearance, depending on how difficult I felt the situation I was likely to be in was, and how many people were l
ikely to see me and make assumptions about my gender. If I was working from home or going to the shops, I would wear comfy clothing that I knew inside out, sometimes wearing the same tracksuit trousers, shirt and baggy hoodie for days at a time. I’d focus near exclusively on wearing clothing that worked with my sensory symptoms, assume that I would be misgendered as a result and brace myself accordingly. Then, if someone was going to see me who I wanted to specifically gender me correctly, I’d wear feminine-coded clothing, putting my comfort completely aside in exchange for the better shot at correct gender reading. While this flip flopping took up several years of my life, I eventually found a few compromises which have made finding a middle ground between those two far easier.
Though practised trial and error, I eventually learned some materials and styles of shirts and trousers that manage to feminine code me, while still working with my sensory issues. I can now wear female cut t-shirts and hareem trousers together, remaining comfortable without removing my feminine coding. One of the best discoveries I made that helped me combat this problem was the prevalence in recent years of cheaply available female-coded stimming jewellery. Now most days when I go out I acessorise my outfit with a stimming ring, which helps feminine code me while allowing me something to sit and fiddle with if I am getting overwhelmed by the rest of my outfit. I wear a bracelet that I can chew on, and another bracelet that I can twist and twirl and rotate, both of which are coded in pinks, purples and blues that seem to help me being read as female, even when the rest of my outfit is a bit baggy and shapeless. By combining feminine coding with autism-stimming utility, these accessories have been a life saver for me on days when I want to avoid misgendering, but also only feel up to wearing a baggy shirt and leggings.
As a counterpart to the discovery of stim jewellery accessories was the discovery of clothing specifically targeted at autism, which in many places allowed me to engage with items I normally could not find versions of that worked for me. From seamless socks, which avoid irritating shifting in my shoes, to women’s fit t-shirts made without tags or seams present from the start, realising there were options I could add to my wardrobe rotation for days I found tough was deeply rewarding. Bralettes don’t feature fastenings, can be found without tags and create an area of consistent and gentle pressure without pushing uncomfortably on certain lines of my chest. Their material is consistent and predictable, and it’s a solution that’s fast becoming a much needed lifeline in my sensory world. Until the day the world designs autism-friendly bras with reduced seams, wider bands, correctly textured fabrics and even pressure, this is probably the closest I’m going to find to a workable option. Post-lower surgery, without a pesky penis complicating things, I can now make use of seamless compression underwear, which sit reliably in position, don’t have seams moving around all the time and provide calming, predictable sensory information in much the same way weighted blankets do. Leggings post-lower surgery give me a clothing option that stays in place, doesn’t move around, is often made out of materials that don’t conflict with my sensory issues and highlights that my crotch is flat, helping to further improve my odds of being read as female at a glance.
Finding smells that calm my senses, like the scent of cinnamon or lavender, was also incredibly helpful for getting used to uncomfortable clothing. I found scented sprays in both fragrances and, for a few years, would heavily douse new clothing in those smells, then let them air out a little before wearing them for the first time. While people must have thought me a little odd showing up smelling strongly of spices or like a floral air freshener, it helped me to have a positive calming sensory experience tied to an item of clothing while I got used to the unique tactile experiences of that item.
These are the kinds of discoveries that ultimately helped me begin to manage walking the line between autism-friendly clothing and female-coded clothing, finding items specifically designed to suit autistic women and finding stimming items that are female-coded, paired with simple practice and repetition with clothing styles I found uncomfortable previously. It took me several years, but I am already far more at ease balancing these than I was maybe four years ago. I just wish I’d had some tailored advice on how to get here a little bit sooner than I did.
There’s this sort of fear instilled in trans women from when our transition begins that, if we don’t dive head first into femininity of appearance, we will suffer as a result. This belief is instilled in many of us early on in transition, when starting to seek early medical support. I remember hearing horror stories of trans women going to the gender identity clinic in jeans and a hoodie, an outfit combo many cis women regularly wear, and being told that because of the way they were dressed, the doctor did not believe they were sincere in feeling dysphoric. As shocking as those kinds of stories are initially to hear, they did line up with my own lived experiences. If I was going somewhere and wanted to be taken seriously as a woman, I had to show up in a blouse, skirt and cardigan. Where mainstream feminism has spent the past few decades fighting for the right of cis women to wear anything they like and not be seen as less female for it, with regards to trans women, if we’re not wearing a dress we’re not trying hard enough to be female, or we don’t want it enough, and it’s seen as carte blanche for harassment and hassle. Equally, if we do wear dresses and skirts, we’re accused of performative femininity, of believing female identity is nothing more than the dress or skirt being worn. It’s a bit of a nasty double-edged sword trans women have to live with. Learning to walk that line took me several years. I quite like butch lesbian aesthetics, but learning how close to that line I could walk without just being read as male was a considerable task. It made me afraid to wear clothing that worked comfortably with my touch sensitivity for the longest time.
Learning to read subtly coded mannerisms
As a woman living with autism, I really struggle with reading small nonverbal aspects of communication. It’s not that I can’t see a smile or a frown; it’s just that noticing a small upturn at the sides of a mouth, in the static of all the other sensory information bombarding me day to day, takes a lot of energy and focus. What this meant for me was that all those little differences in the ways men and women tend to hold themselves, walk and sit, the differences in vocal intonation, the differences in vocal pacing, were very hard for me to pick up on and learn to emulate. Most people learn these little micro gestures naturally over the course of their lives, and trying to force yourself to learn them is tough for anyone, but with an autism spectrum condition it can be an even greater challenge. What this all meant when added together was that, while I was feeling better about my gender identity as a result of transitioning, I found presenting myself femininely took a great deal of mental effort, often caused me distress with my autism symptoms and initially revolved around a great deal of deliberate actions taken in an attempt to blend in.
With regard to my voice, I never got formal voice training. The way I learned to change my voice, as well as improve the feminine qualities of my voice, was by recording and editing my own podcasts. I would record myself talking with friends for an hour, then spend the next day editing the audio, listening intently to my speech, while reading an online list of feminine vocal traits. I would listen to sentences I had said over and over, in isolation, asking myself if I was raising my tone in the right places, if my voice sounded natural or strained, if I was raising and lowering my pitch as I spoke or staying monotone. I would listen to my voice, read a checklist and try to assess in an analytical isolated context whether my voice sounded feminine enough. I did this three times a week, every week, until over time I just sort of picked things up. While changing my vocal mannerisms was initially a huge amount of consistent effort, years later it has become my new normal. I now have to make a concerted effort to make my voice anything like it used to be.
In terms of the non-speaking mannerisms, I found these a lot harder to learn. I ended up spending a lot of time watching videos on YouTube of people animating female character models
for video games. The looping nature of the animations meant I could just try and soak in a mannerism as much as possible, and it avoided the issue of people watching out in the wild and having someone get aggressive at me for staring at them.
But, in the end, over the course of a few years, I found a method that worked even better for me. I tried just not giving a shit. In early transition I actively pushed for femme presentation all the time with all the mental drain that came with it. This was partly to combat my feelings of dysphoria, and partly because I had heard horror stories of the NHS refusing to treat trans patients if they didn’t present as an exaggerated caricature of their target gender. Over time, I started to think ‘You know what, women are allowed to wear tracksuit bottoms and baggy hoodies; they might not emphasise my femininity, but some days I’ll take that hit for autism comfort.’ Similarly, there are days my skin feels too sensitive to shave, and I honestly just don’t. Body and facial hair happen in cis women too, and if nobody important is going to see my face that day, it’s okay not to worry about it.
This no longer caring attitude is what carried me through later months and years, when my sensory issues flared up. I knew I could get away with leaving some traditionally feminine aspects of myself to one side, if I needed to just be comfy and not anxious about the sensory inputs on my body. That road, however, took a long time, because my autism specific needs, and my needs as a trans woman, were so clearly in direct conflict with each other.
Uncomfortable Labels Page 9