Living with Rejection Sensitivity Dysphoria: My Story

Aged 13 with my cat Snippy

Of all the traits that come with being neurodivergent, Rejection Sensitivity Dysphoria (RSD) is one of the hardest for me to deal with. It's taken me years to understand what it is, and even longer to learn how to manage it. I only discovered that RSD was "an actual thing" recently - and suddenly, so much more of my life made sense.

What is RSD?
RSD isn't something you're born with - it develops over time, particularly in children with ADHD. Here's a statistic that stopped me in my tracks: ADHD/AuDHD children receive an estimated 20,000 more criticisms than neurotypical children by the time they reach high school age.

Twenty. Thousand. More!!

Being too much. Too loud. Too noisy. Too quiet. And in my case, too smart.

All those criticisms - day after day, year after year - create actual pathways in your brain. And those pathways cause real, physical pain.

It's Not Just in Your Head - It Physically Hurts
When I tell people that criticism causes me physical pain, they can look skeptical. But it's true. I feel it as pain across my chest and head, sometimes in my back as I try to fight back the tears. It's a visceral reaction - my body literally responds to perceived criticism as if I've been physically hurt.
I remember trying to explain this to my father when I was in high school. I told him, "It would hurt me less if you actually hit me." I meant it. The physical pain from his words felt much worse than any physical punishment could have been.

When I tried to tell my parents how much the bullying hurt - how the names kids called me at school caused real pain, they'd recite the old adage "sticks and stones may break your bones, but words can never hurt you". They never understood that for me, words caused a pain that went deeper and lasted longer than any physical injury could.

The Constant State of Alert
Living with RSD means I'm constantly on high alert, always afraid I've done something wrong or upset someone. If somebody wants to talk to me, my first thought is automatically, "What did I do? What's wrong? Am I in trouble?"
I can spend days or weeks going over and over a conversation in my head: "What did I do or say that made them say that? What have I done? Why would they think that about me?"
It's exhausting.

The Childhood Foundations
Looking back, I can see how RSD developed in me. There were so many moments that built upon each other:
The Psychologist's Words
When I was six, a psychologist told me I was "wicked and evil" and that "no one would ever love me." Years later, when remembering what happened with that psychologist, I realized something profound: even though he had sexually assaulted me, it was his words that affected me the most.  (a story for another time)  The words carved deeper than anything physical.

The "Defiant" Label
One of the most painful patterns was being labeled "defiant" when I simply forgot instructions. I'd be told to stop doing something - I'd stop - then minutes later, I'd be doing it again without even realizing it. Not because I was being defiant, but because I'd genuinely forgotten.
The shame of being accused of defiance when I knew I hadn't consciously done anything wrong... that feeling haunted me throughout my teenage years.

The "Martyr" Pattern
When I was very young - before age seven - I'd already internalized so much criticism that I started to believe it all. I decided that if I was already "bad," I might as well take the blame for others too.
Being an empath complicated this further. I could feel other people's emotions as my own. So when I thought my little brother (three years younger than me) was about to get into trouble, I would take the blame instead. My logic was simple: I was already used to being shouted at and criticised. But if he got yelled at, I'd feel his pain too. So why not just take it myself and spare him?
I did this with other children on play dates too, especially if I was older. I would plead with the parent to punish me instead. After all, I was the older child - I knew better. I should have stopped the other child's behavior. Therefore, I was just as much to blame.

My father even called me a "bloody martyr" - he'd noticed the pattern, even if he didn't understand why I did it.

Looking back, I can see how misplaced this was. But at the time, it made perfect sense to my young mind: if pain was inevitable, at least I could control who felt it.

Being Punished for Being Smart
There were many ways that this appeared in my childhood, but these are examples that stayed in my memory.
In Grade 5, I did a math problem the way I'd been taught in my previous school. The teacher came up behind me and hit me across the arm with a ruler, hard enough to leave a massive bruise. He accused me of being a "smart alec." I had no idea what I'd done wrong.
That's when I started trying not to stand out as intelligent.
Later, I was banned from playing classroom games like Spelling Bee, Hangman and Mastermind because I was too good at them. The message was clear: being smart was wrong.
When I was named dux of primary school in Grade 7, other students started bagging me for it. I made a decision that day: I would never be top of the class again. And I never was.

How RSD Shows Up in My Life Now

The Literal Thinking Connection
Because I often take things literally (an autism trait), I can't always distinguish between gentle teasing and actual criticism. Sarcasm can go right over my head - or worse, I interpret it as genuine criticism. Every correction feels like complete rejection.

Self-Triggering
Here's something I've learned recently: I don't just react to external criticism. My own self-criticism triggers the same physical pain response. When I'm sick, I trigger RSD in myself because I feel like I'm not capable of doing what I think I should be doing. I assume everyone is thinking I'm weak, that I'm not working hard enough, that I'm not doing enough.
Even though I know rationally that's probably not true, the feeling is overwhelming.

The Communication Puzzle
The way things are worded matters enormously to me. I've had to learn - and teach my partner - specific phrasing that works:

• "Can I help you with something?" feels like an offer
• "Do you need help?" feels like an accusation of weakness

The first comes from them, the second puts it on me and makes me feel inadequate. It seems like such a small difference, but the emotional impact is huge.
When someone says, "I'd like to help, is that OK?" - that's perfect. That works.

Learning to Cope
Understanding that RSD is a real thing - not a character flaw, not me being "too sensitive" - has been transformative. Now I can sometimes catch myself and ask: "Was that fact, or am I just perceiving criticism?"
If I can't confirm it's fact, I can start to let it go.
Sometimes.
It's still a work in progress.

Why I'm Sharing This
For years, I thought I just needed to "fix myself." I thought if I could just be better, do better, work harder, I wouldn't feel this way. Getting my diagnosis and learning about RSD has helped me understand: this isn't something to fix. This is a real neurological response that developed from decades of accumulated criticism.
If you experience this too, you're not alone. You're not "too sensitive." You're not broken.
Your pain is real.
And understanding it is the first step toward managing it.

This is part of my journey toward understanding my neurodivergent brain. There's much more to explore, but for now, knowing that RSD has a name - and that I'm not the only one experiencing it - makes all the difference.