The Shady Corner Chronicles, or ‘How A Neurodivergent Used To Navigate Party Season’

The Pull of the Shadows

Every party has a shady corner. You know the one—dimly lit, slightly out of the action, but close enough to feel part of it. It’s not glamorous, but it’s magnetic. There’s always a table, a scattering of drinks, ashtrays overflowing, someone scrolling their phone, and a rotating cast of conversationalists who drift in and out.

For years, I was a permanent resident of that corner. Not its queen—there’s no regal metaphor here—but something more like an anchor. I’d find my spot, settle in, and let the party orbit around me.

The Shady Corner wasn’t just a physical space; it was a survival tactic. A place to retreat from the overstimulation, the noise, the expectations. But it was also somewhere I lost myself—sinking into excess, clinging to connection, and staying far past the point of comfort.

This isn’t a guide on how to handle parties as a neurodivergent person. I don’t have answers or tidy rules for you. What I do have are stories—messy, bittersweet, and still slightly unresolved.

The Shady Corner Ritual

Every night in the Shady Corner followed a ritual.

First, the set-up: Find the corner, claim a seat, make eye contact with someone else who seems a little lost, and wait. People would drift over, pulled in by the same invisible current.

Next, the mask: Neurodivergence and parties have never been a smooth mix for me. Masking kicked in automatically—I’d become louder, funnier, more animated. I’d talk with my hands, laugh the loudest, pull people in with self-deprecating humor. But underneath it all, I was running on fumes.

Then, the fuel: Alcohol. Often too much, too quickly. Because masking is exhausting, and alcohol smooths the edges. It’s a shortcut to connection, to feeling like I’m fitting in—even if it’s not real.

And then it would loop: Drink. Talk. Laugh. Overshare. Drink more. Stay seated. Stay anchored. Don’t leave.

Eating rarely felt like an option. Food was messy, food required logistics. A drink was easier—it fit in one hand, it looked normal, it kept the illusion going.

The corner became my post, my hiding place, and my performance stage—all at once.

Oversharing in the Low Light

There’s something about the Shady Corner that feels…intimate. Maybe it’s the lighting, or the illusion of privacy even when people are hovering just a few feet away. But in those shadows, words spill out of me—fast and raw and unfiltered.

Oversharing became my social currency. If I could make someone laugh with an embarrassing story or create a moment of deep vulnerability, I felt like I’d earned my seat in the corner.

But later, in the quiet hours of the night (or the cold light of morning), shame would creep in.

Did I say too much? Did I reveal too many cracks? Was I too much?

The answer was usually yes.

And yet, every time, I’d do it again. Because those oversharing moments felt real in a way small talk never could. But they also felt messy, like I was handing pieces of myself to strangers and hoping they’d be gentle with them.

When Words Fail, Sing

When conversation started to pinch—when I couldn’t track the cues or fill the silences—I’d start to sing. Not casually, but fully, mid-conversation, mid-sentence, mid-anything. Music was my anchor, my shortcut to connection, my autistic special interest, and my way to prove I was cool. I’d quote lyrics, perform verses, and ramble about obscure musical facts, convinced I was effortlessly charming.

Except…I wasn’t. More often than not, I was interrupting, derailing conversations, and wearing out my welcome. But even if I’d noticed the polite smiles and glances away, I don’t know if I could’ve stopped myself.

The prize for the most annoying and boring party guest? That’s definitely me.

But music (MY music, MY songs) felt safe. Safer than silence. They provided familiarity to me, when I was feeling vulnerable and uncertain about what I was doing, drinking, taking. And while I sometimes cringe at those moments now, I also sort of love that silly, musical version of me—because at least I wasn’t pretending. I was trying. And sometimes, when words fail, singing feels like the only honest thing left to do.

The Sticky End (Or, Why I Stopped Going to Parties)

The thing about staying in the Shady Corner is…you stay. You don’t float around. You don’t leave early. You don’t give yourself an out.

And that’s how things got messy.

There were too many nights where I stayed too long, drank too much, ingested substances that I wasn’t sure about, got too friendly with people inappropriately, said too many things I couldn’t unsay; Too many times that I woke up the next day with bruises on my knees from stumbling on the way home and a throat raw from shouting over music that wasn’t meant for me anyway.

At some point, I stopped trusting myself. I realized I didn’t have an ‘off’ switch at parties—not one I could rely on. And so, I stopped going altogether.

Then the pandemic arrived, and social isolation gave me something I hadn’t been ready to face: the realization that I’m happier in smaller spaces, in quieter conversations, in one-on-one connections where I don’t have to perform.

But now…Christmas and New Year are here. The season of gatherings, expectations, and glittering invitations. And while part of me is excited to see people I love, another part of me is afraid.

Because the Shady Corner still calls to me. It has a magnetic pull. It still wears the disguise of a ‘safe space’ when I put on my beer goggles. I still haven’t cracked the path of resistance.

The Generational Shift

It’s impossible not to notice how different things feel for my kids and their friends. They’re Gen Z—sharp, emotionally literate, and somehow effortlessly self-aware in ways I didn’t even know were possible at their age.

When I was younger, masking was survival, and excess was…well, expected. Being a little self-destructive felt almost cool. Straight-edge kids were rare outliers, seen as anomalies rather than admirable. But for Gen Z? Choosing to stay sober, setting boundaries, and openly discussing neurodivergence aren’t radical acts—they’re just…normal.

I envy that sometimes. I admire it always.

They’re better at walking away. Better at saying no. Better at finding belonging without self-destruction.

I’m still learning that skill.

From Shady Corners to Therapy Rooms

Looking back, I can’t pretend my Shady Corner habits had a grand purpose. But there’s a thread, a thin line that runs from those smoke-filled corners to the space I hold now as a therapist.

The thing is, I was always better at one-on-one. In the corner, away from the noise, with someone who was willing to sink into a real conversation.

That confessional intimacy—it feels familiar to me in my therapy room now. Not because those messy party conversations made me a therapist (they didn’t), but because they showed me something about where I’m most comfortable: in the quieter spaces, where people can drop their guard and let their truth tumble out.

I still don’t fully trust myself in party spaces. I still feel that magnetic pull to the Shady Corner, the old patterns whispering that I could just stay put, let the night carry me, and not think too hard about it.

But I also know that small spaces, honest connections, and gentler settings are where I thrive—not just survive.

And maybe, in some way, that’s what my kids already understand.

Conclusion: No Neat Bow, Just a Quiet Hope

The Shady Corner will always be there, glowing softly in the corner of every room. And maybe one day, I’ll trust myself enough to visit it again—not as a permanent resident, but as someone who knows how to sit down, take a breath, and then…stand up and walk away.

For now, though, I’m still figuring it out. And that feels…enough.

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