Rhonda's Story: Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria (RSD) in the Autistic Husband

Posted by Mark Hutten, M.A.

Rhonda's Story: Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria (RSD) in the Autistic Husband

Rhonda B., one of my members in the NT Women's Group, agreed to share her story about a long journey in dealing with an ASD husband and his RSD. Here's her story:

Have you ever had a tiny disagreement with your partner that somehow blew up into a massive emotional crisis? For years, I was convinced our marriage was just broken. I thought *I* was the problem. Maybe I was too critical, too demanding… a nag. What I didn’t know was that there was this invisible force at work, turning our home into an emotional minefield. That force has a name: Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria. And figuring that out changed absolutely everything.

If you've ever felt like you have to walk on eggshells, constantly terrified that one wrong word will set off a tidal wave of pain and anger that feels completely out of proportion, then you have to hear this story. For years, I felt like I was losing my mind, and my marriage right along with it. The fights were always the same. I’d make a small request, a simple suggestion, or even just have a slightly off tone of voice, and my husband would react like I’d just told him I was leaving him.

He’d either shut down entirely, disappearing into a stony silence that could go on for hours, or he’d lash out with this defensive anger that left my head spinning. Every single time, I was left standing there in the emotional rubble, wondering what on earth just happened. I loved this man. He was brilliant and kind and gentle. But this other side of him was like a stranger, and that stranger was pushing me away. I felt confused, so lonely, and honestly, pretty resentful. I was desperate for an answer, because I knew we couldn't keep going on like this.

** The Answer That Wasn't Quite Right**

When my husband was diagnosed as autistic a few years ago, a part of me was just so relieved. Finally, an answer. Or, so I thought. The diagnosis explained so much: his deep need for routine, the way he could get lost in his passions for hours, his sensory issues that made a crowded grocery store his own personal nightmare. We learned about autism together, and it really did add this new layer of understanding to our relationship.

But it didn't explain the explosions. It didn't explain why a simple question like, "Hey, what about our plans for this weekend?" could be heard as a deep-seated criticism of his character. It just didn't explain the gut-wrenching pain I’d see in his eyes whenever he felt he’d disappointed me.

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We were living out something called the "double empathy problem." He couldn't understand why I was so hurt by his reactions, and I couldn't wrap my head around the sheer force of his emotional pain. We were just two people who loved each other, speaking completely different emotional languages. I was about to give up. I started doing that late-night doom-scrolling, typing things into the search bar like "autistic husband extreme emotional reactions" and "partner thinks everything is criticism."

And then, deep in a comment thread on some random forum, with other partners who sounded just as lost as I was, I saw it. Three words. Rejection. Sensitive. Dysphoria.

** The Invisible Force Gets a Name**

Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria, or RSD, isn't a formal diagnosis you'll find in the big medical manuals, but it's an incredibly real and painful experience, especially for people with ADHD and autism.

Here's the best way I can explain it: Imagine your entire body is covered in a third-degree emotional burn. For someone without that burn, a friendly pat on the arm is just a nice gesture. But for the person *with* the burn, that same gentle pat causes blinding, unbearable pain.

That’s RSD. It’s not just "being a little sensitive" or not liking criticism. It is an intense, overwhelming, and physically painful response to *perceived* rejection or failure. And the key word there is 'perceived'. The rejection doesn't even have to be real. His autistic brain was constantly on high alert for threats, and it was filtering my neutral words through a lens of potential rejection.

Suddenly, everything clicked.

His hypervigilance—always scanning my face, trying to figure out my mood.

His tendency to catastrophize—where "Can you help with the dishes?" didn't mean "I'm tired and could use a hand," it meant "You are a lazy, inadequate partner, and I am rethinking our entire life together."

His people-pleasing—how he'd run himself into the ground trying to be perfect, just to avoid any chance of letting me down.

And those sudden, fiery outbursts or total emotional shutdowns when he felt like he’d failed. It wasn't an attack; it was a defense mechanism against a pain so intense he couldn't stand it.

** The Cycle That Almost Broke Us**

Let's go back to the dishes. From my point of view, I was tired and asked for help. A pretty normal thing to do in a partnership.

But through his RSD filter, here’s what he heard: "You failed. You weren't thoughtful enough to just do the dishes. You've disappointed me." The emotional pain from that thought was instant and extreme. His reaction—lashing out—was a desperate reflex to shove away that crushing feeling of shame.

My reaction, naturally, was to feel hurt and confused. "I just asked for help, why are you attacking me?" This, of course, just confirmed his deepest fear: he had upset me. He had failed. That poured gasoline on the RSD fire, and he’d retreat even further, drowning in self-hatred. The cycle was complete. Both of us were left feeling wounded, misunderstood, and totally alone.

I remember another time we were planning a vacation. He’d spent hours researching this perfect spot. When I gently said we should maybe look at another option because of the budget, his face just fell. He didn’t say a word. Just closed the laptop and walked away. He was a ghost for the rest of the day. He couldn't hear, "Maybe that's a bit too expensive for us right now." He only heard, "Your idea is bad. You failed." This wasn't a conscious choice; it was an involuntary neurological response, and it was tearing us apart.

**The Turning Point: It's Us vs. the Problem**

The second I truly understood RSD, our marriage started to heal. Because it wasn't my husband versus me anymore. The problem had a name, and that name was RSD. It became this third thing in our relationship that we could team up against, instead of fighting each other.

This was never about finding an excuse for his behavior. It was about finding an *explanation*. An explanation gives you a path to a strategy. An excuse just lets the behavior keep happening. And we knew we needed a strategy.

The most powerful thing we did was to start calling it out in the moment. When we were both calm, I explained what I’d learned to him. He was a little skeptical at first, but as I described it, I saw this look of recognition in his eyes. We agreed to try something. The next time a conversation started to feel hot, one of us would just say, "I think this might be an RSD moment."

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Just naming it was like flipping on a light switch. It gave him a split second to pause and ask himself, "Is the pain I'm feeling right now proportional to what was just said?" And it gave me a chance to step back from my own hurt and ask, "Is this really about me, or is his emotional sunburn acting up?" It let us take the conflict less personally.

** Our Toolkit for a New Kind of Marriage**

Understanding was step one, but we needed real, practical tools to rebuild. Managing RSD in a relationship is a daily practice, but these are the strategies that honestly saved us.

First, we totally changed the rules of communication. We learned that tough conversations have to happen when we're calm and neutral, not in the middle of a fight. For me, that meant learning to be incredibly direct and literal. No more hinting. No more sarcasm. No expecting him to read my mind. I learned to use what some people call a "feedback sandwich." I start with reassurance, state the issue clearly but kindly, and then end with more reassurance. Something like, "Hey, I love you, and you are not in any trouble. I start to feel anxious when the bills pile up. Could we set aside some time this weekend to tackle them together? It would be a huge help to me."

Second, we created a "pause" button. We have a safe word. If either of us feels things escalating, we can say "pause," and we both walk away for at least 20 minutes. No questions asked. This isn’t about avoiding the problem; it’s about stopping the emotional hijack that RSD causes, letting our nervous systems cool down so we can come back and actually talk.

Third, for my husband, a lot of his work has been learning to spot his own internal triggers and practice emotional regulation. When he feels that flash of intense pain, instead of immediately reacting, he practices mindfulness. He focuses on his breath. He tries to ground himself in the present. He reminds himself that a feeling is not the same as a fact. He's found therapy, especially Cognitive Behavioral Therapy, to be a huge help in challenging those automatic, catastrophic thoughts.

And fourth, my work has been about building my own emotional resilience. I had to learn that his RSD reaction isn't a reflection of my worth. It’s not always about me; it's about his brain's interpretation of what I said. By not immediately reacting to his reaction, I stopped feeding the fire. I learned to stay calm, offer support instead of trying to fix it, and give him space when he needs it.

Our life isn't perfect. There are still days when RSD wins a skirmish. There are times he gets triggered, and there are times I get exhausted by having to be so deliberate with my words. But the war is over. The emotional minefield is gone, replaced by a well-lit path we know how to walk together. We have a shared language now.

Understanding Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria didn't just save our marriage; it let us build a completely new one, founded on a kind of radical empathy and compassion. It let me finally see the incredibly sensitive, caring man who was hiding under all that defensive armor he'd built to protect himself from a world that so often misunderstood him. And it allowed him to finally feel safe enough with me to put that armor down.

If you are living in that confusing, lonely place of constant conflict, please know this: you are not crazy, you are not alone, and it is not hopeless. The way forward starts with understanding. It starts with seeing the invisible force you're up against and finding the courage to face it, together.