April is neurodiversity awareness month. I am a neurodiverse individual diagnosed very late in life. I never thought I was neurodiverse. Instead, I internalized my struggles and attributed them to personality flaws. I often felt shame, anger, and frustration and thought negatively of myself. I did not want to be different.
After becoming a mother and raising two neurodiverse children, I learned more about myself. Everything suddenly clicked. I wasn’t just being difficult.
The feeling of wanting to crawl out of my skin when my mom put me in scratchy pajamas had a name. Losing my cool, screaming at the top of my lungs, and hitting things just for hearing certain noises wasn’t me being crazy. And when I was punished for “overreacting,” I still suffered from the noises but only in silence. They felt like sandpaper scratching my soul; I couldn’t stop them.
I had sensory issues.
Procrastinating and doing everything at the last minute wasn’t a lack of discipline. Hopping from one hobby to the next and being unable to keep interest for more than a few weeks wasn’t a failure or settling for mediocrity. Daydreaming, my inability to focus, and doodling all over my notebooks weren’t a lack of respect. I just wasn’t interested.
Mental paralysis wasn’t being lazy. Stemming and sensory-seeking behaviors weren’t being weird and quirky. My supersonic and excessive speech wasn’t just annoying; I was trying to get all my thoughts out immediately. I had so many thoughts fighting to surface in my brain, and I thought I’d lose them if I didn’t share them immediately.
Interrupting others wasn’t rude; I just predicted what people would say because my brain had already moved on. My laser focus on specific activities and my unpopular interests weren’t me being too serious or full of myself; regular things bored me, and I was always seeking novelties and new experiences because I constantly needed dopamine.
That was all ADHD.
When I was in school, my teachers paraded me like a circus animal. “Look what Donia can do.” “Say this, do that.” I had a teacher bring me to all his other classes to show me off, asking me to do “the dates trick” (I had a thing for history). He would tell me a random date, and I would state the historical event on that date or vice versa.
Another teacher acknowledged my abilities but said I had to explain how I got the answers, or they wouldn’t count as correct. It was obvious in my mind, but I couldn’t explain how I always got the answer, so I told her it was stupid. She failed me because I didn’t need all those steps to get the answer. I mixed up numbers and was unable to tell them apart.
I wasn’t stupid; it was dyscalculia.
I resented being different. I resented being smart. I just wanted to be normal. I acted out in defiance, only to be excused for being smart. I was caught ditching school one day, only for the teachers to tell me, “It’s ok because you are doing well at school.” It was a cry for help; I wanted to get in trouble like my friends. I was let go with a “gentle” warning. I got even more angry and resentful.
I worked independently, enriching my education and abilities because what was offered at school wasn’t satisfying. But at times, I stopped even trying.
My brain worked differently, and not only did no one accommodate my needs and try to match my processing speed, but they ridiculed me for it. My creativity wasn’t appreciated; it was called “abnormal.” My own family called me names for my unique traits. I was punished for being overstimulated. A lot was expected of me because I was smart, leading to burnout and more shame and resentment.
I suffered from depression, anxiety, and other mental illnesses. I lived my life believing there was something wrong with me. I thought I was flawed.
I’m fortunate I got a neurodivergent diagnosis, even if it was 30+ years late. Now, I can understand and help my kids with their needs.
