“Neurodivergent.” Kinda sounds like a sci-fi movie or book series, doesn’t it? About people (probably good looking teens) who have special powers, perhaps granted to them when they stepped into some radioactive ooze, or when they were caught in an alien probing ray or something. But when I recently listened to an audiobook in my studio (I highly recommend Chirp, though I get nothing for saying that, since they have a great assortment of audiobooks at good prices, and there’s no membership fee), I saw me all over it. Divergent Mind: Thriving in a World that Wasn’t Designed for You, by journalist and lecturer Jenara Nerenberg has begun in me the process of realizing, after all these years, that it wasn’t me. I am not abnormal. I am just different.
One of my dear, caring friends recently gently chastised me for calling myself weird, and embracing what for some people sounds like an insult. And when the word was hurled at me at various times, whether to my face or behind my back, I thought about it that way, until recently. As I explained to my friend, I have embraced the weird parts of me. I simply don’t think or feel the way others do. I see things differently, I process differently, I reason and make decisions differently. If you ask my husband, he’ll tell you that I even see colors differently (ask me about the great “blue vs. green” controversy some time).
In what ways am I “weird”? I am an “external processor,” which isn’t just an excuse to have a messy workspace (and home). In order to keep track of things, I need to see them in front of me. I have piles, but I usually know exactly what’s in them. If they get moved, I’m screwed (and so are you, if you’re the one moving them). I am a visual learner. If you start giving me spoken instructions about anything, I can’t process them at all. I will ask you to draw me a map, or ask for a pen and paper to write it down. My memory is awful (though this may be the result of menopause). I send myself emails, and I’m totally lost without my calendar, even if we just make plans for an hour from now. If it doesn’t pop up on my screen, I likely won’t be there. Don’t speak numbers to me. You may as well be speaking Swahili (a beautiful language, to be sure, but not one I can understand in the least). I have pretty much no filter. I say what I say, as stupid as it may sound. I have no idea how it will sound in other peoples’ ears until it’s already out there. Then I often inwardly gasp *holy shit, I can’t believe I said that*. I don’t mean to sound mean or clueless or out there… it just sounded different in my head. And because one of my neurodivergent superpowers (there are these, as well as the challenges) is uncanny empathy and intuition, I am immediately aware that what I’ve said or done wasn’t “normal” by the reactions of others. If you know me and are thinking “I’ve never experienced you doing that with me,” consider yourself lucky, and know that it’s not a matter of “if,” but “when.” But chances are, you know exactly what I’m referring to. And I’m sorry. I also have periods of great anxiety and depression, which goes hand in hand with being an empath. It’s hard to literally feel the weight of the world all the time.
Some of my other superpowers, along with my ability to feel the emotions of others (empathy) and literally feel their physical pain and discomfort (synaesthesis – obviously a double-edged sword), are my artistic ability (I see in pictures, and as long as I can get them down on a page or in glass the way I see them, cool things can happen), my ability to stay calm in almost every stressful situation involving others (the “cool head” in the room), and to use reason and logic while others are emoting, my ability to see the big picture, and an acceptance of circumstances and sense of practicality that leaves me with a peacefulness, especially in times of tragedy and loss. It makes me a really good mediator. I do not fear death, and I will “welcome it as an old friend” when the time comes. I am a lucid dreamer, and my nighttime adventures are colorful, brilliant and exciting. When I had enough sex hormones to allow me, I had sexual desires, appetites and activity that were deep, crazy and deeply, crazily satisfying. Not to say that’s gone, but, hey, I’m not as young as I used to be… and bodies change.
Most researchers and medical professionals would say that “neurodivergence” is nothing more than a less clinical way of saying “autism”* or “adhd,” and perhaps they’re not wrong. People long thought of as being “different” have needed diagnoses in our culture. Sometimes in order to receive much-needed support services (in a society where there are gatekeepers to payment for said services), and partly to categorize differences, for, for instance, placement in school, often as a means of explaining behaviors that differ from the “norm.” I have to say, that the ah-ha moment of hearing what I “have,” or “how I am,” came with a welcome realization that, if there’s a name for it, I am not alone. When I saw that there are others who go through some of the exact frustrations, who have the same “abilities” as well as the same challenges, I felt a little more.. normal in my abnormality.
So, fellow neurodivergents, listen up: we’re atypical. We’re a minority (perhaps). We’re different from other people. They don’t get us, don’t understand us, think we’re weird. I feel sad for them. They don’t know what it is to be so connected to someone else – maybe even a complete stranger, maybe someone with whom you’re not even in physical contact, that they feel their pain. They don’t have the understanding of why someone feels as they do. They see only part of the picture – the good side, or the bad side, or the side with which they’re in agreement or disagreement. Their dreams are colorless and look like normal, every day life – or they don’t remember them at all. We are warm, open, juicy goofballs; or cool, quiet, solitary soothsayers (or both at the same time) who don’t fit in to many boxes. I blame the boxes, not us.
If you have been diagnosed with autism, adhd, neurodivergence or any of the labels that may make you feel “different,” or just get a lot of scrunched up faces pointed at you or whispers behind your back for thinking “differently” – rejoice! You aren’t just one of the herd – you stand out in a beautiful way. You are one of the people that bring color, excitement and laughter to the world. We have a lot to teach the normies. Vive la différence!
*True story, and stop me if you’ve heard this one before: One of the first dates I underwent after my divorce was with a guy who had a very strong Long Island accent. I knew pretty much from the instant we met that he was not for me (it had nothing to do with the accent), but I struggled through the rest of the date, which took place at a minor league hockey game (if you’re dating, please don’t make this mistake – hockey games take a long time). It was loud, and I welcomed the opportunity not to be forced to talk much to him. At one point, he leaned over and shouted into my ear (not being rude, just trying to be heard), “So, are you autistic?” I looked at him – “What..?!?,” thinking that he had taken my reticence to converse with him for awkwardness in a social situation. He yelled louder: “I said – are you AUTISTIC?” I turned to look, and what I was thinking must have been written on my face, because he quickly said: “You know, painting, sculpture, things like that?” “OHHH,” I said. “ARTISTIC! Yes, I am.” It’s become a running joke in my family ever since.