Neurodivergent Realness
Why I Unmasked & Why I Don’t Ask My Children to Mask Their Differences Anymore
After being on my healing journey for around 2 1/2 years, my therapist sent me to a specialist who diagnosed me with ADHD…at 43 years old. My shock and anger in the following weeks was immense. How could EVERYONE have missed this? How could my schools, universities, mentors, parents, friends, peers, psychologists and therapists, doctors, EVERYONE for over 40 years have missed the fact that I was neurodivergent? How could I — a Yale trained developmental psychologist and licensed professional counselor — NOT SEE THIS?
As I grieved, became more aware of myself, and started making connections between my experiences and that of other people with ADHD who were assigned female at birth, I found my answer: I masked the shit out of all of my symptoms.
I learned quickly, however, that people did not like to live in truth nor did they enjoy hearing it from me.
As a very young child, I was jovial and drawn to interesting things and people. I was very sensory driven, inquisitive, and loved to explore. I was also very intelligent and noticed patterns everywhere.
I loved to learn, could understand things quickly, and figuring out people was at the top of my interest list. I learned to read their emotions, noticed that I could sense energy and emotion in my body, and was an impeccable lie-detector. I learned quickly, however, that people did not like to live in truth nor did they enjoy hearing it from me.
I loved to swing, rock in rocking chairs, roll down hills, and spin. Repetitively and obsessively. As I grew older, I loathed giving up these things, but I knew that it was “strange” of me to want to continue to do these things past childhood.
I loved animals. I felt an incredible pull to all animals — I would immediately run to cats and dogs that I would see, frankly preferring them to other children or adults.
I was also a totally WEIRD kid. I lost things a lot. I forgot things frequently. I was fidgety. I was constantly seeking oral-stims; I sucked on my hair and my clothes. I sat differently, very often in pretzel like positions, constantly changing positions or moving. I moved, walked, and even stood differently than my peers — I would often swing my hands or arms, and flapping my hands was one of my favorite movements when I was excited. I learned quickly that people thought this was very weird. So, when I would get excited instead of flapping, I would hold my hand in a fist, holding all of the energy to look more normal.
And my emotions — all of them—were BIG. I was sensitive to changes in my environment, as I picked up on everything and was often distracted. I loved music and singing, and loved to dance. I would get super absorbed in the things I did and would not stop until I would succeed or learn something to my satisfaction. I was clumsy, accident-prone, and socially awkward with my peers in school; I remember feeling frequently like I did not fit in anywhere.
But, I was also severely quiet. Most people commented on what a quiet, “good girl” I was. Actually, folx, that is what a traumatized child looks like. I was petrified of being seen unmasked.
In my own private play, I never stopped talking. Around people, I learned to shut up and smile and be a good girl.
I had chronic insomnia, so severe that many nights, I never slept at all. My brain would simply not turn off. I learned to stay frozen in bed and not bother my parents because I wanted to be a good girl.
I hated staying seated for so long in school. It actually physically hurt. I was also petrified of getting in trouble, so I would stay frozen in my seat and would try to mimic whatever the teacher wanted me to be — an attentive look on my face, ever masking to be the quiet, good girl. When they didn’t look, however, I would look out the window and would play different movies or scenarios in my head.
I was in elementary school when I first heard people tell me overtly that I was different — like I didn’t already know. I was made fun of for the way I moved, walked, stood, and how I held my hands. In front of others, I started to move less. The only place I could not mask my physical differences was P.E. class, which was the bane of my young life.
Sometimes people questioned my hearing because after someone would say something to me, I would not hear it right away, and would often reply with, “What?” It wasn’t that I couldn’t hear them, but rather that I didn’t process what people said when I was focused on something.
I often forgot to write my name on my assignments and sometimes I would not claim them because I was so embarrassed that I had forgotten. Starting in Kindergarten, I would go home with my homework and teach myself what we were learning in a different way that made more sense to me, practice repeatedly, and would check and recheck my assignments.
I loved reading, but would have to imagine the scenes in my head — like a movie — to retain what I was reading. I also learned that if I wrote things down as I read that I would retain information better and have better comprehension.
In 6th grade, my mother took me out of traditional school and put me in a distance high school at home. The materials would be sent to me one subject at a time, and I would sponge up the information (now I know this as hyperfocus), take the exams, then wait for the next subject to be mailed to me. This style of learning worked so well for me that I finished the four-year high school program in a little over a year. I graduated high school when I was 14 years old.
I started college when I was 16; and although I had to work concurrently to pay for my college education, I was able to go on to earn an Associates Degree, Bachelor’s Degree, and a Masters Degree from State Colleges. I then went on to earn 2 more Masters Degrees and a Ph.D. from Yale University.
In those early college years, I had a blast. I was finally able to express my queerness, have independence, and live in a much less masked way. I could play and live in the ways I so craved, without judgment. I found my group of queerdo and weirdo friends and was able to find mirrors and unconditional acceptance with them. They taught me that I was not alone anymore.
Most people who knew me, however, still thought that my learning and school performance was effortless. What they didn’t know was that if it was a subject that I was interested in, my hyperfocus would kick in and I would sponge up information like nobody’s business. But, I would still read and re-read the textbooks, taking notes on every page. I would obsessively make study sheets, look up additional material on the topic, and would use every ounce of self-taught memory retention methods. I would over-prepare for exams and presentations, and would edit my papers obsessively, always asking for others to read my work before I submitted it. I also learned in my undergraduate education that if I taught or tutored other students in my class, it allowed me to understand the material in a way that seemed to stick better. It was also how my love for teaching first bloomed.
But, at the same time, my attachment trauma served as pure fuel in academics and at work. The fear of disappointing someone, not meeting a deadline, getting caught being a hot mess, or failing was so great that it alone could boost me into hyperfocus.
I realized that I packaged myself in the same way I did my portfolio: exhausting myself continually in an attempt to prove my worth.
Years later when I first processed my “over-achievement” with a therapist, I had just sent in my portfolio to be promoted to full professor. As I sat in my office, looking at my beautifully prepared portfolio, instead of being full of pride, I was filled with sadness. I had done a ridiculous amount of work — way more than was needed for promotion. My entire life had been dedicated to academia; I realized that I packaged myself in the same way I did my portfolio: exhausting myself continually in an attempt to prove my worth.
As I looked at this roller cart of ridiculous over-productivity, I knew what sacrifices I had made in order to be held in high value. I had truly lost myself. I had sacrificed my health, my play, my relationships, and so many years of the little life I have on this planet to being SEEN with value.
My masked self took me places I probably would never have made it to unmasked and allowed me to stay safe for over 4 decades. But, masking also prevented me from knowing myself, from getting the help which could have changed my entire life for the better, and from seeing the same trait in my children. It prevented me from living in my wholeness, and in my power. It prevented me from loving myself. It prevented me from seeing my REAL value.
My value is absolutely in my ability to learn; but, I don’t need a colonized education system to teach me. I learn constantly and retain everything completely when it’s image-based, practically applied, or experiential. My ability to feel, connect, love, live, play, teach, write, and influence others with truth, wisdom, and empathy is also my real value. A friend once told me, “Your presence is your gift.” And I have no doubt that my neurodivergence gives me that presence. Nothing else exists in my mind when I am with you. I am with YOU completely and deeply, and with access to the wisdom that exists in my brain and in my bones.
It will also always mean that I have to live differently — my life is full of alarms, visual prompts, and technology (Tile, Siri, and Alexa are my BFFs) to save time on losing and forgetting things, as well as missing important appointments, deadlines, and activities. I take medication to help prevent ADHD paralysis, to do basic self-care, reduce unhealthy dopamine seeking, and to complete all of the other boring, repetitive and important adulting tasks that create little dopamine for me.
I stim again. I spend a lot of time in my headphones. I sit weird. I sing, I dance, and I talk a LOT. I flap my hands when the energy in my body is overwhelming. I swing with my children on the playground and love rocking in our rocking chairs. My eating and spending has become healthy and is not the source for dopamine downloads anymore. I don’t smile anymore unless I am authentically happy. I love my hyperfocus and get excited when it turns on because I now know what that means — sponging up info and flow state. I enjoy every second of that amazing feeling. I am also so much better at communicating my needs with those around me.
It may have taken me 43 years to unmask, but now I have the chance to change that for my children’s lives. I no longer ask them to move, learn, smile, speak, or BE different for others’ comfort. They do not need to show me a fraudulent version of themselves to be loved or to be considered of value. They won’t have to wait decades to unpack who they truly are.
My children also have the benefit of learning at a young age a lesson that took me 40 years of masking to learn: you do not have to constantly suffer trying to fit in when you realize that you were born to stand out.
