Well, of course I wasn’t neurodivergent — neurospicy, neurosparkly, whatever you like to call it. When I first started getting involved in events about neurodiversity and neuroinclusion, it was very much as an ally. It didn’t occur to me I was anything more.
What Is This Neurodiversity?
For a good deal of my life, I didn’t even know that neurodiversity existed — I was in my forties when the word was coined. I’d heard of autism, of course, although looking back a lot of what I “knew” probably wasn’t very accurate. I got more familiar with the condition when I was working with adults with learning disabilities, some of whom also had autism, but that was largely the more extreme versions of it. I didn’t think about anyone living a regular life as an autistic person.
ADHD was just referred to as being hyperactive and generally thought of as something kids had. Opinions about it tended to range from “they just need a good smack” (yes, that was still a thing) to “it’s just kids being kids”. On the whole, it wasn’t taken very seriously.
I’d also heard of dyslexia, although it wasn’t very widely diagnosed or understood back then, and none of the other dys-es were known at all, except perhaps to specialists.
Who’d Want to Be Normal?
Of course, I wasn’t “normal” — who’d want to be normal? My tastes tended to be a bit off-piste, and I always spent a good deal of time in a world of my own, although I could always snap back when I needed to. It didn’t interfere with either concentrating on work or concentrating on enjoying the here and now. But that was all just me being me.
A couple of years back, I started finding out rather more about neurodiversity, partly through it being talked about more in general discussion, but also through having an NHS trust as a client. I was asked to write several pieces about neurodiversity, and through the research I did for these I became interested, realising that the way it was either ignored or stigmatised was a social injustice.
So, when I was invited to various neurodiversity round tables, and then 4Networking started a meeting dedicated to neuroinclusiveness, I felt it was important to support all these events. As an ally.
Neurodivergent? Me?
Why should I have thought I was neurodivergent? I couldn’t have ADHD, because I don’t run around like a headless chicken, and I’ve no problem focusing on a task. And, while I have things organised the way I like them (from making lots of lists to my books being in strict alphabetical order), that’s just for convenience. It doesn’t bother me if it’s different, as it might if I were autistic.
Then, during a webinar, one of the speakers explained her recent ADHD diagnosis. Like me, she didn’t do the headless chicken act, but she said her mind never stopped working.
And my reaction — you mean not everyone’s like that?
I’ve always been puzzled, frustrated or annoyed, depending on my mood at the time, when people talk about emptying your mind. Who can do that? There’s a constant internal monologue going on in my head. Not necessarily negative thoughts. I have some of those, of course, but that’s not the main thing. But I’ll be making plans, going over things that fascinate me, having debates with imaginary people to clarify my thoughts — and, needless to say, telling myself stories.
Now, since very early childhood, I’ve always had trouble getting to sleep. That’s partly because I’m naturally a night owl, but also because I have things going on in my head the whole time, making it difficult to switch off.
People well-meaningly tell me to lie down, close my eyes and empty my mind — which is ridiculous advice. Instead, I’ve developed the technique of focusing on thinking about something calm, unchallenging — even a little boring. That normally succeeds in sending me to sleep.
The revelation that this was the basis of someone else’s ADHD diagnosis came as a bombshell, but it very quickly started to make sense. And yes, I had much the same experience as so many others — I mentioned to people I thought I may have ADHD and got the response “Well… of course you have.”
Medical Science and Me
This is just the latest in a long line of conditions where it’s taken science decades to catch up with me — at least as understood at grass roots. As a kid, I kept trying to explain to opticians that things in my peripheral vision often hurt my eyes, only to be told (or rather, my parents were told) that it was all in my mind. Decades later, I was told I had astigmatism — and yes, it could cause an effect exactly like mine.
Also in childhood, I was non-diagnosed as “suffering from catarrh” all the time. Decades later, I was diagnosed as having a dust allergy, which explained everything.
Then again, all my life, I’ve suffered from bad headaches, which I was constantly told couldn’t be migraines because they didn’t fit the tick-boxes — even though every migraine sufferer I described them to said they sounded exactly like migraines. Decades later, a new GP confirmed there is an atypical type of migraine just like mine.
So What’s This “Normal” Anyway?
I suppose the difference is that these were all things that were more obviously different from the norm. It’s always only too easy to judge everything by what’s “normal” to yourself and your culture, and sometimes the effect of that is even more harmful than not recognising a condition.
We think the way our culture behaves is normal, and other cultures are weird, and they think exactly the same — including that our culture is weird. And that can all too easily lead to intolerance, violence and even wars. All it takes is to have dialogue between people who are willing to accept that neither norm is necessarily right or wrong. That neither is inevitable. That it’s just part of life’s variety, and we can learn from one another.
In terms of neurodiversity, we’re getting higher-profile platforms now to explain to neurotypical people what’s normal for us. But perhaps it would also help if they were to explain what it’s like to be neurotypical. Then the real dialogue can start.
So am I going to get medically diagnosed for ADHD? Why should I? I’m the way I am, and it doesn’t interfere with living my life successfully. And why would I want to be given drugs to mute that constant inner monologue? After all, it’s the source of all my wizardry.