by Ethan Seavey
I heard:
Why don’t you stop moving around so much? Why do you always bounce your leg/twirl your hair/sit with your legs folded under you/tap your fingers/tap your pen/touch your mustache/hold water in your mouth? Settle down! Why do you play soccer better when you’re rubbing your thumb and forefinger? Why do you sip water out of the side of your mouth so you can still focus on what’s in front of your eyes? Can’t you take a break? Why are you into things (green t-shirts, a long conversation, a movie, a board game) and then suddenly become disinterested? Why are you so frustrated all the time and why can’t you control yourself? Why can’t you focus on what I’m saying? Are you listening, or are you thinking of something else?
And so I thought:
Why am I like this? Why can’t I stop myself from moving? Why am I busted, how am I broken, why doesn’t my brain work?
My energy’s like a wriggling snake and my attention is just one hand. When I grab the head and hold it still, the rattle starts flailing. So I grab the rattle and the head moves again. Your sister hates seeing the head moving (it stresses them out to see the motion of the fangs) and your mother hates the sound of the rattle shaking.
Why am I like this? The snake is a good example but it is inaccurate because it would be more like a bunch of snakes tied in a knot, all wriggling, all needing my attention to stifle their motion. Or a bunch of holes in a field that shoot water and when I cover one hole, the water only flows stronger through the others.
I tried to fix my behavior. At the same time I wanted to stop twirling my hair and bouncing my leg and checking my phone so much. The frustration of not being able to control my body was unbearable (like most frustration to me). I believed that if I tried harder, if I was more disciplined, I could sit still.
Now I realize I can’t and should have never tried to stop myself. There’s not much I can fix, or want to fix. My brain is weird, and that’s a neat feature. My brain likes vintage toys + Pokémon plushes + miniature furniture. It knows just enough about any topic to be able to join in on them (except sports). It is satisfied at a job where I’m on my feet and working with my hands and chatting with friends all day.
Sometimes I get down on what my brain can’t do. It can’t function like yours, maybe. I can’t sit still at a desk for hours and it can’t be engaged in learning for the whole class period. I can’t remember to do the things I need to do (write, send out Christmas presents, process emotions, write, exercise, get groceries, write, make food, eat it, write). But there are ways I work with my brain to get that done. Whiteboards and to-do lists and alarms on my phone and a daily schedule based around meals to ensure I’m taking them.
Once I got past the hard parts of accepting my neurodivergence, I learned that it’s beautiful to find pride in my weird brain, and to share the experience with others. I’m new to the world and it’s still fresh and wonderful. Realizing that there are many people who understand your quirks because they function similarly, more people than you’d ever expect, is a huge relief. ND people tend to flock together genetically and socially, so it’s never shocking to find out someone close to you is also ND … though it is exciting. Someone who understands you, in a new way. You talk about accommodations and how you can make each other happier.
This beautiful recognition was shared between my partner and I last year, as we began to understand how our brains operated and how to help one another out. For example, I can’t handle Target (the bright lights, the vastness of the store, the organization, the sensory overload) and once I admitted that to him we worked together to come up with game plans for when I need stuff from there. I either order in advance and pick up the order, or he goes with me and leads me through the store. I’m pretty useless inside, even with a list.
With radical love for my weird brain, I can finally admit with my chest that the reason I started working at a grocery store this summer is because I’ve always struggled to function in those spaces. And I need to go to those spaces regularly. I correctly assumed that coming to the store daily, learning exactly where everything is, and shopping at night before I go home would make the constant onslaught of getting groceries much more manageable.
I think it’s ideal to live a very gentle life. To try to be kind to people you love even when in conflict, to respect all of your emotions, to support your brain when it’s calling for help. To stop when your body wants you to stop. I feel the worst when I push myself all day to fight back my neurodivergence, to hide it from my peers and the people in charge.
The growing perspective extends to others. I notice people’s quirks and pet peeves and instead of laughing at them or taking offense, I respect them as boundaries. I learn that one coworker likes working by herself and doesn’t want any help on her projects, and respect that. She has a system; she’s not being rude. I learn that one coworker takes 20 minute bathroom breaks and instead of cursing them out under my breath I take a breath and respect that they might need that time, to go to the bathroom or do something else.
I just wrote that I am gentle at work but really I am not gentle with customers when I’m in a bad mood (or if they are). I guess there’s always something to work on. I can write that when I’m gentle to my brain and those of the people I love, I am happy and exist beautifully.