For most of my life, I navigated without the understanding of my NeuroDivergent identity (Autistic, ADHD, and more). It’s a truth I’ve only unearthed about myself in the past eight years, but the battle of not knowing was (and still is) a significant part of my journey.
For most of my life, I survived by leaning heavily into my strengths (and avoiding my weaknesses as if they were deadly to me). But as I’ve come to accept my NeuroDivergent identity, I’ve learned that embracing both my strengths and weaknesses is essential to self-acceptance and understanding (because you can’t always avoid your weaknesses).
Avoiding my weaknesses can be a good strategy when I have control over my tasks and environment. However, this strategy doesn’t work well when other people control my activities (like in school or the workplace). This was especially true in childhood.
The education system can be particularly challenging for NeuroDivergent children, often failing to provide the necessary support and understanding.
School was challenging because the expectations were often inappropriate for me. I was left to face my challenges head-on.
Because I couldn’t ask for accommodations in school (since I hadn’t been diagnosed yet), I was forced to face all my weaknesses (and an education system that wasn’t ‘designed for kids like me) without support.
Unfortunately, because I had an advanced vocabulary and ability to read far above grade level (a skill in one area), I was expected to act more mature and to be advanced in other educational subjects (but I wasn’t).
The expectations for reading and vocabulary were far too low, and the expectations for history, science, math, PE, and “behavioral conduct” were too high.
Any failure (or struggle) was seen (and treated as) intentional laziness, and I was frequently punished for lacking skills and tools.
Because I “understood things” (in one area), I was expected to be able to “be still” and “control myself” in ways I could not.
Me and (my lack of) impulse control.
I was constantly getting in trouble for getting out of my seat, moving about, making sounds, and blurting things out (that I didn’t mean to).
Though my impulse control is better these days than it was when I was in elementary school, it’s still not comparable to many of the people around me (unless I’m feeling triggered and unsafe, then I shut in on myself so hard I become afraid to make a sound).
If I’m relaxed, happy, and excited, my impulse control (and ability to slow down and filter the words before they come out of my mouth) can become almost non-existent. This is okay with safe people who “get” me. However, not everyone is a safe person.
Since becoming aware of this (mouth that gets me in trouble), I am much more conscious of the people I’m around and who “the safe people” are (who I can let my guard down around), but I couldn’t do this as a child.
A child trapped in an unsafe space.
As a child, I was forced to spend lots of time with unsafe people (especially in school) because unsafe people (teachers and administrators) were put in charge of my care.
I was sent to school and told to “listen to my teachers.” Yet, often, my teachers were the ones hurting me and giving me bad advice (because they lacked understanding of NeuroDivergent children and only saw my struggles as behavior problems to be squashed instead of needs lacking support).
“My behavior was bad,” so “my behavior” needed to be “adjusted.” Never mind bothering to understand where “my behaviors” (which communicated my unmet needs) came from.
Lazy, surface-level, behaviorist approaches to “managing children” (I say managing because it does not support children when you mold them into compliance, making them more docile and manageable).
My teachers were supposed to protect me, but when I asked for help because the other kids were picking on me, I was told to “not stand out” and “act normal” so the other kids would leave me alone (but I didn’t understand what my teacher meant by normal).
My teachers blamed me for being bullied, and I internalized this blame, becoming ashamed of all the ways I stood out, believing that I deserved to be picked on (because I was weird) – since that is what I was told.
To survive, I had to learn to blend in and be the person my teachers (and peers) wanted me to be, but doing so took so much from me.
Shame, self-blame, and silence.
I didn’t tell my guardians of the horrible treatment I was receiving in school daily at the hands of my peers, encouraged by my teachers (who thought the other kids were “putting me in line”).
Sure that my mistreatment was my own fault (and something I was to blame for), I kept the constant torment to myself. I was already in enough trouble at school that I didn’t want to be in trouble at home, too.
From a young age, I was systemically taught (at school) that if I wanted others to treat me with basic kindness, I needed to put other people’s comfort above my own (to ignore my needs, hopes, feelings, and desires, blend in and mimic the people around me).
Being as close to invisible as possible was my primary survival skill when I was a child (who could not control my environment.
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