Neurodiversity Origin Story: Part 1
Part of the impetus for creating The Dusty Unknown was not only to foster a gathering space for creatives, but also to craft a haven for neurodiverse artists. In that vein, I offer up my origin story, of sorts, in the hopes of opening this space with a show of vulnerability and highlighting the interconnected nature of creativity that binds itself to the neurodivergent mind.
To be clear, I wasn’t officially diagnosed with ADD until I was in my early thirties, so most of my thoughts and observations have been made in retrospect. Additionally, while I have had some training in regards to recognizing and supporting neurodiverse needs, I am by no means a certified expert. That being said, I have been neurodivergent for almost forty years, so take that as you will.
I was an October baby. From an education standpoint, that means I was a younger student when I began elementary. I was also a first-born child, so neither my parents, nor I, had a point of reference as far as what was, or was not, typical. I say this because younger students can struggle to adjust to school, and several of the obvious red flags now may not have seemed as important given the context of the time.
For all intents and purposes, I wasn’t an overly hyperactive child (more on that later), but I was VERY social. In grade one, I spent so much time chatting with my other classmates that my parents were given the option to hold me back a year so that I might properly understand the foundational elements of education. They made the choice to have me repeat the first grade, and from that point on I flourished in the school system. Interesting, right?
As a social butterfly, I had many friends and was often touted as a child who was highly sensitive to the needs and emotions of other children. I also loved to read, write, and explore nature. I started a migratory bird journal with my mother, which I have mentioned in previous blog posts, and I spent every moment I could outdoors.
Fast-forward until the end of elementary school and interesting habits and tendencies had begun to develop. As a writer, I was exceptionally creative, but I struggled to grasp basic concepts of grammar. My spelling and handwriting were atrocious, and my understanding of mathematics was even worse. Despite my struggles, I enjoyed learning and was able to achieve good marks using creative ingenuity.
I hit puberty fairly young and within the first few years of high school, I had a goatee and piercings; I would have my first tattoo by the time I graduated. In contrast to my outward appearance, I excelled academically. I was consistently exempt from exams and won achievement awards for my grades.
Rather than pursue drugs or alcohol, my focus was on relationships. I was dating consistently from the age of fourteen until I was married, and I had a solid and long-lasting group of friends, many of whom I am still in contact with today.
Externally, things were as good as one could ask for. Internally, things were starting to get more complicated. In high-school, I began to develop OCD-like tendencies: I washed my hands a lot and would wrap by books in paper towel and transport them in Tupperware containers. I began collecting comics, movies, action figures and video games, and I would obsess over the condition of my collectables. I isolated myself in my bedroom and developed anxiety associated with memory. At some point, I realized that my memory was so poor that I couldn’t recall the names of relatives, birthdays, phones numbers, directions, or addresses and would fret endlessly while on the way to visit familiar people. I was also bullied relentlessly and became so socially anxious that I didn’t genuinely attend more than a few parties over the course of high school—unless I threw the gathering myself.
Academically, I was also struggling internally. I still couldn’t spell, grammar remained a foreign concept, remembering facts and data was impossible, math was a nightmare, and paying attention in class was becoming increasingly difficult. I also couldn’t tell time. So, how did I succeed? I was creative.
Can’t spell or understand grammar? Sit with the smartest students in the class and ask them to edit your work. Math too difficult? Take a lower-level math and use classmates to “tutor” yourself during the lesson. Can’t pay attention? Move to focus—go sharpen your pencil, walk to the bathroom, help other students, or doodle while you listen. Can’t remember facts or data? Study…for hours and hours and hours. Spend so much time with the material that you become it. Oh, and when you can’t read the time, just ask other people what their watch says! Educators call these habits coping strategies, and they are unbelievably exhausting.
All was not dire, however, because throughout my entire high school experience there was one external constant that helped me survive my adolescence—art. I read obsessively. I read so much that I began to learn grammar by ear in the same way some musicians learn music. I also began creating my own art. I started writing the next great Canadian werewolf epic, crafted heartfelt poetry and song lyrics, and doodled to free my mind. I listened to music constantly, watched movies religiously, and memorized the intricacies of each panel in every comic I read. In between studying video game narratives, falling in love with hand-drawn animation, and rearranging my collectables, I also designed and planted my own flowerbed—always searching to connect nature and art. It was through the combination of art and nature that I discovered I wanted to be a zoologist and an author. I held onto those dreams desperately.
All in all, I can say that I survived being a teenage boy. High school was difficult, but ultimately successful in fostering a love of creative writing and meaningful connections.
Shortly after graduation, I broke up with my partner. She claimed I was depressed and said we might reconnect if I could get better. I went to the doctor and told him my girlfriend said I had depression. Within moments, I was given a prescription for anti-depressants. I would be on them for over a decade.
At the age of nineteen, I left my parents’ farm and moved two hours away to Winnipeg and that’s where the real trouble began.
Check back next week for part 2 of my Neurodiversity Origin Story!
