Neurodivergence…
NE
UR
OD
IV
ER
GE
NCE….
Wait.
Neurodivergents…Nope, same number of letters.
Shit!
Ah, I’ve got it.
Neurodiversity…
NE
UR
OD
IV
ER
SI
TY
That’s the one!
Neurodiversity rarely shows up in a single form. If your brain decides to malfunction…
MA
LF
UN
CT
ION…
Dammit!
If your brain decides to function differently…
FU
NC
TI
ON
DI
FF
ER
EN
TLY…
Still no.
If your brain decides to function down unusual pathways…
UN
US
UA
L P
AT
HW
AYS…
FUCK!
If your brain decides not to function the way people expect, odds are it does so in a variety of forms.
FU
NC
TI
ON
Phew! That’s what I needed.
Sometimes those flavors of neurodiversity work together to fill in missing pieces of the world. Other times, they gang up on each other and turn a simple stimming habit into a never-ending rabbit hole.
RA
BB
IT
HO
LE
Yeesh. At least that one worked.
I don’t remember when I first started spelling words, phrases, and entire sentences out. Drawing the letters on the fleshy part of my thumb with the nail—or corner of a nail so it was sharp and firm because I like the touch of solid objects—of my index finger.
SH
AR
P A
ND
FI
RM
I know the habit went unnoticed. By everyone. Such a tiny, subtle motion, easily hidden behind my back, under the fold of clothing, or held down by my side. My only way to distract and calm my brain when things threatened to spiral out of control.
CO
NT
ROL…
Fucking word never works.
SP
IR
AL
OU
T O
F C
ON
TR
OL
Can usually rely on that phrase to work.
Considering the expansive vocabulary I developed early in life, I knew how to spell thousands of overheard words. Even something new or unusual—like a name—didn’t throw out much of a challenge. Odds were I could puzzle out the sounds and get an approximation of spelling.
AP
PR
OX
IM
AT
ION…
Fucking traitor.
AP
PR
OX
IM
AT
IO
N O
F S
PE
LL
ING…
Goddamn useless words!
Odds were I could puzzle out the sounds and get close to the spelling.
CL
OS
E T
O T
HE
SP
EL
LI
NG
[sigh] It’ll do.
Ironically, the trait failed me during class spelling bees. With hands clasped tight in front of me, I stood no chance of puzzling through letters to find the right answer. And I never wanted kids to notice my twitching fingers and find something new to tease me about. Not with so many other choice idiosyncrasies at their disposable to ridicule.
ID
IO
SY
NC
RA
SI
ES
What a shocker that one works.
Spelling words out provided a silent comfort I came to depend on. It never occurred to me there might be an actual purpose behind the habit. Because “stim” wasn’t a word people used when I was in school.
Hell, they rarely used “autism” unless it was whispered behind closed doors during parent-teacher meetings. And since I fell into the spectrum of overachievers, no one dared suspect there might be something different.
Aside from the so-obvious weirdness I carried with me.
OV
ER
AC
HI
EV
ERS…
Hell.
And since I fell into the spectrum at the end of overachiever, no one dared suspect there might be something different.
OV
ER
AC
HI
EV
ER
Of course that worked.
I didn’t learn the word “stim” until my autism evaluation. Asked whether I participated in any stimming behaviors, I stared in blank confusion, even as my fingernail traced the word against my thumb. In my lap. Beneath the desk and well away from the camera’s view to ensure this stranger wouldn’t see my quirky habit.
ST
IM
Except her explanation of stimming aligned perfectly with my little secret scribblings.
Until it didn’t.
My need to write out words, sentences, even punctuation contained another twist that pointed away from autism to something else. Because the “average” person didn’t obsess over putting letters and symbols into two neat columns. A “normal” person wouldn’t backtrack through an entire conversation to ensure the words ended on an even number. That need for precise numbered order belonged to another neurodivergent category.
OCD…
Ha. Of course that fucking doesn’t work.
OB
SE
SS
IV
E C
OM
PU
LS
IV
E D
IS
OR
DER…
Who names this shit?!
OB
SE
SS
IV
E C
OM
PU
LS
IV
E D
IS
EA
SE
I hate that phrase. But it works. And they used “disease” in centuries past. It still works.
The evaluator asked me why I needed to write words out two letters at a time. What my connection to the number two might be. And whether I used “two” in any other part of my life. (Aside from my compulsive need to arrange knick-knacks in balanced arrangements on shelves)
TWO…
Doesn’t even make sense in that connotation.
2…
Damn.
NU
MB
ER
TWO…
Come on!
TH
E N
UM
BE
R T
WO
Finally.
I didn’t have an answer.
I still don’t understand where the double-digit need comes from. Even as a small child, I wrote small enough to fit additional letters across the pad of my thumb. Or I could easily group them in clusters of four with little trouble. The thumb is a fairly large canvas to draw upon.
CL
US
TE
RS
OF
FO
UR….
Maybe not.
All I knew was how heightened my irritation and anxiety got when I couldn’t hit that even scribble. Sometimes writing out entire paragraphs. Or omitting punctuation in a desperate attempt to make a word or chunk of words fit. Losing track of conversations around me as I struggled to make a word or name from five minutes ago work with my compulsion. Sometimes even resorting to synonyms to soothe the burning in my brain.
CO
MP
UL
SI
ON
At least someone has a sense of humor.
Stim feeding obsession feeding the need to stim in an endless Mobius strip. An unbreakable cycle until I finally nail down that perfect combination of letters and symbols.
Mostly unbroken cycle.
RE
LA
TI
ON
SH
IP
Huh. Wouldn’t have expected that.
My family never noticed. Or, if they spotted my fiddling fingers, they dismissed it as harmless behavior. Nothing more than a nervous twitch. The same for friends. Boyfriends. I’d learned to master the subtlety of the movements so well that I could hide it even in the most intimate of encounters.
Until Tim.
TIM…
Really?
TI
MO
THY…
Fucking hell!
UN
TI
L T
IM
He spotted my dancing fingers early in our relationship.
He also noted I only did so when my voice took on strained edges. Or when I started chewing on my lips, tearing away tiny pieces of cracked, dry flesh. Or when I went dead silent, unable to communicate outside of panicked stares.
FL
ESH…
Weird. Would think that would make sense.
CR
AC
KE
D,
DR
Y F
LE
SH
Punctuation for the win.
I don’t know if it’s a critique on everyone else that never thought to tie the two together, or another in a long line of surprises that proved Tim was my perfect match.
My parents felt yelling at me to calm down was the most effective measure when I spiraled. Or lecturing me on why anxiety never solved anything. Ex-boyfriends all decided it made more sense to walk away and leave me to panic in peace.
Only Tim thought to interrupt the cycle.
HO
LD
MY
HA
ND
Watching from the corner of his eye, he saw me begin to write in a frenzy. Within moments, he reached out and closed his hand around mine, stilling my scribbling. And always followed up the movement with, “What’s wrong?”
WR
ONG…
Figures.
WH
AT
’S
WR
ON
G?
I don’t think he knows that I’m writing out pairs of letters. It’s a twisting of fingers I’m hoping will float beneath his radar. An outward sign of my brain’s overwhelm manifesting to the surface.
Still, a chance for him to prove he does pay attention to what I’m going through.
BU
T N
OT
LE
TT
ERS…
Come on! That should have been perfect!
BU
T N
OT
WO
RDS…
I hate my brain.
BU
T N
OT
PA
IR
S O
F L
ET
TE
RS
Fucking hell. That was ridiculous.
Why explain something I can’t understand myself? Or, to put it more rationally, why clutter up an obvious cry for help with needless speculation as to why pairs of numbers and letters make sense to the OCD side of my brain? It’s a stim.
And an obsession.
Either way, it’s a signal that I’ve reached my tolerance limit. Who cares if I’m writing out the word
HE
LP
over and over on my thumb?
Just so long as someone recognizes that I need an immediate exit strategy.
Or at least reaches over and interrupts my panic spiral before I hit
RO
CK
BO
TT
OM
It’s fine. If I eliminate the period, it’s fine.
