One of the last
things people learn about me is that I’m on the autistic spectrum.
When I’m telling someone about
myself, that’s usually the last fact included. It’s not that it isn’t
important. It’s just something I usually omit because once people know you’re
near-autistic, it reshapes their whole perception of you and you start to be
defined by that context.
I was born with NLD, or Nonverbal
Learning Disorder. It’s similar to Asperger’s Syndrome, distinguished by only a
few divergent traits. I have only ever met one other person who has it. NLD
affects everyone differently. I’ve searched in online groups for others who function
in the same way, but so far, nobody else’s version seems identical to mine. I’m
not saying this to sound like some pretentious, unique snowflake. If anything,
it would be great to find someone whose case I could relate to.
While I can’t explain what living
with the disorder is like for everybody, I can describe how it is for me.
To imagine how I’ve spent most of my
life, try to remember the drunkest you’ve ever been. Not giddily tipsy, but
crashing-into-walls sloshed. You’re easily distracted yet struggle to
multitask. You get lost all the time and can’t drive. A short leap looks like a
mile’s trek, and a stranger’s silence sounds like a prime opportunity to treat
them to stories about your most awkward first dates and complain about your
bacne. This is hyperbolic, but it’s how I felt throughout all my years growing
up—without the influence of any substances.
My disability was first identified
in fourth grade. I was desperate for a diagnosis so my teachers would know it
wasn’t my fault. They’d get frustrated because they thought I was smart but I
couldn’t follow directions. Despite my knack for writing, I wasn’t allowed into
the gifted program. They only included kids who had straight A’s in every
class.
I was clumsy in many ways.
Synchronized dancing in theater camp was a hilarious nightmare. I was hapless
at sports. I once managed to stub my toe while my foot was three feet above the
ground.
The social clumsiness was a lot more
painful. I had no verbal filter. Ideas were constantly bursting into mental
subthreads, as if my brain were the original Reddit—including the trolling. It
felt like word bubbles appeared above my head and would pop unless I filled
them in immediately. I expressed thoughts with little to no awareness of how
cutting, excessively unabridged, or just plain weird they were. Other kids
teased me, but they usually wouldn’t take it too far in my presence. I could
eviscerate them with comebacks that left everyone laughing. People seemed to
laugh at me and with me in equal
measure. I had trouble keeping friends. They rarely confronted me directly, but
I’d hear what they said to each other. They called me
a ditz and an airhead. They said I was always seeking attention. The last
judgment was true, although a lot of them were doing the same. They were just
less obvious about it, so my lack of subtlety allowed them to point at me and
direct peoples’ notice away from their own similar behavior.
It
wasn’t until I was twenty that my head began to clear. The spatial
disorientation, obliviousness to my surroundings, and struggle with transitions
is still pervasive. But my social awareness is now sharper, and sobering up to
it was mortifying. I began to profusely apologize to those I’d offended in the
past, handing out regrets like street flyers. Eventually I came to stop
over-apologizing and strive for more balance.
Others have told me I’m insightful.
That might be true, but I’m not perceptive. It took me years to grasp the
distinction.
My consciousness does not exist in a
linear and uninterrupted flow, but in snapshots with vacant spaces in between.
In childhood I used to think of them as “blank-outs”; those lapses in which my
brain briefly freezes and buffers. It’s like living within ellipses, jumping
along islands instead of walking a continuous strip of land.
This also means my mind doesn’t
create an internal map of my whereabouts. When out in public and trying to find
my way, it’s like I’m spinning and perpetually dizzy. This makes me a prime
target for predators who notice I look lost and try to coerce me into their
cars.
For all of these reasons, I cannot
move freely throughout the world. Instead I navigate through cyberspace, imagination,
and ideas. I travel in stories and songs, with words as my compass. My husband
says I seem to experience language in entirely my own way, and it’s true. Words
are their own dimension. They’re like an additional sense.
Because most of my journeys are not
physical, my artistic and aesthetic taste is vivid sometimes to the point of garishness.
I can’t surround myself with muted colors and grayscale music. I need atomic
glitter bombs and guns that shoot rainbows. I need songs that flutter with
caffeinated beats. I crave whatever makes ears tickle, eyes pop, and hearts
roar. Maybe people with more external adventures prefer to settle into a mellow
existence in between. That’s completely understandable, but it’s too low-key
for me.
People expect me to have more
tattoos because I’m so stimulated by visuals. I don’t need them. I’m made of images
and phrases and stains which I carry under my skin and express when I choose to.
So is everyone else. Many of my most creative friends are inked, and I love
getting lost in the stories of their designs. I just prefer to keep my skin a
blank page.
Some friends jokingly ask if I’m
tripping when I write like this. I’m not inclined toward drugs. Maybe it would
make little difference if I did use them, because either way I’d be surfing on brain
chemical waves, but it’s already intoxicating to inhale words and pass them on.
To snort colors and patterns. Inject musical notes. There is no withdrawal and
it costs you nothing. It’s all free, and it frees you.
When I did smoke weed for the first
time, it was a very strange experience. I said I didn’t feel anything but then
proceeded to talk for two hours. I explained, in minute detail, exactly why my
brain felt like a cupcake (because I was rising above my usual state like a
cake in a pan, my head was inflated with light, fluffy thoughts, and I was
over-baked).
These types of mental vacations might
make up for my inability to physically navigate if NLD didn’t also affect my
career options. Because I can’t drive, and public transportation has to be
planned so carefully, I have mostly been limited to working from home. I’ve
only recently branched out. It can take me five hours to learn a simple bus
route.
Doctors can’t discern my IQ with
normal tests because there’s such a chasm between my spatial and verbal
intelligence. I spoke in full sentences at nine months old but couldn’t tie my
shoes until third grade. I can explain how a color looks and feels to someone
who has never seen it, but I have to count on my fingers for simple addition.
Sometimes language can be a zero-sum game. Once I’m locked into its dimension,
words are all I see and I stumble over everything else.
When people hear that someone has a
learning disability, they often assume they’re developmentally disabled. Years
ago my dad was driving me to school and he wanted to park closer to the
building because I could only recognize the location from one side, even though
I went there every day. He told the parking lot attendant I had a learning
disability and asked him to let us through. The guy appraised me as if I were a
small child and said, “Can she get herself inside?” I was right next to him,
but he addressed my father. As if I couldn’t answer the question.
This is the backdrop of my life, and
it will be for as long as I live. But as distressing, discouraging,
embarrassing and infuriating as these struggles can sometimes be, I don’t think
I would exchange them for a chance to be “normal.” NLD may be a disability, but
it’s my disability. By blurring my
vision in certain areas, it’s helped me see so much more clearly in others. And
it’s allowed me to show others what I see, to share a communal vision.
NLD may have been delivered to me in
a heavy box which I often find myself caught inside. But in the end, it still
came as a gift.