#BehindTheScenes 54 - Writing Neurodivergent

I grew up as a neurotypical child, eager to see the world and experience it like my parents had.

Now, I am some weird ass author who is actually neurodivergent and battling several chronic illnesses.

What had happened? What changed that viewpoint, and how did it make me into the writer that I am? Sit back, everyone, and read on. Sometimes, the perspective of an author changes, even in a short period of time...

Or, is it a matter of me taking off the rose-tinted glasses?

I think it's both, to be honest. From the beginning, I knew that I was different from my peers. Trauma aside, I had weird interests. I sounded childish when I talked to others, beginning conversations strangely or awkwardly walking away. Telling all about life at home. Being nice to everyone. Sometimes, I had a temper and did things in retaliation...only to be blamed for the whole incident.

I think it was 2nd-3rd grade that the social issues began. I had an idea about friends, and nobody else did - that it was forever, that there was a lot of empathy for each other, etc. When nothing went my way, I cried or somehow made a signal that someone displeased me. In other words...I cared more about others than they did for me. It still happens to me.

Being the loner that I was (still am), I also liked to watch people. To get life right. To blend in. It never happened, as I saw it. I still had the habit of just blurting out anything without thinking. It infuriated my father to no end, and he was always telling me to shut up.

So, I began to remain silent at school and in other public places.

My parents were huge on showing gratitude and helping others and being polite. I tried to emulate that. They maintained an image for me. The polite young lady who always helped and did what she was told to do. Always modest, covered her full body, and was never out of turn. My mother was always consulted to make sure it was correct.

That set my standards. It did not for everyone else. That was not their role. It was my mold. My mind still imagined other places and situations, of course, where people found true love and a good family, there was no abuse or misery, war was stopped and everyone worked together in harmony.

After years of using this mold, this mask, I had enough. While I am still exploring without it, it makes me wonder what made me change my perspective. I was entitled, classist and perhaps racist in my way (I am sure there are still outdated things I say, do, etc.). I wondered where it had come from, and then I remembered that I was raised in a white, Polish Roman Catholic family. We had no black relations and only one family friend who was not white.

It meant that my view of the world was narrower than I realized.

If I wanted to support the people I claimed to love, I had to live in their shoes. Know their struggles and their history. Understand the opportunities they had versus mine. Everybody's life was much different than mine, but at the same time, their echoed the same drug I had been exposed to.

Trauma.

It took me time to understand where I was lacking and what being autistic and having empathy meant. Then, my mind worked out possibilities. They were not excuses for their behavior. We all are the authors of our lives and we can change any time we want. It was an explanation of the human experience.

Soon, these ideas, these people, these places...they were all characters in my novels. There might be a homeless man, unable to ask his children for help, even though he was on the streets. There was the woman who wept when she ran out of money for the month, unable to see the world as colorful when she had nothing. There are a few veterans that hang around outside the Friendship Center, bullshitting and smoking cigarettes.

Neurodivergent people are good at patterns and problem solving. We look at things at another angle and come up with solutions. Sometimes, when something else catches our interest - a noise, a smell, something we see - it becomes an obsession. We have to be in your face, know it from the inside out and be an expert on the subject matter. It is the same when I am listening to people who are not like me.

Autistic people are empathetic in their own way. We have a set of morals that we stand on and are true to our friends (or the people we call friends). Once we understand what the world is like, once we can put our masks back on, we can stop at the hallowed steps of another's story.

And that is what I can call empathy too.

Namaste! Have a wonderful day!

#Autism #BeingAutistic #NotAPunishment #Neurodivergent #NewIdeas #DEI #DontDisregardMe