The classroom sometimes feels like a battleground to me.
Not a battle against my classmates or the professor, but a battle against the environment and my own brain.
I have been diagnosed with a variety of mental health issues, ranging from anxiety to ADHD, but to be honest, I’m not confident in some of my diagnoses anymore. I’m in the process of getting a proper evaluation, but at this point all I know for sure is that I am neurodivergent.
Neurodivergent people are those affected by a developmental condition that affects the brain, like the Autism spectrum disorder. Neurotypical people, on the other hand, are not affected by these conditions. One is not better than the other; they just work differently.
I either throw myself into my work with such reckless abandon that I forget to take care of myself, or I end up with barely enough energy to move my head from side to side. I hide my crashes from most people because I know from experience that it will push them away. In high school, I would describe the sensation of feeling frustrated by saying, “I want to gauge my eyes out with sporks,” usually earning a, “Please don’t do that” or two in return.
Sometimes I can handle crowds and loud noises, but other times the sound of a keyboard can drive me insane. And when I get interested in something, I obsess over it, a lot. More than you’re thinking, and more than most people think.
The world as we know it isn’t built for people like me. At the beginning of this column I said that the classroom feels like a battleground. Let me explain what that means by using one of my favorite analogies — the spoon theory.
Every day, everyone wakes up with a specific number of spoons. These spoons represent the energy it takes to accomplish a task or deal with daily annoyances. Let’s say neurotypical people wake up with 20 spoons on a normal day.
I wake up with 30 on my best days, but most of the time I wake up with 10.
I start my day by rolling out of bed and getting to class. I rushed because the shirt I wanted to wear was dirty and I had to make another decision — but all the other shirts were itchy or tight or uncomfortable. If I made a bad choice it would slowly wear away at my spoons all day, at a rate of a quarter of a spoon every two hours.
I’ve made it to class, but someone is sitting in my normal seat, and the fluorescent lights are buzzing like a fly just out of reach. I begrudgingly find another spot and try to pay attention, but the pencil scratching behind me makes it nearly impossible to focus. I make it through the class period, but I’ve lost two spoons already and it’s only 9 a.m.
I think you get the picture. At least as much I can show you in the little space I have with this column.
The world isn’t made for people like me, and most of the time people don’t even notice. I know society won’t change to be more accommodating to neurodivergent individuals overnight — and it certainly won’t alter its physical, economic and cultural structures without some major changes — but I can hope to at least start a conversation about it.
Lex Miller can be reached at [email protected]