I realized something was wrong from my first days in the first grade.
I had trouble understanding what was going on. The instructions were unclear, reading was laborious, and letters and numbers kept jumping around.
In some way, I didn’t know if I was sane in an insane world or insane in a sane world.
I learned that if I sat in the back of the class and didn’t participate, most adults would leave me alone; this protected me from the devastating barrage of failing grades. It also allowed me to live in my little world of daydreaming, filled with creativity.
A specialist came to visit one day, took me out into the hallway, and gave me a series of tests. She discovered that I was left-handed but had been persuaded to be right-handed.
I didn’t understand the impact this had on me as a seven-year-old, but I later learned that switching hands confuses the coordination of the right and left brain. It also affects focus, concentration, and memory.
I rarely did homework, failed almost every test I took, and suffered from the devastating feeling of being a failure. The only positive part of my life was my pleasant daydreaming and knowing the school system didn’t want twenty-year-olds in the twelfth grade.
It took me thirteen years and five summer schools to graduate.
I’ve been reading about neurodiversity lately, and a lot of understanding is beginning to emerge. However, there is still a lot of labeling, often with negative connotations, which concerns me.
I consider myself a specialist. One who basically found their own way and now has something to contribute. There are many of us in the world from all walks of life. I believe a little understanding would bring about a hidden treasure that would benefit us all while relieving us from much of the tension of being so judgmental.