![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
zeppomarksI have had several people talk about their children's specific difficulties on my friend's lists, they run the gambit from high sensitivities to full blown autism.
I do not have any children and cannot imagine the myriad of emotional trauma of having a child with these problems causes.
To all of those people on my list, I have remained silent not because I do not care but am at a loss as how to comfort you at all since I have no experience with children and would not be able to offer anything that would not sound arch or false.
One thing I thought I could do, however clumsy an effort is explain what it is to be a kid like that because I was one.
I had been labeled with lots of things. They did not yet know about ADD or else I am certain that would have been the first pronouncement. Some said I was autistic, emotionally disturbed, a sociopath, and one said she was 100% certain I was mentally retarded and needed to be removed from the public school system. She said this to my mother this in front of me assuming I did not have the capacity to understand what she meant.
I found out recently from one of my sisters that as an infant I had not spoken at all by the time that supposed to be happening. People were mildly concerned about it until one afternoon I rattled off an entire television commercial for "Cascade" from start to finish including the jingle.
I had to smell and touch EVERYTHING. This one is still with me although I try not to do it front of other people.
As I developed cognitive abilities I had my own world in my head because the real world brought terrors and discomforts that were hard to articulate.
I couldn't stand the newspaper, I loved blank paper because I was in control of what went on that but paper so large with a language all over it was threatening to me and I would cry in horror as my father rattled it loudly on Sunday mornings. My mothers love for thick shag carpeting caused me no end of consternation. When I stepped on it, it would curl around my feet causing me not to be able to see my toes. I interpreted this as literally disappearing and so refused to walk on it. I would get around this by begging people to carry me around the house or lining the floors with safe objects: clothes, books, paper, toys became ultra important paths of safety. Being left alone on a twin bed every night in a room with shag carpeting was tantamount to leaving me on a dinghy in the middle of the ocean.
My mother constantly washed her hands and then did not dry them all of the way. They felt cold and dead like meat and I did not want them touching me so I would run from her anytime I saw her coming from the sink.
I did not like large spaces, I was not safe there. So I spent a lot of time in boxes, cabinets and closets. I would bring flashlights with me and whatever I planned to do, read or draw or plan. A small enclosed space was the only place I could really breathe. I remember my mother discussing some news item about jailed parents who had locked their children in the closet. Her anger seemed strange to me since at the time, that seemed the safest place to keep one's children in my mind.
School was a major pain in my balls. The structure was confining and a lot of things that teachers did made no logical sense to me. I would respond in kind with things that made no sense to them. Sometimes I would perform experiments that I felt were crucial to me understanding how the world worked instead of the regular curriculum; like emptying the paper hole punch into the air conditioner to see if it would emulate snow when the box would switch on at exactly 2:15.
During a third grade recess I sat still like a stone on the edge of the black top even though it was ghastly hot and I felt like I was baking just sitting there. Eventually the group of brown finches I had my eye on hopped out of the bushes and bounced around me like I was invisible, just inches away. One hopped onto the tip of my red Keds peeping and pecking at my shoelace. The other kids had taken notice since I was entirely surrounded by birds and they all ran over causing the birds to scatter. When I refused to respond to questions about how I had managed to get the birds to come to me Chris Johnson kicked pebbles at me and called me a "witch."
My long years have now taught me that in response I should have leapt to my feet, confirmed his accusation and with pointing finger claimed I was now going to chant an incantation that would cause his pecker to fall clean off.
Thus began my long and winding road of getting transferred from one school to another.
My worst problem was noise. I was ultra sensitive to loud noises but especially white noise. It is still difficult for me to put into words how certain noise would send me scrambling for safety. I would try and explain to people as the noise made by a single object repeated many thousands of times, as if I could hear every instance of it. I would clap my hands over my ears and yell that I could hear all of the blades of grass growing at the same time or all the bees all over the world buzzing at once. This led to most adults rightfully labeling me as "creepy."
When things became too overwhelming I would simply shut down which would result in me refusing to respond to touch or verbal commands. I would sit with eyes transfixed forward concentrating on a single spot refusing to speak or move or blink until they would either ignore me move me frozen in my desk while the legs scraped loud against the linoleum. They would often push me all the way into the hallway like a piece of petrified wood.
I am now past most of the strange obstacles that I had to live with during my single digits. I admittedly have some residuals that will never leave and some newly manifested quirks. There are some things that I experienced as a child that I still cannot explain, some of them are terrifying and some are majestic and some are both.
I can still hear conversations in white noise if I pay attention. I still can't stand very high frequencies to the point of occasionally carrying around a small can of WD-40 with me in case I come across squeaky wheels. I only eat tic-tacs in multiples equaling prime numbers.
I love people in my life so deeply that when I really think about it I can see colors and my leg muscles cramp up.
When life becomes stressful the urge to shut down is distant but compelling.
When I look back at my childhood, external environment not withstanding I know that I was different and things were hard for me but I cannot say for a certainty that things were any more difficult for me than any other regular kid - the rules were just different. There are rare and exquisite things about being off center. My specialties were and are considered my super powers even though I was the only one who knew what I could really do. Additionally when you are labeled as broken there are zero expectations of you socially and that is a beautiful thing in many ways. If you aren't required to act like everyone else because you "ain't right" that frees you to experience and perform amazing feats that are blocked for regular folks because they have invisible shackles on them. One of my fourth grade teachers had me by the arm at the High Museum explaining to a security guard about me after I had tripped the alarm from leaning in to smell a Van Gogh.
The humiliation was an acceptable payment since I now knew what the Van Gogh smelled like and nobody else did.
To the people reading this, I am not trying to engender sympathy because I don't really think I need any.
Also I am not trying to be all Mary fucking sunshine about people who are dealing with these kinds of issues nor am I implying that it is harder to be a kid with problems than it is for the mother because I honestly don't think it is. I guess I want to say that I am now so appreciative finally of who I turned out to be that I would not give up the abuses at the hands of kids or the discomfort that I caused adults for a single second if I thought it would change me substantially.
My mother likely thinks otherwise.
Hang in there everybody.
I do not have any children and cannot imagine the myriad of emotional trauma of having a child with these problems causes.
To all of those people on my list, I have remained silent not because I do not care but am at a loss as how to comfort you at all since I have no experience with children and would not be able to offer anything that would not sound arch or false.
One thing I thought I could do, however clumsy an effort is explain what it is to be a kid like that because I was one.
I had been labeled with lots of things. They did not yet know about ADD or else I am certain that would have been the first pronouncement. Some said I was autistic, emotionally disturbed, a sociopath, and one said she was 100% certain I was mentally retarded and needed to be removed from the public school system. She said this to my mother this in front of me assuming I did not have the capacity to understand what she meant.
I found out recently from one of my sisters that as an infant I had not spoken at all by the time that supposed to be happening. People were mildly concerned about it until one afternoon I rattled off an entire television commercial for "Cascade" from start to finish including the jingle.
I had to smell and touch EVERYTHING. This one is still with me although I try not to do it front of other people.
As I developed cognitive abilities I had my own world in my head because the real world brought terrors and discomforts that were hard to articulate.
I couldn't stand the newspaper, I loved blank paper because I was in control of what went on that but paper so large with a language all over it was threatening to me and I would cry in horror as my father rattled it loudly on Sunday mornings. My mothers love for thick shag carpeting caused me no end of consternation. When I stepped on it, it would curl around my feet causing me not to be able to see my toes. I interpreted this as literally disappearing and so refused to walk on it. I would get around this by begging people to carry me around the house or lining the floors with safe objects: clothes, books, paper, toys became ultra important paths of safety. Being left alone on a twin bed every night in a room with shag carpeting was tantamount to leaving me on a dinghy in the middle of the ocean.
My mother constantly washed her hands and then did not dry them all of the way. They felt cold and dead like meat and I did not want them touching me so I would run from her anytime I saw her coming from the sink.
I did not like large spaces, I was not safe there. So I spent a lot of time in boxes, cabinets and closets. I would bring flashlights with me and whatever I planned to do, read or draw or plan. A small enclosed space was the only place I could really breathe. I remember my mother discussing some news item about jailed parents who had locked their children in the closet. Her anger seemed strange to me since at the time, that seemed the safest place to keep one's children in my mind.
School was a major pain in my balls. The structure was confining and a lot of things that teachers did made no logical sense to me. I would respond in kind with things that made no sense to them. Sometimes I would perform experiments that I felt were crucial to me understanding how the world worked instead of the regular curriculum; like emptying the paper hole punch into the air conditioner to see if it would emulate snow when the box would switch on at exactly 2:15.
During a third grade recess I sat still like a stone on the edge of the black top even though it was ghastly hot and I felt like I was baking just sitting there. Eventually the group of brown finches I had my eye on hopped out of the bushes and bounced around me like I was invisible, just inches away. One hopped onto the tip of my red Keds peeping and pecking at my shoelace. The other kids had taken notice since I was entirely surrounded by birds and they all ran over causing the birds to scatter. When I refused to respond to questions about how I had managed to get the birds to come to me Chris Johnson kicked pebbles at me and called me a "witch."
My long years have now taught me that in response I should have leapt to my feet, confirmed his accusation and with pointing finger claimed I was now going to chant an incantation that would cause his pecker to fall clean off.
Thus began my long and winding road of getting transferred from one school to another.
My worst problem was noise. I was ultra sensitive to loud noises but especially white noise. It is still difficult for me to put into words how certain noise would send me scrambling for safety. I would try and explain to people as the noise made by a single object repeated many thousands of times, as if I could hear every instance of it. I would clap my hands over my ears and yell that I could hear all of the blades of grass growing at the same time or all the bees all over the world buzzing at once. This led to most adults rightfully labeling me as "creepy."
When things became too overwhelming I would simply shut down which would result in me refusing to respond to touch or verbal commands. I would sit with eyes transfixed forward concentrating on a single spot refusing to speak or move or blink until they would either ignore me move me frozen in my desk while the legs scraped loud against the linoleum. They would often push me all the way into the hallway like a piece of petrified wood.
I am now past most of the strange obstacles that I had to live with during my single digits. I admittedly have some residuals that will never leave and some newly manifested quirks. There are some things that I experienced as a child that I still cannot explain, some of them are terrifying and some are majestic and some are both.
I can still hear conversations in white noise if I pay attention. I still can't stand very high frequencies to the point of occasionally carrying around a small can of WD-40 with me in case I come across squeaky wheels. I only eat tic-tacs in multiples equaling prime numbers.
I love people in my life so deeply that when I really think about it I can see colors and my leg muscles cramp up.
When life becomes stressful the urge to shut down is distant but compelling.
When I look back at my childhood, external environment not withstanding I know that I was different and things were hard for me but I cannot say for a certainty that things were any more difficult for me than any other regular kid - the rules were just different. There are rare and exquisite things about being off center. My specialties were and are considered my super powers even though I was the only one who knew what I could really do. Additionally when you are labeled as broken there are zero expectations of you socially and that is a beautiful thing in many ways. If you aren't required to act like everyone else because you "ain't right" that frees you to experience and perform amazing feats that are blocked for regular folks because they have invisible shackles on them. One of my fourth grade teachers had me by the arm at the High Museum explaining to a security guard about me after I had tripped the alarm from leaning in to smell a Van Gogh.
The humiliation was an acceptable payment since I now knew what the Van Gogh smelled like and nobody else did.
To the people reading this, I am not trying to engender sympathy because I don't really think I need any.
Also I am not trying to be all Mary fucking sunshine about people who are dealing with these kinds of issues nor am I implying that it is harder to be a kid with problems than it is for the mother because I honestly don't think it is. I guess I want to say that I am now so appreciative finally of who I turned out to be that I would not give up the abuses at the hands of kids or the discomfort that I caused adults for a single second if I thought it would change me substantially.
My mother likely thinks otherwise.
Hang in there everybody.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2007-10-26 10:37 pm (UTC)It seemed insulting when it was completely opposite of my intention. It was closer to my meaning that people who do not have such disorders tend to have social parameters already built in, almost autonomic. Where as myself, I have to have these little rules at the forefront of my brain like little post it notes to remind me that I cannot call talk to a perfect stranger in a grocery store about how fascinating intestines are or the structural difficulties in building a house shaped like an elephant.
Often enough I forget. :)
no subject
Date: 2007-10-26 11:29 pm (UTC)