Neurodivergence - Blog Posts

Sitting on my couch, nothing at all is happening... I don't work tomorrow... But my heart is racing and so are my thoughts... Wishing I knew how to change my life so that who I am can be who I am, freely expressing and enjoying who I am... So I don't have to worry about the future... So I don't have to have an autopilot for worrying and fear...

on colors and being different and not being enough for yourself

(please reblog instead of liking)

me and my mom were talking about my dads family (whom she doesnt like a lot of, for good reason tbh)

she mentioned hoe my grandmother once told her that she thought i might have adhd when i was a baby or toddler and my mom shut it doen

i find it VERY ironic seeing as, i too, now believe i might have adhd or at least neurodivergent in some sense

Reposting for my ND friends!!

REMINDER!!!!

Autism acceptance month starts THIS SATURDAY!

If you/someone you know needs to buy an AAC app, almost all companies have huge sales!!!! (They also do this in October for aac awareness month)

oh my god

I'm not diagnosed yet but I'm suspecting myself of it so I'll try this !!

Not to go "if you have ADHD just go for a run" or anything, but I am so serious if you have ADHD you should regularly go outside, no headphones no phone no nothing and just stand and observe for a while until you've had enough. Not until you get bored, until you've had enough. Drink your coffee without watching tiktok. Have a bath without music. Turn down the volume in your headphones. I cannot overstate how much learning to be bored is cruicial with ADHD. Life is not just about pleasure, no matter what your dysregulated dopamine system thinks, and when you teach your brain to be okay with being bored, then boring tasks stop feeling like torture. By letting yourself be bored you are yoinking your system out of the high/low binary and allow for the highs to feel like actual highs and not just anything that isn't low. I am so serious go literally touch grass. Listen to the sounds in your flat. Stimulate your body the way it was designed. It lowers anxiety and makes you feel like you're real and best of all it's completely free

here’s a story about changelings

reposted from my old blog, which got deleted:   Mary was a beautiful baby, sweet and affectionate, but by the time she’s three she’s turned difficult and strange, with fey moods and a stubborn mouth that screams and bites but never says mama. But her mother’s well-used to hard work with little thanks, and when the village gossips wag their tongues she just shrugs, and pulls her difficult child away from their precious, perfect blossoms, before the bites draw blood. Mary’s mother doesn’t drown her in a bucket of saltwater, and she doesn’t take up the silver knife the wife of the village priest leaves out for her one Sunday brunch. She gives her daughter yarn, instead, and instead of a rowan stake through her inhuman heart she gives her a child’s first loom, oak and ash. She lets her vicious, uncooperative fairy daughter entertain herself with games of her own devising, in as much peace and comfort as either of them can manage. Mary grows up strangely, as a strange child would, learning everything in all the wrong order, and biting a great deal more than she should. But she also learns to weave, and takes to it with a grand passion. Soon enough she knows more than her mother–which isn’t all that much–and is striking out into unknown territory, turning out odd new knots and weaves, patterns as complex as spiderwebs and spellrings. “Aren’t you clever,” her mother says, of her work, and leaves her to her wool and flax and whatnot. Mary’s not biting anymore, and she smiles more than she frowns, and that’s about as much, her mother figures, as anyone should hope for from their child. Mary still cries sometimes, when the other girls reject her for her strange graces, her odd slow way of talking, her restless reaching fluttering hands that have learned to spin but never to settle. The other girls call her freak, witchblood, hobgoblin. “I don’t remember girls being quite so stupid when I was that age,” her mother says, brushing Mary’s hair smooth and steady like they’ve both learned to enjoy, smooth as a skein of silk. “Time was, you knew not to insult anyone you might need to flatter later. ‘Specially when you don’t know if they’re going to grow wings or horns or whatnot. Serve ‘em all right if you ever figure out curses.” “I want to go back,” Mary says. “I want to go home, to where I came from, where there’s people like me. If I’m a fairy’s child I should be in fairyland, and no one would call me a freak.” “Aye, well, I’d miss you though,” her mother says. “And I expect there’s stupid folk everywhere, even in fairyland. Cruel folk, too. You just have to make the best of things where you are, being my child instead.” Mary learns to read well enough, in between the weaving, especially when her mother tracks down the traveling booktraders and comes home with slim, precious manuals on dyes and stains and mordants, on pigments and patterns, diagrams too arcane for her own eyes but which make her daughter’s eyes shine. “We need an herb garden,” her daughter says, hands busy, flipping from page to page, pulling on her hair, twisting in her skirt, itching for a project. “Yarrow, and madder, and woad and weld…” “Well, start digging,” her mother says. “Won’t do you a harm to get out of the house now’n then.” Mary doesn’t like dirt but she’s learned determination well enough from her mother. She digs and digs, and plants what she’s given, and the first year doesn’t turn out so well but the second’s better, and by the third a cauldron’s always simmering something over the fire, and Mary’s taking in orders from girls five years older or more, turning out vivid bolts and spools and skeins of red and gold and blue, restless fingers dancing like they’ve summoned down the rainbow. Her mother figures she probably has. “Just as well you never got the hang of curses,” she says, admiring her bright new skirts. “I like this sort of trick a lot better.” Mary smiles, rocking back and forth on her heels, fingers already fluttering to find the next project. She finally grows up tall and fair, if a bit stooped and squinty, and time and age seem to calm her unhappy mouth about as well as it does for human children. Word gets around she never lies or breaks a bargain, and if the first seems odd for a fairy’s child then the second one seems fit enough. The undyed stacks of taken orders grow taller, the dyed lots of filled orders grow brighter, the loom in the corner for Mary’s own creations grows stranger and more complex. Mary’s hands callus just like her mother’s, become as strong and tough and smooth as the oak and ash of her needles and frames, though they never fall still. “Do you ever wonder what your real daughter would be like?” the priest’s wife asks, once. Mary’s mother snorts. “She wouldn’t be worth a damn at weaving,” she says. “Lord knows I never was. No, I’ll keep what I’ve been given and thank the givers kindly. It was a fair enough trade for me. Good day, ma’am.” Mary brings her mother sweet chamomile tea, that night, and a warm shawl in all the colors of a garden, and a hairbrush. In the morning, the priest’s son comes round, with payment for his mother’s pretty new dress and a shy smile just for Mary. He thinks her hair is nice, and her hands are even nicer, vibrant in their strength and skill and endless motion.   They all live happily ever after. * Here’s another story: Gregor grew fast, even for a boy, grew tall and big and healthy and began shoving his older siblings around early. He was blunt and strange and flew into rages over odd things, over the taste of his porridge or the scratch of his shirt, over the sound of rain hammering on the roof, over being touched when he didn’t expect it and sometimes even when he did. He never wore shoes if he could help it and he could tell you the number of nails in the floorboards without looking, and his favorite thing was to sit in the pantry and run his hands through the bags of dry barley and corn and oat. Considering as how he had fists like a young ox by the time he was five, his family left him to it. “He’s a changeling,” his father said to his wife, expecting an argument, but men are often the last to know anything about their children, and his wife only shrugged and nodded, like the matter was already settled, and that was that. They didn’t bind Gregor in iron and leave him in the woods for his own kind to take back. They didn’t dig him a grave and load him into it early. They worked out what made Gregor angry, in much the same way they figured out the personal constellations of emotion for each of their other sons, and when spring came, Gregor’s father taught him about sprouts, and when autumn came, Gregor’s father taught him about sheaves. Meanwhile his mother didn’t mind his quiet company around the house, the way he always knew where she’d left the kettle, or the mending, because she was forgetful and he never missed a detail. “Pity you’re not a girl, you’d never drop a stitch of knitting,” she tells Gregor, in the winter, watching him shell peas. His brothers wrestle and yell before the hearth fire, but her fairy child just works quietly, turning peas by their threes and fours into the bowl. “You know exactly how many you’ve got there, don’t you?” she says. “Six hundred and thirteen,” he says, in his quiet, precise way. His mother says “Very good,” and never says Pity you’re not human. He smiles just like one, if not for quite the same reasons. The next autumn he’s seven, a lucky number that pleases him immensely, and his father takes him along to the mill with the grain. “What you got there?” The miller asks them. “Sixty measures of Prince barley, thirty two measures of Hare’s Ear corn, and eighteen of Abernathy Blue Slate oats,” Gregor says. “Total weight is three hundred fifty pounds, or near enough. Our horse is named Madam. The wagon doesn’t have a name. I’m Gregor.” “My son,” his father says. “The changeling one.” “Bit sharper’n your others, ain’t he?” the miller says, and his father laughs. Gregor feels proud and excited and shy, and it dries up all his words, sticks them in his throat. The mill is overwhelming, but the miller is kind, and tells him the name of each and every part when he points at it, and the names of all the grain in all the bags waiting for him to get to them. “Didn’t know the fair folk were much for machinery,” the miller says. Gregor shrugs. “I like seeds,” he says, each word shelled out with careful concentration. “And names. And numbers.” “Aye, well. Suppose that’d do it. Want t’help me load up the grist?” They leave the grain with the miller, who tells Gregor’s father to bring him back ‘round when he comes to pick up the cornflour and cracked barley and rolled oats. Gregor falls asleep in the nameless wagon on the way back, and when he wakes up he goes right back to the pantry, where the rest of the seeds are left, and he runs his hands through the shifting, soothing textures and thinks about turning wheels, about windspeed and counterweights. When he’s twelve–another lucky number–he goes to live in the mill with the miller, and he never leaves, and he lives happily ever after. * Here’s another: James is a small boy who likes animals much more than people, which doesn’t bother his parents overmuch, as someone needs to watch the sheep and make the sheepdogs mind. James learns the whistles and calls along with the lambs and puppies, and by the time he’s six he’s out all day, tending to the flock. His dad gives him a knife and his mom gives him a knapsack, and the sheepdogs give him doggy kisses and the sheep don’t give him too much trouble, considering. “It’s not right for a boy to have so few complaints,” his mother says, once, when he’s about eight. “Probably ain’t right for his parents to have so few complaints about their boy, neither,” his dad says. That’s about the end of it. James’ parents aren’t very talkative, either. They live the routines of a farm, up at dawn and down by dusk, clucking softly to the chickens and calling harshly to the goats, and James grows up slow but happy. When James is eleven, he’s sent to school, because he’s going to be a man and a man should know his numbers. He gets in fights for the first time in his life, unused to peers with two legs and loud mouths and quick fists. He doesn’t like the feel of slate and chalk against his fingers, or the harsh bite of a wooden bench against his legs. He doesn’t like the rules: rules for math, rules for meals, rules for sitting down and speaking when you’re spoken to and wearing shoes all day and sitting under a low ceiling in a crowded room with no sheep or sheepdogs. Not even a puppy. But his teacher is a good woman, patient and experienced, and James isn’t the first miserable, rocking, kicking, crying lost lamb ever handed into her care. She herds the other boys away from him, when she can, and lets him sit in the corner by the door, and have a soft rag to hold his slate and chalk with, so they don’t gnaw so dryly at his fingers. James learns his numbers well enough, eventually, but he also learns with the abruptness of any lamb taking their first few steps–tottering straight into a gallop–to read. Familiar with the sort of things a strange boy needs to know, his teacher gives him myths and legends and fairytales, and steps back. James reads about Arthur and Morgana, about Hercules and Odysseus, about djinni and banshee and brownies and bargains and quests and how sometimes, something that looks human is left to try and stumble along in the humans’ world, step by uncertain step, as best they can. James never comes to enjoy writing. He learns to talk, instead, full tilt, a leaping joyous gambol, and after a time no one wants to hit him anymore. The other boys sit next to him, instead, with their mouths closed, and their hands quiet on their knees.   “Let’s hear from James,” the men at the alehouse say, years later, when he’s become a man who still spends more time with sheep than anyone else, but who always comes back into town with something grand waiting for his friends on his tongue. “What’ve you got for us tonight, eh?” James finishes his pint, and stands up, and says, “Here’s a story about changelings.”

I hate the snow so much, it's way too cold and it makes everything way too bright, I will the god who decided to create snow

Oh yeah, for sure. Especially with conditions like Autism.

It’s often hereditary—and chances are that if you have it, a family member has it too. High-functioning ASD can often slip under the radar, and a lot of people get diagnosed later in life because of that.

The funny thing about figuring out youre neurodivergent is looking through your family and starting to notice youre definitely not the only one

I can't believe the doctors didn't diagnose me with ADHD when I was a kid because I "had to get rid of my depression first just to be sure" MF IT'S A TWO PIECE COMBO MEAL

I think one blasting big sign that I was autistic was that I would spend hours watching those criminal psychology videos, memorising the right "innocent" facial expressions and body language. I was terrified of somehow being seen as guilty if I were to ever get questioned surrounding a crime.

Meanwhile I was 14, only had two friends and barely left the house except for school lol

Pride, Awareness, Acceptance, Remembrance, and Visibility Events Calendar

(This is an incomplete list and will be updated as needed.)

January:

Slavery and Human Trafficking Prevention Month

Thyroid Awareness Month

World Braille Day (Jan 4th)

Trans Prisoner Day of Action and Solidarity (Jan 22nd)

International Holocaust Remembrance Day (Jan 27th)

February:

LGBTQ+ History Month (UK)

Black History Month (USA/Canada)

Polyamory Week (Canada, week of Valentine's Day)

Aromantic Spectrum Awareness Week (first full week after 14th.)

Chosen Family Day (Feb 22)

Rare Disease Day (February 28th)

March:

Women's History Month

National Developmental Disabilities Awareness Month

Bisexual Health Awareness Month (#BiHealthMonth)

Disability Day of Mourning (March 1st)

Zero Discrimination Day (March 1st)

Dyscalculia Day (March 3rd)

International Women's Day (March 8th)

National Abortion Provider Appreciation Day (March 10th)

World Down Syndrome Day (March 21st)

Neurodiversity Celebration Week (March 21st-27th)

Atheist Day (March 23rd)

World Bipolar Day (March 30th)

Trans Week of Visibility (week of March 31st)

International Transgender Day of Visibility (#TDOV, March 31st).

April:

Autism Acceptance Month

Queer & Trans Kink Month

Arab American Heritage Month

Sexual Assault Awareness Month

World Autism Acceptance Day (April 2nd)

International Asexuality Day (April 6th, may change yearly)

National Deaf LGBTQ+ Awareness Week (second or third week, alternates yearly)

Day of Silence (date varies)

National Transgender HIV Testing Day (April 18th)

Nonbinary Parents Day (third Sunday)

Anniversary of "Genderqueer" being added to the dictionary (April 20th, 2016)

Lesbian Visibility Day (April 26th)

May:

Asian American Pacific Islander Heritage Month

Jewish American Heritage Month

Mental Health Awareness Month

EDS and HSD Awareness Month

National Day of Reason (first Thursday)

International Family Equality Day (first Sunday)

Global Accessibility Awareness Day (third Thursday)

National Honor Our LGBT+ Elders Day (May 16th)

International Day Against Homophobia, Transphobia, and Biphobia (May 17th)

Agender Pride Day (May 19th)

Harvey Milk Day (May 22nd)

Pansexual and Panromantic Awareness and Visibility Day (May 24th)

World Thyroid Day (May 25th)

World Multiple Sclerosis Day (May 30th)

June:

LGBTQIA+ Pride Month

Global Day of Parents (June 1st)

National Gun Violence Awareness Day (first Friday)

Pulse Night of Remembrance (June 12th)

Learning Disability Week (third week)

Autistic Pride Day (June 18th)

Anniversary of Obergefell v. Hodges (June 26th)

National HIV Testing Day (June 27th)

Stonewall Riots Anniversary (June 28th)

July:

Disability Pride Month

Abrosexual Awareness Day (July 2nd)

International Femme Appreciation Day (First Saturday of July)

Queerplatonic Relationships Day (#QPRDay, third Saturday)

International Nonbinary People's Day (July 14th)

Nonbinary Awareness Week (week of 14th)

International Drag Day (July 16th)

National Parents' Day (USA, fourth Sunday)

International Self Care Day (July 24th)

August:

International Childfree Day (August 1st)

Autistic Dignity Day (August 8th)

Gay Uncles Day (second Sunday)

Polyamorous Awareness Week (third week)

International Butch Appreciation Day (August 18th)

Transgender Flag Day (August 19th)

Wear It Purple Day (Australia, last Friday)

International Day of Protest Against ABA (August 31st)

September:

Bi Pride Month

National Hispanic Heritage Month (Sept 15th-Oct 15th)

Bisexual Awareness Week (week of Sept 23)

Celebrate Bisexuality Day (Sept 23)

International Day of Sign Languages (Sept 23)

International Safe Abortion Day (Sept 28)

National Day For Truth and Reconciliation (Sept 30th, Canada)

October:

LGBTQ+ History Month (USA/Canada)

National Hispanic Heritage Month (Sept 15th-Oct 15th)

Augmentative and Alternative Communication Awareness Month

Domestic Violence Awareness Month

ADHD Awareness Month

National Kink Month (USA)

Black History Month (UK)

International Lesbian Day (Oct 8th)

World Mental Health Day (Oct 10th)

National Coming Out Day (Oct 11th)

National Freethought Day (Oct 12th)

OCD Awareness Week (second full week of October)

Trans Cake Day/Cake For Trans Friends Day (October 14th)

International Pronouns Day (third Wednesday)

Spirit Day (third Thursday)

Intersex Awareness Day (Oct 26th)

Asexual Awareness Week (last full week of October)

November:

Native American Heritage Month

Autistics Speaking Day (Nov 1st)

Intersex Day of Remembrance/Intersex Solidarity Day (Nov 8th)

Transgender Rite of Ancestor Elevation (Nov 12th-20th)

Trans Parent Day (first Sunday)

Transgender Awareness Week (Nov 13th-19th)

Nonbinary Children's Day (Nov 13th)

Transgender Day of Remembrance (TDOR, Nov 20th)

National Polyamory Day (Canada, Nov 23rd)

December:

World AIDS Day (Dec 1st)

International Day of People With Disabilities (Dec 3rd)

Bisexual Pride Flag Day (Dec 5th)

Gender Expansive Parents Day (Dec 6th)

Pansexual Pride Day (Dec 8th)

Human Rights Day (Dec 10th)

Sometimes I think my therapist was very wrong and I do, in fact, have ADHD and maybe knowing that fact for certain and getting access to ways to manage it would help a lot actually.

"Oh *****'s such a gifted child, she's very smart and answers all the teacher's questions. There's no way something could possibly be different about her!"

Then the years go by and I get worse and worse in class as teachers start assigning homework and projects but it can't be any sort of neurodivergence because '***** was always such a smart child, she's clearly just not putting in the effort anymore.'

I barely take care of myself because doing things like brushing my teeth or taking a shower or cleaning my room don't... Make me feel accomplished in any way, they just make me feel like I wasted my time and now my mouth tastes like mint and I can't eat or I'm all cold and wet or my stuff is just going to get taken back out anyway. It's probably depression or an anxiety disorder, let's give her some medicine for that.

The medicine helps me with some mild mood swings, but those become a non-issue when I'm out of school and the effort put in driving to the pharmacy and refilling my prescription just isn't worth it anymore.

I should probably go to the doctor, the dentist, the optometrist, but I really don't feel like scheduling an appointment right now, it can wait until my schedule's more free. Then my schedule gets more free and I forget because I always do unless the problem is right in front of me. There's a crack in the ceiling of my room that I should probably tell my parents about but I kept forgetting until my dad walked into my room and saw the crack himself.

Is something wrong with me? Or am I just lazy?

My therapist was probably right. I don't have ADHD, I'm just not putting in the effort.