The need to fit in and belong could arguably be one of humanity’s most desired traits, especially for children. When you are a child with learning differences, it can be exceedingly difficult to find that sense of belonging, especially when just wearing glasses or being bad at soccer can be enough to ensure social isolation from all the other kids.
Before I was diagnosed as being gifted in some artistic and academic areas with challenges in the areas of processing speed, working and sequential memory, and number comprehension and retention (along with generalized math disabilities), I struggled socially, experienced bullying, and didn’t fit in with other students my age despite having a very strong social drive. Having difficulty in my classes impacted my emotional state; tantrums and anger stemming from not getting my way occurred in the classroom and during recess. But would a diagnosis change that?
For many kids, being officially diagnosed as disabled or gifted feels like a social deathblow. What’s worse than having a signed doctor’s note validating ostracization from your classmates? This fear is something that was explored in the TV show
Malcolm in the Middle, in which the titular character was terrified of moving to the gifted class. The desire to fit in is embedded in almost all children’s media.
But I didn’t really have a fear of diagnoses because my learning issues were already causing me to struggle, and I already was ostracized. My diagnosis gave my teachers, my family, and me a better understanding of why.
When I was 10 years old, a diagnosis meant a few things. First, there was a logical reason that made it difficult for me to fit in with my classmates and that I wasn’t the bad kid all my teachers seemed to think I was. Most importantly, it meant I wasn’t stupid or lazy. Of course, being told by a grownup who had fancy certificates lining her wall that I was gifted was a bit like having Dumbledore knock at my door with a letter to Hogwarts. I was free from my metaphoric Dursleys.
Still, I didn’t really start grasping what being gifted with learning challenges meant until I started at Bridges Academy*, which was right after my testing. Bridges is an atypical school socially. Everyone had various conditions that made us atypical and because we all had them, it was normal. The first thing another kid asked me when I visited the school was, “What have you got?” It was not asked unkindly, but in that blunt, matter-of-fact way that kids often ask questions. It caught me off guard and I answered with a vague description of “I can’t do math.”
I didn’t know it then, but that was the start of a huge social change. My parents, teachers, and even my classmates were always discussing brain function. You can’t do an assignment? Why not? What is causing you to freeze up? Is it working memory? Spelling issues? Are you overwhelmed? We talked about these things all the time. My friends and I discussed our differences in learning and our similarities. Talking about how my brain worked became my normal.
[perfectpullquote align=”left” bordertop=”false” cite=”” link=”” color=”” class=”” size=””]I didn’t really have a fear of diagnoses because my learning issues were already causing me to struggle, and I already was ostracized. My diagnosis gave my teachers, my family, and me a better understanding of why.[/perfectpullquote]
When I transitioned from Bridges to college, I was suddenly in a more diverse and yet neurotypical population of students. For the first time in seven years, I was interacting with peers who didn’t have disabilities and didn’t understand neurodiversity in the way that my high school bubble did. The same fears of fitting in from when I was 10 reemerged. Everything that society had embedded into my brain about being “normal” was suddenly reactivated. Even after the years of acceptance I had at Bridges, I was buying the same shirts as the girls at college, trying to wear the same makeup. I dimmed my personality to blend in. This included trying to keep my learning disabilities under the radar.
I took a lot of precautions to keep my disguise on. I would talk to professors about my accommodations only after the classroom was completely empty and come up with excuses to explain to my new friends why I wasn’t taking exams with the rest of the class. It didn’t help that I was younger than most of the freshmen and that no one had heard of my high school. I started telling people I went to a large public school near my house and that I got special testing accommodations for anxiety, because stress and anxiety seemed more normal than my unnamed collection of disabilities. But suppressing all of this was hard and complicated, and it made socializing difficult because I wasn’t being myself. No matter how good you think you are at faking it, people can tell.
After a year of this I stopped caring so much because it was too hard to sustain. I started using all the skills I built up in high school talking about my brain function to explain things to my friends. And surprisingly, it worked. The word disability isn’t a bad thing. They didn’t care. It strengthened our friendships because now I could say, “I want to hang out but I will be overstimulated there. Can we go here instead?”
As kids, our lives depend on fitting in. I spent a lot of time and energy trying to navigate what a disability diagnosis would mean for me socially. I thought the word disability would drive people away, but actually being diagnosed and getting to understand my brain better meant that I could explain the reasons for my moods to people and avoid potentially triggering situations.
No one wants to be friends with someone who will get really angry for something as minor as texting to meet up an hour earlier than the plan had been. But being diagnosed means I understand myself better and can communicate what I need and what to avoid to the people I care about, and that’s just healthier for everyone.
*Bridges Academy is part of the Bridges Education Group, to which 2e News also belongs.
