I started the first day of this project with my legs spread in the least sexy way possible. I was getting an IUD, a common form of birth control, placed into my uterus. The procedure was highly routine for my ob-gyn and her medical assistant; like clockwork, the two traded clamps and swabs and other objects that I preferred to not enter my body. They wasted no words on each other and focused their verbal attention on me, guiding me through every step of the procedure. On the count of three, we all coughed together while my cervix was clamped back (an experience I never thought I’d have, but also one I definitely could’ve lived without). They dictated the sensations I was feeling as if they were onomatopoeia, applying “pressure, pressure, pressure, pressure” during the various steps of the procedure. They knew what to say and how to act. I wish I was able to do the same. 

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As paraphernalia entered my vaginal canal, I began to giggle. The first time I let out a chuckle, the women turned to stare at each other with wide eyes. I knew that this was, well, an interesting reaction to the worst vaginal cramping I had ever experienced, but I had no way to tell if this was “normal”. Laughing at pain is just something I have acquired over the years, and is a fairly common mechanism for coping with pain. The empathetic “pressure, pressure, pressure, pressure”s were soon drowned out by my pained giggling. The cramping subsided as my bits and bobs were unclipped from each other and the insertion devices were removed from my body, but instead of feeling relieved, I became incredibly distraught. 

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A medical procedure is a unique experience, a forced hyper-awareness of every inch of your body, what your facial expression looks like, how tightly you’re contracting your muscles, and the thoughts racing through your head. I became trapped in mine and far too cognizant of the mental dissonance between myself and the medical practitioners. As I held pressure with gauze to slow the bleeding, I asked my doctor, “was that weird?”, and apologized as I teared up. The doctor responded “well, yeah, I didn’t find that particularly funny”, told me she’d see me in five weeks for a follow-up, and ordered me to drink the canned apple juice she left for me on the operating table. I forced my tears to defy gravity, re-robed, and left the office. It’s been more than a month now and I can’t shake the feeling that I traumatized this doctor, and worse, that she thought I wasn’t normal. If she thought that, she’s right. 

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These are the types of instances that reconfirm my identity as neurodivergent. In essence, neurodivergence is when someone is mentally “atypical”, that they learn, behave, and process stimuli differently than those around them. The term used to be exclusive to those on the autism spectrum, but has expanded to include disorders like attention deficit hyperactivity disorder (ADHD), obsessive compulsive disorder (OCD), and the whole gambit of personality disorders. There are niche categories within the neurodivergence umbrella, like acquired neurodivergence, which includes personality disorders and both flavors of post-traumatic stress disorders (PTSDs), uncomplicated and complex. For clarity’s sake, even though autism is the most popular representation of neurodivergence in the media, neurodivergence is not equivalent to autism and not all autistic traits apply to all neurodivergent people, even autistic people. 

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Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD), the disorder I’ve been gifted with, is a special kind of acquired neurodivergence. It’s special because it’s terribly unique, the black sheep of the neurodiverse family. Symptoms typically appear at the cusp of adulthood and, to me, BPD exemplifies the word fluctuation. It is difficult for me to interpret others’ intentions, which is common for neurodiverse people, but I struggle to not see every hand gesture or facial expression as a personal insult. I am hellbent on pleasing others, but unable to clearly tell what they want, and it’s exhausting. I can be blunt or shy, impulsive or stringent, fiercely independent or emotionally anchored to someone. In times of stress, I categorize people in black and white; I either love them or I hate them. Based on this description, I can clearly see how BPD fits into the broad definition of neurodivergence, but just like my way of thinking, it’s not so cut-and-dry. 

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Personality disorders exist in the void between neurodivergence and neurotypicality. Many neurotypical people probably see me as socially inept; I’m loud and attention-seeking, but I find it difficult to hold conversation and balance my reactions to sensory stimuli. Still, I have a much easier time blending into their world than many other atypical people. So, not only am I always wondering if those around me think that I’m “off”, I am wondering if I can even relate to those who are classically considered neurodivergent, namely those on the Autism spectrum. 

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I’m going to be baring more than what’s between my legs through this project, so to start, I should be upfront about how I feel about the term “neurodivergent”. As a product of the many stigmatizations of neurodivergent people, namely their depictions in popular media, I was reluctant to start using the term “neurodivergent” to describe myself. Sometimes, I still question if I am even qualified to exist in the same space as people whose disorders leave them nonverbal or nonfunctional in public spaces. I can do everything that a neurotypical person can, just in a more awkward way. My instincts to reject this label come from a superiority complex that seems to run rampant in neurodivergent and neurotypical spaces alike, causing unnecessary tension between people with different types of cognition. By exploring the television shows that made me so adverse to owning my neurodiverse identity and by discussing various topics with neurotypical and atypical people, I hope to be able to fully embrace this part of who I am. 

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It’s probably pretty clear why I’ve chosen to focus on the idea of neurodivergence; I love talking, especially about myself. But, more seriously, I think that my type of neurodivergence is not a carbon copy of the classic notions of neurodivergence. People that know that I have BPD don’t think of me as neurodivergent. This sect of psychology is so well organized and progressive, yet the public is still being brainwashed by characters like Sheldon Cooper from the Big Bang Theory and even if they have an idea that not all neurodivergent people act like him, neurotypical ideas of atypicality are often far from accurate and full of blanket statements. 

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Weeks after my procedure, I am left questioning if what I want is to seem “normal” or some other alternative to being “abnormal”. Although I wish that I could be considered “normal” and want to be seen as such, is the participation trophy method of categorizations even applicable to neurodiversity? Would it not be reductive to consider every person’s quirks, especially those associated with neurodivergent tendencies, equally normal and equally special? This sentiment, to me, reads like a solution that would be thought up by someone who has never met a neurodivergent person in their life. Of course we can’t just be thrown into society and be expected to live life without any hitches; we have tendencies and behaviors that, at the minimum, should be discussed, and many times, could and should be considered when thinking about how to ease the struggles of everyday life for all people. So, as I interview my peers and conduct a deep-dive into my own thoughts on the neurodivergent community, I will continue to ask myself: what do I even want? 

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Multiple times throughout the creation of this project, I have been tasked to define "normal". Not to sound self-centered, but when I think of normalcy, I think of anything but myself; someone who has no quirks to hide and isn't self-conscious about their own behavior. Trust me, I realize that this is an unfair statement for many reasons. I am on neurodivergence easy mode; I can hide my tendencies very well, and if people notice something abnormal about me, they usually don't say anything about it to my face. While I definitely don't identify with the problematic representations of autism on television, I also deeply speculate about my own quirks, analyzing what box I can put myself into, wanting to determine what type of person I am. 

 

A contributing factor to my outward normalcy but internal atypicality is the robbery of the neurodivergent narrative by television production companies. If I'm not listing out facts about a topic I'm passionate about, or refusing to shake hands with someone for fear of germs, or showing little to no human emotion, to many, I am more or less "normal", though definitely less "normal" than neurotypical people. There is something abnormal about me, but not enough to categorize me with the various clones of Sheldon Cooper on cable television. 

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My definition of "normal" stems from the judgement that people like myself have faced from both communities, neurotypical and neurodivergent. It stems from insecurities that I didn't recognize in myself until I was diagnosed with BPD in July of 2021. All people want to be "normal", or at least interesting to "normal" people, but once someone is cast into the abnormal category, the people that were just atypical enough to be considered as such are no longer enough for those with a wider and more intense array of traits. It's not as tough as I'm making it sound, but I can't say that the feeling of being on the edge of both groups is an uncomfortable position. 

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So, where does that leave me? Until I conceived the idea for this project, I didn’t see the value in my position, but, as someone who can see both sides of the coin, someone who can notice when neurotypical people recognize someone as atypical and, in the same turn, empathize with that person, I think it’s fair of me to analyze the relationships between these groups of people. I want to explore the neurodivergent landscape from the perspectives of neurotypical people and neurodivergent people, but more importantly, conduct a deep-dive on specific relationships between these groups and how the perception and treatment of neurodivergent people can be dictated by media-driven stereotypes. Lastly, I aim to shed light on the many different quirks and qualities of many different neurodivergent individuals and expand the umbrella that we as neurodivergent people have been sheltered by for far too long.

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Disclaimer: the names in all of my essays have been changed to preserve the anonymity of those who chose to share their stories with me.

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