1. No, My Interests Aren't That Special

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it’s a five-part horror mystery game in which Sal Fisher, a teenaged boy sporting blue pigtails and a pink-and-white prosthetic mask, is tasked with the uncovering of a powerful force of evil lurking in the apartment building in which he lives. He, along with his three other outcast friends (the stoner metalhead, the gay nerd, and the tragic artist) descend into madness as they find themselves entrapped by the entity and its followers and are forced to make unthinkable sacrifices in order to stop them. Filled with unexpected twists, difficult logic puzzles, and lore reminiscent of the “I’m 14 and this is deep” aesthetic of the 2010s, this game is an indulgence in 90s and 2000s nostalgia that I couldn’t help but become infatuated with. The art style of Steve Gabry, the sole creator of the game, is incredibly distinct and eye-catching, the soundtrack is full of metal earworms, and the storyline is so wildly complex but oddly compelling that I found myself wondering how he even came up with the idea. Better yet, I wondered how one person could be so multi-talented that he could create an entire game by himself. 

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So I sought out answers. I started by watching interviews he had done with various internet content creators. He told them that the concept behind Sally Face was thought up in 2006 with the hopes of mimicking the art style of Nicktoons, but introducing mature content. I read every word of the Sally Face Wiki over and over again, still perplexed at how the game was created. I found myself watching YouTube content creators play the game wherever I went, even while using the Stairmaster at the gym. My TikTok For You Page became flooded with Sally Face cosplayers and fanart. I even began to create my own watercolor painting of some of the main characters. But, after three months or so, I lost interest in the game; I didn’t even finish my painting. 

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While this was not my first pop culture love affair, it was the first that I really sat down and thought about. This was because while in the midst of my love affair with Sally Face, I was formally diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD). This obsession was actually brought up during my first meeting with my psychiatrist when she asked about my current interests, one of which being video games. I didn’t think that my level of infatuation with the game was an indicator of any disorders, I just figured that my psychiatrist wanted to get to know me better. 

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What makes my excitement over specific pieces of media or activities notable (and probably more annoying) is that I will talk about them nonstop to whoever will listen. During my diagnostic session, I lost track of why I was even talking to the doctor and my focus shifted to convincing her, a woman in her 40s with children, to play a video game with a fanbase of children (and me). The psychiatrist eventually stopped me and asked me if I knew what the term “hyperfixation” was. It was then that I realized that the way that I engage with my own interests is abnormal. 

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Hyperfixation is a phenomenon that goes beyond the realm of nerddom. It is an obsession that, for days, weeks, or months, can hold a vice grip on the mind of a neurodivergent person to an almost painful degree. Every task is an obstacle to pass through in order to earn more time to engage in one’s hyperfixation, a disruption of a groove. While a hyperfixation lasts, it is incredibly difficult to shake, but as soon as it ends, it ENDS. Whether this manifests as eating the same breakfast for weeks on end, listening to a song on repeat, playing a video game until late hours of the night, hyperfixation can suddenly start and stop without any real explanation. Hyperfixation is not only one of the biggest commonalities between neurodivergent people that I know, but it is also one of the most misrepresented; hyperfixation and special interests are often muddled into a mutated version of both that seems even more all-consuming than the phenomena are in real life. 

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The first autistic person I ever met was a transportation fanatic. The cousin of my best friend, I met Freddie when I was extremely young, many years before I was diagnosed with a personality disorder or even understood what autism was. Freddie was able to name the models of every train that came through our local station and every car he’d see on the road, and would blurt these out in the middle of unrelated conversations. He seemingly thought about nothing but vehicles. Although I was overwhelmed by his devotion to this interest, his unabashed appreciation for transportation unintentionally set the tone for my interaction with those whose interests ran deeper and lasted longer than mine. This wasn’t a hyperfixation, this was a special interest, the seemingly more well-known term. When questioning if I am spending too much time in a state of obsession, I often think about how proud he was to love what he loved and wanted to share that love with the people that he loved; how could that be too much to want?

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Special interests are a totally different category of neurodivergent manifestation. Special interests are a yellow flame, they burn slowly, always casting a light on the people who have them. They are often integrated into everyday life and can last anywhere from a few years up to a whole lifetime. While people who have special interests become familiar with a subject or hobby for a period of time, unlike my love of Brendon Urie and the pop-punk genre in high school, “it’s not a phase, Mom!”. Special interests can often be much deeper and more sentimental than hyperfixations, because the person and their interest have spent much more quality time together. It is not an obsession, but a passion, one that is sustainable. 

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I’m not really sure if I have a special interest. Sure, I have interests that have spanned throughout my entire life, like listening to and making music, consuming Internet content, especially YouTube videos, and all things horror, but it is difficult to determine if these are special interests or just, well, interests. Being Borderline makes it extremely difficult to tell if my interests exist in the realm of neurotypicality or neurodivergence, if the amount of information I know about a certain topic or the amount of time I spend engaging with an interest qualifies it as an “abnormal” amount of appreciation.

 

To be fully transparent, though, I don’t really care to answer this question, because having interests that are hyper-personalized, whether they are elevated to special interest status or not, are still important and valuable to my quality of life. If someone wants to classify their passion for something as a special interest, they can and should be able to. If they don’t want to use the term or are unsure if they qualify for this extremely specific category, I say no harm, no foul. Like all terms surrounding neurodivergent tropes or behaviors, they should be used only to empower the person and make them feel more understood. 

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What complicates my perception of my own interests further is the existence of neurotypical people that are equally, if not more prone to obsession. My current partner is the main source of my feelings of ambivalence, but I have experienced what I’ll coin as “shared hyperfixation” with multiple friends and partners, none of whom have cited experiencing hyperfixation in the past. Shared hyperfixation is when one person begins to explore an interest, the other one joins in, and they both obsess until one or both parties grows tired of it. For my partner and I, this has been Animal Crossing (we played for multiple hours a day for a month and a half and one day, both completely abandoned our islands), for my friend with a partner with ADHD, it’s cooking and baking, and for my dad and I, it’s Halestorm, a mildly edgy and incredibly corny 2000s rock band.

 

In theorizing about how this phenomenon occurs, my first consideration is that neurotypical people in the presence of a neurodivergent person can engage in their obsessions in order to connect with this person, then start to understand that they have been given the opportunity to let go of the notion that interests, especially the ones that are considered less mainstream, should be enjoyed at a “normal” level; neurodivergent people can encourage others to let go in the same ways that they can. 

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I will use an example that in practicality, is terrible, but is so incredibly drastic that the point will practically be thrown at you. Sheldon Cooper (Jim Parsons), the autism-coded star of everyone’s least favorite sit-com, The Big Bang Theory, exhibits multiple special interests throughout the many, many seasons (how they milked autism for 12 seasons is absolutely beyond me). Obviously, Sheldon is interested in astrophysics, it’s his career of course, and it is unclear whether the producers of this show intended for his love of physics to be considered a special interest or just a job that he loves; not every interest can reach the “special interest” status. Just like my friend Freddie, though, he clearly demonstrates a long-lasting infatuation for everything locomotor. 

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There are four different (but very similarly named) episodes of the show that center around Sheldon’s love of trains, demonstrating that his passion for them does not fizzle out quickly. While I haven’t watched The Big Bang Theory since I stopped having to watch whatever my mom put on the television in our living room, the plot lines of some of these episodes do stick with me. Season 7, Episode 15, titled “The Locomotive Manipulation” (how did this title get greenlit?), Amy (Mayim Bialik), Sheldon’s girlfriend, can only get him to go with her on a trip for Valentine’s Day by booking their travel via a vintage train. While on the train, Sheldon spends most of his time bonding with the conductor and geeking out over the train instead of having a romantic getaway with Amy, until they have a heated argument in the dining car that leads to him angrily kissing her; this was presumably their first kiss. Thinking back on this episode, I turn red in the face, because neurodivergent people do not need to be tricked into romantic relationships, especially by way of a special interest. This notion equates fully grown adults that need clear communication to children being tempted with treats. Special interests are a focal point for neurodivergent people, but portrayals such as Sheldon convince audience members that we are two-dimensional people that need to be lured into doing “normal people things”. 

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Sheldon is shown to obsess over so many topics that his representation becomes impractical. In fact, I’m not sure that he really hyperfixated on anything besides his astrophysics research. It seemed that every interest he had was a full-blown special interest. While digging through my mind palace to think of his hyperfixations, I remembered a few, looked them up on the internet, and found that there were multiple episodes about each of them spanning many different seasons. For example, I remembered the inaugural “Fun With Flags'' episode, where Sheldon started filming a series of videos that showcased his vast knowledge of flags. I Googled “Fun With Flags'' and found eight different episodes that feature the segment!

 

The closest representation that I found of hyperfixation was video games; each one that was featured on the show was only featured once or twice, so although video games as a whole could also be considered a special interest for him, each individual game had its own phases, much like my now barren island in Animal Crossing. So there are two terms that

I’ve laid out that have slightly different definitions. Why does this distinction matter?

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Special interests are a way to bring continuity to a television series and can be brought up over and over and over (and over) again and still be compelling. Hyperfixations, if shown accurately, would span a couple of episodes, then maybe return a few seasons later for a hot second, then fade into obscurity. It is clearly advantageous to create a cash cow out of a neurodivergent character by more or less re-hashing the same ideas in different episodes and gaining a reputation for them. Sheldon Cooper is known to love trains, and his love for them has been drilled into our brains season after season of the show. 

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What The Big Bang Theory fails to note is that not every interest can be a special interest in real life, because real time is shorter than television time, and no person has the time to cultivate such a deep passion for so many subjects and hobbies while still being a semi-active member of society. The truth is that neurodivergent brains are really, really good, at focusing on one topic and shutting  The reason that this image is damaging is that it sends the message to neurotypical people that we, as atypical people, are not defined through our personalities, but through a handful of pop culture buzzwords or pastimes. “Normal” people take up new interests and drop them just the same as neurodivergent people can, and some of us tend to fall fast and hard, then abandon some of our loves, or commit to them for long periods of time. Neither form of passion is that difficult to respect or understand. 

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After creating multiple pages of word vomit and condensing them into this essay, I have learned that I judge my own neurodivergent qualifications with a fine-toothed comb. I question whether or not any one of my traits or hobbies is only present in my life because of my personality disorder. Unfortunately, with a condition that has the term “personality” in the name, it’s pretty impossible to tell what habits inherently mine and what aspects of myself were brought on by trauma.

 

At the end of the day, though, my neurodivergence does intertwine with all aspects of my life, and as far as my hyperfixation goes, although it is a taxing trait, becoming deeply invested in projects and pop culture is incredibly fun and is a unique experience that I appreciate more than I struggle with. The phenomena of hyperfixating and having special interests is prevalent within our community, but the traits are by no means exclusive to neurodivergent people and are not even necessary to define. Use the words for yourself if you’d like, don’t if you wouldn’t, and keep learning and exploring in whatever ways bring you the most enjoyment.

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2. The Social Ineptitude/ Hotness Scale

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A few weeks ago, I lied to the professor in charge of my research lab. My crime was simple: a flask of my bacterial culture was knocked out of our lab’s incubator, and my coworker reported the spill to our professor without my knowledge (and without cleaning the spill). I came in the next morning and found my flask strewn over the top of the incubator, completely empty. In a perfectionism-driven fit, I sprayed down the entire incubator with ethanol and made another culture of bacteria, hopeful that I could get away with clean hands. I emailed my professor stating that the bacteria “just didn’t seem to grow” and that I had made a second culture. Was this wrong of me? Maybe. But I really didn’t care. 

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Jobs with high amounts of cooperation, especially those in highly academic fields, are some of the toughest jobs for neurodivergent people, yet I have gone down a research-driven career path, one filled with constant examinations of worth; I am always being assessed on my laboratory skills, data analysis, and presentation abilities, and as long as I am in this field of study, I will be never-endingly judged by my superiors. Most people in the field of scientific research find it difficult to adjust to the constant ridicule and frankly brutal conditions of rigorous academic research, but many can surmount these issues, because they understand that the criticisms they receive are fundamentally impersonal and solely based on their work. For someone like myself who cannot separate any aspect of their life, like hobbies, interests, and most importantly, their employment, from their personhood, this is an impossible task. 

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 If I didn’t get caught, I wouldn’t have regretted it for a second. I could’ve escaped from the wrath of my professor, which, at worst, would’ve been a stern talking to that would eat up a part of my work day, but to me, even a mild scolding by any person is overwhelming and leaves me feeling insurmountable levels of emotion and numbness in tandem. My mental gears come to a screeching halt, leaving my ears ringing, but leaving the rest of my body cold and clammy. Fixation on this feeling is oddly satisfying in the moment, just because it seems impossible to experience, but if I had the choice, I’d never endure it again. I understand that this mental paralysis might be unique to neurodivergent people, or to me, but rest assured that the inability to respond “normally” to strong emotions is extremely common. My professor did end up finding out about my lie, told me I had committed a “moral failure”, and I spiraled the same way I hoped I wouldn’t have to. 

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Reconciling with social hierarchies is difficult for myself and other neurodivergent people that I have interviewed. My best guess as to why is that since there are no written rules that accompany this concept, it is difficult to navigate. My interactions with my professor exemplify this well; I struggle to understand why people in high-profile positions are allowed to speak sharply to their inferiors and why a job title can dictate the pain they are allowed to inflict on others. Though I know that I don’t have it that bad in my lab, my professor is incredibly forgiving and very evidently cares about his coworkers, I still question his and my positions. It’s not an issue with understanding how power arises, but with the implication that more power means more social privilege. 

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Some people break this mold, some of them even being neurodivergent. The key is charisma, an unquantifiable and difficult trait to attain by the time you recognize its use. I see charisma in my labmates, some of whom could be considered slackers, but never receive the “wrath” of our leading professor. In fact, they never seem to be questioned about their work in the slightest. They aren’t held accountable, I think, because of their smooth-talking nature, their ability to entrance and distract others from what they are or aren’t doing. It doesn't matter what these people are doing, they are always going to be liked and have a social advantage. Then there's me.

 

 I am not charismatic. I am not charming. I am loud, socially awkward, and overly sensitive, a recipe for being subject to the system that I don’t understand. 

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It has taken a long time for me to come to this realization. I used to think of myself as sociable, but solely on the basis of me being extroverted, meaning that I seek out social interaction more frequently than I seek alone time. Though I would consider myself to be more of an ambivert, a combination of introvert and extrovert, my sense of longing for attention often drowns out my desire to be alone, though some of the time, sensory overstimulation can make that choice for me.

 

Until I was dropped off at a college campus 600 miles from my childhood home, I didn’t know that I was socially inept, and this is a lucky experience, because it means that I am not as inept as I could be, that my awkwardness can fly under the radar if I feign confidence in public. Still, though, I can’t hide any of it that well. Eye contact can last for seconds at a time until I feel an intrinsic need to look away or squeeze my eyes shut. When talking, I catch myself on tangents more often than not, or I interrupt other people, because I physically cannot hold my thoughts in my mouth any longer. As a child and teenager, these behaviors are seen as normal, but it seems as though everyone else has grown up. 

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When I would come home from school, my mom would either be watching Days of Our Lives or Criminal Minds. I would know she was watching the latter as soon as I’d walk in the door, she’d practically be drooling over Derek Morgan and Spencer Reid from the latter show. Nowadays, Spencer Reid (Matthew Gray Gubler) is still being fawned over, raking in an audience of fangirls and their equally obsessed mothers.

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I must admit that, though to a lesser extent, I related to these fangirls; he’s soft-spoken, doe-eyed, and starkly contrasts the more abrasive and loud characters that make up the rest of the cast. I get the craze, but it also makes me feel incredibly conflicted.

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I have a deep envy for neurodivergent people that have surpassed the social barriers we face in respect to neurotypical people. Spencer Reid, who has been diagnosed by the Internet with autism, is one of those people. He is incredibly awkward, talks in a stream of consciousness, neglects many social cues, yet still, he is the hot ticket item of the show. I do all of those things, too. What does he have that I don’t?

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In preparation for this rant, I watched some YouTube compilations of Spencer, looking up “Spencer Reid Neurodivergent”, “Spencer Reid Analysis”, and, ashamedly, “Spencer Reid Hot”. Don’t blame me, I’m just trying to get in the heads of the masses. From these clips, it seems like the show writers picked and chose when they wanted to bring out his autistic traits. These back-to-back compilations highlighted that extremely well. In one clip, he would be struggling to get his words out in front of a group of high school students, talking at the floor while interrogating an inmate, or not understanding the implications of the K-I-S-S-I-N-G song, but the next, he’d be making perfect eye contact while standing in a circle with other detectives, speaking very clearly to a witness, or confidently talking to crowds of press with microphones and cameras in his face.

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Spencer Reid is an autistic character made for the neurotypical female gaze. His social failures are played off as awkwardness, and in tandem with his good looks and overall energy, they win him sympathy. He can get away wasting a coworker’s time with facts about Star Wars, or avoid shaking someone’s hand by simply looking away, or tell a convoluted joke, and everyone watching just laughs off his behavior. Nothing that he does is really that big of an inconvenience, which on one hand, is a message that can have some positive implications. No neurodivergent person should be treated like a ticking time bomb. But, on the flipside, Reid, and us real neurodivergent people, are loved when we’re just awkward enough to be funny. If we’re not funny or attractive, then we’re worthless. If he was to have overstimulation-driven breakdowns, or if he exemplified more traits than those convenient enough to add to the script, maybe girls wouldn’t be so utterly obsessed with him. 

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The difference between Reid and every other character I will talk about is that he is physically attractive and therefore, deeply charismatic. That’s it. The portrayal of most autistic men is close to the same. They all are tall, lanky men with, and I hope this isn’t insulting, doofy faces and slicked back hair. Matthew Gray Gubler is a model. No matter what personality the writers gave him, straight women would still foam at the mouth over him. Even when he is exhibiting more atypical traits, he does so with a cheeky little grin on his dimpled face. Gubler himself is confident; and just like most beautiful people, he knows he is too. This seems to bleed into Reid’s character.

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Looking past the fluctuations in character portrayal, I still think that he is one of the better neurodivergent characters I’ve seen on television. I personally am not offended by the writers’ choices with his character, and I think they made him seem extremely approachable, which is appreciated. His abnormalities are so mild that even he himself doesn’t recognize his neurodivergence, and in a comedically timed moment, explains the symptoms of autism spectrum disorder, gets asked if he has it, and then responds like he doesn’t understand the question. He doesn’t have to worry about whether or not he’s actually on the autism spectrum. No one seems to think it’s anything but endearing. Oh, how I wish I could live that life. 

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I am not a straight man with a 90s boyband haircut that also happens to be a savant with a genius level IQ, like Spencer Reid. Sure I’m not ugly, but I am attainably attractive. My grades are above average, but I have to study incredibly hard to get those grades. In all aspects of my life except for social abilities, I am worse off than Reid. It is tough for me to compare our social abilities, because although I probably am more camouflaged into society, he is far more loved by everyone he meets than I am. This isn’t a desperate cry for attention, I mean, I’m comparing myself to a person that doesn’t exist. These facts don’t make me upset, they simply make me question what factors beyond neurodivergence play a role in likeability. Even to those who do think I am attractive, unlike their experiences with television show characters, they don’t get to experience vignettes of me ranting about my hyperfixations, then see a jump-cut to an interrogation scene. I am not on a crime show. Life isn’t built like that. 

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My social awkwardness, though often well-managed, is not as funny as Reid’s, because it doesn’t get to go away once I stop reading my lines. It will probably last for the rest of my life, and I will always struggle with my connections to other people. He is questioned so lightly about his behavior that he assumes that these thoughts are just jokes that he doesn’t understand. When you’re hot and have 3 PhDs, I guess you don’t have to worry about those types of things. 

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I’ll keep thinking about this graph I have made, this hot-to-neurodivergent scale to determine social success, and considering if other factors make me less likable than someone like Spencer Reid. Maybe, and probably, some people just don’t like my personality, which has been partially fueled by my BPD, but not completely. This may be a less than satisfactory conclusion, but maybe, he’s just likable, despite being autistic, and likability is made up of a nonexistent list of factors that is incredibly subjective. Though I stumble through my words and take others’ words far too personally, I am still liked more than I am disliked, and for once, I’ll try to focus on this glass-half-full approach and try to stop holding myself to the same standards as fictional people. 

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3. I'm Not Too Hard to Love

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I arrived at my last first date 20 minutes early, but told my date that I was there only two minutes before we were set to meet. I wanted to get there first so that I had complete control over how he saw me for the first time. As I waited, I sat on a stone bench, leaned back against the armrest on one side, and listened to alternative music (the kind that makes me feel worth talking to) while staring off at the gray rain clouds approaching from the distance. I wanted to make sure that, on this date, I seemed too good to be true; I wanted to be perfect, but seemingly unaware of it and completely unbothered, even though I picked out my outfit the night before and spent two hours getting ready beforehand. This attitude would surely make him like me and not suspect anything off-putting.

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When he walked up to me, I could tell that he was nervous; even his darkened transition lenses couldn’t hide his flushed complexion. No one I’ve ever been on a date with was so silently forthcoming about their nerves; all of my previous flings were extremely sure of themselves or also faking their confidence. He later told me that in those moments, he was noting how comfortable I seemed with myself and my surroundings and questioning if he would be exciting enough to entertain me. He would soon find out, though, that the confidence I oozed in those moments was calculated, an effort to mask my neurodivergence. I clumsily shoved my earbuds into my purse as I walked towards him and blurted out “can I hug you? I’m a hugger”. I didn’t know I was a hugger until I asked him that question. 

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As I talked to other neurodivergent people that have been on a first date, the idea of masking was brought up multiple times. The goal of masking is essentially to be more palatable for those who aren’t neurodivergent, to hide all of the behavioral anomalies that, if the relationship lasts, would have to come out at some point. Some neurodivergent people are better at this than others, me being one of them. I can pretend to be engaged during small talk, sit up properly, and keep my hands still, laughing and smiling at times that I figure are appropriate. 

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Masking builds an internal dam of motionlessness in our bodies, and I often find myself bursting out of my mask as soon as I can take it off; I immediately wiggle my fingers and toes and fling my extremities around to release the pent up physical urges. This system is far from perfect, though, as there are actions and traits that are extremely difficult to mask. One friend who was talking to me about her masking techniques told me that eye contact was her biggest difficulty; for some people, even pretending to be comfortable making eye contact is too uncomfortable, so their lack of eye contact will always be a dead giveaway that they are faking their comfort in social situations. 

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Until I met my current partner, I didn’t really understand that the purpose of going on dates is to find someone that you like, not just to find someone that is willing to date you. I figured that my awkward tendencies and other quirks would make me someone to settle for, so I often failed to consider what qualities I’d want in a partner. I more or less figured that if a person could overlook my scatterbrain and difficulties with social cues, they must be the best I can get. I never asked myself if I liked them, but thought incessantly about whether or not they liked me. I have since learned that there are people that can check the right boxes and not only tolerate atypical behavior, but fully embrace it and want to learn, because it is a part of someone they love.

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As we began to walk through our local art fair, I considered what would happen if I just acted like myself, if I demonstrated my neurodivergence without telling him explicitly. Would he point out my bluntness or get frustrated when I accidentally interrupt him? Would he be uncomfortable with the questions that I am unable to filter out? In the worst case scenario, he would decide to not go on a second date, and while I am adverse to rejection by a potential partner, it would be better to know that we would be incompatible than act as a fleeting reflection of someone more ideal than myself. I decided in those moments that I would unmask myself, avoid the small talk, and really think about whether I enjoyed spending time with him or not, not if he noticed anything strange about my behavior.

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Choosing a character to reflect on in the context of love and romance was a tough task, because in almost every television show with a neurodivergent character, the writers make an attempt to force that character into a relationship. It always seems like they're trying to show us that neurodivergent people can be in relationships, then show us a couple made up of a neurodivergent man and a woman that is a social outcast. The message here is clear, that neurodivergent people are hard to date and exist at the bottom of the barrel. Luckily, I found one show that doesn't express this sentiment, and it comes from one of my favorite shows of all time. 

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Not because he is the best representation of neurodivergent people, but that he is the most unapologetic one, and my admiration for his character on Community only grew when his love interest, Rachel (Brie Larson), was introduced in Season 4. Abed’s schtick is re-enacting movie tropes, and during this episode, he plays the part of the two-timer, as his friends had set him up on dates with two different women during the same dance, none of whom he is attracted to. While juggling his dates, he runs into Rachel in the coat room, and she agrees to help him change outfits and keep one of his dates distracted while Abed woos the other. It’s an incredibly exciting scene to watch, because Rachel is introduced as a wingman to Abed’s shenanigans, but evolves into the one that watchers want him to end up with. 

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I watched this episode for the first time before I was diagnosed with BPD, and although I was absolutely rooting for the couple during the first watch, during my second watch-through, I felt like I had a stake in their outcome. I projected my own necessity to be loved by someone onto his character, who is usually unphased by the idea of dating. He demonstrated this in Season 1, when he gets the opportunity to meet a secret admirer that drew him in the front cover of a textbook. He really only attempts to approach her when he is pressured to do so by his friend group.

 

As an extreme form of masking, he takes on a whole different persona, morphing into someone more suave and forward than himself, and does so without any intention of dating her. After the situation dwindles (turns out, Abed bears striking resemblance to the secret admirer’s boyfriend), he reiterates that he only approached her to satisfy his friends and asserts that he doesn’t need to mask, because the ladies apparently flock to him. Whether or not this is true, his confidence in his raw personality is something that I strive to achieve. 

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Although most masking is not as dramatic as changing one’s entire personality, I love that the writers of the show made this choice. The drastic nature of Abed’s masking, the complete alteration of his generally staccato movements to ones that were flowing and grandiose, is a large enough change to elicit laughs, but also, a very clear representation of what the masking phenomenon is. I don’t know anyone that takes masking to this extreme, and I doubt they exist, which is a big reason why this works. His character is satirical and demonstrates a constructive point, not just a funny man on the autism spectrum that makes us laugh.

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What is endearing about the relationship between Rachel and Abed is how genuine and relatable they are, and despite the shenanigans that the group gets up to, their relationship is clearly healthy and comfortable. They are mostly depicted watching cartoons together and talking about their love of movies and television. Their communication, although mostly through movie references, is understood well by both of them, making them the type of partnership that neurodivergent people seek out. Even though their relationship is built on impracticality, it seems way more real and way more desirable than many other neurodivergent relationships seen in television, especially ones like Amy and Sheldon from The Big Bang Theory, whose miscommunications and mismatched libidos are used as forms of entertainment, not as commentaries on atypical relationships. 

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 After touring most of the vendors at the fair, we sat out on the lawn in the center of campus waiting for a table to clear at a restaurant. After I finished telling him that his use of a Hydroflask was likely not going to stop turtles from choking on plastics, I brought up an even more unsettling question for a first date: “So, do you believe in God?” Instead of declining to answer this deeply personal question, he divulged to me his honest opinion, adding that he is open to, but not fully convinced of, phenomena like destiny and karma. Though I don’t believe in anything cosmic bringing us together, every so often, he’ll tell me that it must be fate or an insane amount of luck. I think it was our mutual vulnerability that fueled the spark. 

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When we first met, my then date and now boyfriend had no idea that I was neurodivergent, even though I was not masking. He now lovingly describes me as an “extrovert with a little extra”, meaning that although some of my actions were slightly strange, he just saw them as a manifestation of my comfort with myself and with my surroundings. I still can’t figure out if this was a unique experience or not, because I have none to compare it to. I had never been myself on a first date before, so it’s impossible for me to know if my unmasked self is averting to potential partners. If I get lucky, I’ll never have to find out. 

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After we both got home from that first date, I felt the immediate need to text him and apologize for my behavior, though he saw my blunt nature and inability to talk quietly as a sign of personal pride. Fully expecting him to be less attracted to me after I disclosed the reasons behind my nature, I was shocked when he told me that I didn’t need to explain myself, that he was willing to talk about it with me, and that he was looking to make communication and boundary-setting the key principles of our relationship, no matter how far it was going to go. No person is the perfect partner at the start of a relationship, but the willingness to be communicative and supportive is not only ideal, but, for neurodivergent people, necessary. 

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My boyfriend is by no means a savior. He is not a one-of-a-kind partner that most neurodivergent people would dream to have, but will never find. Of course I am grateful to know him, as he listens nonjudgmentally and actively seeks out ways to make me feel comfortable and cared for, giving me the opportunity to unmask in a safe space, but if we are solely thinking about his attitude towards neurodivergent people, he shouldn’t be regarded as a once-in-a-lifetime type of person. I think that every person, regardless of if they are neurodivergent or neurotypical, should be willing to learn how to best nurture their partners to make them feel understood. There is so much to be learned about the human connection through neurodivergent people, and every person, neurodivergent or neurotypical, deserves to not only have their needs be accommodated by their partner, but have a partner that embraces and loves the parts of themselves that they think warrant a loveless life.

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4. Family Ties and Falsified Connections

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When my friend texted me a year ago about his sibling’s breakdown in the middle of the airport, I didn’t know why I was the one he chose to confide in. Jack doesn’t talk much about Avery (I didn’t even know she existed until this conversation), not that he’s hiding them from the world, at least I hope he isn’t. He didn’t choose me for any reason, he didn’t even know I was neurodivergent until recently, but I assumed the worst; that he was making a connection between us that I was not ready to make. 

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His family was waiting to board the plane when Avery began having an outburst. All Jack said was that he wished that traveling would be easier, but this was enough for me to begin to pity-fantasize about the situation. I pictured them in my head, a figure with undefined facial features, head locked between their knees, hands over their face. Old people in Hawaiian shirts are probably glaring at them; it probably caught the attention of the whole gate. Their family must be so embarrassed. They apparently got to their destination, though I didn’t bother to ask about the details.

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The phrases of judgment that clouded my mind came from a place of naivety and ignorance laced with reluctant empathy. I was mere months away from my diagnosis of BPD, but light years away from fully being able to commiserate with my friend’s neurodivergent sibling. I’m still not able to fully relate, as I can mask 24/7. Some people with disorders that involve high sensory sensitivity and lack of motor control aren’t afforded that luxury. Avery is the type of person that requires special education and will never be able to live on their own, and I had the audacity to assume that he saw us as equals. My struggles can be hidden, so I am privileged in the ways that Avery is clearly not. 

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Although Jack has never spoken poorly of his sibling, I translated a sense of embarrassment that I thought up onto myself; the thought that my family may be embarrassed about my existence became superglued to my brain. My parents probably didn’t tell their friends when, as a child and teenager, I’d cry in the car while on the way to an overstimulating 3-D movie, or when I'd speak unnecessarily loud, because I couldn't judge what volume of speech was appropriate, or when seemingly suddenly, I went from their “giggly girl” to the child they didn’t know how to handle. I wondered if Avery would be offended by this reflection. I hated myself making an unfair comparison between us, like she was all the parts of myself that I wished would disappear. I hated how much I obsessed over this person, a person who may not know I exist. 

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Having someone that lives in your house that speaks a slightly different language than everyone else is understandably difficult. Unless they have one of the more well-known neurodivergent disorders and have been correctly diagnosed by a clinician, many parents don’t even know what’s “wrong” with their child. This is common with disorders that have a later onset date, like personality disorders, ADHD, and OCD, which often manifest years before a diagnosis is given. Many non-male children with autism also live sans diagnosis, creating a suffocating layer of cling wrap around them during their most formative years. This can create a rift between family members that is difficult to surmount, but very possible with the right resources and mindset. 

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My take on this subject comes from a point of privilege, as not only do I not have any disorders that would require me to receive special education or treatment during my childhood, I’ve always had access to therapy and medical resources. I firmly believe that parents and siblings often choose to not address the adverse behaviors of non-autistic neurodivergent children, especially those who are undiagnosed. It is so much easier to blame any and all symptoms on our perceived notion of “crazy”, discipline a child for what they cannot control, and feign shock and awe when they are later diagnosed with a disorder that explains most or all of their behavior. Parents should be encouraged to ask professionals about the behavior differences their children experience, not punish them and hope that it’ll just stop. While this doesn’t solve the problems surrounding behavioral management post-diagnosis, it at least would point parents or family members in the right direction. 

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The show centers around Sam Gardner (Keir Gilchrist, who is neurotypical), a cisgendered, heterosexual, Sheldon Cooper carbon-copy) attending therapy and support groups while exploring the world of dating. My only takeaway from the show was the absolute shitshow that is the Gardner family. 

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The release of Atypical existed in the foreground of a world painted with a surge of awful takes about neurodiversity, namely the Trump administration’s antivaxx stint, in which they claimed many times through tweets and public statements that vaccines cause autism. Hand in hand with the essential oil enthusiasts, everyone who feared the neurodiverse community banded together to isolate those who seemed different from them. Atypical was meant to remedy some of that sentiment. It clearly did not succeed, and in my opinion, is one step up from a smear campaign against neurodiversity. 

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If you’ve seen the show and you’re neurotypical, you probably disagree with me. The show scored an 87% on Rotten Tomatoes, and an estimated 95% of viewers enjoyed it. I think they’re wrong. When I watched Season 1 in 2020, I was undiagnosed, but even still, knew that something about the show was wrong. Sarah Kurchack, an autistic journalist, heavily documented the series during its runtime from 2017 to 2021. She synopsizes the family’s dynamics perfectly: 

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“His sister Casey (Brigette Lundy-Paine) feels ignored in favor of her brother and acts out. His father (Michael Rapaport) still struggles to completely accept his autism and might not be the most attentive husband. His overprotective mother (Jennifer Jason Leigh) struggles with letting go, and she has an affair.”

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The show insinuates that having one autistic child means the other will be attention-starved and that the parents will be constantly worn-down and resentful of their children and each other. It teaches us that no matter how many therapy sessions or support groups a neurodiverse person attends, even the best equipped families will suffer at the hands of a neurodiverse child. Not only is this far from reality for many families, even if it is the truth to some, how is this portrayal serving neurodiverse people? How does it paint someone like me or Avery as anything other than a homewrecker? 

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The finale of Season 1 starts off with Sam rudely breaking up with Paige (Jenna Boyd), his partner, while at dinner with her parents, then taking the bus to his therapist’s office, confessing his love for her, and owning up to breaking into her apartment and leaving chocolates for her boyfriend to find. While the notion that autistic people don’t understand major conflicts of interest and what constitutes a crime are damning, the writers choose to not address this. After screaming at Sam for having a meltdown on the bus (and nothing else), then tucking him into bed with his favorite sweatshirt, Doug, Sam’s dad, calls the therapist to condemn her actions and goes on a verbal tirade for the rest of the episode eventually uncovering his wife’s affair with a local bartender while his son is busy getting a handjob in the middle of his school dance (gross). 

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Sam Gardner is only ever disciplined for what he can’t control; his meltdowns, his sensory overload, his hyperfixations, but never any of the oral garbage that he spews at other people. This likely leaves viewers thinking that neurodiverse people can’t control what comes out of our mouths, or worse, that we don’t care. This is the most frustrating aspect of the show; his parents let their child be an asshole, then blame him for the fallout of their family. How did this get greenlit? Who thought these characters were constructive? Obviously, a team of writers and directors with a limited connection to families of mixed neurological traits.

 

I talked to my friend, Gabby, about the show after a conversation about living with a sister with ADHD, and although she enjoyed the show, she agreed with me that it is problematic. Her sister, Grace, has lived with ADHD for years, but was only recently diagnosed, and Gabby explained to me their family dynamics. Her parents, especially her dad, are still in a state of semi-disbelief, as adjusting one’s mindset to cater a neurodivergent person takes time, and she herself has been an advocate for her sister, forging the search for more productive methods of communication and encouraging her to be consistent with her medication. Sure, they’ve had to adjust to life with a person who is slightly out of sync with the rest of them, but by no means does this justify any outlandish behavior from the rest of her family members. If anything, she and her parents have become more forgiving and understanding of her sister’s struggles, especially after her formal diagnosis. 

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Though ADHD and autism are obviously not the same, they share many characteristics, like hyperfocus and altered expression of empathy, lending ADHD-ridden people and those around them the right to voice their input on neurodiverse representation in television. This is at least one family that cannot relate to the strange behavior of the Gardners.

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Mine can’t either, but not because I was never punished for my tendencies, but because I wasn’t diagnosed with BPD until I had fully moved out of the house. A disorder that isn’t a household name, BPD is oftentimes not placed into the same category as other disorders, ones like Avery’s and Sam’s, and especially for older and less open-minded people, attributing erratic behavior to BPD is tough; it is far easier to write someone off as generally “crazy” or “psycho” than actually address the source of their undesirable behavior.

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I began to experience this write-off of my symptoms at age 13, when my behavior worsened after a new source of trauma appeared: my diagnosis with a chronic illness. I had trouble managing my emotional response to stimuli and began experiencing sensory overload for the first time, leading to many outbursts that were met with screams, not support. I had no idea why I was acting the way I was and I didn’t want to be causing stress for my family, but none of them were willing to blame my behavior on anything but an onslaught of hormones. I was sent to therapy as punishment for being “psycho” when I was 15; no one in my family attempted to understand me better, I was just considered a problem and, to an extent, still am.

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The therapist I was sent to, an old, conservative woman who specialized in couples counseling (aka was not qualified to work with me) watched me scream and cry as my mom pushed me into her office every week and stared blankly at me when I wouldn’t be able to sit still in her chair or refuse to stop pressing my hands to my own ears. She had the opportunity to bridge the gap between my family and myself, but instead, made me feel even less understood and, effectively, failed all of us, allowing my parents and sibling to continue their name-calling and ignoring my struggle. I learned through all of this to blame myself for what I didn’t understand about my own behavior and spend most of my time as a teenager holed up in my bedroom, alone, where I thought I deserved to be.

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I was formally diagnosed with BPD five years after my rough start with therapy, and so far, only my father has made any attempts to understand how I think; he read up on the disorder, listened to the podcasts I sent him on the subject, and helped me enroll in BPD-specific therapy. Learning about my trauma-induced disorder has seemingly validated his own thoughts and perceptions about our family dynamics, and I know that phone calls and visits with him are safe spaces to fully drop my mask. The rest of my family is not making much of an attempt to learn, and this is something that I have grappled with for the past year. I don’t think that it’s because they don’t care, I think that addressing a family member’s neurodivergence is, to them, an admittance of flaws, a crack in our fortress, especially after years of thinking that I was just a basket case and had no reason to be one. I hope that someday, they have the same breakthrough that my dad did, or at least begin to try. 

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My mom always boasts about how upfront I am in social situations. Her impression of toddler me is waddling up to someone, limply sticking out her hand, and shouting “Hi, I’m Heather, what’s your name?!?!” in a voice that sounds like the unholy matrimony of Elmo and Mickey Mouse. “Normal” kids rarely do that, but my mom has always found great pride in what she sees as my “social” nature. It is so important for families of neurodivergent people to come to terms with all of the effects of neurodivergence on a child’s personality and celebrate those that are advantageous; neurodivergent kids can be some of the most upfront, outspoken, and creative ones out there. Even if my mom won’t admit that my neurodivergence is the cause of many of her favorite of my qualities, I know she is proud, and at this point in my adult life, that is all I need. 

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A year after our text exchange, Avery has become a fully fledged human being in my mind, not just a walking manifestation of my insecurities. I also learned the reason why I was contacted about the meltdown situation: there was none, he just wanted to vent and I caused myself to spiral. I was terrified of being outwardly neurodivergent, I didn’t want to think that anyone I knew saw me in the same way that my family does. 

 

Though our stories are pretty incomparable, I am becoming less afraid to be in the same category as Jack’s sibling and am thankful for that text exchange. I was given the chance to grieve for the self-loathing child I was, reflect on my struggles with my own family, and become a more cognizant adult.